#and sometimes it comes out of nowhere and hits me like a freight train

[ratatatastic]

"And to follow up on Niko Mikkola...his sense of humour with him, like, maybe—lot of people don't talk—like, last night he was like, you know, he "woke Bobby up," or whatever. "Good thing Bob was awake—"

"He's a great personality and I've said this kinda during the year. And we've, you know, I mean we're always—...I was gonna say, "It'd be great if you guys could spend a lot of time with him," but then we spend a lot of time trying to make sure you guys don't spend too much time with our guys, so, there goes—so, forget that! But, he is an incredibly interesting guy. What's great is when he's coming to the bench... if there's something that's broken down, and I'm not sure if he's screaming in Finnish or it's in English, but it is funny as hell! And it's consistent. So, he plays really high-energy level. A lot of times these kinda big, lanky guys are... you don't really think they're moving that fast, but they are! He looks like he's getting across the ice, and, you know, he competes hard. That's what we like the most of him, but he talks at a high-energy level, too, on the bench. And that's great, right? We have some quiet players on our bench, and that's fine, that's who they are. But, those guys like Mikkola, who's got—nobody knows—Well there's four other Finnish guys knowing what he's saying, but nobody else knows what he's saying.

paul loves all his rascals and it is a joy to hear his takes on them its mikksys turn now!

media availability | 6.11.24 (x)

also if you want to see the moment mikksy is talking about in the interviews linked above because it is genuinely bonkers 10 or so seconds of hockey: here it is

[radplaidtacofan]

Anyone else have nightmares that still stick with you years later?

[haileyjikai]

.

[blackbirdandbutterfly]

That’s the way it is...

I’ve been haunted by the ghost of someone I used to love for the past 7 years.

I don’t know whether he is literally dead, or he’s just a phantom born from my trauma. But recently the universe forced me to face that trauma and work my way through it. Forgiveness - TRUE forgiveness - can be a tricky thing to achieve. Especially when the person has hurt you in ways that left you permanently scarred. Forgiveness isn’t just a simple declaration or action. It’s a process. It’s something that you have to practice, because depending on who or what you are trying to forgive, chances are you’re not going to achieve the first, the second, even the tenth time you try. You go through phases, stages...

In the process of trying to forgive him, I've realized there’s a striking parallel between forgiveness, and processing grief. But I don’t know why that surprises me so much. Grief and trauma are so tightly entwined that the line between them is as thin as an atom.

The stages of forgiveness and the stages of processing grief are even pretty much the same. You start with denial...

“Why should I have to forgive them?”

“I don’t need to forgive them. I can’t. I won’t. I never will.”

“If I live a thousand years, I will never forgive you.”...okay you know what? You got a two for one deal with that last one, because there's a whole lot of anger in that statement too. There’s a whole lot of anger in the process of practicing forgiveness. A lot of people never get past it. But sooner or later, sometimes you realize that the anger is poisoning you. At that point, you may move on to bargaining. 

“Maybe I can forgive them someday, but not now. I’m not there yet.” If you can make it this far, it’s an accomplishment, and you’re probably going stay in this phase for a while. Quite possibly very long while. And that’s okay! 

Then the depression hits you like a freight train. You really do want to forgive them, for yourself if nothing else, but the traumatic memories keep coming to you. Sometimes they’re triggered by the most infinitesimal things; sometimes just completely out of nowhere. Even though you try to acknowledge that it happened a long time ago, even though you try to process it and move on, you just can’t. Those wounds might be old, but they’re still open and bleeding, and the pain feels like it really will be there forever. This experience can and probably will send you flying back to angerville. Rinse and repeat.

Acceptance is a stage a lot of people just never reach. And you know what? this is where forgiveness and processing grief differ. Sooner or later you have to accept the source of your grief. But forgiveness? That’s not always going to be possible. There are some things that just can’t be forgiven, and in those situations the mere suggestion that you should do it is tone deaf at best, and abusive at worst. Then we get into the thing that really sucks for the person who is being forgiven...

Nothing is ever going to be the same. Trust can never be unbroken. Some scars just never go away. Sometimes the pain never does either. Just because someone forgives you, it doesn’t mean they’re ever going to want you to be in their life again. And if you find yourself in the unfortunate position of being someone who is forgiven, but ever after unwelcome in someone’s life, you have to be okay with that. Sometimes that’s just the way it is. Having a prominent place in someone’s life is a gift that you should never take for granted. There are nearly 8 billion people in the world. Even if you’re the biggest social butterfly in the world, you are never going to know even a fraction of them. Losing someone you used to be close to is a tragedy. But sometimes when it happens, we only have ourselves to blame. That’s a lesson that everyone learns sooner or later, and it’s one of the most painful lessons of all.

I never thought I would be able to forgive that man. And forgiveness, much like grief, isn’t linear. Sometimes you’ll bounce back and forth between the stages so much you’ll feel like you’ve got whiplash. Such was the case for me. It took me seven years. But I think I am finally, at long last, ready to forgive him.

I don’t know if you’re dead or alive, and to be honest I’m still too afraid of you to find out. But Dan...if you’re out there, and you happen to ever read this...I forgive you. We were two people who had no idea how to be in a healthy relationship. We both hurt each other so much. It took me a really long time to accept that. I accepted it in my head almost as soon as the relationship was over, but accepting it in my heart was my Everest. I think I’ve finally reached the peak, and the view is breathtaking.

Now I really believe that we both deserve to be happy. I’m sending you all my love and wishing you all the peace and happiness in the world.

Just...maybe...find your happiness far away from me.

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 7

Rating: Explicit.

‼️TW: Reader is EIGHTEEN! Recreational drug use, smoking and alcohol consumption, deeply internalised self-loathing, very questionable moral standards. Daddy kink taken half-seriously. BDSM themes in later chapters - explicit content will come with it's own TWs. FIRST PERSON POV. There is violence in this chapter.

Summary: You're Peter's classmate, a child of rich and famous but uncaring parents. Getting paired up for a lengthy project with the boy was an interesting turn of events and you don't know whether to feel blessed or cursed when you develop, seemingly, a perfectly normal, harmless crush on Tony Stark. Fueled by feelings of inadequacy and boredom, your life spirals out of control - and you're lucky your newfound friends are there to pick up the pieces even if you cannot find it in yourself to believe these amazing human (and not so human) beings voluntarily give you more than a fleeting glance and an offhanded thought. And they brought cake!

A/N: *chants* BRUCE FLUFF BRUCE FLUFF BRUCE FLUFF. *sings* they're ain't no big thing just show them a little swing. Beneficial Cucumber. Author's notes are spoilers without context at this point... Y'all-

My beta, @miscmarvelwritings . We make the best duo. I am her dumb of ass and she is my gay. I love her.

Tony was elbow-deep in a robot when I came out of the elevator, Peter holding up the spare part needed, hovering next to the engineer. Without preamble, I was directed to help and dutifully fulfilled Tony's requests. Nothing indicated that my evening stunt ever happened besides Pete's faint blush; I might as well have written it off to the tank top hugging the upper part of my body in all the right places.

I was disappointed, I won't lie to myself - I expected Tony to tease me at least a little bit, snark something vaguely lewd and move on. But the engineer was quiet today, eerily so, almost to the point where it seemed he was ignoring me on purpose. My pride didn't let me begin any of our usual banter so I frowned in silence, making the appearance of a very focused person. Bolts and screws - most interesting things in the world!

As usual, I clocked out first around eleven thirty, leaving Pete and Tony some time to discuss their secret science stuff. Usually I would be exhausted by this point which left little to no room for jealousy but that night, emotions hit me like a freight train and it took me every ounce of my willpower to head out to Bruce's for the inevitable "I'm disappointed in you/Fuck safely" round of brainwashing.

My brain kept returning to the downwards tilt of Tony's mouth and the somber mood around him. I hated seeing him so...unhappy and tense.

The moment I set step in Bruce's lab, I saw the man's back hunched over a tube, I felt the same energy coming from him. What a fucking day! The sigh that left my mouth was resigned. "Bruce?"

A couple of seconds passed before he turned. He attempted a smile but it didn't reach his eyes at all. "Hi, Princess."

I cocked my head in defeat. "If this is the part where you lecture me, let's get over it. Or even better, you say nothing and we carry on," I pursed my lips, inspecting my nails in favour of actually facing the scientist.

I heard the click-clack of his instruments being placed on the table and the soft taps of his shoes against the tiled floor. His arms reached around my shoulders before I could even attempt to pull away, one of his broad palms tucking my face into the crook of his neck.

"I'm not mad, baby girl," He told me quietly.

I felt some of the tension dissipate, wrapped my arms around him, coming to a realization the man was all but melting into me.

"Just stay safe, alright? I don't want you to get hurt," With the same quiet tone, Bruce gently shushed my worries away. "If something is wrong, you can come to me. You know that, right?" He sounded painfully hopeful as he withdrew just enough to capture my face in his hands, forcing me to look him in the eye.

Something about the look in his eyes made my heart ache. I didn't have the heart to refuse, nor did I want to, so I nodded. Promptly, I was embraced yet again, his lips resting on the crown of my head, both of us swaying gently.

I've never wanted to cry so badly in my entire life.

"I'm a fuckin' mess, Bwucie, you haven't got a clue what you've gotten yourself into," I settled for a round of self-deprication instead. Bitter as it was, it was the barenaked truth.

"Then you're a beautiful mess," I could feel the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. So I smiled, too, obscured by his lab coat.

As much as I didn't want to leave the embrace, like, ever, I had to get home before one o'clock - before mother went to bed, zonked out on Valium and Ambien from the endless supply closet courtesy of my dad. "M'hafta go home," I mumbled.

Bruce sighed deeply. "I'll grab one of Tony's cars and drive you," He went over to remove his lab coat as I gaped. "I'm a forty-five year old man, I can drive." He chuckled humorlessly.

"Tony won't mind?" I asked the first question that popped into my mind to attempt dispelling the awkward moment.

"Trust me, he won't mind at all," Bruce mumbled darkly. I wondered what's up with that but the immediate future for me was already planned out: I was really looking forward to going home, crawling into bed with my clothes on and having a good old fashioned cry.

We made quick work of locating a set of keys and peeling out of the garage in Tony's shiny Audi R8, tires squealing on the wet pavement. It had stopped raining sometime during my robot building but the city was still filled with puddles. I could smell the moist, decaying leaves through the tiny gap of the window, the city was drowning in autumn like I was drowning in my own cluelessness.

The adrenaline rush, the weight of Tony's foul mood, the grief and pleading that radiated off Bruce mixed into a horrendous cocktail of misery and pain. Too much pain for my little, weak, dumb heart to handle. And all these people out in the streets, dressed to the nines despite the disgusting weather - laughing, hugging and drunkenly giggling, it was like salt on my wounds, rubbing it in how much of a good time they were having.

"This your house?" Bruce pointed at the black, high gate of the entrance to my garage.

"Yeah, it's a bit much," I nodded absentmindedly, seeing Bruce's eyes bulge at the sheer size of my estate. My mother wouldn't settle for any less than the best so having a monstrously huge (for NYC) home was what she got. Dad just signed the checks.

Bruce hummed.

I made a face, reaching for his warm hand and giving it a squeeze. "Thanks, Bwucie," Smiling at him, I used up the last of my good mood to show the gratitude he deserved.

He pulled me into a tight hug right over the middle console. It wasn't comfortable by any means with the numerous buttons and switches poking at the soft of my stomach but there was nowhere else I'd rather be than in his arms during that moment. The breaths that left me felt like they were punched out of my chest cavity by steel-toed boots.

"Good night, Princess. Sweet dreams." He kissed my cheek, lingering just a tiny bit.

I did the same, rubbing softly against his stubble and giggling at the ticklish sensation. "Night night, Bwucie."

I waved at him again as I unlocked my front gates and watched him speed off from behind it, obscured by the shadows of the decorative trees growing right behind the fence.

Bruce's face had morphed into something akin to torment or suffering the moment I disappeared from his immediate eyesight and it baffled me to no extent. I ransacked my brain left and right, searching for a reason I might have inadvertently caused him to feel that way but found none. The only logical reason was that he was just lonely. He didn't have many friends from what I gathered and if judging by the proud tone in which he spoke of Will-Mr Davies today, he desperately needed some other company than his teammates. I wish I could have helped.

Mother was nowhere to be seen when I entered the house so a beeline for my bed was successful. The ugly, loud, dry-heaving sobs weren't in any shape or form attractive or acceptable to show to anybody but me so when they forced their way out of me, the pillow keeping me company. I cried as for everything that was happening to me as much as I sobbed because of the self-pity I was indulging in.

It was pathetic, really. My mother would scoff and my father... Well, he'd offer me to 'cheer up, throw a party, do normal teenager stuff'. The bottle of wine I kept in my closet was empty in no time: I justified that as a single lady in a big city, I was entitled to relax once in a while.

Who was I lying to? I downed a bottle in twenty minutes just so I could fall asleep and begone from all this bullshit for a while.

On Monday, I anonymously submitted the documents pertaining to Thompson's behaviour to the school board and to a local newspaper that was known to dabble in socialite gossip. Next day, an investigation was promptly launched and important-looking people started to appear in the hallways, going in and out of the principal's office. Flash was pulled out of class by two police officers: at this point, half the student population was unashamedly filming it on their smartphones, me included. With grim satisfaction, I sent the video directly to the group chat with an added message of "so long, fucker".

Steve didn't even remark on my profanity, just sent a thumbs up.

It really fuckin' blew up the next morning. The news was plastered across every paper, every social media site - "Midtown Principal's son arrested for grand theft auto and assault", "Midtown Principal Being Investigated for obstruction of education" and other ridiculous headlines that had me, Bucky and Natasha in shit-fits.

Flash returned to school on Wednesday accessorized with a pretty ankle monitor and a sullen frown. During lunch, he sat only with two of his closest minions instead of the chatty group he was usually seen with. Everybody avoided him like the bubonic plague, even teachers ignored him.

With the final bell, me and Pete went on to look for Happy outside the school territory.

I was spending nearly every evening at the tower either in Tony's or Bruce's lab or sandwiched between Wanda and Bucky on the couch, gossiping while TV shows mutely played in the background. I had found a second friend in the face of Winter Soldier who, much like me, spent a lot of his days occupied by the internet or in a general state of confusion. Bucky was charming, funny and very flamboyant. I enjoyed the no-nonsense attitude and zero fucks that he gave the world in general.

The moment I stepped on the other side of the gate, I immediately knew something was wrong. Peter squirmed uncomfortably beside me, looking frantically in every direction, trying to spot Happy's car in vain.

"Ay, Parker," The familiar obnoxious voice of Peter's bully reached our ears. "You wanna tell me how you got your grubby little hands on that file?"

Thompson had brought back up with him, the idiot that he was. He was standing off to the side, leaning against the fence while five older boys surrounded us in a tight circle.

"Leave us alone, Flash, you're already in trouble," Peter tried reasoning with the bully meanwhile I... I was searching for a cleaner, dryer spot to dump my $1500 bag onto in preparation for the inevitable. I was no stranger to swinging my arm - as a frequent house party guest, I've had to fend off enough unwelcome advances. I've been told I have a mean, mean right hook.

"Bold of you to assume Peter would actually steal something," I stated in a bored tone once my bag was out of the way and Pete was standing securely behind me. I wasn't afraid of Flash, mostly because I knew he'd step back for the fear of retaliation from my family was usually too much.

"Oh, look at that, the weirdo is talking," Thompson mocked, getting up and standing right in front of my face. "You know, I don't get why the likes of you have to go to school with us, normal people. See, Peter here might be a little wimp but at least he won't shoot up the whole school one day because his daddy didn't love him enough," Thompson decided to test his luck. To finish his epic tirade with a flourish, he spat on the ground next to me.

I snorted. "Wow, that's an awful lot of smart words for someone as dumb as a doorknob," I shook my head in disdain. "Look, either you go now or I'll sue you so far up your ass, you'll be sucking dick in prison just to get something to fill your stomach with." And wow, that comeback was really, really good. I was proud of myself.

I saw pure rage mar Thompson's already ugly face into something demonic and ducked at the last moment, feeling the blunt sting of his knuckles connect with my left cheekbone. Reflectively I swung, too, decking him straight in the nose with all the rage and despair that was burning deeply inside of me at that time.

I heard gasps all around me as the students whispered, shouted and cheered at Thompson's confused form hitting the ground. He held his face and his palms were stained a deep crimson; I felt something warm on my face, copper in my mouth.

"Does anybody want some of that, too?" My tone was icy. I shrugged off the hand that landed on my shoulder, glaring down one of the boys who came with Thompson.

"Shit, cops, RUN!" One of the students suddenly shouted and just like that, both me and Flash were surrounded only by a handful of students who had filmed the entire incident on camera. God bless technology!

"Uh, I think you're bleeding," Pete timidly remarked from behind me, hand still awkwardly outstretched towards me. He cast a guilty look to the side where Happy was running towards us, phone held to his ear, no doubt already on the line with Tony and the rest of the Avengers. Shit, fuck, SHIT. I didn't plan for this!

The police officers called an ambulance for Flash and took my statement while I was holding my bleeding nose up to the sky, much to the officer's dismay. Happy had passed the officer his mobile phone and I briefly heard Tony's voice saying that I will be taken care of in the tower's medical suite - and let's face it, no cop will go against Iron Man's charm and wit.

As an eighteen year old, I could refuse the on-site medical assistance that the city provided and my parents weren't required so I was let go after my statement was taken and my injuries photographed.

Not that the photoshoot really was required. Multiple people had the incident on video, from multiple angles. It was an open and close case. I called my mother in the elevator (she didn't answer) and left her a voice message with the bare facts of the situation and my current whereabouts.

Seeing the whole team assembled in the living room, some nervously twitching, some anxiously pacing, I couldn't help but let out a slightly hysterical giggle. "Oh my god, guys, I'm not in a coma, stop acting like I'm in a coma!"

Bucky was the first to approach me, carefully hugging me and steering me towards Bruce. He looked a bit rough, green-ish? I guess. But the first aid kit was already on the table and Stephen Strange was hovering nearby.

"You decked the sucker real good, doll," Bucky's Brooklyn accent made his speech less intelligible but he definitely got all the cookie points for the heat and the passion.

"Ditto. Should've kicked him in the balls, too," Natasha smirked and Steve mirrored her smirk with a darker twist.

"I'm going to sue him so darn far up his ass," Tony seethed, looking absolutely livid.

"Don't worry, mother's got it handled," I obediently laid down on the couch, staring up at Bruce's wide eyes and Stephen's focused face.

"You are fearless and fierce, dear lady," Thor boomed from somewhere.

All of this was making me... Emotional. I just punched a piece of human garbage, it was not a big deal, okay? He had it coming. I chuckled uncomfortably, wincing when Bruce began dabbing at the dried blood on my face with a piece of gauze soaked in alcohol. "Petey, you alright?" I asked, worried about the sudden onset of silence from the usually chatty boy. He mumbled something. "Speak up, I can't hear shit with all the ringing in my ears."

That earned me a worried look from doctor Strange and a frown from Bruce.

"I should've protected you-I mean-it's not that you can't do it yourself, or because you're a girl, it's just-I," he suddenly stopped.

"Go ahead, kid," Tony urged him with unmistakable kindness in his voice.

"You see, I'm-I'm actually Spider-Man and I'm afraid to accidentally kill someone, 'cause I'm really strong." Pete blurted out.

I had to replay his words several times in my head to get to the gist of what he was actually saying. Shy little Peter? Spider-Man? So that's why he was such a fucking pacifist? I mean, it made perfect sense if he really was strong enough to lift cars and hold together collapsing bridges like I'd seen on YouTube.

"Huh," I stated after a brief pause. "I guess I did double the work today, dumped out some trash and prevented a potential murder. I'm on a roll and I deserve chocolate cake," I rambled to distract myself from the incoming dull headache and the sting of the alcohol against the split skin of my cheek.

Strange chuckled, looking, possibly, the happiest I've ever seen him. Bruce giggled too. A tiny bit.

"Friday, order the biggest, most expensive chocolate cake that can be delivered in... Two hours," Tony immediately spoke up.

"Cake," I mumbled happily, a strange drowsiness overcoming me, making my eyelids droop. "Hey-mmm, doc?" I slurred, seeing Stephen's face fall. "M'think m'concussed, f'king 'ell!" The snort that left his mouth was absolutely hilarious; I started giggling, too, startling Banner into action.

He picked up his phone, saying something I didn't understand at all.

"Y'kno," I had this totally bright idea I absolutely NEEDED to share with everyone. "Y'kinda look like the guy... Wha's'is name... Bendy-snap Crum-ble-sticks? No, wait," Snorts and giggles began to resonate through the room as the amount of Doctor Stranges suddenly multiplied by two. He was a WIZARD, that was so cool! "I think... Mmm, yes... Benadryl-Claritin? No-no-no, 'das meds," Woah, a lot of people were there and they were suddenly all laughing. I wondered what was so funny. It was hard to think with so many people laughing; my temples were pulsating uncomfortably. "Wait, I know, I know!" There were wheezing noises now, noises that distinctively reminded me of Tony and Wanda and Bucky. "Bubble-butt Coitus-snack!" I triumphantly exclaimed, finally happy to have gotten it right.

The laughter turned into truly demonic cackling, surrounding me, they were so loud I almost managed to get fully afraid. And then, I passed the fuck out.

TAGLIST IS OPEN Y'ALL.

@another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem

[xxkellsvixen19xx]

Somewhere Between Reality And All We've Ever Dreamed Colson Baker X Reader

Word Count: 1,085

Sometimes, life leads you to your significant other in strange ways and everything that seemed to be lost is re-inserted like a puzzle piece.

The heart can be a mirror: a reflection of true love's desires, anxieties, dreams and needs." Love comes in all shapes and sizes, and when love strikes, it hits like a freight train.

That is when Colson knew that he loved you. That he would die if he lost you.

A beat of lashes, a split second, that’s all it took for their eyes to connect, and you felt the moment stretch, like in a braindance, and it was, maybe, one of the rare times Y/N regretted not having a photographic memory so that she could replay the moment over and over, just to seek, search why it felt as it did. Why it felt like everything quietened, like stars returned to the sky, like her fatigue and worries and fear evaporated, like peace could be attained.

Love. To truly love, that was one of the only things in this world that would never die. Even if you wished it to.

“𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫? 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬.” ~𝐄𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧

Y/N loved Colson, she had been on the precipice of falling in love with him. Which had been one of the (many) problems. It had terrified her, and caused her to push him away so he couldn’t break her heart. She knows he’d had feelings for her too.

Colson had mentioned their friendship last night, not because he necessarily wanted to stay just friends, but because he had wanted to make it clear that losing that friendship, losing her, would be unacceptable. Y/N was his one steady constant in the crazy life he led. Losing that because he was hot for her, well, it just wasn’t an option.

She had looked so sad in that moment before he’d kissed her. Not just pissed at him, but sad. Heartbroken even. He’d only wanted to do something to soothe her. Take away the hurt. But then...she’d kissed him back. In a way that had made his heart jump in his chest and his knees go weak. How was he supposed to resist that?

𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡

Colson rolls to his back again and sighs, smiling. Having Y/N in his arms had been a revelation. She fit against him in a way that none of the other women he’d been with, including Sommer, did. Like they had been made for each other. He smirks a little at that fanciful thought, even as guilt snuck in.

He and Y/M were right for each other. They always had been, if he was being honest with himself. Since that first night that she had kissed him out of nowhere, Colson had been fascinated by Y/N. Her tough exterior that he knew very well that she used to hide a deep vulnerability. Her humor. The way she teased him. The way she stood up for him, even when everyone else was ready to just kick his ass to the curb. Her brains and compassion. Her beauty both inside and out had kept him hooked on her from the very start. He could admit it to himself, here, alone in the bed they’d shared last night. He was in love with her. He probably always would be.

“ You’re being an idiot, Colson.”

“Am I?” Colson scowls at the wall.

“Yes. Do you love her?”

“Of course I do. That’s not the issue.”

“Does she make you happy?”

Colson sighs. “ As much as I almost don't care to admit it… yes.”

Mod laughs. “ That’s how you know it’s true love, bro.

"If you love her tell her."

Colson knew Mod was right, later that night he swallowed his pride and decided to tell her. 

Colson takes her hand and lifts it to his lips. “I love you, Y/N. So fucking much that I can’t breathe with it sometimes. I need you. I need us . You’re my world.  You’re everything.” He leans over to kiss her. Just a soft kiss that makes her sigh and lift her hand to run it through his hair.

“Colson.” She pulls back and looks him in his eyes. Eyes that were soft and tender and...hopeful. “I love you so much. I just want you to be sure…”

“Y/N. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He tips his forehead to hers and strokes her neck. “I need you, and I’ll do everything that I can to make us work.” Colson kisses her nose. “I told you once that I would never let anything get in between us.

For a few moments Colson seemed lost in his thoughts.

Y/N takes his hand and sighs. “What were you thinking about?”

“Kissing.” Colson grins against her hair.

“Kissing who?”

“You, mostly.” He kisses her head.

“Mostly?” Y/N lifts a brow and turns over in his arms to stare at him. “You’re thinking about kissing other women while you’re in bed, naked, with me?” She gives him a mock scowl.

“No...yes. Sort of.” He chuckles when she gives him the amused and indulgent look she reserves for when he’s stumbling over his words. “I was thinking that you’re my favorite person to kiss. My thoughts kind of rambled from there, sorry.” He smiles at her sheepishly.

Y/N giggles. Actually giggles . She didn’t think anyone but Colson had ever made her do that. He looked so embarrassed. It was adorable. She strokes his stubbled cheek. “It’s okay. You’re my favorite person to kiss too.”

He turns his head to press his lips to her palm. “Really?”

Y/N grins. “Well, you’re pretty good at it.”

Colson rolls her under him and raises his brow. “Just pretty good?”

She snickers and tangles her fingers in his blonde hair, bringing his mouth close to hers. “Maybe you should show me just how good you are.”

“Maybe I should.” He whispers, bringing his lips to hers. His last thought before he loses himself in her, is that he hopes she lets him kiss her forever.

𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 

𝐓𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞 

𝐓𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧

𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 

𝐈𝐟 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 

𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝?

[the-enamorando-deity]

Hello!!! Could u write a Maria fem!reader where they hate fuck bc I just read everything u have for Maria Hill and fell in love with her and ur writing and now I need that in my life pls!! Thanks!!!✨

The Wonderful Thing About Passion

hngng this was........ fun. thank YOU also i love you

Maria Hill x Reader :):):) 18+ only

There is something wonderful about passion, no matter whether it’s love or hate. It’s a pure expression of emotion, the chance to unravel with one explosive eruption, lingering and ready to burst with every accidental brush of skin.

Sometimes it started with a brutal strike, otherwise a fiery exchange of words building until the final moment, a release of passion. You didn’t know what it was specifically about Maria Hill, but she made you feel all of those things at once.

It was like being hit with a freight train sometimes, no problems between you for weeks, usually when you saw each other briefly in the hall. More often than not unfortunately, she’d take the opportunity when you made the most minor of fuck ups to rip into you before new recruits and the peers you craved validation from.

She used to be one of them, until she berated you in front of Fury for something so stupid that it was pathetic, but enough to make you want to cry. Maria never held back, and you were too annoyed to let her continue to treat you like less than who you really were.

You stormed into her office just as she hung up from a massively important conference call, something you knew you were lucky to miss. Arms crossed, eyebrows knitted together with frustration, Maria rolled her eyes and waved you out of her office. You didn’t budge, and she scowled at you with intense and passionate hatred bubbling in her veins.

‘What the hell do you want, Y/L/N?’ she snapped, storming towards you until the pair of you were toe to toe, ‘I just got my ass chewed out and handed to me by not just your superiors, but by mine, because apparently you saw fit to follow your own protocols and regulations instead of those instructed to you by SHIELD, and you have not given any reason as to why you shouldn’t be the one on the firing line.’

You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face, ready to laugh right at her for the bullshit she pulled from nowhere. 

‘You are such a hypocrite, Hill. Every practice I followed was under your exact instruction, which you know, so anything that went wrong was calculable in your grand plan, but nothing went wrong.’

You could feel her breath on your face, heated from the anger she felt for you, and at your knowledge of being set up only to fail. One more failed mission in your jacket, and you’d be benched until you could prove your competency to your mission handler. That would never happen, considering the fact that your handler was Maria Hill, and she hated your guts.

Sure, you were a little cocky and far too confident in your own abilities, but you never risked someone’s life to show off. That was something Hill missed in all your reports, calling your brazen moves on targets a suicide mission for your team more than yourself, missing the obvious part where it was always you ready to take the hit, the fall, take anything for your team.

Your breath heaved inside you, and you could see Maria’s nostrils flare as her eyes turned a fiery shade of red. There was anger filling her body from bottom to top, and it struck you in the strangest way possible. She grabbed your face and yanked your smirking lips against hers, pushing you up against the wall in her office with a rush of strength.

You felt the plaster crack under your back, leaving a mark on you as much as the wall. You ripped her shirt open, feeling her soft skin beneath your rough fingers, gripping her tight enough to leave the faintest of marks from your fingernails. One of her hands fumbled to lock her office door, already half panting into your mouth as you grabbed at her waist, tugging her lower body hard against you.

Half turning you to the side, Maria managed to push you back onto the small sofa she kept in her office for late night crashes. This was a new kind, and Maria was positive she was going to enjoy every last bit. She moved up your body and sat over your waist, her tongue deep in your mouth as you grabbed her firmly, sliding her body up yours, moving your lips to kiss her exposed chest.

She threw her head back and glanced down at you, fire burning still deep inside as her hand slipped down your pants between your legs, rubbing small circles on your inner thigh and working her way upwards. You nibbled at her neck as she touched you, every bracing movement of her fingers fuelling your desire to tear her apart.

She moved fast and slow at the same time, long movements continued over and over, pumping inside you as you pulled her tighter, hiding your face and muffled moans of pleasure in biting her shoulder. She was going to be the death of you, and you were more than happy to pay her back next time.

Your back arched beneath her, not even realising you had come until you fell back to the sofa with a harsh rush of adrenaline. It was when she stopped touching you that you began to ache for more, grabbing her hand and dragging it back down your body, less than willing to let her go so soon. You still had your frustrations to work out too, and you knew she was nowhere near done.

She almost laughed as she started grinding her hips against you, knee pushing your legs apart and revelling in your delight. Her free hand moved up to the back of your head, tightening her fingers around your hair and pulling hard.

‘I hate you,’ she muttered, and you weren’t entirely sure if she was lying or not. 

‘I don’t care if you hate me,’ you panted between thrusts of her fingers, ‘just don’t stop.’

taglist: @marvelfansince08love @mymarvelwomen @imnotasuperhero @natasha-danvers @veteranwerewolf95 @liziehaswritersblock

[queenmuzz]

Angst hit me like a freight train

A possible future fic.  An AU where Vergil falls to hell, encounters Mundus, but manages to escape using Yamato before being captured.  He ends up on Fortuna, and meets his son, a five year old Nero.  For three years, they’re both on the run from a very angry Mundus.

Nero wakes up that morning, hoping that his father will be in the other bed beside him, but unfortunately, it's still perfectly made.  This is his third morning he’s woken up alone.  His dad has never been away this long before.  Once or twice, he would assure the eight year old that he had to go out during the night, and to stay put in whatever motel room they were staying at.  And Nero would obey.  He would always obey.

But now, as he opened the little fridge to pick out the final yogurt cup, and the last bottle of orange juice, the eight year old is starting to really worry.

Ever since his dad showed up out of nowhere when he was stuck in that horrible orphanage, on that terrible island, Nero’s life finally has stability.  Sure, he and his dad have to stay on the run, because of someone called Mundus chasing him, but for the first time, he’s not anxious, not worried that his misbehaviour will send him back to the scary building.  His dad had assured him of that.  

“No matter what, Nero, I will never abandon you.”

But then, three days ago, he’d been in the park, playing on the playground while his dad read a book.  Just when he had climbed to the top of the jungle gym, his father had barked at him to come down.  Nero obeyed, he would always obey.

He’d never seen his dad look so...scared, which was silly, because his dad wasn’t scared of anyone or anything.  Nero had seen him cutting down demons like they were weeds.  But this time, it was a blonde woman, sitting on a motorcycle, watching them with uncommon interest that had his dad so nervous.  So nervous, that he did that thing that he never did in public, used his sword to cut the air, ushering Nero through, and quickly striding after him. “Nero,” he said as he peeked through a curtain, like he did whenever they came to a new motel room, to check to see if they were being watched. “I must take care of something.  Stay here, and do not leave until I return, understood?”

Nero had nodded.  His dad sometimes did this, to keep them both safe.  But still, Nero ran and gave him a hug, before his dad created another hole, and vanished through it.  That was the last time Nero saw him.

The rest of the day was fine.  Nero read his books, played with his action figures, ate a sandwich and went to bed at 8:30 PM sharp, as he always did.  His dad didn’t show up the next day, so he’d repeated his activities, but had a little more trouble paying attention to the words on the page.

The second morning, he kept getting distracted, his head perking up each time he heard footsteps outside the room.  But still nothing.

The third day, Nero didn’t play or read, he just sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for his dad’s return.  He had to be coming back, he promised!  Even though he went to bed at the same time as always, he didn’t fall asleep until late at night.

And now, with the fridge out of food, and no sign of his dad, Nero is panicking. His dad told him that he’d never leave him, but what if Nero had made him mad?  Did his dad think he was a bad kid, and didn’t want him anymore, just like those other foster families?  The thought of being abandoned yet again makes him want to cry.  But he can’t, nobody wants a kid that cries, that’s what the matrons always told him. 

Nero makes a decision, he needs to go out to find him.  Sure, his dad  told him to stay here, but if he can beg him to give Nero another chance, his dad might forgive Nero and let him stay with him.  So, grabbing a backpack with his stuff, and a little bit of money his father had given him to buy ‘whatever he’d like’ (Nero couldn’t decide what we wanted, he didn’t want to disappoint his dad by buying something silly), he leaves a note, just in case.

Dear Dad

I am looking for you

I am sorry!

Nero.

And as quietly as his dad, he leaves the room.

*****

Several hours later, Nero realizes he’s lost.  Everyone walks around him, as if he doesn’t exist, and he’s scared and hungry.  But there’s something, a feeling that guides his feet.  He doesn’t know what or why, but he trusts it, it kinda reminds him of his dad.

It leads to a diner, the smell of charcoal grilled burgers making his mouth water.  He has enough money left, hopefully his dad won’t be angry that he’s spending it on food.  But, just like his dad, he looks through the window, to see who’s in there, if there’s any danger inside.  

There’s nearly no one there.  Just a waitress at the bar, and only two customers, a woman with short dark hair, sitting on a stool beside a taller guy with...white hair!

His dad!  The man turns to the lady to say something, so Nero can see his face and yup, it has to be his dad!  Forgetting about the grumbling in his stomach, he rushes in, opening the door with such for, the door chime is ripped off the little string it is hanging on,

“DAD!” He yells, and before his father can turn, he rushes and hugs his leg.  “I’m sorry dad, I’m sorry!  Please don’t leave me!” he babbles, trying not to cry, “I promise I’ll be good, I’ll eat all my vegetables, I’ll brush my teeth as many times as you want me to, I won’t play with toys under the covers when I’m supposed to be sleeping.  Please let me stay with you!”

He half expects to be pushed away, to be rejected again.  But instead, as he looks up, he just sees three pairs of eyes, shocked.  The waitress looks at him sympathetically, the lady with two different coloured eyes looks at him with surprise, and his dad?  His blue eyes are filled with alarm, but there’s no recognition in them.  And the more Nero looks at him, the more he realizes the man, while looking a lot like his dad….isn’t.  He’s wearing red instead of blue, carries a gun, and his sword is a lot bigger.

And now he’s terrified. His dad told him that Mundus sometimes uses people that look like other people to trick him, and Nero now understands.  He makes a frightened squeak, and runs out of the diner.  He barely hears the not-dad call out ‘Kid!’

He runs, to where? He doesn’t know.  He pushes people out of the way as he sprints as fast as his legs can take him, running across busy streets, ignoring the angry honks of cars.  He needs to get away from the man that looks, but doesn’t look like his dad.

Unfortunately, he runs into an alleyway that’s blocked by construction equipment.  As he pauses to figure out how to climb over it, a pair of gloves grab him, and he struggles against him.

“LEMEGO LEMEGO!” he screams, but the grip is unyielding. “Kid...calm down..calm down..” the man who’s pretending to be his dad holds him tightly.  “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Nero knows his father isn’t nearby, but he still can’t help it. “DAD!  DAD!  COME BACK!  DON’T LEAVE ME!”  And as his struggles weaken, his resolve does too, and he starts sobbing.  “I’m sorry dad...I didn’t mean to be bad.”

“Shhhh…”  the man says softly as he starts carrying him out of the dank alleyway “I promise I’m not going to hurt you…”  And for some reason… even if the man is not his dad, his voice is just as soothing.

[burgers-and-french-fries]

The Christmas Miracle: Prologue.

Dear Donor,

I really have no clue how to write these kinds of letters or how and where to send them, but, I feel the need and desire to do this, so, here goes.

From the moment I was born, I was a troubled child. I don't mean that in the behavioral sense, I mean it in the medical sense. You see, I was born prematurely and unfortunately for me, it came with some issues. One of those issues being that I would eventually need a transplant or two to fix the organs in my body that weren't exactly working to their full capacity. It was tough but somehow I managed.

My life went back to normal after that and I was able to do things that I hadn't before, such as play soccer. I was in heaven and loved every minute of it. But like with most good things, they come to an end and sometimes that's an abrupt end. One that we don't see coming but hits you like a freight train.

I was told that I would have to have one my lungs removed because it just wasn't functioning the way it should have been. I was devastated because it meant that I had to give up the things I had come to love. It tore me to shreds when my doctor told me that.

Once that procedure had been completed, the depression set in and it wasn't pretty. I hated my body for rejecting my organs, I hated my life and I hated my parents. I blamed them for a lot of my problems and they took it. I just didn't know what to do. I felt lost.

Then I found out that the one lung I had been relying on was failing and I needed another transplant effective immediately. Being told that at Christmas is the worst thing you could ever be told. I thought that I was going to die. There was nothing I could do. My parents and I prepared for our last Christmas together. They made it their mission to make every second count. it was really sweet and something I'll always remember and cherish for the rest of my life.

I remember going shopping with my mother one day and I lost my breath. No matter what I did, I just couldn't breathe. Then out of nowhere, an Angel sent you to me. You walked over to us, took my hand and coached me through my breathing until help came. You asked what was wrong and my mother -who had tears in her eyes- told you everything. You looked at me and smiled. From that moment on you became my hero.

You stepped in when it mattered the most and you gave me the greatest gift of all, a second chance.

Because of you, I was able to finish school and graduate, go to college and spend many more Christmases with my family.

In truth, I wanted to write this to you and thank you for all that you have granted me. You are and will always be my Guardian Angel.

Thank you for being the most amazing Christmas miracle I could ever receive.

Your forever grateful recipient,

Faith Matthews.

===

Tag List: @sarahegerton96 @hauntedflamingo

[liathgray]

🌍🏆💡?

🏆fic youre most proud of?

I’m proud of all of them in the way that like... I did that. I made that!! holy shit, right?

If I had to pick one, probably Blackwell Springs. I poured so much energy and time and careful planning into it that I can’t help but be really happy with the final results. I had a blast writing it too.

🌍fave type of au to write?

The type with angst

I like to do what if scenarios and see how they would change things. I like to call them soft AUs, because its taking place in the same world with the same character, just different circumstances. Ex: AU where Kimble finds Ed in Baschool instead of the gay chimeras

💡what inspires your fic ideas?

There’s a little gargoyle in my head that sits at a typewrites and mashes keys together. Sometimes, instead of gibberish, its an idea. and the gargoyle picks up the paper and crams it into my head. 

What I mean is they come out of nowhere and hit me like a freight train :)

[supercxrpschild]

no one can hurt you now

baby!danvers ptsd

So. This one’s a little bit different. I wrote this a few nights ago as i was coming out of a really bad PTSD episode, I hadn’t had one that bad in quite a while so it took a lot out of me, hence me being a bit absent these last few days. 

I hope this is okay, its pretty personal and took a lot to edit and stuff but it did help me. 

Please be advised that this has a trigger warning for child sex abuse, it is not directly mentioned but please still take care of yourself and use your discretion when deciding if you should read it.  

word count: 980

You were just going about your day as normal. You had a few classes early in the morning, then got back home to the apartment you shared with Kara where you spent the afternoon studying.

You were going through the motions, made your regular lunch, did everything you usually do. But something just wasn’t right. You put your head in your heads as you leant on the dining table.

“What the hell is wrong with me today” you whispered to yourself, balling your fists in your hair.

You couldn’t concentrate on your work anymore so you closed your textbooks and threw them on your floor before flopping down on your bed, a tear of frustration sliding from the corner of your eyes.

After forcing yourself to calm down you got back up and got back to work, deciding that distraction was probably best, and you’d eventually be okay again.

But it didn’t happen.

“Heyyy y/n!! I bought pizza and cupcakes for later!” Kara walked in the door, home from work.

If you’re a good little girl, I’ll get you a treat, maybe even a cupcake!

You shuddered. You hadn’t thought about that in so long.

When Kara turned around, you plastered a smile on your face.

“Awesome, thanks Kara.” Kara beamed as she placed the food down and shrugged off her coat.

During dinner you just nibbled on the pizza. Nothing tasted good, so you excused yourself and told Kara you were going to have a shower.

“Are you alright y/n?” Her eyebrows were knitted together in concern but you waved her off, assuring her that you were fine.

It hit you light a freight train as you were washing your hair. You didn’t feel real, it felt like you were transported back to being five years old…

Get off me! Please, please get off!

“GET OFF ME!! PLEASE!!” Kara was in the bathroom before she even registered what you were saying, having already been listening because she felt something off with you. She ripped open the shower curtain and saw you curled into a ball, crying and screaming.

“Y/n? Sweetheart?” Kara turned off the water and knelt down beside your naked body, not caring that her jeans were now soaking through.

“Hey, hey, y/n, I need you to look at me” Kara tried to stay calm, but she was beside herself watching you in so much pain.

“I, I can’t h-he , he’s here, I-” Kara furrowed her brows and looked around,

“Bubs, there’s no one here.” Your breathing wasn’t slowing, “C’mon let’s just get you out of the shower and into something warm, honey. Those cupcakes are still waiting for you!” Suddenly your sobs intensified, and you drew away from Kara’s touch.

“Okay, it’s okay, you’re okay.” Kara’s blue eyes were glassy with tears, she felt helpless.

She sped and grabbed her phone from the lounge, calling Alex who assured her she’d be there as soon as she could and just to stay with you until she got there.

“Kara?” Alex called out. You had calmed down slightly, but still hadn’t let Kara touch you.

“In here.” Alex rushed through the apartment, then saw you huddled in the corner of the shower, soaking wet and shivering now.

“Oh sweetheart.” She could hear your breathing still ragged and the cries you were trying to silence.

“Alex, she, she was screaming, and her eyes are just vacant, and I can’t get her to let me touch her.” Alex placed her hand on Kara’s shoulder, reassuring her that she did nothing wrong.

“I think it’s a PTSD episode Kara,”

“She hasn’t had one of those in years” Kara whispered,

Alex smiled sadly and tried to reach you, “Y/n? You’re with us, your sisters. Kara and Alex, we’re here and we’re not going to let anything happen to you. You are safe.” You sniffled and looked up, you were out of the flashback but exhausted and embarrassed.

“A-lex” you whimpered,

“Hey little one, let’s get you warm and dry.” You nodded and reached out to Kara, who took a towel and scooped you up in it.

Alex found your favourite sweats and slipped them over your body while Kara busied herself with drying your dripping hair until Alex took over so she could change her own clothes.

“Y/n, you don’t have to talk okay? But we’re here if you want to.” Your eldest sister said as she ran a comb through your hair.

“I I haven’t thought about it in so long Alex, I don’t know what happened I don’t know why it got so bad.” Alex held you tight and shushed you,

“Hey, sometimes things come out of nowhere and we don’t know why. It’s completely okay. PTSD doesn’t exactly follow the rules.”

Kara came out from the bathroom and sat on the other side of you, “Exactly y/n, I mean you know how mine comes out of nowhere.” You nodded.

“I just, I feel so scared and, and young, like I’m back there with him and I can feel him. I just want this feeling to go away.” Kara pulled you into her arms and you settled into the familiar warmth.

“You’re not sweetheart, and we’ll hold you until that’s all you feel.” Kara smiled softly and kissed your cheek, wiping away tears that had started falling again.

“Promise you won’t leave?”

Alex followed Kara and kissed your temple, “promise babygirl. Try and get some sleep, we’ll be right here.”

[eilistraaee]

Some demo thoughts:

- Jill’s initial relationship with the UBCS is undertandably tense and mistrustful so it’ll be interesting to see how that develops as she works with them more, especially with Carlos since he’s the one she spends most of the game with

- voice acting, animations, and character models are superb. Some weird crosshatch-looking textures on clothes and hair sometimes, but that might have just been a problem on my end with my console or monitor

- Jill. Her attitude, her design, the way she moves—everything about her speaks to her S.T.A.R.S. training and her competency in tough situations. This doesn’t detract from the horror at all either—the fact that she is so capable and experienced is what makes the game feel even scarier because she stands a better chance than most people and is still barely managing to survive

- controls and mechanics are near identical to RE2 Remake which isn’t a bad thing by any stretch

- the new quick step mechanic is insanely helpful and got me out of a few tight spots. Using it to execute a perfect dodge feels super satisfying

- zombies seem to be found in groups more often than they were in RE2 Remake which is very in keeping with the original RE3

- (potential minor spoiler) one of the files in your inventory is filed under the location “Jill’s apartment” which means we’ll very likely get a gameplay segment in her apartment unlike in the original

- the RE2 Remake tactic of kneecapping zombies and running past or stabbing them while they’re down doesn’t seem to be as effective this time around. On the flip side, they appear to go down with fewer headshots if you can place them

- no more defense item prompts? Probably the trade off for the knife having infinite durability, and getting grabbed by a zombie allows you to button mash to fight them off which more or less eliminates the need to use defense items against them

- Nemesis can create enhanced zombies which are very easily distinguished by their tentacle heads and ability to lash out with an attack similar to a licker’s tongue whip

- and on that note dear god NEMESIS. He’s fast, he’s mean, and he hits like a freight train. He has two attacks (at least that I’ve experienced) that briefly immobilize you, one being a grab and the other being his tentacle drag

- Nemesis can come out of nowhere. He has a leap and some other animations that allow him to easily traverse the area and be on top of you in seconds. He’s also surprisingly sneaky?? I ran into a room after immobilizing him during the first encounter and I didn’t even hear footsteps or the door burst open behind me when he entered the room. For me the only real indication that he was close by was his super intense music suddenly beginning to build up

- the environment is packed with detail and you can tell the devs put a lot of effort into making Raccoon City seem like a place people actually lived and worked in, similar to what they did with the RPD in the RE2 Remake

- despite the environment being more open, things still feel very intense and visceral thanks to Nemesis breathing down your neck, zombies still feeling like a real threat, and the general atmosphere of the city literally crumbling around you

And that’s everything that came to mind for me. Feel free to leave your own thoughts of the demo!

[dragonpigeons]

Roommates Part 2

Tags/warnings: Deku x Reader, Deku x Self-insert, Slowburn, SFW, Aged-Up Characters, Roommates AU, Pro Hero Deku, Deku thirst. Other characters to be added in future parts including OCs.

Summary: Riida gets an idea over Deku’s eating habits. Also pizza. Word count: 1959

A/N: Thanks to everyone who read Part 1 :) Here’s Part 2, enjoy! Part 3 is out on my Patreon 🎉

====

Your room was your haven to be free to express yourself. And by expressing yourself that really meant expressing your love for Deku in every corner possible. You had a shelf full of his figurines. The walls were covered in his posters. Your bed covers had his face on. Your deku hug pillow took up one half of your bed along with all the chibi Deku cushions and plushies. And, of course, you had a few Deku hoodies, sweaters, scarves and socks in the closet, not to mention all the Deku charms adorning your Deku bag. You even had a pair of Deku undies stuffed in the back of your drawer which your friends jokingly gifted you for your birthday and which you deliberately chose to forget about.

In short, you were a massive fan of the pro hero. Your love for him extended into the online world where you were a top member of his fanclub and often enjoyed seeing any news about him. The fanclub was the reason for your private collection of images and videos of him in your hard drive and phone. You were often teased for your Deku passion but you didn't really care. What you felt for him was simply admiration as a fan.

So then why, for the past few days, have you been so nervous, and why, on this morning, were you hiding around the corner from where Deku was doing his morning workout?

The answer was this - he was topless yet again but this time he was doing handstand press ups. When you came to the doorway, you were met with a full frontal assault of his back, rippling with glorious muscles. It took everything in you not to scream.

So you dove round the corner to gather yourself, feeling like some higher being was testing you. Your entire face was burning, your chest was palpitating. You never thought in a million years that you would become this way around your favourite hero. Sure, you had imagined meeting him at a signing event or something, but those were very casual and very quick to get it done and over with. There wouldn't be time to feel anything other than a short burst of joy at meeting your idol. Not to mention he'd be fully clothed too and not half as hormone-inducing.

You took a few deep breaths to calm yourself down before emerging into the kitchen.

"Hey," Deku's eyes lit up when he noticed you, pausing his workout for a moment, "I put the kettle on just before so it should still be hot."

"Oh, okay. Thanks."

You ate your breakfast in silence purposely avoiding Deku's sweaty physique, lest you risk giving yourself heart palpitations. He was very dedicated to the cause though. You wondered about his morning habits.

"How early do you get up to do your workout?" you decided to ask him.

"Pretty early!" said Deku, perking up at being asked a question by you. "Around 5am? Sometimes 5.30 if I want a bit of a lie in."

You raised your eyebrows. You couldn't help but be impressed. "Do you work out everyday?"

"Yeah. Except Sundays. They're my days off. It's bad to overwork your body. But I like doing them because it clears my mind for the day ahead."

"I see. Being a pro hero must be quite stressful."

"Not more than any other job, I imagine."

You had your doubts that a pro hero went through the same stresses as someone with an office job but you let it slide.

"What made you choose to live here?" you asked.

"Simple, really. One, I like the space where I can do my daily workouts. And two, it's in a secluded location where I can afford to get some privacy.”

You found you agreed with his reasonings. The apartment was very spacious given the okay price of the rent and it was out-of-the-way from more popular areas. You personally liked it because it meant quiet nights and humble surroundings.

“Oh, by the way,” continued Deku, “don't tell anyone I live here. The landlady knows and she's signed a confidentiality contract. So yeah, if you were thinking of bringing a boyfriend over or-- just let me know and I’ll stay out of the way."

"I don't have a boyfriend," you corrected him.

"Really?? But, you're so pretty. I thought you would have one for sure."

You almost spat out your food, suddenly hit by that bombshell out of nowhere. It was fortunate Deku had his back to you. Your face was burning red hot and there was no way you could face him at the moment. You decided to steer the conversation another way, clearing your throat, "Would I need to sign a confidentiality contract too?"

"Huh? Oh, er, maybe. I'll talk to my agent about it."

Deku finished his reps and hit the shower.

And you went to work with your face almost permanently red for the whole day any time you thought about his pretty compliment. And you thought about it pretty often.

---

Deku installed a pull-up bar the next morning. He had a black sleeveless top on this time but that did nothing to detract from his bulging arms. Furthermore, he looked good in black. Not that you hadn't seen pictures of him in black before, but combined with pull-ups and it was a knockout sight.

You stuttered as you greeted him good morning.

"Good morning!" Deku greeted back jovially. "What's for breakfast today?"

"Toast. And jam," you replied, deliberately opening your fridge.

"And drink?"

"Just a glass of milk."

"You're always so healthy in your meals," appraised Deku warmly.

"I try," you shrugged, "but sometimes I can't resist a ramen cup or a pizza takeout."

"I get you," said Deku, in a way that was like he was proverbially nodding his head, "nothing like a good pizza to satisfy a craving."

You were spreading jam on your toast when Deku suddenly said, "Hey, I know - let's have pizza tonight!"

"P-pizza?"

"I've been craving it lately and then you happened to mention it. Perfect timing, right? How about it?"

And that was how you ended up sharing two large pizzas with the No.1 Hero several hours later after he got back from work. He even went the extra mile and got dessert and cola too.

You enjoyed your pizza, savouring the taste. Next to you, it seemed Deku was enjoying a whole lot more, cramming it all into his mouth like no tomorrow.

"This is so good," said Deku with his mouth full.

"Mm, yes," you agreed, finishing a slice.

"I haven't eaten since 10."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah," Deku wolfed down two slices in one go. "Was busy with a train incident."

You recalled seeing on the news how a villain group boarded a running freight train, wanting to take the cargo for themselves. Deku managed to stop the group in their tracks with the help of a few pro heroes. The whole thing caused a mess for many passenger trains though and services became delayed. Deku and the other heroes had to sort out the chaos working together with the authorities.

You stared at Deku, asking out of concern, "Do you often skip lunch?"

"I mean, yeah. I'm pretty busy with stuff. It's not just the patrol stuff, there's also all the paperwork and side gigs too. But that's why I like to go all out when it comes to dinner--" He finished his entire 18" diameter pizza by himself in five minutes flat. You watched as he downed a two-litre bottle of cola in one sitting too. A trail escaped from the corner of his mouth and slid down his throat, bobbing over his adam's apple. You quickly turned back to your pizza feeling warm all of a sudden. It was probably the jalapenos, you told yourself.

"Hey, do you mind if I have an extra slice?" Deku eyed your pizza box which was still two-thirds full.

"Sure, have as many as you want. I won't be able to eat all that anyway."

"Really?? Thanks so much!"

Deku gorged himself generously on your leftovers. You had to wonder, if he was skipping meals, was he really holding up the best he can? "It seems bad that you're skipping meals as a pro hero, to be honest," you admitted out loud.

Deku nodded somberly, "I know but I can't turn my back on those who need help to go and fill my stomach.”

You personally disagreed with the pro hero. No job was worth risking your own health, even one as well spotlit as his. You were sure other fans would agree, some even commenting their observations on how Deku was looking on the thinner side lately. A little idea started to form in your head which you would check out the next day.

---

The Deku Fanclub forums were lively as usual this evening with all the banter and discussions surrounding the hero himself. There were some truly diehard fans, bordering on obsessive stalker-ness, who provided endless entertainment and 'exclusive' pictures of the green-haired man out and about. Sometimes they got him on his way to the gym. Sometimes he was caught in action. Sometimes it was a shot focusing heavily on his butt. And that wasn't even the worst of it, but you were there for something else.

You clicked on one thread which caught your eye. It was about Deku's eating habits. Many theorised and agreed that he was eating at least three meals a day and snacking on lots of fruits and protein bars in between. One Deku Diehard (it was its own label for the extremely dedicated Deku fan), however, put together an entire hypothetical itinerary of Deku's schedule for the past several days and proposed that he wasn't getting the recommended three meals a day because there simply wasn't time.

You found a reply to this comment that talked about what Deku should be eating in order to attain, and maintain, his good form. Lots of talk about protein and carbs. A chicken breast here, a salmon fillet there, a scattering of beans throughout, and some tasty meal plans. You bookmarked the meal plans.

That evening you cooked too much for lunch, enough for two people. The next morning you took out the extra portion and sat it on the counter, mentally rehearsing what you were going to say as Deku worked out in front of you. This time he was doing one-armed pull-ups, which wasn’t entirely helping your cause to pass this off casually but you had to remain focused.

"Um, Deku," you uttered nervously. "Last night I made too much food for myself, and I was wondering… W-would you like the extra portion? Not that you have to accept or anything--"

Deku dropped from the bar and said, "Really, you would give me your extra food??"

He leapt over to the counter in excitement, picking up the container. "Chicken and potatoes. No wonder it smelt so good in the kitchen last night!" He grinned widely, then with a knowing look, "It's because I said I skipped lunch yesterday, isn't it?"

"Um, well…"

You were seen right through by Deku. You didn’t think he would remember but here he was, smiling at you, eyes crinkling in gratitude. "You didn't have to do that for me. I really appreciate it though. This way I won't skip a meal. I can't let your hard work go to waste so I promise to finish every last bit!"

You gave a shaky smile back, hoping it wouldn’t taste too terrible to him. You were not the greatest cook but you at least wanted to try your best for the hero you admire.

====

A/N: A longer part this time but I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know in the comments your thoughts :D

[lihikainanea]

The angst cometh.

It’s Granny’s time, and tiger deals with it really the only way she knows how.

Trigger warnings, so we can all be safe here: loss of a loved one, grief. If you think I missed one, let me know and I’ll add it.

And a longwinded note from the author: I lost my grandma in March of last year. She was one of my most favourite people on this earth, and everything about her was fire, was emotion, was instinct. My grandmother stood at 4′9 and was one of the fiercest human beings you could ever come across--but she had the biggest heart. And she followed that heart for her entire life, logic be damned. My grandmother hated logic, hated rational thinking, she thought it robbed us of what makes us so special: our instincts, our guts, how we knew things that didn’t make any sense for us to know--how we could just feel it. My grandmother was spiritual in a witchy way, she believed in magic, she believed in things that couldn’t be explained, and she delighted in them. A free spirit in every sense. I admired so many things about her, but I think the biggest one was just her total wonder at everything. Adults can be jaded, you know? We learn it as we grow older, we get bitter. But my grandmother still got such childish joy out of everything in life, she never even blew out a candle without making a wish first. And to her dying day, she dressed up every year for Halloween, her costumes elaborate and intricate. She loved Christmas, would always put a big tree up and decorate her house. Even when she moved to a care facility, the first thing she did was call me and ask me to get her a little tree--just anything--something that she could put lights in, decorate, make a little festive.

Losing her crushed me and I miss her so, so much. She travelled a lot in her younger days but I know there was still so much of the world she wanted to see; and I like to think I show a little bit of it to her every time I go away. I carry her spirit with me everywhere I go, and every time I look up at the sky and see Orion, I like to think she’s right there with me, discovering a new place.

***

You knew the day would come, and you knew that no matter how prepared you thought you would be—no matter how slowly it happened—you knew it would still hit you like a freight train. 

She had slowed down considerably as of late, her memory failing her. She looked frail during the last few visits, the fire in her eyes subdued and replaced with confusion, with forgetfulness, with the knowledge that memories and recognition should be there, but that they just…weren’t. On a good day she knew who you were, she’d smile and swear she’d never forget your face, but the next day she’d look at you quizzically when you spoke to her, showed her pictures. She had enough fire still to get frustrated sometimes, knowing that she should remember the stories you told her, the pictures you showed her—pictures of you and Bill. Sometimes she’d smile wistfully, tell you that boy had good right down in his soul, and sometimes she’d stare and ask you who the handsome tall fellow was, and why you hadn’t married him.

But in the days before, things took a turn for the worst. She was in pain, her eyesight gone, her movements slow like molasses ran through her bones. She knew it was time—she told you as much during a visit when her memory was strong—and within days, she was gone.

You had seen it coming, but it hit you no less hard.

Bill had been away when it happened, he was reluctant to leave you in the first place because he knew she wasn’t doing too well, but you had told him he needed to do this project. But when the call came in the middle of the night, you crumpled. You couldn’t breathe, feeling like somebody had crushed your chest and stolen the wind right from your lungs. You don’t know how long you stayed on your kitchen floor, sobs wracking through you, gasping in heavy breaths that just seemed to spur more crying. Your throat was raw, your cheeks burned with the salty tears, and your fingers shook as you pressed the speed dial for his number.

You tried to even your breath, at least get a deep one in as it rang.

And rang.

And rang.

You let out a cry as it went to his voicemail, throwing your phone to the floor as another sob tore through you. You stayed on the floor.

Your parents had come some time after, their faces grim—things needed to be done. Her room at the care centre needed to be cleaned out, arrangements needed to be made. They needed you.

And you needed Bill.

Locking yourself in the bathroom under the guise of washing your face to get ready to go, you tried his number again. And when it rang three times and went to voicemail after, your knees gave as you held onto the counter top in your bathroom, heaving.  You didn’t have a grace period, you didn’t even have time to process—the things that needed to be done needed to be done now, and it didn’t seem to matter if you were ready to deal with any of it. Ready was a luxury. So without him by your side, you started to deal with it all the only way you knew how—by shutting down. Locking it all out. You dealt with it by not dealing with it. You made yourself stone.

You were stone as your parents went to give a positive identification. You were stone as you went into her room at the care centre, the bed missing, and started folding some of her clothes to later donate. You were stone when you found a box of her favourite treats hidden in one of the drawers, opened and half empty. You were stone when you found a little box tucked away in the corner of the drawer, a box with your name scrawled roughly on top. You opened it to find her locket inside—her beloved, gold locket that never left her neck, the one with a picture of you and her inside. You picked it up, turning it over in your hand before spotting a folded piece of paper in the box as well. You were stone when you opened up the note, reading her unsteady handwriting.

Let yourself have the good things, kid. It’s okay if it’s easy sometimes.

You were stone, clasping the necklace around your neck and crumpling the note.

It was only later on, once her room was cleaned out and you made arrangements with your parents to go over in a few days and start cleaning out her house, it was only then that the emotions rolled over you in waves again. Once your parents dropped you off you locked the door behind you, leaning on it for support before you slid to the floor, hugging your knees to your chest as the tears started falling again. You wiped at them furiously, sniffling and running your sleeve across your nose. You jumped when your phone vibrated from your pocket, pulling it out and glaring at the photo on the screen. You pressed the button, holding it up to your ear but staying silent.

“….Tiger?” The voice on the other end waited a beat before speaking. And you thought you could be strong, you thought you could be mad that he was nowhere and couldn’t be reached when you needed him.

“I’m sorry I missed your calls, kid. I told my PA to watch my phone and interrupt anything if you called, but she didn’t,” he said. And when you heard his voice, your facade crumbled and you fell to pieces for the millionth time that day. A loud sob tore through you, and a chill went down Bill’s spine.

“Tiger? What’s happening?” He asked, and his voice was firm. But you couldn’t form words, couldn’t even get the air in. All he heard was wheezing, a desperate breath dragged in before another loud sob came through the line.

“Tiger…is it…is it Granny?”

And at her mention, a wail louder than the other broke through as you sobbed.

“Fuck,” his voice cracked with emotion, and you heard him draw in an uneven breath. He took a minute to try and compose himself as you cried on the other end.

“Kid, I need you to try and breathe okay?” He tried to comfort you, but his own voice shook as he tried to hold his emotions at bay, “Just try and get one breath in.”

He waited, craning to hear an inhale from your end, but your choked sobs were the only sound that met his ears.

“When did it happen?” He asked. You sniffled loudly, choking a little as you tried to speak.

“During the night,” you managed to say, “Bill where were you?”

“I was on set—tiger, I’m sorry,” he sniffled roughly and you knew he was just barely holding it together, “God, I’m so, so sorry kid.”

“I needed you,” you sobbed, “I needed you and I couldn’t reach you and—” the sentence died on your lips, another hacking sob leaving your chest.

“I know,” he murmured, “I’m on my way, tiger. I’m coming to you, okay? I’m coming.”

“You’re too late,” you accused, “I needed you. I needed you, Bill.”

And you knew it wasn’t fair. You knew it wasn’t his fault, and you knew that nothing he could have done would have changed anything. But you needed an outlet, you needed to be mad at something, to channel all of these overwhelming, crushing emotions the only way you knew how—by turning them into anger, into confrontation, aggression. Those emotions you knew well, you knew how to process, how to let them out. Grief, anguish, loss—these were much harder. But anger? Anger, you knew well.

So you let yourself be angry. Furious. Because it was better than dealing with the crushing pain of loss. And when Bill was supposed to get there the next day but his flight was cancelled, you let yourself be even more furious. And when he only showed up two full days later—the night before the funeral—by then, you were so overcome with rage that you didn’t even want to look at him.

He had come in looking like hell, probably not having slept since he last spoke to you, and you couldn’t find an ounce of compassion left in your body. And when he had opened his arms, approaching you slowly to try and comfort you, you had recoiled.

“Don’t you dare,” you spat, “Don’t you fucking dare, Bill.”

“Tiger—”

“No. Fucking no. How dare you, Bill. You call yourself a best friend? When I can’t even reach you after I lose one of the most important people in my life, and you show up two days later?” You were yelling now, wrenching out of his grasp when he reached for you and shoving him away.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and bringing his hands up to pinch lightly at his nose before he reopened them, focusing on you.

“Tiger, I know you’re hurting right now,” he tried to keep his tone even, but his voice was thick with emotion.

“Two fucking days, Bill?” You couldn’t stop yourself, grabbing a vase from your hallway table and launching it at the wall as he winced. He still took a slow step forward.

“And I know the way you deal with hurt is to get angry,” he continued. You could feel your face heat with rage at his words, your cheeks reddening as your already rapid breaths got even more shallow.

“Get out,” you screamed, and it was broken with a hitch of your breath, “Bill get the fuck out.”

You saw his face crumple, his eyes pained as he rolled his lips under and bit his cheek.

“Tiger, listen to me,” his voice was almost a whisper and he stood there with his hands out in front of him. His eyes were pleading, his face tired and sunken in—his entire presence was such a contrast to yours. Your face red, your chest heaving with uneven breaths, every single muscle in your body tense and alert and ready to fight.

“This is grief. You’re grieving. And I’m not leaving you,” he said calmly, “We don’t have to talk. We don’t even have to get close. But I’m not leaving you.”

You both stood in a showdown for several seconds, staring each other down unblinking.

“You don’t get to tell me what I’m feeling, Bill,” you seethed. And with that, you turned on your heel and locked yourself in your bedroom. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes and taking a few evened breaths. It was your way, he knew, of processing emotions that you didn’t know what to do with. Anger had always been an outlet of yours, it was a comfort, and anger let you focus on something else—anything else—other than the issue that had pushed you there.

He knew that it would hit you hard. He knew it would hit him hard too, and it did—but he had you to worry about before he could deal with his own grief.

He set about his routine, taking a shower at your place, hanging up his suit in your front closet, knocking back a hefty glass of scotch. He knocked lightly at your door, placing a glass in front of it.

“I put some scotch out here for you kid, if you want to grab it,” he called through the frame, “It’ll help a little.”

No reaction. He sighed, puttering around the scattered papers on your kitchen table to try and find more details on the funeral arrangements, on what else needed to be done. And when you emerged from your room to brush your teeth and get ready for bed, he tried again when he saw your freshly tear-stained cheeks.

“Are you okay?” He murmured, leaning on the doorframe in the bathroom. You spat into the sink, rinsing your mouth out before you glared at him.

“Why are you still here?”

“I’m not leaving, kid,” he said. 

“The hero, who shows up after the disaster and still tries to save the day,” you said bitterly. You rolled your eyes, bristling by him and throwing your shoulder into him just for good measure.

“I don’t want you in my bed tonight,” you snapped, making your way back to the room.

“That’s okay, I’ll sleep on the couch,” he replied. His heart sank just a tad, he wanted to hold you and comfort you, keep you close to him to see if he could force just a crack into your anger so that you could try and grieve properly, the way you needed to. But it was no use, it was all still too fresh and he had come too late. With a deep sigh he went to the closet where you kept the spare linens, grabbing a pillow and a few blankets to set up on the couch. He tried one last time before you laid down, walking into your room as you slid your pyjamas on.

“Goodnight, tiger,” he whispered, “I love you.” and risking bodily harm, he slowly approached and bent to gently kiss your cheek. He did it too quickly, too naturally, and you didn’t have the chance to shove him away. And then he retreated, the sofa creaking under his weight as he stretched out on it. Sighing and wiping another round of tears from your eyes, you curled up on your side of the bed and clutched the pillow.

Sleep had been futile for most of the night, and Bill could hear your sniffling from the living room but he knew you’d push him away if he approached—so he tried to give you space, he tried to give you room to process this however poorly you were managing to. But part of him couldn’t leave you completely alone, no matter how mad you got or how hard you pushed him away, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. So when you awoke not long after having fallen into a fragile sleep, your throat dry and sore from crying, you stepped out of bed to get a glass of water—and your foot landed on a soft, warm pile that let out an audible “oof” as your heel dug in. You shrieked in surprise. Alarmed, you peeked over the bed and saw Bill lying on the floor beside you, your foot on his stomach.

“Sorry kid,” he mumbled sleepily, “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Bill, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Not leaving you,” he burrowed further into his pillow, gently taking your foot off his stomach  and giving it a quick kiss before placing it back on the floor and closing his eyes again. You sighed, hoisting yourself out of bed. Bill hadn’t moved when you went back into your room, and you curled up under the sheets as you felt the prick of tears in your eyes again. You felt like all you did was cry, every waking moment spent with the hot sting of tears in your eyes, and you wondered idly just how functional tear ducts could be until they too, just…gave up and dried out.  You heard his blanket rustle, felt a slight puff of wind as he sat up and inched a little closer to the edge of the bed. Reaching out slowly, he gently ran a few fingers through your hair as you cried.

“I don’t want to be touched,” you spat, but it was flat instead of angry and you didn’t make any move to push him away.

“Okay,” he acknowledged, continuing his slow movements as he scratched lightly at your scalp. You couldn’t find it in you to move—whether it was to turn over or to shove his hand away or even to cuss him out, you just…couldn’t feel anymore. So you let him keep stroking your hair, you let yourself feel something other than the burn of tears down your cheeks, and when you drifted into a fitful sleep he leaned forward, brushing a whisper of a kiss on your lips before lying back on the floor.

The funeral was the hardest. You knew it would be, you dreaded it in the days leading up, but before long it was upon you. You were asked to speak, your family knowing that the bond you shared with her was special. And you wanted to, it seemed right to say a few words, but you didn’t know how you were going to get through it. You still couldn’t go more than an hour without breaking down, still couldn’t stand to take anyone’s comfort let alone their pitying gazes. Your knees shook from the moment you got out of bed, taking care when you swung your feet out in case Bill was still there—but his spot was vacant, the blankets folded neatly on the corner of your bed. You stumbled into the kitchen and saw him there at the counter, pushing a mug of coffee in your direction. He looked like hell—his big eyes sunken in even more and rimmed with red, his skin a sickly pallor. He stayed quiet as you took a sip—and sputtered when the deep heat of alcohol burned down your throat.

“Liquid courage,” was all he offered up as an explanation, “Do you need help getting ready?”

“I don’t need your help, period,” you snapped, and you blew on your mug before downing half of it in a few hefty gulps.

“Fuck,” you grimaced, slamming it onto the counter and making your way to the bathroom for a shower.

You were on auto pilot, reviewing your speech in your mind as you washed your hair, but you always choked up in the same spots, couldn’t even get through it mentally. By the time you had stepped out and tried running a comb through your wet locks, you had already worked yourself halfway to another breakdown. You started to cry again as you yanked the comb through your tangles, tugging at them with enough force to tear some of the strands right from your head. In your blurred vision you hadn’t seen Bill appear in the doorway, and you jumped when a hand clamped around your wrist and held your hand away. He took the comb from you and led you to the bed, where he sat and pulled you into his lap.

“I don’t want—” you started to stand up, but a strong hand on your shoulder pulled you back down.

“Sit,” he commanded. And then he brushed your hair back, gathering it in his other hand before starting at the top and weaving a French braid. He took the tie off your wrist when he was done, looping it around the end of the braid before lifting you by the hips and setting you back on your feet. 

He rose slowly too and bit his lip as he gazed at you, almost looking like he was debating something, but then he turned on his heel. A few steps in and he reconsidered, turning back and stalking towards you. He grabbed your face none too gently in his hands and with a squawk of protest on your part, he slammed his lips to yours. You tried to push him away but he blocked your reach with his elbows and kept his mouth crushed to yours. When he finally pulled away his eyes were on fire, and he kept his face close.

“Enough,” he said sternly, “Enough, now.”

When you opened your mouth to protest, he covered it with his own again but slightly more gentle this time.

“You need to let me help you, kid,”  he said as he broke away. His thumb stroked your cheek once, a parting kiss laid on your lips before he turned and went to leave the room. Your eyes hardened.

“I don’t need your help, Bill,” you spat. He turned, and for the first time you saw the toll that all of this was having on him. His eyes, drawn in and sad, looked wearily to you.

“Yeah you do, tiger,” he said gently, “You forget, you don’t need to pretend with me.”

And then he turned, leaving you to stare after his retreating frame. He stayed out of your way after that, only checking in on you when the car was about to arrive but you were ready, waiting on the porch.

It was even harder than you imagined. Rehearsing in your shower was one thing, getting choked up at a few instances, but up at that podium—surrounded by flowers, a priest, solemn faces, everything reminding you of death and mortality and goodbyes, up on that podium you didn’t even make it to the microphone before you got too emotional to speak. It crashed into you in waves, sad faces took on looks of pity directed at you; the girl up there who was already crying so hard she was wheezing. You couldn’t do it, the papers shook in your hand as your knees wobbled. You leaned on the podium for support, flicking your eyes to Bill. His face was creased with worry as he watched you, but he managed to give you small nod of encouragement.

“Hi everyone,” you stammered, your voice breaking, and that was all you could manage. In front of everyone, with all of their gazes on you, you caved. You sobbed into the microphone, leaning more onto the wooden frame as your knees gave. Bill waited on alert—waited to see if anybody would help you, talk to you, get you off stage. He waited to see if your dad would move to you, but he was rooted on the spot. He waited for your mom to do something—but she was too overcome with grief. He glanced quickly around at all of your aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings—looked around to anyone who should have run to your side first to help you—god just to do something—but they didn’t. He rose and slowly made his way to the side of the stage and up the stairs to you. He grabbed your elbow gently, turned you so that your back was to the audience, and cupped your face in his hand. You cried, grabbing onto the lapels of his suit. He ducked his head, so that he would be the only thing in your line of vision.

“It’s just me and you, kid,” he murmured, “It’s just me and you, here.”

You sniffled, nodding your head as his thumbs wiped your tears.

“She would want you to do this, tiger,” he whispered, “She would want you to be strong. And she wants to hear what you have to say.”

You wailed a bit at that, and kept nodding your head as his suit still remained clutched tightly in your fingers.

“You can do it,” he kissed your cheek lightly before straightening, taking your hands from his lapels and giving them a squeeze, “It’s just me and you here—and that little mischievous devil who’s causing us all this trouble.”

You smiled at that, managing a laugh as he smiled too.

“Give her hell, kid.”

With another soft kiss on your cheek and a final wipe of your tears, he winked at you as he turned you slowly back around, gave you a gentle push to the microphone before stepping off stage. He sat in front of you, right in your line of sight, and kept his eyes on you. Every once in awhile he would give you a nod of encouragement, a small smile or a little thumbs up when you recounted one of his favourite memories, and at the end of a few minutes you wobbled off stage and into his waiting arms. And you stayed there, anchored in him as they moved your grandmother to her final resting place. When your knees buckled as you said your last goodbye, his arms were what held you up, his own cheek wet against your shoulder as you cried into him, leaned on him. And he had reached for you too after he had said his goodbye, pinching his eyes shut to try and maintain some ounce of control as his hand reached out for yours, pulling you to him and crushing you to his chest. You hadn’t squirmed then, hadn’t tried to break free and tell him you didn’t want the comfort, the affection—instead the two of you had stood there alone in your own universe clinging to each other and to the memories of someone who meant so much to the both of you.

But night came again, in a way that is devastating only for those who have suffered such a deep loss—time didn’t stop. It kept going. And after a traditional shared meal, after a few words with your parents about how the two of you would go to Granny’s house tomorrow to start cleaning it out, Bill took you home. He coaxed you into the shower but didn’t join you, waiting for you to reach out to him but you didn’t so he let you be. And when you emerged, your hair already braided, he was lying on the floor by the bed much like the night before, surrounded by blankets.

“Goodnight tiger,” he mumbled in the darkness, “I love you.”

It was enough to crack the shield of armour you had put around yourself for days, the shield of anger, of stone, of ego and pride. Bill had come back, every single time, no matter how ferociously you had pushed him away. No matter how many mean words you had spat in his direction, he came back every time with comfort, with understanding, with gentleness. And you looked at him curled up on the floor, his large frame huddled in on itself while you had the whole bed, and your loud cry made him jump. Seeing him lying on the hardwood floor, refusing to leave your side, jarred whatever little emotion you were still capable of feeling. You had tried pushing him away—god, you were so angry at everything and him included, for abandoning you when you needed him most—and when he had finally shown up, it was like every unchannelled emotion you had felt since her passing just came barreling out of you and right at him. You hadn’t meant to yell, you hadn’t meant to scream and spit hateful words and push him away. You hadn’t meant any of what you said but you couldn’t take it back now and you didn’t even know where to start in your apologies.

So instead, you grabbed at him. You reached a hand out and clutched firmly at his arm and he let out a grunt of surprise, before you were pulling him up and over to you. You tugged, pulling at him hard enough to get his upper half onto the bed before his bottom half could catch up.

“Tiger, hang on,” he mumbled, and his head snapped to you when you let out another wail, “I’m coming kid, I’m coming. I’m just caught up in the blanket.”

He kicked his legs free and you hauled him up, burying your face in his bare chest as you cried. You wrapped every limb around him, your arms around his torso and your legs over his, squeezing him to you as he looped his arms around your back. He held you back just as tightly, bending his neck to bury his face in your hair.

“I’m here,” he whispered, “I’m here. And I’m sorry you’re hurting, tiger.”

“I’m sorry,” you cried, “Bill I’m so, so sorry. I should never have—”

But he shushed you, and his gentle strokes up your back had you pressing in even closer.

“You did well today, kid,” he said, “She would have been proud.”

You clutched on to him a little tighter, sniffling into his shirt as he continued to rub your back.

“Hey, do you remember when she got her new fireplace built?” You felt his smile against your shoulder, “It was right around Thanksgiving that year, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, she had the family over for dinner to show it off,” you sniffled and smiled at the memory, “And you went and told her that in Sweden, it was customary to light the first fire of the season with a little added help from alcohol.”

 His chuckle vibrated through you.

“I didn’t expect her to throw her glass of scotch right into it from clear across the room,” he laughed, “She almost took my head off, with how fast she whipped it.”

“You ducked pretty quick,” you said, “And she didn’t miss either.”

“She never did,” he smirked.

“Or the time you showed up to her house for tea, and found her chasing some cable guy on the front lawn?” You pulled your face from his chest, leaning your forehead against his instead as you shook with laughter.

“Oh my god,” he chuckled, stealing a kiss from your lips, “Tiger she had an actual broom. That she was trying to swat him with as she chased him. She was fast too—total hell on wheels—even I had a hard time catching her.”

“And when you did, the swearing started.”

“Yep,” he said wistfully, “She was so mad that she had come home and there he was in her backyard, going about his work. Trespassing, she said.  I couldn’t talk her down for a long time.”

You smiled fondly, closing your eyes and sighing. He kissed your nose softly.

“There’s so much of her in you, tiger,” he murmured, “All of her fire, her grit, her toughness.”

He picked up the locket around your neck, running his thumb over it as a tear fell down your cheek.

“Her stubbornness,” he ducked his eyes to catch your gaze, and you bit your lip bashfully as he swiped at your tears.

“This one is going to hurt for awhile. But all we can do—all you can do—is keep her right here, and take her with you everywhere you go.”

He slid his thumbnail into the locket, popping it open—and then he stilled, pulling his head back as his gaze flitted between your eyes and the necklace.

“Tiger did you change the picture in here already?”

“No,” you sniffled, wiping at your nose, “It’s always been the one of me and her.”

He stared at you, leaning forward to kiss you softly before he reached his hands behind your neck. He slowly unclasped the chain, taking it from your neck and holding the locket open in his palm for you to see.

And there in the heart, on one side was the picture you and her—you were a teenager then, her sitting down and you with your arms around her from behind, hugging her as both of you beamed into the camera. But on the other side, on the other side was a picture of you and Bill—his arms tight around your waist, yours looped around his neck as you hugged each other, your lips locked in a solid kiss.

You cracked, tears falling freely again. Clipping the locket shut he ran his thumb over it reverently, holding it out and slowly hooking it back around your neck.

“You and me, kid, we’ve got promises to keep,” he murmured, cupping your cheek and guiding you back to his chest as his arms wound around you.

“And miles to go before we sleep.”

[nightcoremoon]

here's some controversy that has nothing to do with social issues.

a lot of people hate the band five finger death punch. saying those words provoked a visceral response in half the people reading this, and a "who?" in the other half. they're a groove metal band; similar to slipknot, mudvayne, disturbed, all that remains, system of a down, korn, and killswitch engage. they're one of those really controversial bands that are hated because they're ~not real metal~ by dumbshits who think that NWOBHM is the only valid metal genre. even though england ruined metal and punk but that's a conbfetsation for another day.

now, if you just don't like metal, that's fine. I don't expect everyone to like every genre. so obviously you won't like them, or any band in the genre. obviously. and these are not the people who are being targeted with this post. no, this goes to those who love metallica, ozzy, megadeth, slayer, pantera, testament, opeth, tool, manowar, meshuggah, children of bodom, cannibal corpse, fear factory, mercyful fate: this is to the people who love metal. now, I say this as one of us, but metalheads are one of the most judgmental groups of people in history. and frequently I find that metalheads make the same remarks in regards to their opinions on five finger death punch.

they do nothing but covers. they just yell and cuss. forty year old men with teenage angst. bad musicianship. they look stupid. they fuck their sisters and daughters. they sold out to the military. they're gay. they do too many ballads. they're redneck bait. they're toxic masculinity and macho personified. they rely on guest stars to carry their songs. they're talentless hacks.

these are all complaints I've heard multiple times from multiple people. and frankly I'm sick of it. I'm sick of hearing the bullshit complaints rather than the ACTUAL REASONS why they aren't the best band in the world. which I'll go through now.

they have an overreliance on breakdowns as if they were a post-hardcore band but they're not. breaking benjamin also skirts the line between post-grunge metal and post-hardcore and have many breakdowns, but the difference is that BB's breakdowns have math rock roots and use different patterns that syncopate well. five finger's breakdowns are... eighth notes. it's the difference between, say, black veil brides- who have excellent syncopated breakdowns- and as I lay dying, who have shitty and boring breakdowns. the only difference is that AILD has blast beats (and is fronted by an abusive asshole), and five finger has... ivan growling threats or whatever because they think that it sounds cool to have metal blaring while he says shit like "you wanna disrespect me? I will slap you so fucking hard you'll feel like you kissed a freight train, fuck you," or "if there was ever a time for you to back the fuck up it's right fuckin here and right fuckin now" or "it's not the size of the dog in the fight it's the size of the fight in the dog," or "in the end we're all just chalk lines on the concrete, drawn only to be washed away; in the time that I've been given, I am what I am", etc, all preceding screams. and no these are not exaggerations, these are literally exact quotes. there's also one that plays radio chatter from the military while he goes "hut hut oorah", which is different slightly. and in any case, they have done nearly a hundred different solos over their career, there is NO REASON for them to have such a ridiculous amount of breakdowns. they rival memphis may fire in that regard, but MMF actually has great breakdowns. churko is a metal producer, NOT a hardcore producer, and they sound empty when you strip out the vocals.

sometimes they will overuse a chorus, and hit the pop music pitfalls of having a song that's over half chorus. I'm sure they did this so the label would be happy with singles because the music industry is a commercialized garbage fire and holding it against the artists would be so fucking stupid especially since tool (the best metal band in existence) fucking said it best, "all you know about me is what I sold you, I sold out long before you ever knew my name, I sold my soul to make a record, dipshit, then you bought one; I've got some advice for you little buddy, before you point your finger you should know that I'm the man and if I'm the man then he's he man and you're the man as well so you can take that fucking finger and shove it up your ass". translation; the fact that you know a band at all means that they sold out to even exist in the first place because that's what selling out is. so even this complaint I have that sometimes they have repeated chorus is more of a complaint about a music industry which dumbs things down to sell radioplay to the lowest common denominator, which EVERY SINGLE ARTIST IS GUILTY OF. so moving on.

sometimes they'll have songs which are fairly simple from a harmonic/mechanical standpoint. opening verse chorus verse chorus solo bridge chorus chorus ending. verse goes some mix of eighth and quarter notes and rests in 4:4, solo is just the vocal line of the chorus, bass and drums are nonexistent and only serve to be a melodic backbone, and the music only exists to serve the lyrics... oh wait I can make the exact same arguments about metallica, rage against the machine, pantera, disturbed, and a hundred other bands. those guys aren't hated as much as five finger. hmm. wonder why.

the lyrics are often angsty. namely that they deal with honor, government corruption, mental illness, we live in a society, religious corruption, abandonment issues, recovering from toxic relationships, hey wait a minute these are all just insanely common topics for metal songs!

they usually play in the same key- wait shit every band has a favored key.

they do a lot of covers- wait shit they have literally more ALBUMS than covers.

(yeah that's weird to me too, but they only did a new level by pantera, from out of nowhere by faith no more, bad company by bad company, mama said knock you out by LL cool J, house of the rising sun by the animals, gone away by offspring, and blue on black by kenny wayne shepard... that's 7. they have 8 albums now.)

so shut the fuck up forever about the cover songs. metallica and the deftones and a perfect circle all had fucking cover ALBUMS, van halen only has a career because of the kinks, and every single rock band in the world is just ripping off the beatles, pink floyd, black sabbath, the who, led zeppelin, and cream. pick a legitimate reason to hate on a band, hypocrite.

alright what else...

"they're gay"

I'm not gonna dignify that with a response.

"they suck"

so does your favorite band. boom roasted.

"they're bad at music"

I'd like to see you do better then.

"they sold out to the military"

no they support the veterans and the troops; they fucking hate the military if you pay any attention at all. they believe in the good parts of the military that the government pays half our taxes to make us believe. you're not better than anyone else just because you see through one specific piece of propaganda because odds are you're blinded by another dozen. they write songs about how war is hell and how when vets come home they should be treated better. and anyway when you're in the dog eat dog world of the music industry hey guess what you need a market to sell to or else it's back to baskin robbins. I don't blame them for one second. if I had the option of endorsing cops to pay my bills you bet your ass I'll fly a blue lives matter flag and sell my soul to make money, and then donate shit to the black lives matter movement. flying a flag is worthless if I can do actual good with the money that those dumbasses send in. and name better irony than fighting to abolish a group that pays me to do it go on I'll wait.

"you're just a fanboy"

a) it's fangirl but metal elitists don't give a shit about the LGBTQ and b) just because I like a band doesn't in any way diminish the validity of my statements and any bias I might have is easily countered by whatever bias you might have and c) they're not even my favorite band you idiot I just think there's way worse out there just like I think it's unfair to say nickelback is the worst band in existence when drunk mom rock like hinder buckcherry savingabel and kidrock exists, and limp bizkit is standing right there, and d) they're not even the worst groove metal band, just look at fucking lamb of god, and e) if I was a fangirl I wouldn't have pointed out the flaws you fucking brainless troglodyte, and f) even if they were my favorite band in the world it doesn't matter if you think they suck because music taste is subjective anyway you goddamn moron. those guys write their own music, play their own music, perform their own music, and they love their fanbase more than most other bands. andrew biersack and kellin quinn and pepper keenan and glenn danzig and liam gallagher and axl rose and van halen and ted nugent and kurt cobain HATE their fans, or at least are huge fucking assholes. but not five finger. jeremy played until he literally broke his back; he's as devoted as phil collins, and if he made like atreyu and sang while drumming he'd be singing from a wheelchair, or like dave grohl when he broke his leg right in the middle of a concert, went to the hospital and got set and put in a cast, THEN CAME RIGHT BACK TO THE FUCKING SHOW AND PLAYED GUITAR AND SANG IN A CAST AND WHEELCHAIR. oh but wait, people say phil collins and dave grohl suck too, and turn around and suck mustaine's dick even though he's the biggest asshole in thrash metal behind tom araya and drunk james hetfield. point being, just because x doesn't like y doesn't diminish z's opinion.

"the singer fucked his daughter lol lol his grandchild is his son too lol lol his daughter is his wife lol lol it's funny because rednecks and incest lol lol" he's from colorado not alabama you dumb motherfuckers, and all the lol incest in georgia jokes are rooted in good ol yankee classism. also the guitarist is hungarian so the american redneck jokes don't even fuckin work. shut the hell up, you have all of the intellectual capacity of a common bog leech.

you can dislike the band. you can say you don't like it. you can say that you'd rather listen to different music. that's fine! that's okay! listen to justin bieber if you like him, listen to taylor swift if you like her, listen to new kids on the block if you want! I don't care! but stop expressing your opinions that you stole from someone else as fact. all you're doing is meme bandwagoning so you can find a community because you don't have the social skills necessary to meet people through the things you love so instead you try to pull serotonin out of making other people feel as miserable as you do.

with that being said, fuck all of the annoying dudebro douchebags who listen to the band and show 5FDP next to the confederate flag, blue lives matter flag, don't tread on me flag, punisher skull, trump sticker, and the crossed assault rifles on the back of your truck. you're all shit for reasons other than your music taste.

[themockingcrows]

Companionship Through Circuitry ch. 6: Setbacks

Bro/Hal cw: blood, violence, deathclaws, and a generally bad day in the wasteland

Journeys are never without their inherent dangers. When you're living in the wasteland, it's to be expected. Doesn't make them suck any less, though.

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942408/chapters/64071430

     I spy with my little eye-

     “Hal, pick a new game already.”

     I can assure you this is the best game to play out here.

     “Fine,” Bro said, exhausted. They’d been traveling for days on the remains of the highway by now and there was no sign of a proper township. He smelled, his back and legs hurt, and despite having plenty of food water was always a precious commodity. He also had at least four letters to send by now, including a few sketches and schematics he’d designed after toying with the Furby body some more, in case Dave wanted to get his hands on a little guardian bot of his own. The kid was smart, even he’d be able to handle basic scripting to make a functional system for it. Surely someone else he was buddies with could figure out an AI of sorts for it, too. 

     True, it would have been easier to follow another path by now, but following the main point of the highway just seemed the best, most direct route for him. Who’s to say it was brahmin who made the trodden paths that led further into the wastes, or humans? What if it was mutants, or worse, deathclaws stalking the wastelands? Scuttling parties of mole rats or vicious dogs.

     Would you like to know what I spy or not, Bro.

     “I don’t want to know, but I’ve got a feelin’ you’re gonna tell me anyway aren’t you.”

     Correct! I’ll give you a few hints.

     Bro groaned in irritation.

     “A bloatfly,” he guessed off the bat.

     No, though it is annoying.

     “As annoyin’ as you? Why isn’t there a fuckin’ mute option on these shades..”

     Your second hint is that it’s bipedal.

     That perked him up somewhat. Bro scanned the horizon further off for signs of a city or outpost, a wanderer, a courier. Anyone. Instead what he saw was the lanky, sharply pointed edges of a juvenile deathclaw. A definite pain in the ass, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

     “...And how long have we been in deathclaw territory for, Hal?”

     Uncertain, my saved map mentions shopping centers, not deathclaws.

     “Ooh, shopping centers?” he said. “Put a peg in it, if we find somewhere to trade soon we might do a run back to grab some more supplies for trade and keepin’.”

     The deathclaw is still nearby, you know.

     “I can avoid it if I want,” Bro said, taking out his sword. A juvenile would take some fast work, but he knew he was good for dispatching the monstrosities, and people paid good money for their clawed hands, even the small ones. Hell, even he wanted some bits off of one sometime, though mostly for show. How sick would a deathclaw fang necklace be, after all?

     You appear to be approaching the small one instead of fleeing.

     “Watch and learn, Hal,” Bro said as he shifted his weight and began to run. Aching feet or not, his boots cut into the crisp cooked layer of topsoil and sank ever so slightly with each step. The deathclaw noticed him and turned, beginning to awkwardly run towards him, long limbs ungainly but just as deadly as an adult. They met in the middle, Bro’s sword singing off the armored hide of the creature’s forearms, taking a chunk with it as he went. The deathclaw lunged for his middle with a shrill noise, catching a chunk of shirt on the end of one of its spiky hands, but just missing his tender vitals. He turned, and used the momentum to slice at the space where its behorned head connected to its body, the sword sliding against softer skin. Staggered, the small deathclaw stepped forward, then tottered back unsteadily as it began to bleed out.

     Bro lifted a foot and kicked the creature backwards to its spiny back, then followed with the sword to spear its chest, cranking the blade to the side once it glanced off a rib, forcing downwards till it stopped moving. Planting his boot on its chest, he yanked his sword free and swung it in the air a few times to rid it of blood, and smirked. Fuck, that felt good. Nothing like taking out a little nightmare to give a nice rush of adrenaline and dopamine. Hell, he wouldn’t even say no to a smoke or a drink right now, ride that high long as he could.

     Excellent, now how do you intend to deal with the mother?

     “Mother?” Bro asked, about a half second before he felt something plow into him like a freight train, sending him flying and pain searing through his right shoulder blade. He landed flat on his face and skidded before rolling over, hand on his sword raising it defensively and other hand reaching for his gun.

     Shit. Shit, shit, this was definitely a mother death claw, the hide was darker than usual. He must’ve just killed one of her brood. Not a good look for someone not interested in dying in the middle of nowhere. He fired a quick two shots, missing the first and nailing her in the left eye  with the second, though it only seemed to make her more enraged after a brief second of shaking her head. She raised a hand and slashed downwards where Bro was scooting backwards, forcing him to block with a weakened grip before the second slash sang home across his chest, blood spurting where her claws shredded flesh and fabric alike. One of the straps of Bro’s bags was severed, leaving him half dragging it as he continued to try crawling backwards, firing till his clip was empty.

     Hal was urgently trying to tell him something, but Bro couldn’t hear anymore, couldn’t think, could only focus on the burning in his chest and the taste of copper in his mouth. Things were flashing through his mind as he stared down the deathclaw, who was raising both of her hands for a double slash that he wouldn’t be able to block in the slightest. Things he still wanted to do, to say. Memories.

     Dave the day he left home to travel to the city, bag on his back and barely a look back as he wove past the traps. Dave as a lanky tween, perched by his side on the counter top as he cooked an omelette for them both, telling him a joke that he still didn’t think was funny but that he’d laughed at anyway. Dave at five, sitting on his lap as he fiddled with a new project that would eventually become a birthday present game for him, looking up at him with big red eyes almost full of tears when he refused to tell him what he was working on.

     Dave, still struggling to put weight on as an infant as Bro kept him warm on the sofa through a bout of fever, trying to coax him into eating just a bit more from the bottle, wondering if he should make the trek to find a doctor or keep hunkering down and hoping it would work itself out. Being scared out of his fucking mind about this tiny, sick thing in his arms and on his chest, worried he’d break if he moved wrong.

     This wasn’t fear he felt. It was acceptance. Dave being sick or hurt was fear, even when he’d been the one to hurt him in the preparations he’d run repeatedly over the years. A deathclaw? This was his just rewards for being cocky without backup. He wanted to have time to apologize to Dave, like he always really meant to.

     He wanted to apologize to Hal, too, for not managing to take him to get his body. For getting his hopes up about Dirk and then dying with him in the middle of nowhere. Maybe the shades would get crushed by the deathclaw after he died, spare him much misery. They’d both just go out like a candle in the breeze and nobody would be any the wiser.

     A shot rang out, and blood spurted from the side of the deathclaw’s head. She staggered, stomping her sharp feet on his abdomen and legs as she adjusted her balance and snarled in alarm at the new threat. More shots, each one more precise than the last, till finally one hit the same eye he’d shot earlier, and the beast went down on top of him. Though his ears were still ringing, Bro could feel his pulse slowing down and everything going darker as the feeling of faintness took over.

     Bro. Bro!

     “Sorry, Dave,” he mumbled, blood on his lips and eyes unfocusing as red eyes stared at him. No, wait, not Dave. “Hal..”

     AMBROSE.

     The last thing Bro was aware of was a high pitched repeated beeping pattern ringing out from the shades on his face, a signal he knew so well. Anyone out here could recognize SOS when they heard it, but Bro couldn’t care anymore who did hear it.

     Darkness claimed him.

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

     “...p. See? I think he’s waking up! Jake, push more fluids!”

     “I’m going as fast as I can, don’t you think he’d bl-........”

     “...ver if we don’t. Sometimes you have to do dangerous things in a time of crisis, just pu-...”

     “...rry chap, we’re doing our best. Why were you playing with a deathclaw mot-...”

     “...’s going under again, God damn it why don’t we have more gauze!”

     “...aid last time we wouldn’t need that many, let me check his ba-...”

     “....tting sick, stupid coat, ugh! Hand me a clo-...”

     “...ehozaphat he’s rolling in meds and chems! Lookit all this, it’s a kings ran-...”

     “...ab whatever you can, inject him with at least two, and hand the alcohol to me so I ca-...”

     “...nk he’ll make it? He’s in an awful way, Jade. We’re still at least a few miles out fro-...”

     “...re he’ll make it, we just need to hur-...”

     ...ve him. Please. Pulse is falling at an alarming ra-...

     “...re trying our best, believe me, it’s up to him if we ca-...”

     ...n’t lose him to-...

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

     When Ambrose woke, it was to clean sheets and a bright light coming from a window. He reached up to touch his face and panicked to realize the shades weren’t on him any longer, looking around as he tried to sit stark upright to look around. Tried being the correct term, considering when he got a few inches upright his abdomen and chest sang with burning pain and forced him to lay back on an aching shoulder. Sighing an exhale, Bro took the room and himself into account.

     The room itself looked to be a standard medical setup for a scap town, shelves of supplies and a few more beds shoved into the same room with him, a shabby gray curtain sectioning the space off from another area. He was laying on a cot with the aforementioned clean sheets, which were a hell of a commodity, and wrapped what felt like head to toe in bandages. His chest had padding underneath that seemed fresh enough, as well as his abdomen, and another bandage seemed to be wrapping his shoulder. His forearms had bandages, a shift of his legs revealed smaller areas of wrappings and-

     Bro snatched the sheets and lifted them upwards, looking down towards his groin in worry. Okay. Phew. Dick still there and in one piece, no need to panic. Thank fuck.

     Were you honestly more concerned for your dick than me? Came a voice from the top of the shelves, arms folded in and tucked at an angle to not get damaged or in the way.

     “To be fair, I’ve been attached to my dick longer than you,” Bro said, giving another try at this standing thing and getting as far as sitting upright before he had to stop, dizzy. He was also connected to an IV he realized, two bags half drained already and the tether attached to his arm carefully with another bandage and some tape to keep it from moving. One of the bags was unmistakably blood. “Where’s my stuff.”

     I’m fine, thank you for asking. I can really tell you were concerned for my safety after being nearly disemboweled. I can also tell you’re just dying to know how you went about not dying.

     “My stuff, Hal.”

     In the other room, safe and fucking sound.

     “Thank you. Gimme a second and I’ll come get you,” Bro said, running a hand through his hair. He realized with surprise that it was clean instead of gritty with sand and dust and blood, freshly washed like the rest of him. Someone had taken care to wash him thoroughly it seemed. Hell, even his fingernails were spotless. Shocking. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been this squeaky clean, it was almost a shame he didn’t remember it. “How long have I been out?”

     Almost a week.

     “Jesus,” Bro rasped as he finally stood up on shaky fawn legs, reaching for the IV stand for balance before making his way over to the shelf, naked as the day he was born save for the bandages. He groped for the shades hurriedly when he started feeling faint again, and had just grabbed them when the curtain pulled back.

     A tall girl with dark skin, shocking green eyes and long wild hair tied back into evenly sectioned ponytails stood owl eyed behind large round glasses with a single crack in the left lens, a stethoscope around her neck and familiar leftover military gear covering her from head to toe. She frowned, and immediately rushed forward to grab Bro by the elbow and middle of his back, steering him back to bed.

     “How long have you been awake!” she asked. “Why didn’t you wait till someone came to help you? Are you in pain? Do you need any water? Food?”

     “Few minutes,” Bro said, more than a little startled. He sat and covered himself soon as he could, but the young woman didn’t back off in the slightest, swooping close to shine a pocket light in his eyes, checking his pupils.

     “Has there been any bleeding? Any night terrors? Do you have any numbness or weaknesses?”

     “I feel like shit, but otherwise,” Bro said, grimacing and jerking his head back from her grasp as she turned the light off.

     “I’ll get Jake to bring some lunch in for you, I’m glad you’re not running on glucose anymore. Actually, I’m glad you’re running at all,” she said with a grin. Her canines were strangely sharp looking. “My name is Jade Harley, and I’m half of the reason you’re alive right now.”

     “Is the chap who tried to cuddle the wrong end of a mother deathclaw awake yet?” asked another voice from beyond the open curtain.

     “He is! Get some of those mirelurk cakes and mac and cheese, please?”

     “I’ll bring some of that slackjaw jerky too, I imagine he’s half starved for real food,” said the male out of sight, before Bro heard distant sounds of dishes and metal scraping metal.

     “...So what, you a doctor?” he guessed.

     “We both are, in our own right. My cousin, Jake English, is the one who spotted you first out there. The primary reason you’re alive, however, is because we’re both sharpshooters! There wouldn’t have been much left to save if we hadn’t pegged that bitch into the dirt,” she said enthusiastically.

     Bro’s lip twitched in amusement. This person couldn’t have been older than her early twenties, but she was a doctor? And a sharpshooter?

     “So who really saved me?”

     Jade’s smile sharpened somewhat, looking predatory. “I don’t think I’d tease like that when you’re still so weak. All it’d take is a cushion to take you out right now, I bet.”

     “Sorry, just. You’re so young…” he trailed off as another figure entered the room with a dinner tray. This person didn’t look much older than Jade if he was a day, face clean shaven and hair styled but messy, standing at about the same height. He looked much more solid, though, shoulders broad and chest straining a little at the fatigues shirt he wore, and his demeanor seemed much sweeter than his cousin at first glance. More innocent somehow, or somehow less aware of the intensity of their surroundings.

     “Here you are, I’ll get some juice for you as well in a few ticks. First time I’m seeing this much of your outside as opposed to your inside since we got you scrubbed down!” he laughed, setting the tray on Bro’s lap. The food smelled fresh and was warm on his thighs beneath the sheet, mirelurk cakes looking greasy and delicious, mac and cheese that smelled plenty creamy from the box, and some kind of soft looking jerky rubbed with spices that made his mouth water as much as the fresh stuff before him

     “Try to eat slow,” Jade warned him as Jake trotted back out of view for a moment and came back with juice as promised. “Hope apple’s okay! It’s what we’ve got.”

     “Apple’s fine,” Bro promised, tucking into the mac and cheese first, eyes closing in bliss. Salty, creamy, rich. He could feel it flooding his system already, a body starved for nutrients beyond the bare minimum of functioning and safety. Once he shoveled a second bite into his mouth, he slid the shades onto his face and grinned a bit when haughty red eyes looked at him. Hal was clearly annoyed, angry even, but those eyes were full of concern too.

     “We’ve got tea too, though not everyone enjoys what we brew,” Jake chuckled.

     “Their loss, it’s delicious,” said Jade with a shake of her head.

     Scans show temperature readings as normal. Pulse normal. Pupils overly reactive to light, but not abnormal.

     “I hope he didn’t talk your leg off,” Bro said. “He’s kind of annoyin’.”

     You have terminal stupidity, I propose an immediate lobotomy to put you out of my misery.

     “Will you knock it off for ten seconds and let me eat before rippin’ me a new one?”

     It’s true. The doctor said so. You’re just stupid.

     “You were snuck up on by a creature twice your size in the wasteland,” Jade pointed out with a smirk. “Though I’m glad Hal’s giving you a positive reading. He was quite useful while we were saving you.”

     “How much did he talk,” Bro wondered aloud.

     “A bit,” she admitted. “We discussed why you were traveling, though he wasn’t that talkative about details. He let us know about Dave when you kept saying his name, in case you didn’t make it. He wanted us to be sure to let him know, and to send your other letters.”

     “You’re a long way from home,” Jake chimed in, taking a seat on the nearest bed to talk while Bro shook his head and went back to eating. “But it’s all fine now. Er.. mostly.”

     “How much do I owe you,” Bro said almost immediately, breaking a mirelurk cake in half with his fork before stuffing it into his mouth. He’d worry about manners when he wasn’t sitting in a room with two strangers who’d apparently saved his life and seen him in more detail naked than anyone else had in years.

     “We’ll figure out caps in a little bit,” Jade said. “You’re going to need to stay here a while longer either way, and we had to use a lot of your medical supplies.”

     “Helped ourselves to a little bit of your food as well, but mostly it was the chems and supplies we needed at the moment. Lucky for us you were damn near carrying a medics inventory on your back!”

     “Yeah, I just got through a vault,” Bro said. “Place hadn’t been looted yet till I got there.”

     “A vault!” Jake interjected excitedly. “Was it like they say, all sterile and eerily perfect?”

     “It was full of the people who used to live there, and they weren’t human anymore,” Bro said simply.

     It was quite a show to see that many feral ghouls get put down in one go.

     “Oh, that doesn’t sound very dapper.”

     “Vaults rarely are. They’re either fulla deadly shit, full of a shit load’a nothin’, or fulla people who don’t want you to bother them because you’re all gross from bein’ outside and they know you just want the goodies they’ve got.”

     “My grandpa was from a vault,” Jade said with a grin. “He’s the one who raised both of us, taught us everything we know.”

     They traded conversation for a time while Bro continued to eat, though it waned when he finished and looked exhausted, surprised that the very act of eating took so much energy out of him. Jake took the tray away and Jade performed a followup examination as Bro settled back tiredly on the pillows. Before she left, he requested his belongings, or what was left of them.

     He had an important letter to write.

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

     Bro’s head ached sickly by the time he finished writing the letter, nearly as much as his heart, and his eyes were wet. He didn’t dare to rub at them, nor to even draaw attention to them, but the fact he’d cried while pouring his fucking soul out onto the page wasn’t something he’d admit to anyone. Hal, bless him, remained quiet aside from occasionally offering a correction on a phrase to make it sound better. At first Bro had resented the dictation, but found the changes in wording to be a positive thing, eliminating double meanings. What he ended up with was the letter he’d envisioned sending Dave when the deathclaw was about to do the killing strike, and the fewer mistakes and misunderstandings that could arise from it was for the better.

     It took another few days of resting, eating, and conversing with the doctors before Bro was strong enough to go for walks around the town. First thing was first: he paid express for his letter bundle to be sent to Dave along with some money, the most recently written one marked URGENT in bright red stamped letters. Secondly, he got himself a cola and drank the entire thing in one go. The doctors had been kind enough to spot him some clothes, since his shirt was ruined and his pants were scrapped in the moment by bloodshed and emergency bandage use on top of their general wear and tear. The down side was he hated fatigues… but hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

     He was settled with another soda at the little bar and grill early one morning, having shared breakfast with Jade and Jake once more (his own recipe this time, which only Jake seemed enthusiastic about once they’d tasted the product), but wanting to just sit outside and enjoy the early morning before the sun really got going on cooking everything in the wasteland to death. Hal was quiet, watching as well he presumed based on the little target viewers moving around every time someone moved.

     What do you plan to do if you don’t get a reply?

     “Keep goin’,” he said with a shrug, taking a sip. “I’m not expecting a reply to any of my letters, but he knows which way we’re headed if he wants to write back. Kid knows how to use a map of settlements to send ahead of the curb if he wants to.”

     ...I was worried I lost you too, back there. But you’ve never once apologized to me yet.

     “Apologized for what?”

     For nearly making me watch someone I care about die. At least the first one had the decency to not die while wearinng me on his fucking face.

     Bro was pensive and stretched his long legs out from his seat before tipping it back on its hind legs, balancing in place as he took another sip.

     “I promise I won’t die while wearin’ you, then.”

     You f-

     “I wouldn’t wanna hurt you at all.”

     … That is acceptable I guess.