#i just need to like. decode it for myself

[dedicatedfollower467]

speaking of megamind and weird alien anatomy, i was looking through some of my old headcanon doodles yesterday

i realized that one of my concepts was that instead of megamind's head actually housing an enormous brain (which irl would cost an ENORMOUS amount of energy to maintain with diminishing returns), he actually has a fairly human-ish sized brain.

instead, his skull is somewhat concave and most of the flesh in his forehead is actually adipose tissue similar in structure and function to a dolphin's melon. and also his sinuses are enormous and extensive and they have phonic lips similar to a dolphin's in addition to his larynx, so he can make dolphin-like clicks/whistles that sound like they're coming either out of his nose or through the center of his forehead.

the phonic lips are circled in red. as you can see i gave him quite a lot of them, so he can probably make a whole bunch of weird alien sounds.

i can't decide whether i want his melon to be squishy like a beluga or more rigid like most other dolphins. logically, the more rigid melon probably makes the most sense, but the idea of megamind having a squishy head is just so FUNNY to me.

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s4 episode 5 "the field where i died" thoughts

i’m back. i’m back and i’m intrigued. because i'm reading the episode description, and if we get more mulder ex lore here, which the episode description makes it sound like we will, i am… not sure how i will feel on the subject. the term “reincarnation” makes it sound like whoever it was… died. did an ex of his die? and that is a lot of mulder marked by pain and suffering. and maybe i’m getting ahead of myself. but the writers KNOW we want our agents to smooch, so focusing on an ex might make me, the viewer, feel weird. i just need to get all these thoughts out in writing before we begin.

how is he gonna tell if someone is a reincarnated lover? or am i misunderstanding this entirely. 

only one way to find out

author’s note: oh my gosh…… nothing could have prepared me for this. at all. here i was thinking it was ex lore time, but it was past life time, and there are TEARS in my eyes.

(serious author's note: i ask for some grace in this episode recap. there may be some things i word poorly. i am familiar with the terminology used to describe DID, and did my best, but acknowledge that i may have come up short. please understand that this is intended to capture my live reactions to what i was seeing for the very first time. at times here, there are no reactions, just a sort of a nebulous recapping of what i saw because i was feeling So Many Things. so this one might be messy, and i hope that is okay. i don't understand what i am feeling, but i am feeling a Lot of it, and humbly ask for your patience in my clumsy wording as well as some helpful discussion on what just went down)

let us begin, i type as i sniff up some tears

we open with mulder in a field… is he reciting poetry? and looking very sad. 

wait, is he not actually reciting poetry and he just talks like that? while holding two pictures of old timey people. i’d guess civil war era.

okay. so now we jump right to the intro. that was quick. i’m still processing what we just saw because we were really dropped into that one with no context whatsoever.

federal agents break into a temple in tennessee. they’re looking for illegal firearms! and a guy named ephesian.

but mulder sees a window… and he is staring at it… walking out the door as if led by some sort of spiritual quest while scully yells his name and wonders wtf he’s doing. he is not responding to her at all, but she’s chasing after him because she is a good friend.

so he’s hearing things while scully is pulling her gun out, and it does appear that he found a trapdoor!

he busts in, and slaps some poison out of the hand of a woman who was taking sips, and then grabs the dude who i assume is the cult leader. whew… that was close

now they’re at some sort of meeting, listening to tapes, and skinner is here!!! hiiii skinner. everybody say hi skinner!

so, someone on the tape seems to be whistleblowing on this cult- the seven stars or something- saying that the leader is hurting children and stockpiling weapons. mulder looks incredibly pensive during all of this.

oh! someone refers to mulder as “our man spooky”, which is kind of hilarious, while complaining that the reports were weak. scully leans in and asks yeah, how did he know that? while the men are fighting.

and skinner yells KNOCK IT OFF!!!! because the folks at the compound were somehow able to hide all the evidence before they got there, and now they’re forced to hold ephesian and “his wives” on “BS charges”. so now the agents MUST find evidence of firearms and who the informant was NOW because they will try to get an arraignment fast.

woah. no pressure.

skinner comes over talk to mulder and scully- they must look into this ephesian fellow's claims of supernatural abilities. scully says he can use the book of revelations to manipulate his followers, but seems to suspect no real powers. 

they to talk to this ephesian fellow, who says he knew for 9 centuries that scully was coming, and starts going on about the bible, quoting stuff. very scary behavior.

mulder comes in with the fact check. jesus said that at smyrna, not about some church in tennessee! (his knowledge…. it always impresses me)

this dude is being super creepy, telling them to put aside their investigation “for your own souls”, because soon all unfaithful shall “be destroyed by God’s mighty men”. so this is some pretty standard cult rhetoric here. if you've studied religions, you've heard this one many times. it seems that ephesian thinks he and his people shall be the ones doing this violence. a tight zoom in on mulder’s troubled face as he quotes more scripture.

they have 6 wives to question, and mulder says to start with one in particular. interesting… i wonder why that one. is it because she was the one they caught ephesian with in the hidden area... or something more?

her name is melissa, and she says she’s 25 as she smokes a cigarette and dodges their questions. she’s been at the compound and married to ephesian for a year. 

mulder asks if it troubles her that ephesian has so many other wives, and she just recites scripture instead of answering. so scully comes in with the “i’d have a tough time if my husband had so many children with other women”. this seems to begin to get her to crack, as she tears up.

wait... it’s so wrong to hear scully call someone else, who isn't her sister, melissa :(

melissa she doesn’t have any children with ephesian yet... because he has to wait for God to tell him that the right soul is ready to be reincarnated, which is why his children are the most sacred members of the temple. naturally, of course /s

things get quiet when they ask if he had been hurting the children until melissa starts talking with a very different voice and set of mannerisms, and she no longer replies to the name melissa. so scully scrawls “multiple personality” in her loopy handwriting and passes it over to mulder. oh! is this sydney?

(at this point, i shall begin to refer to sydney with he/him pronouns, as this is what mulder does. normally i would stick to my journalistic integrity and keep reporting the things i wrote down incorrectly while watching the episode, but i'm trying to be very respectful- i hope you understand)

but mulder writes back to scully no, this is not a multiple personality case, it's a past life case! his handwriting is very blocky. to prove his point, he asks sydney who the current president is, and he responds that it is harry truman. ah. so, he's a few years off.

mulder claims that “somehow he just knew” sydney was melissa's past life, which doesn’t reveal a lot, but his eyes are very soulful and i want to hold his hand.

skinner says they need to find something to get this case moving forward, and mulder is like dude, we found sydney, the voice matched! i would agree with his judgement that this in fact a sizeable discovery.

mulder is saying that what they have seen matches the criteria of DID in the DSM4 (woah, need to look up when we switched to 5), but scully is saying that some people don’t even think it exists as a condition, and skinner thinks it could be a trap to buy more time for ephesian. so no one is in agreement here.

but mulder is going into his psychology expert mode and is making a very compelling case that this is an example of DID, particularly in the fact that sydney emerged when the topic of child abuse came up, which fulfilled the protector role. scully wants to know more before giving any sort of diagnosis, but she doesn't seem opposed to the hypothesis.

(skinner seems to fumble over which pronouns to use for each personality here)

skinner says to go ahead and take her back to the compound and see if it gets any results in prompting memories that could be useful to the investigation, but scully is mad at mulder! he didn’t even have the courage to tell skinner he thinks they're dealing with past lives here! mulder, who is usually so brave!!

he mumbles that skinner wouldn’t believe him. which is true.

woah, i don’t know how to interpret this line here, so i’ll just write it down for further analysis:

“i don’t believe that you feel responsible for those 50 lives. or melissa reidel. you are only responsible to yourself, mulder”

(is she saying he doesn’t care about those 50 people?? is she saying he has an ulterior motive? is she calling him a liar, and that he is using this case to gain support for his supernatural ideas?? is she calling him selfish? or is she trying to tell him that he can only be responsible for himself and control his own actions, that he cannot place the burden of saving everyone upon his shoulders? is she berating or reassuring him or both? does she think he isn't serious about the lives in danger?)

i can’t figure it out, but he gets up and leaves. (after watching the episode, i still can't figure it out- what did you think?)

so they take melissa back to the temple, and scully asks her to recall the painful memories so they can keep herself and others safe. it is very tense as she walks into a bedroom and sees many photos on the wall of ephesian and his wives. she knocks some of them over and starts crying.

scully still looks furious with mulder. it's as if she thinks his desire for supernatural entities to be proven comes ahead of his desire to save actual lives, and it's recalling her comparison to ahab during the conversation on the rock. she must feel that there is no time for this, that they need to get concrete answers right away or horrible things will happen; perhaps she thinks he isn't focused, is being fanciful. and i understand the pressure of a ticking clock, but after so long, this rift between them, it doesn't feel right.

oh my goodness, we see some horrific artwork on the wall by the kids at the temple. woah. shoutout to the set design team.

melissa is in the playroom sobbing, but asks why she is being called melissa. scully asks what she should call her, and that is how we meet lily. but lily isn’t there for very long before sydney comes back, saying to “leave the kid alone”. mulder says they can all be safe if they just are told where the guns are. then melissa seems to come back, and she goes back out the window where mulder was staring earlier!!! what does this window know?!?

and the score here is really pretty as she walks outside, scully following behind her. mulder is clearly unwell, though, and scully asks what is wrong, which he ignores and walks past her. typical him.

a new alter of melissa's seems to front, now with a southern accent, saying the guns are in a bunker. but… it’s the civil war she’s talking about. she was a nurse, looking for someone who was staying in tennessee. and she found that someone here, dead. then she was hidden in a bunker while the battle raged above her. it is very horrific, what she is describing.

she clarifies that she was there in november 1863, then turns to mulder and says “as were you”. he doesn’t seem shocked by this, but scully is, as this new southern belle proclaims “this is the field where i watched you die” OH!

(mulder, a confederate in a past life… this is deeply unfortunate)

mulder is trying to make a phone call to a hypnotist while they drive melissa back to the police station, but scully figures out he’s trying to do past life regression on her and says not to. and that her life is in shreds, and that is too much for her to handle. i hate to say it, but i agree with her. melissa has been through so much, and with such a tight deadline, i don't know if they have time for such a journey.

OH! mulder is angry. his voice is all growly as he yells “YOU WERE THERE, SCULLY! you saw it, you heard it, why can’t you feel it?” oh my gosh… the way he slammed his hand on the wheel... why can't she see it, it seems so obvious to him... how infuriating it must be...

scully asks why ephesian is a paranoid sociopath for claiming to be in greece years ago, but he isn’t for claiming to have died in that field……. damn…….

(idk what’s going on here between them exactly but i’m stressed. they are stressing me out)

(at this point, we begin a sequence in which i am so enraptured with what is going on, i have no reactions to all of the things i am seeing, and just recount them to you, with occasional interjections of "oh my god"- but i think if you've seen the episode, you get why it had this effect on me)

so they do get a therapist, who is talking to melissa. she begins to answer the therapist's questions about seeing anything upsetting at the compound, talking about a woman named elizabeth and her son scott, who came to live in the temple. and ephesian took the son away. but ephesian caught his mother visiting her son, and “the mighty men” beat her, which brings melissa to tears as she recounts this. and he hit the boy, calling him garbage, beating him.

scully looks very stressed in the background to hear all of this, but sydney is now fronting at this point, saying to leave melissa alone, and that the guns are in the bunkers… somewhere. where they are is a mystery, though.

scully leans down to mulder and says that maybe there is a map somewhere, but mulder says she knows where to find them. and at this she says “mulder…” in a very breathy fashion and i still can’t quite articulate what is going on between them…. but he’s going in.

he says it’s me, melissa, and asks her to go back to the field. “your eyes may have changed shade, but it cannot color the soul behind them”, she says. that they are only to meet in passing in this life. and she misses him. he just stared and stares, before his head falls into his hands

scully is trying to explain to him that this is a product of melissa's illness, and she can’t give any specifics- no names or locations, and they don’t have time to do this, because ephesian’s arraignment is in two hours.

“wouldn’t you, scully? wouldn’t anybody?” <- oh my god…. is he compelled by a terrible sense of duty or by his own curiosity? is she scared to watch him go down this path he cannot return from?

okay, so now he is going back into his past lives. this sequence is almost entirely a close up of his face, for minutes on end, which adds to the intensity. he's really panting as he remembers. “ghetto streets. shattered glass. bodies of the dead. a jewish woman. poland.” oh my god…… 

he says that he is samantha’s mother in this life; “in this life, she is my son”

his father is dead, and… HIS FATHER IS SCULLY? WHAT? i didn’t see that coming. she’s troubled by this, all of this, not just learning he believes her soul to have been his father before.

but he says that his father is waiting now for their souls to come back together, different, but always together, again and again, to learn.

and he is crying. he can’t go to his father. a gestapo man is there, and he is cancer man; “evil returns as evil, but love… souls mate eternal”. and his wife is melissa, who is taken away to the camps. and he’s crying, and scully is watching with great concern.

now, he’s rising above the field, near the bunker. and his sergeant is also dead, and “he is scully”, and we cut to her face of increasing sadness. sarah holds him, who is melissa. she is sarah kavanaugh, and he is sullivan biddle. she doesn’t know that he’s waiting for her, that they will live again. 

scully tries to ask if he sees any bunkers, but he keeps saying his soul is tired, and he wants to rest.

and this is devastating. it was if i was the one undergoing the hypnosis here. i couldn't look away, i couldn't react, i was so entirely absorbed and confused and busy feeling things.

scully is consulting a map in the town records to try and find this bunker where the weapons are stored, and then she looks up the names he mentioned. sure enough, they are in the county records. then she reaches for some photos, where she finds one of sullivan and sarah. 

a lot of things are being processed in her brain, so we might need to give her a minute. i think we can see some long-held systems of belief being challenged in her mind.

but she brings him back the photos of their past lives, even as she is telling him that ephesian is going to be released soon. why would she do this? to comfort him? to validate him without using words?

oh my god, mulder just called her “dana”. wait. hold on. oh my god, hold on.

“dana, if, um… early in the four years we’ve been working together… an event occurred that suggested or somebody told you that… we’d been friends together in other lifetimes- always- wouldn’t it have changed some of the ways we looked at one another?”

“even if i knew for certain, i wouldn’t change a day”

WAUGHHHHHHHH (ripping my clothes off in grief) WAOUGHHHHHH wouavhhhghhhh……… she wouldn’t change a day….

(and what event was it that he is referring to? is there a certain one...? am i forgetting something from early s1...? damn you, my obsessive note-taking impulses, for not kicking into gear until s2...)

“well… maybe that flukeman thing, i could have lived without that just fine” HDHJSNSME he smiles as she leaves….

(i had to google what that even was because i was like ??? but the flukeman was the season 2 sewer baby!!! for those of you who are going into this whole thing blind and also don't know what the fandom calls stuff! i think to me he was "baby sewer mermaid" or something along those lines... but now we know)

so now he and melissa are in the room together, trying to recall. she says she wants to believe (!!!), and he’s rubbing her hand, but ephesian comes in, saying it’s time to leave. so she rips the photo in half and leaves crying. 

does he know he was supposed to love her? is he mourning that he hasn't? is he wondering if he has time to?

mulder gets up, and leans his head against the wall. scully comes in to say that they are still searching for more bunkers as the temple people return to their home. there is a deep sense of grief.

ephesian seems suspicious. 

mulder is talking to skinner, saying that those in the temple believe that the FBI are the devil’s army, prophesied to be defeated by the armies of god. but ephesian must not really believe that, because he hid the weapons. mulder emphasizes that he may “deny himself”.

back at the compound, all the members are being called to worship. the music is getting scary, and guns are being pulled out. 

scully looks up some bible verses and realizes that ephesian is calling his members to the end of times, which gives skinner the go ahead to launch a raid.

back at the compound, the poison is being distributed to the members of the temple. and a few are shooting at the agents outside, and mulder and scully pull up as the sipping of the poison begins inside. 

NO! mulder puts his hands up and begins to walk into the compound!!!!! WHAT IS HE DOING!!! scully shouts out that he is dead. as we see inside there are piles and piles of bodies, including melissa.

but wait! is she still alive???? she’s getting up!!! 

but no! ephesian is still there watching her. giving her poison to take. mulder is running in as fast as he can, trying to figure out what is going on. and he finds the room full of the bodies while gregorian chanting is in the background. 

he finds melissa, with no pulse, holding onto the photo she had torn. 

scully sees him touching her arm, raising his eyes and crying. 

we end where we began, with him in the field, holding the pictures of his and melissa’s past lives. 

end episode. 

what…..

first thoughts: i don’t quite know what to make of this, but i can tell it is going to tear me apart for the rest of my life.

second and third thoughts are also variations of my first thought.

i feel so sad? to know that mulder has (or thinks he has) lived these horrific past lives, and that he is reunited with the same people over and over again, to learn and lose them. and that scully was there with all of them- but so was melissa, and he said that soulmates are eternal, so if that is true he lost his for this life. and he said he was so tired, so tired... how can he escape the eternal cycle of samsara?

and scully, watching all of this- what did she mean when she said that he wasn't responsible for anything but himself? was it an insult? was she begging him? what was she feeling when she heard him talk about her being there in his past? was she trying to hurt him in their conversation in the car? will they ever actually be able to see eye to eye? does she believe him? can she? how does hearing all of this shake her own faith?

can you have many soulmates that come with you again and again, just in different forms? so would his soulmates be scully, and his mother and father and sister, and this melissa figure? and what are the implications of losing a soulmate in this world? is that a life of feeling that something is missing, until death? do they shuffle roles, but come again and again? is that comforting or horrific? are we to believe him?

and that terrible, terrible ending, him finding the bodies... how are we supposed to interpret that? just more grief on top of already endless grief? or are we supposed to see the poetry moment as an answer to a question that provides relief, even if it is bittersweet?

why did he want to know so badly? was he driven by duty to save? duty to find the Truth? duty to protect his loved ones and seek cosmic answers? are these separate things, or are they all intertwined in him?

i'm... really going to have to think this one over. i would really appreciate hearing your thoughts, as well. i wish i had a solid interpretation. it was very serious and sad, and it was bittersweet but filled with grief. i once again echo my earlier request for fluff. but how do you go back to the way things were once he says she was with him in every life? how does scully rationalize that? what are they to each other?

i'm pondering. it feels like something has shifted. and you can't go back now, even if i can't pinpoint what it is that changed.

i want to go back to daydreaming about apple cider dates. but it feels like you can't, you know? huh.

[pretentious-blonde]

the talk

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: the talk

warnings: death, crying, arguments, descriptions of dying, st lore, panic attacks, grief, therapy mention, yelling, suicidal tendencies???

a/n: i finally had some time to myself after getting accepted into my postgrad! also this was sad to write, i struggled with it, but i hope either way that it meets expectations.

series masterlist

Steve is trying not to crumble—something he’s horrifically skilled at by now. He attempts to cling to the details of the room.

The couch, the wooden floor, the secondhand rug—

Your bedroom door.

Everything suddenly feels so fragile, as if it’s all balancing on a precarious edge. He draws in a measured breath, chest so tight it makes him think of grief. Like trying to breathe through water, its thickness catching against his throat. 

He hears a drawer slam shut in your room, your footsteps hurrying back and forth. And it hurts.

Hurts more than he ever would have expected. Because you didn’t know. And part of him almost envies you for that—envies the naive curiosity that led you here, not realising how deep the roots went. Not realising what you’d uncover.

There’s nowhere to go from here.

No smooth lie that can paper over what you’ve found. 

He’d been so stupid. 

Letting this spin out, never suspecting you’d pry in ways that cut this close.

His palms start to tremble, the betrayal sliding through his veins. Betrayal, yes—but not only yours. His own, too. 

You both played a hand in this.

A door hinges open; you step out of the bedroom. Even that small shift in the air jolts him—reminds him he needs to act normal, though he knows he can’t.

Your presence usually stirs up tenderness inside him. Normally, his arms would ache to hold you, to keep you close.

But now they ache with something else entirely—something restless, hollow.

He’s not sure where to put them.

He’s not sure what to do.

Like the part of him that knows how to reach for you has been carved out, leaving only the wanting behind.

His gaze is stormy, and you’re standing only a few feet away, wearing one of his jumpers like it still means something—like this isn’t about to fall apart, and it’s not helping at all. 

You’re wrapped up in this.

In him.

All he can think is how your curiosity dragged both of you into the fire. You barely notice the tension in his posture as you come over, the way his whole body looks ready to snap.

“If they’ve already run out of those hazelnut croissants, I swear to—”

You pause mid-thought.

He’s not even looking at you. Just standing there, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles look bloodless.

“Steve?”

Your voice is soft, uncertain, not at all what he expected to hear moments before. He doesn’t respond, can’t respond. He’s got that haunted, distant stare, like he knows a single wrong move might crack him open.

“Are you alright?” You step closer, caution in your voice. “If you need a moment, we can—”

“How long?” he cuts in, blunt and cold.

You freeze, attempting to decode his words.

“What?”

His jaw goes taut; you see the muscle twitch. When he speaks, his tone is low, like he’s forcing each word out through sharp edges in his throat.

“How long have you been—” He swallows, staring at the floor, too afraid to look at you. He doesn’t want to see your face right now. “How long have you been… keeping tabs on me?”

It sounds awful, but that’s what it was.

He lifts the notebook from the coffee table, like evidence presented in a trial. Pages flutter, showing the scrawl of your notes, the newspaper clippings. His fingers truggle to hold their weight. 

“I—I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t.” 

His voice cuts across the room. Harsh.

“Don’t you lie to me right now, alright?”

The situation’s already too fragile.

The notebook trembles in his grip. He stares at it, as if waiting for it to burst into flames.

“You need to tell me—right now—how long this has been going on.”

Your stomach lurches. His voice is so cold it hardly sounds like him at all. Gone is the gentle man who held you so close last night. Now he’s distant, like he’s bracing for something he can’t bear to face.

You can’t recall the last time he looked like this, body rigid, posture screaming that he’s holding himself together by sheer will. 

One wrong breath and he’ll shatter.

Instinct tells you to reach for him. But this conversation is a landmine—one wrong word could blow everything apart. 

Not just him; both of you.

You should’ve been more cautious. You knew this would hurt him, but not like this. Not to this extent.

“Not—not long, I swear—” you try, your voice stumbling.

He exhales raggedly, drags his hand through his hair. 

“That’s not good enough.”

You’re not sure who he’s addressing—you or himself. His knuckles bleach around the notebook. When he finally meets your gaze, there’s no tenderness left.

“How long,” he whispers, laced with anger barely contained, “how fucking long have you been spying on me like this?”

Your stomach twists. He looks so pale. You can’t hold his gaze, so you stare at your socked feet, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

“A few months,” you manage.

“A few months?” he echoes, voice climbing an octave in disbelief.

That long?

You nod again, your throat tight. 

“Y-yeah, well, I don’t have an exact number—”

"You don't?"

He lets out a choked sound, halfway between a scoff and a sob. 

“Because from the looks of it, you’ve been keeping a pretty good fucking track.”

His voice cracks on the last consonant, betraying him, and you see the glassiness in his eyes. 

He’s on the brink of losing control.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammer. “I didn’t know what I was looking for—”

“That’s not the fucking point!” he roars, a sudden burst of rage that leaves you reeling.

You still did it. 

In tossing the notebook aside, he feels as though he’s casting away the last shred of trust he had. It lands with a thump on the table, pages splaying out like an ugly secret finally bared. His face looks hollow. You watch as the devastation settles, and you realise how deep you’ve cut.

“You looked anyway.” His voice hitches, a painful break. “You—you let me pour my goddamn heart out, and you never once mentioned this?”

His accusation lingers in the air. The weight of your betrayal strikes you like a blow. Your eyes well with tears, but you stand rooted to the spot.

“It was just curiosity, Steve, I swear—I didn’t mean—”

“Curiosity?” he repeats, bitterness sharp as glass. “That’s your excuse?”

He’s so tense, you’d swear his heartbeat alone could crack bone. 

“You—you weren’t telling me anything, Steve,” you say, trying to keep your own tears under control. You take a hesitant step toward him.

He flinches—barely, but enough to stop you cold. 

He’s never flinched from you before.

“And—and I thought if I knew more,” you continue in a smaller voice, “maybe I could help.”

“Does this look like helping?” he snaps, voice scaling with every syllable.

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“No, but—but it doesn’t matter anymore, right?” The words tumble out too quickly. “We’re—we’re gonna go away, and—" your hands lift in a silent plea, "and you can tell me all of this yourself. I’m sure I’m wrong, and you can—”

You stop because he’s not even looking at you now. Just staring off at the wall, body taut with fear.

He can’t fucking do that. 

“You let me talk last night,” he mutters, pained, “knowing what that meant. How much it meant.”

“I do know,” you insist, desperate. “I do know what it means—”

But you didn’t. 

Not really. 

Not the way he lives it, every day.

“Then why?” he demands, voice piercing.

“I… I needed something. Anything. I thought if I understood you better—”

“Yeah?” he sneers. “What do you understand now, huh?”

He raises his voice, but the anger barely holds. It wavers, thinned out by something far more fragile.

He’s being cruel now, and he knows it. Throwing your mistake back in your face, twisting the knife. 

But how can he not?

He loves you.

Told you so. Showed you last night in every word, every touch.

It wasn’t his choice to keep this from you. It never was. But he had to. He had to protect you—protect both of you.

And now here you are, standing in the wreckage with shaking hands and tearful eyes, threatening to bring the whole thing down.

To destroy everything—including yourself—in the process.

He can’t let that happen. So he goes back to what he knows. What always works.

Push.

Make it hurt. Break something if he has to, just to figure out what you know.

And if it turns out to be too much—if you’ve already seen too far into the darkness—then he’ll have no choice.

You’ll have made it for him.

And he can’t afford to let you stay.

“No, seriously,” he presses. “What did you learn?” He steps closer. “Because I need you to say it. Out loud. What do you think you found?”

He needs to know how dire this truly is.

You hesitate, heart hammering like a drum. 

“...I know the mall was a cover-up.”

He flinches, like you physically struck him. Old memories tear across his features.

“Carry on,” he grits out, jaw muscle jumping.

“Steve…” you whisper, voice trembling. “It’s making you uncomfortable—”

“Is it?” He laughs—short, harsh. “Didn’t stop you before.”

Panic tangles with anger, lacing his words until they’re as sharp as needles.

“Anything else?” he demands. 

Let him see just how far you went.

“What. Else?"

His voice dips, low. You can feel the tension like an electrical charge in the air.

“You’re… scaring me.”

Good.

“Well, you should be scared!” His voice rings out. “This is fucking scary! Don’t you get that? You need to tell me what else you know.”

You’re shaking as you answer, but his guilt is drowned out by his need to know. 

“The earthquake wasn’t what it seemed.”

He closes his eyes momentarily, exhaling a shaky breath through his nose. He motions with a hand for you to continue, fingers jittery with panic. You draw in another unsteady breath.

“… you had something to do with Eddie Munson.”

The name is a lightning strike. 

He jerks back, colour draining from his face. The entire world seems to tilt around him.

His face drains of colour. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. Eyes wide. Staring straight through you like the world’s dropped out beneath him.

Not that name.

It hurt when he read it in your handwriting, but nothing would have prepared him for the sound of each syllable filling the charged room. 

Grief and terror merge violently, rising so fast it makes him nauseous. Every carefully built wall, every coping mechanism, every stupid little trick he’s used to survive the years since—gone.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

“I—I can’t do this,” he stammers, voice barely more than a breath.

He turns without thinking, his body moving before his brain catches up. A blind, desperate need to get out.

“What?” Your voice spikes in alarm. “Steve, no, wait—”

"I can’t fucking do this.”

Way too fucking close. 

His words are slurred with the rush of adrenaline, the absolute need to flee. 

Shoes. 

Where are his shoes? 

He stumbles over the edge of the rug, trying to reach them, heartbeat pounding in his ears like a siren.

He’s jamming them onto his feet, grabbing blindly for his jacket. Each movement is frantic, borderline clumsy. He mutters under his breath, breath hitching as he tries to keep from hyperventilating.

“No, wait—please!—”

But he’s already bolted, crossing the living room in uneven strides. You follow him, tears welling uncontrollably, fear lacing your voice. You call after him, your pleas echoing off the walls as he pounds down the stairs to the bookshop.

“Steve!”

Your voice rings out behind him, but he doesn’t stop.

He reaches the bottom step, rushing toward the exit, fingers fumbling with the door. He yanks it open like it’s the only thing keeping him from drowning.

Morning sunlight floods the shop, and it stings his eyes.

It’s too bright.

Too fucking normal for what’s happening right now.

His heart hammers against his ribs, like it’s trying to punch its way out. Each breath is a gasp, caught up with emotions he can’t pin down.

He has to get out. He has to—

“Steve!”

Without warning, you lunge forward, arms wrapping around his waist from behind.

The impact jars him, halting his steps as your body crashes into his.

His hand clenches around the doorframe, white-knuckled. Your arms are desperate, shaking, locked tight around his middle, not letting him take another step further.

“Please—please don’t go.” Your voice breaks, high and wrecked. “I—I can’t do this again.”

You don’t know if you could survive him leaving like this again. The last time nearly destroyed you, and this time would be worse.

Because this time, it’s your fault.

If he walks out now, you won’t be able to reach him afterwards. You’ll have burned that bridge with your own hands.

You had one thought.

Don’t let him leave.

Because if he walks out that door, there’s a terrifying certainty in your gut.

He’s not coming back.

The sound of your voice splits something in him, yanks him back to the present, with only one word echoing around in his mind. 

Again.

There’s a sob rattling in your throat—completely terrified. 

He’s never heard you like this. 

So utterly desperate. 

“Please—I’m sorry—” You manage to get out. “I’m so sorry.”

Fuck, you sound young. 

Like a kid who’s broken something important and doesn’t know how to fix it. Like you’re bracing for him to bolt.

He stares ahead, jaw tight, vision beginning to blur.

How did he let it get this far?

You’re trembling against his back, body convulsing with quiet sobs, and he can feel the weight of your collapse. It’s his fault he let it come to this.

Come to this again. 

He’s doing it again. 

His nostrils flare, and a tear slides down his cheek before he can stop it.

Were you like this the last time he ran?

He wants to scream. Or throw up. Or fall to his knees.

To be loved this much—and still be capable of hurting you like this—he doesn’t know how to live with it.

Even if what you did was wrong.

Even if it shattered something.

Even if he doesn’t know how to forgive it yet.

You’re not the only one breaking.

“Please don’t—don’t run away.” Your voice cracks in half.  “Please— don’t leave me.”

Oh, angel.

That—that—is what finally does it.

His lungs seize. His vision goes white at the edges. And something inside him just snaps.

He chokes on a breath, spins around in your arms so fast your hands scramble to keep hold—and then you’re in his chest.

He wraps you up with everything he has.One hand cradles the back of your head as you bury your face into him, sobbing like your heart’s falling out of your body.

You’re both shaking now.

He squeezes his eyes shut, hard, like he can physically stop the flood rising inside him. His lips find your hair, as his arms tighten around you with a desperation that borders on panic.

Panic over how he’s supposed to keep you afloat, how to stop you from slipping under.

“I’m not gonna leave,” he manages, barely.

You sob harder at that, a broken sound from deep in your chest, and your arms cling tighter like you think he might disappear anyway.

You’re petrified. 

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here—it’s alright.”

But how could it be?

His own tears fall freely now, slipping down his cheeks and travelling toward his jawline. His chest jerks, uneven and laboured, each inhale snapping him in half.

He kisses the top of your head again, again, like repetition might make it real. Might fix it.

You’ll fall apart if he lets go.

He almost let go.

Your breath stutters, hitching in your throat. “I’m—I’m sorry—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, voice trembling. “I know—I know you are.”

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do next—only that he can’t run. 

Because he loves you. 

God, he loves you.

And that love is carved into the way your fists are still gripping the back of his jacket. He pulls back just enough to see you, to cradle your face in both hands. His thumbs sweep gently across your cheeks, catching the tears even as his own keep falling.

“I’m not mad,” he whispers.

You’re swollen-eyed and blotchy, lips quivering, barely holding yourself together. He gives a wet sniff, the corner of his mouth twitching with tenderness, but nonetheless broken. He leans in and rests his forehead on yours.

“I’m not mad, angel.”

He means it. 

He’s not mad—he’s fucking terrified. But you didn’t deserve his anger. Not when it pushed you past your breaking point. Not when you were just trying to understand him. 

To love him better.

Even if it was misguided.

It spills out of him in a shaking breath. His body sags with the weight of it, and more tears slip free. You lift a trembling hand to his cheek, brushing his tears with soft fingers. He leans into the touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

“I didn’t mean to—” your voice catches, wrecked and tiny, “I just wanted—”

“I know.”

He knows. 

His voice is thick. He’s never felt so emotionally raw, like every nerve ending is on fire. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb stroking your hair in a repetitive motion.

He knows what he has to do.

He hates it.

He hates being forced into a corner like this—into a choice that feels more like a noose than a path.

His whole life has been made up of risks—always choosing the uncertain route, the one that might lead to something better but usually led to something worse.

But this time, he knows what happens if he doesn’t act.

There’s no alternative. If he doesn’t tell you now, it’s over anyway. 

And worse, you’ll still be in danger.

He loves you too much. That’s the truth of it. And some selfish, stupid part of him just can’t leave. Not when your body’s still vibrating in his arms.

You wouldn’t survive it, and he wouldn’t either, knowing that he did that to you. 

You love him. That’s what makes it so impossible.

You’re both fucking fools.

It took him months to tell his therapist. To unravel the truth in pieces, to hand over the trauma one cracked fragment at a time. But he doesn’t have the luxury of time now. Not after what you’ve uncovered, with everything now at stake. 

You need the truth. His truth.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. 

He starts to pull away, hands careful, movements gentle. You resist instinctively, your grip tightening.

“I’m staying, sweetheart,” he assures, leaning in to press another trembling kiss to your temple.

He closes the door like it’s sealing off the rest of the world.His back rests against it for a second too long before he moves back to you.

“We…” he swallows, glancing up. “We need to have this talk.”

You nod, still crying, though your breathing has steadied enough to move. You hate that it’s come to this. That you pushed him here. That it hurts this much.

But you understand.

You let him guide you.

He leads you through the quiet bookshop, hand still wrapped around yours. Past the bright sting of morning light pooling in the windows. Past the shelves stacked with stories that suddenly feel too far away.

He takes you to the old couch in the back, tucked in a pool of shadows where the world feels slower. Where he helped you unpack your order all those months ago. He hopes the happier memories will help with the more raw ones he has to reveal.

His steps are shaky. He keeps glancing back like he needs to make sure you’re still there. When he finally sits, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“You’re already too close.”

You blink at him, lashes still wet with tears.

“I—I can’t have you digging into this stuff anymore,” he says. “It was… it was stupid of me to let it get this far.”

He scrubs at his cheeks with his sleeve, breathing hard through his nose. He’s a mess—red-rimmed eyes, flushed skin, chest still heaving. He reaches for you again, pulling you closer until your thigh presses against his. He needs that contact, needs to feel you still here.

The silence stretches, brittle and loaded, and he’s steeling himself for the worst. 

No more running.

No more hiding.

His fingers find yours again, and he holds on tight.

And now, his real story finally begins.

He exhales, shifting his weight on the couch, trying to find a position that doesn’t make him feel like he’s collapsing in on himself. He glances at you, begging for some kind of absolution he’s almost certain can’t exist.

When he speaks, his voice is rough, raspy with all the tears he’s been holding back—unsuccessfully.

“It started in junior year….”

He’s never forgotten those days. Never truly left behind the basketball courts, the letterman jacket, the face he saw in the mirror each morning—the King Steve facade. 

He swallows, it’s been so long since he started from the beginning and now, saying it out loud, he realises something.

He really was just a boy when it happened.

“It started small.” He begins quietly. “Kid went missing—Will Byers. He was the first.”f

His gaze drifts down, searching the dusty floor for the memories. 

A missing kid—hardly the biggest news story in small-town Hawkins, but it would shape everything.

“We didn’t think anything of it—I didn’t think. I was—”

He was busy throwing parties, failing class, cruising around town with the latest fling on his arm…

Only Nancy was not a fling.

She was special to him. 

He grimaces, the weight of regret has settled behind his eyes. 

Nancy. 

The name still makes his chest tighten, even if the heartbreak has long since turned into something softer.

“I—I had a girl at the time, her name was Nancy. I didn’t think it was anything special, but…”

“But it was?”

It was. 

He nods, pressing his lips together, remembering the nights he spent losing himself in those big eyes of hers, the way she made him feel for the first time. Like she wasn’t with him for the reputation alone. It wasn’t like she stuck around for it anyway.

“Yeah… yeah, it was.” His voice softens, eyes drifting somewhere far away. “I was so caught up in her, I didn’t even notice what was happening.”

A bitter breath. A pause.

“Her best friend disappeared next... right outside my window.”

He hadn’t given a shit about Barb when it happened. More concerned with what his dad would say about him throwing a party. 

She was just Nancy’s weird friend. Too quiet, too awkward, too out of place. Invited out of politeness, not because anyone actually wanted her there.

And he let her leave alone. Didn’t think twice.

Didn’t care.

She died scared. Alone. In the dark. And he was upstairs—only thinking about getting a pretty girl into his bed.

Fucking idiot. That’s all he was.

He cringes at the memory, shame burning through him like acid. 

She’s dead because he was too busy being a selfish piece of shit.

“I think that’s why it didn’t work out.”

His laugh is wet, choked, and bitterness lines the edges of it.

“That’s what Rob said, anyway,” he murmurs, voice thin. “Every time she looked at me, I could see it—what she was thinking. If she hadn’t listened to me… Barb would still be here.”

He swallows hard.

“And I get it. I do. I understand why she believes that.”

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

She was his first love. His first real everything. And you don’t forget someone like that.

“Will came back,” he says quietly. “But Barb didn’t.”

His fingers tighten around his knee.

“But where he went… it wasn’t just some missing kid story. It was something else. Something wrong.”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down, knowing there’s no turning back once he jumps.

This is the part he’s never let anyone close enough to touch. The part he’s fought to keep buried. He’s never wanted to put this weight on you. Never wanted you anywhere near this.

But you’re already in it.

And he can’t keep pretending you’re not.

“The old lab opened something,” he says, voice low and tight. “Something really bad.”

His hands flex in his lap, like he’s trying to ground himself.

“They were messing with this shit for years, without even knowing what they were doing. They—” his throat bobs. “They took kids.”

He pauses. His jaw clenches as his mind spirals—trying not to, but failing anyway.

What kind of life was that? 

He thinks about El. About the pain in her eyes. She never told him the details and they weren’t always close, but they trusted each other in the way soldiers do—when you’ve seen the same kind of ruin and made it out alive.

She was just a kid.

They all were.

His chest tightens. He thinks about his students now—their crayon drawings, the way they laugh at silly stories. How small their hands are.

He can’t imagine one of them in a place like that. Used, then broken.

It made him sick.

“There were experiments,” he finally says, voice shaking. “They opened a gate. To another world.”

He looks up at you, and his eyes are haunted.

“One just like ours… but off. Alive, somehow. And it didn’t stay contained. It started to leak into our world.”

His hands curl into fists.

“It was hell,” he says. “And it came here.”

Hell. 

That’s the only word that fits.

So many people gone. So many lives lost.

And somehow he’s still here. And most days, he doesn’t understand why.

“The things that came out of there…” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. “They weren’t normal.”

His voice drops lower, rougher.

“Dogs that—weren’t dogs. Their heads would open up, and it was just teeth. Rows and rows of ‘em.”

Demo-dogs. The sanitised name for what they really were. 

“I was the oldest. I had these kids with me—Dustin, Lucas, Max… they were just kids. They couldn’t fight those things off.”

His jaw clenches. 

“I told them to stay back. And they did, they listened.”

A pause. 

“But sometimes I just wish…”

The words trail off, lost somewhere in the weight of everything he can’t say.

His eyes drift, unfocused, filling with something heavy and distant—memories.

Memories of running. Of screaming. Of blood on the floor. Of holding the line so they wouldn’t have to.

They got out.

He didn’t.

Not all the way, because he’s still in it.

Still sees it when he closes his eyes. Still hears the growls. Still wakes up some nights expecting something to tear through his door.

His hands start to shake and you reach for them again without thinking, folding them between yours. Trying to anchor him, to say you’re there without speaking.

He flinches at first. Then lets you hold him.

Even though it breaks your heart to see him like this—to know you pushed him to this point—there’s no going back.

“We thought it was over after that,” he says, “but it never was. I graduated—barely. Didn’t get the grades for college, and my dad cut me off.”

It dawns on you then.

His parents didn’t know.

Because if they had, there’s no way they’d have cared about grades, not when their son had been fighting for his life.

He hadn’t told them.

You’ve always known their relationship was strained, but this must have torn whatever was left even further apart.

“Took the first job I could find… and that’s how I met Rob.”

You nod. That part you do know.

The stupid sailor uniform. The Scoops Ahoy jokes. The unbearable summer heat. The friend who became family. You know the version he’s told before—the warm, funny pieces, the lighthearted edits.

But you also know where this is headed.

The blueprints. The tunnels.

“The mall,” you say quietly.

“Yeah... The mall.”

He drags a hand through his hair, fingers getting stuck at the ends.

“I was such an idiot,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Thought it was over. That we’d won. That we could move on.”

But the past claws its way back too fast. Even now, years later, just thinking about Starcourt makes his stomach turn.

“Dustin came back from camp, excited about picking something up on the radio waves. Said it was gonna be big, so I went along with it. Rob did, too. We thought it’d be—like the movies, y’know? Some big scavenger hunt we could brag about. Something exciting for once.”

He starts to tear up at the memory. The meltdown of that summer is etched into him like his scars.

“Turns out the government weren’t the only ones interested. The mall was a cover-up—you got that part right. Some Russian organisation had picked up where they left off… only bigger.”

His breathing grows laboured, and you see him fighting the panic in his eyes.

“It was bad, so fucking bad, angel. I—god, I even got another kid involved. Couldn’t have been older than nine.”

He buries his face in his hands, shame radiating off him. He teaches kids that age now—thinks about how small they are, how trusting.

“We got underneath it,” he says quietly. “Me and Dustin. The others had no idea. We found this elevator that went down—way down. Like, military base deep.”

He swallows. You can hear it.

“They got out, thank God. But me and Rob… we got caught.”

He doesn’t look at you as he whispers the next statement. He doesn’t want to see your reaction. 

“I don’t remember how long they tried to get information out of me.”

Your stomach twists at his insinuation. 

Torture.

Not a fight. Not a scuffle.

Torture.

And he was just nineteen.

Barely out of high school, still half-boy, thrown into something no one should ever see.

What the hell did they do to him?

“I came to,” he continues, voice a little distant now. “And Rob was there. She was… not fine. But she was breathing. We both were.”

He runs a hand over his face, dragging his palm down.

“She told me about high school. How I was this total dick. Said she sat behind me, and I didn’t even know her name.”

Now, it’s the name written on his emergency contact. 

“I didn’t even remember her. I was that guy.”

Your fingers brush his arm. He doesn’t flinch, he’s somewhere far off.

“We made it out,” he says. “We were so high we could barely walk—God knows what they injected us with. I don’t remember much, just pain. And the lights. And… Rob’s voice. Sometimes that’s what pulled me back.”

His lips press together. 

“The kids had to rescue us,” he says quietly. “They saved me. When I should’ve been the one saving them.”

His whole body tenses, a tremor running through him as the image surges. Sterile halls. Screaming in a language he didn’t understand. Blood. Cold restraints. The sting of a needle.

And fear.

Not just for himself—for Robin. For Dustin. For all of them.

Still fresh, years later.

“It came back this time, stronger than before. The thing was two stories high. We made it out with the help of El—you don’t know her, but she was one of the kids. The experiments they did on her… she could do things. With her mind.”

“We got out, and the mall came down too. A cover-up for the cover-up, the perfect story.”

He shakes his head, a wry twist to his lips. Then his expression crumples.

“But the worst was the summer after…”

He doesn’t want to talk about this part. You can see it in the way he stiffens, in the tremor of his jaw. This is where his scars come from. You’ve felt them under your fingertips, wondered at their shapes.

“Kids started dying again. In ways that were… too familiar. We knew what it was. Knew it was back.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and a tear slips free. His shoulders tremble, and you tighten your grip on his hands.

“Eddie was who they blamed for it—town freak, Satan worshipper, all that bullshit.” He releases a shaky breath. “He was Dustin’s best friend. Looked out for him when I couldn’t. Made high school easier for him.”

He grits his teeth.

“We all knew we had to fight it again—El wasn’t there. We’d done it before, so… maybe we could again. But it was bad. Worse than before.”

He’s reliving the terror in real time—the helplessness that gnaws at him still.

“It was so painful, angel. We got dragged under at the lake. I went first, because—I don’t know, I could? I thought if it was me instead of them, then maybe they’d be all right. Maybe I’d make up for it somehow.”

He’s openly crying now. Tears slip down his cheeks in steady streams. All you can do is watch, your own throat closing with grief you don’t fully understand but ache to share. You stroke the back of his hand, feeling how futile the gesture must seem.

“It didn’t stop.”

 Those three words fall like stones.

“There were bats—I think. I don’t even know what they were. Just… wrong. They kept coming. Tearing into me.”

Too fast to fight. 

Too many to count.

“They latched onto me like—like they knew where to bite.”

Ribs. Side. Neck. 

“I—I can still feel them sometimes. Even now. Like they’re still under my skin.”

He grips his side reflexively, as if the wounds still throb beneath his skin.

“I thought I wasn’t gonna make it.”

A twisted kind of admission. One that suggests a terrible resignation.

“And in a way…” His voice tightens. “It felt right.”

Maybe that’s what he deserved.

Maybe that was easier than surviving again.

“It made sense,” he breathes. “I mean—I was the one who stuck around. Maybe that was the end I was supposed to get.”

Then the sob rips out of him—harsh and sudden, like it’s been living just beneath the surface.

“But they got to me,” he forces out. “In time. They pulled 'em off me, and I was still breathing.”

Barely.

He swipes an unsteady hand across his face, blinking fast against the tears.

“We thought that was it," he says in a voice so hollow it almost doesn’t sound like him. "But it wasn’t—it was just the beginning.”

He can barely meet your eyes now. Won’t let himself see the fear and pity etched in your expression.

“There was someone else—another one of those kids from the lab. Stronger—smarter. He was behind all of it.”

His knuckles go white.

“He had this… world. A whole world that moved for him. Vines crawling through the ground. They were watching us. Telling him where we were.”

No plan worked.

“We tried to fight. Tried to run. But—but we didn’t stand a chance. It grabbed us. Around our chests, our—”

He stops, breath catching.

“It got me again. This time around the neck—tight—so fucking tight I couldn’t breathe.”

Again.

He mimics the motion briefly, a reflexive wince at the memory.

“I tried to yell—to tell them to go. But it was too late.”

He stares at the floor now, voice hollow.

“They got Max.”

She screamed. And then she didn’t. And he couldn’t do a damn thing.

The sob that follows is deep and shaking, your hand is still in his.

“Eddie was gone by the time we got back. Played the goddamn hero.”

Another tear rolls down, and he doesn’t even try to wipe it away.

“I told him not to. I fucking told them.”

His voice cracks—shattered glass.

“I was supposed to protect them.”

That was the whole point.

“I was supposed to be the one who could handle it..”

That was why he stayed behind.

He finally looks at you, eyes raw and bloodshot.

“I couldn’t save them,” he whispers.  

Always one second too late. 

“It caused the earthquake. Him. All of it was because of him. We never found a body. Never knew if it was over. So they left. Every single one of them, as soon as they could.”

Gone. 

He swipes at his face with the back of his hand, useless against the tears.

“And I—I stayed. I don’t know why. I fucking stayed.”

He breaks then, openly and fully. His chest spasms with heavy sobs. Watching him fall apart like this is agony, but you can’t not watch. You can’t tear your eyes away from this man who’s spent years fighting alone.

“I can’t move past it,” he gasps. “No matter how hard I try.”

Why did he?

When none of them are?

His voice is totally wrecked. You reach for him again, hands unsteady, tears streaking your own cheeks. You're afraid that holding him might pull him deeper into it—this bottomless grief—but you hold on anyway.

Because someone has to.

“That’s—that’s the basics of it all—fuck—that’s all I can do,” he manages between sobs. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m sorry. I just—that’s—”

He grits his teeth, trying to hold back the pain, but it tears out anyway—raw and guttural, a sound like a wounded animal.

It shreds through the room. Shreds through you.

You break, too. A soft sob escapes your throat as your hand tightens around his.

“That’s all I can give you right now,” he whispers.

And God, does he hope it’s enough.

He’s inconsolable. Stomach dropping. Eyes fixed on a patch of sunlight filtering through the bookshop window, like it might offer him a way out.

But there isn’t one.

There never was.

You sit there in silence, your chest hollowed out by everything he’s given you.

This poor man—battered, scarred, not just physically but soul-deep—who’s lived through horrors you’re only just beginning to grasp.

He’s still here.

He stayed. He survived.

Even when it would’ve been easier not to. You can’t imagine it. You can’t take it away.

But now, finally, you see him.

Every broken, ugly part.

You see all of him.

The only sound in the room is your sobs. His sobs. The line between where you end and he begins blurs, because the grief is so palpable it seems to swallow you both.

He’s curled in on himself, shoulders hunched and trembling, and you realise just how small a person can look when the weight of the world has nearly broken them. The world has been unfair to him—so unfair. 

And now, it’s your turn to figure out what to do.

Because this isn’t a wound you can bandage with a few kind words. This isn’t the kind of trauma that has neat stages you can work through, step by painstaking step. And it sure as hell isn’t the sort of mess any textbook could solve.

A part of you sees the outlines of truth now. The pills in his bathroom. The flinches when someone claps a hand on his shoulder too hard. The nightmares and the shadows under his eyes. Suddenly, so many pieces click into place.

This explains everything.

Then why doesn’t it feel better?

You’re scared to speak, but you know he needs something. Everyone else is gone—scattered in the aftermath of what’s happened to him. 

“Can—” Your voice breaks. You pause, inhaling shakily to steady yourself. “Can I… hold you?”

He lets out a low, ragged sound—somewhere between a groan and a sob—like he’s been waiting for you to ask, yet it pierces him all the same. There’s a vulnerability in the question that knocks the wind from both of you.

“God—yes.”

Please.

No sooner does he say it than you’re scrambling onto his lap. He clings to you with a force that almost hurts, but you don’t tell him to loosen his grip. You guide his head to your chest and hold him like you can piece him back together. 

Like a parent would.

Like his parents didn’t.

You press your fingers into his hair, sliding them through the strands slowly, trying to calm the raging storm inside him. And still, he cries. Deep, shuddering sobs that jolt through his entire body. You can feel each one vibrating in your bones. Each one feels like a testament to how much he’s been carrying alone.

But you don’t know what to do.

All you can do is cradle him, let him unravel against you. Let him press his face to his borrowed jumper as his breath catches again and again. You whisper soothing things you won’t even fully recall later, meaningless words in the language of warmth and touch.

Your thoughts drift to Robin. 

You wonder if she’s seen him like this—held him the way you’re holding him now. If she’s had to stitch him together each time the memories tore him apart. 

The respect you already had for her grows fiercer, more profound. You owe her everything for keeping him safe long enough for you to stumble in and set off this emotional landmine.

Because that’s what happened, isn’t it? 

You wanted answers, you wanted to help. 

But in chasing those answers you pried open something he wasn’t ready to face—something you weren’t ready to face. 

And even though you understand him more than ever now, it feels like a hollow victory. The cost is too high.

He rests against you, breath hitching. You want to tell him it’s okay now—that he’s safe. That this is the last chapter in some terrible book he can close forever and leave to collect dust. 

But you can’t. 

Because it isn’t over. 

There was never any real closure, never a neat solution, and probably never any permission to share what happened in the first place.

The world kept spinning, and he’s stuck carrying secrets nobody else dared to shoulder, in a town that refused to see the truth. That’s the cruelest twist of all—he’s been trapped in silent torment, never allowed to speak. 

Never allowed to heal.

And so, you hold him tighter, your arms a makeshift sanctuary in the face of everything that’s broken him. If you can offer him just one moment of peace, you will. 

You will do whatever it takes, no matter how small, no matter how fleeting.

His sobs begin to slow, each breath growing more subdued as exhaustion pulls him under. You can feel the change in the tautness of his body, how the strength in his grip fades as if some internal dam finally burst and took everything with it. 

Even so, you don’t stop combing your fingers through his hair, not for a second. There’s a desperate hope in your touch—that maybe, somehow, it soothes him. 

It’s the only thing you can think to do.

He doesn’t speak first, he’s already said so much. Let out so many words that weighed on his heart like anchors. When his weeping quiets to unsteady sniffles, you're the one who breaks the silence.

“Are you alright?”

Your voice quivers, the question tasting flat on your tongue. It’s a meaningless thing to say in a moment like this. 

Of course he’s not alright. 

No one would be, after that. 

But he feels a hint of gratitude that you asked anyway. Because you care enough to ask. That alone is worth everything to him.

He gives a slight nod against your chest, face pressed to your shirt as though letting go would mean losing whatever fragile tether he’s holding onto. His lashes are damp, sticking together every time he blinks. 

He wants to say no, but words fail him. Nodding feels safer.

He feels a lot calmer than he expected, lighter, somehow. Free in a way he hasn’t been for longer than he cares to admit. It shocks him. 

Somewhere deep down, a small part of him had convinced itself you would leave. 

Everyone does. But you’re still here. 

You’re not so easily frightened away.

He finally manages to lift his head, and the movement is tentative. A wince tightens his features when a dull ache throbs behind his eyes—headaches are the inevitable fallout of tears this heavy. But that’s a small price to pay. The real weight has been lifted from his chest, at least for now.

You look at him, eyes wet with sympathy. He hates it, hates seeing pity aimed at him; he’s never been good at being vulnerable like this. But at the same time, he can’t resent you for it. You’re only reacting to what you see.

Loosening his grip on your waist, his hands drift to rest on your hips, then your sides, drawing gentle circles through the fabric there. It’s instinctive, a way to ground himself in the moment. He ducks his head, letting out a shaky exhale that carries something like relief.

“I’m guessing we aren’t going to the coffee shop anymore,” he says, forcing a weak attempt at humour. It’s brittle and halfhearted, but it’s all he can manage right now.

Your laugh breaks through his gloom, watery and tender. 

“I have coffee upstairs,” you say, eyes glistening as you try to steer the conversation toward something resembling normalcy. “But I don’t think we need any more caffeine today.”

He nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat, because that’s fair. His nerves are already shot, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

“I’m sorry,” you begin, voice wavering. “I never would've dug if I’d known…”

He looks up, surprise flickering across his still-blotchy face. 

“I wouldn’t have told you if you hadn’t,” he murmurs, and there’s a note of truth there that resonates in the quiet of the bookshop. 

There was no easy way for this to come out, perhaps it was inevitable.

“Are you angry?” you ask, softly, like you’re afraid of his answer.

“No,” he says, more firmly this time. “I said I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve been lying.”

“I wasn’t.” His gaze flicks to yours, and he almost manages a faint smile. 

He’s done with lying—for now, at least, with you.

He looks at the light streaming through the window behind you, how it outlines your form in a gentle glow. 

Like a halo. 

An angel. 

The corner of his mouth lifts just a little, and he closes his eyes when your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck again.

“What do you want to do now?” you whisper.

If that isn’t the question of the year…

What does he want to do? 

Does he have to do anything? 

His mind swirls with the aftermath of what he’s just revealed, the emptiness that comes after a storm. 

Maybe he just wants to exist with you, quietly, for as long as the world will let him.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” he asks, voice nearly a plea.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, and you shake your head in affectionate exasperation. 

“You don’t have to ask,” you tell him gently. “You know that.”

He nods, because he does. But still—he wants to be sure. He’s never liked assuming you’d just say yes, even when it’s obvious.

“Do—do we have to talk about this anymore?” he asks carefully, the question trembling on the edge of his breath. “I don’t know if I have it in me.”

“Do you want to?” you counter, eyes searching his.

“No.” It spills out of him faster than he intends, but it’s honest. 

He’s relived enough horrors for one day.

“Then we won’t,” you say simply, tracing the line of his jaw with a touch so light it makes him shiver. “Thank you for telling me,” you add, voice dipping, “even if I didn’t give you much of a choice…”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you see the conflict in his eyes. 

“It’s alright,” he manages. His breath hitches in his chest, but no more tears fall. “It’s better this way.”

He never thought he’d believe those words, but somehow he does now. Having you here, knowing you know—it’s one less burden on his shoulders.

“Okay.” You sigh, a rush of air that sounds like relief. “I’ll make dinner tonight—my apology.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, shaking his head.

You grin, a wry little smile through the tears. 

“I can make pancakes again?”

A grin tugs at his lips in response, the memory stirs something bright in his chest. He tilts his head, pretending to mull it over. 

“You drive a hard bargain,” he replies, matching your playfulness. And then there’s that giggle again—boyish, warm.

“I know,” you whisper, leaning down and pressing your lips to his. 

The kiss is gentle, a lingering brush that sends a surge of heat and safety through him. He curls his fingers around your back, returning the affection with soft desperation, reluctant to let you pull away.

But eventually, you do. You slip off his lap and stand, offering him your hand, and he takes it. Your fingers thread together as you lead him across the bookshop floor, steps echoing softly, then up the stairs to your living space. A small ripple of relief settles into his heart. 

Tonight, he’ll let you fuss over him—the way you do when you’re loving someone through their worst moments. 

Not the overbearing, pitying kind that he’s used to, but your gentle brand of affection, full of small touches and sweet words. 

He’ll try to help with dinner, even if you bat him away, rolling your eyes at his attempts. And he’ll let himself smile, because you smile back.

He imagines sitting across from you at the table, nudging your foot under it just to make you laugh. 

He can already see you washing his hair in the shower, your fingers massaging his scalp. Maybe he’ll do the same for you, a soft sort of trade-off that seems impossibly intimate. 

You’ll see his scars and he’ll let you touch them without shrinking back, even though it stings to think how they got there.

He’ll try not to feel guilty when he falls asleep on your chest for a change, instead of the other way around. He’ll let your warmth lull him into a gentle slumber. Sure, he’ll have to wake up earlier than you tomorrow for work, but he knows you’ll be the first one up to keep him company if he just asks.

And maybe you’ll drive him, so he won’t have a car, so he’ll have to call you when he’s done. A part of him wants that.

He knows he can ignore the old stresses for a little while—until the next weekend, at least. 

He can’t miss therapy. 

That would be a dead giveaway.

He’s dreading how he’ll need to dodge and weave around certain truths there. He hopes he’s good enough at lying, but at least he won’t have to lie to you anymore.

And that’s the part that makes him feel lighter than he has in ages.

No more secrets. 

No more walls. 

No more hiding this battered, bruised history from the girl his stupid heart beats for. 

Because, for once, he’s not running from the truth.

And for once, he’s not running from you.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleyeswithgoldensparkles @keerysfolklore @carlyferrell 

[lady-of-tearshed]

Overprotective bat

Azriel x pregnant!reader

Summary: You really need to make your mate understand that you need some alone time...

Warning: Talk of pregnancy

Word count: 807

You stroke your now slightly swollen womb as you walk between the tall rows of bookshelves of the Town House, the place you and Azriel now call home. Rhysand and Feyre gifted you this magnificent residence as a mating ceremony present, since the both of them were now spending most of their time at the River House since the birth of Nyx anyway. You halt and smile in contentment when you finally pick up the book you were looking for. You spin around, and almost suffer from a heart attack when you face your mate, who had most certainly been following you for… Mother knows how long.

“Az… you scared me.” You sigh as you regain your calm, placing a hand on your chest. He smiles and places both his large hands on your small baby bump. He stares into your eyes and smiles, apologetically. “Sorry… I thought you had heard me.” You chuckle slightly and slowly make your way out of your personal library, heading for the long velvet couch. It wasn’t surprising that you hadn’t heard your mate following you, he always accidentally managed to startle you, thanks to his skills as a spymaster. 

You lay your back against the armrest, comfortably settling down on the couch. Your mate finds his way between your legs, laying his cheek where their babe was growing up, his hands back on your stomach as if they were pulled by some kind of magnetic force. You start reading, trying to concentrate through your mate whispering sweet nothings to their unborn child. “Az… weren’t you… supposed to meet Cassian or something tonight?” You start off, trying to sound… polite and unbothered by his permanent presence since the beginning of your pregnancy.

It’s not that it bothered you, not really. In fact, you always enjoyed your mate’s presence, you always would but… since the past few months, you barely have been able to enjoy some alone time out of when you were in the bathroom. Even then, he would have to check up on you to make sure you weren’t struggling with morning sickness. You just… missed having some tranquility. You already had to spend every minute of your existence with a baby growing inside of you, at least until its birth, and with Az constantly glued to you… It sometimes felt overwhelming.

“I thought you didn’t feel like going?” “Well… I thought you could go without me, you know.” He lifts his head from your stomach and looks up at you, brows furrowed in confusion. “By myself?” He asks as if I was talking to him in a foreign language he couldn’t seem to decode. 

You smile gently, and stroke his cheek. “Yeah, by yourself. It would… maybe it would do you some good to have some boys time. It’s been a while, I’m sure Cassian would agree on that.” “Mh. Cass can always wait, my pregnant woman needs me… baby too.” He places a kiss on your stomach, and gets back to his previous position. 

You sigh and bite your lip. “Az… I meant that maybe it would do me some good to just… breathe a little… for more than five minutes in the bathroom..?” I talked gently, stroking his hair. His eyes shot back up to me in an unreadable expression… “Yeah?” “Yeah…” You answer him back, giving him a soft apologetic grin.

He pauses, thinking, then gets up from the couch. He bends over, placing a hand beside your face on the armrest before kissing your lips softly, a small grin plastered on his delicious lips. “Alright, then. I’ll be back in an hour or two. You’ll both stay all safe, warm, and cozy until I get back to cuddle you… right?” Azriel knew and understood that you needed some alone time. You always have needed time away from everyone from time to time, and he realized that his protective Illyrian instincts had probably made it hard for you to have it. 

You smile and give him another peck before he leans away. “Alright, we’ll both wait for you and stay really safe in the warmth of our home until you get back…” He chuckles slightly, before winnowing away to meet Cassian, who would have to understand that he would need to get back in not more than two hours at max. 

You sigh in relief, drowning in the love and passion of your book for the following hours. You were glad and extremely grateful to have a mate, a partner who listens, understands, and fulfills your every need. Even if he sometimes needed to compromise on his own desires. You giggle as you gently poke at the shadow that stayed, enveloping the top of your belly, and can’t help but think of how amazing your mate already was as a father to your child…   

[willowser]

decode—

geto suguru x f!reader wc: 6.4k+ tags: sci-fi au—tbh i leaned into the cyberpunk futurism thing again i can't help myself 💀, suguru's job is never explicitly mentioned but hopefully you get the gist, he's also a bit scary but i think that's normal ?? idk hehe thank you thank you thank you to dear @rabbbitseason for allowing me to write this ! it's my first time with him 🥹 i hope it's okay ! very grateful for all your support 🥹

ONE

On the night you meet Suguru, an outage swallows the bar in one gulp.

No flicker, just a snap and everything cuts. The holosign outside dies in a whine of static, fans grind to a halt, light collapses, and you're left standing in the dark, holding a tray of warm glasses in hands that suddenly feel too small.

It's disappointing, but nothing new. You’re used to this. Your part of town doesn’t scream when the power goes out—it just sighs.

There’s a rustle near the door. Not the scrambling kind, not like the usual patrons stumbling out to smoke and curse the grid; it’s measured, heavy boots on concrete, too slow to be familiar.

This part of town isn't kind, even to someone it's grown. You step behind the counter in preparation for something—anything.

The figure comes into view in pieces—at first, just a tall silhouette framed by the dim spill of emergency glow leaking in from the street, but then he steps closer, and you see him: all in black, lean and broad-shouldered, his coat trailing like a shadow that's grown too long. The emergency light catches in his eyes, plum; dark and sharp and sweet.

You try not to stare. He probably notices anyway.

"Power out everywhere, or just here?" His voice is low, silk wrapped around steel. Calm in the way that makes you wary.

You shrug, but aren't sure he sees it. "Whole block, I think."

He hums, like that tells him something, and you reach below the counter to fumble for the old lantern. It flickers to life, casting amber light across the counter and his face. He’s handsome—suddenly so—but there’s something else. Something in the way he stands, relaxed but alert, like a man used to being watched.

You clear your throat. "Can still serve you something, if you're not picky. Got a few bottles that don't need cooling."

He smiles, slow and deliberate. One strand of his long black hair has come loose from the tight bun at the back of his head, and it swings slightly as he leans closer.

"Something warm, then," he says, not looking at the bottles. He’s looking at you.

You nod and turn, shoulders rising as you reach for the chipped ceramic pot. The movement’s an excuse to hide, give you a moment to settle the uneven flutter in your chest. You’re not used to being looked at like that. Not with focus. Not with intention.

The power’s out, but the pot’s still warm from before the lights went. You kept it wrapped in a thermal sleeve—old habit from long nights, colder ones. You pour the tea slow, steady, hoping your hands don’t shake as much as they feel they might. The silence thickens around you, too many shadows in too little space.

When he speaks again, his voice is low and steady, curling around edges in the dark. “City’s quieter with the lights out.”

You don’t answer right away, letting the sound of tea against ceramic fill the gap. Letting the heat of the cup chase back the chill climbing your fingers. “It’s always loud,” you say finally. “Just changes the kind.”

He makes a soft sound—agreement, maybe. Or understanding. Or neither. “No neon, no noise,” he says, more to the air than to you. “Funny how much the city depends on its own distractions.”

You slide the cup across the bar. He doesn’t reach for it right away, just watches the steam coil upward, like he’s waiting for something to reveal itself.

“I like it better this way, feels…cleaner, I guess.” You say, and it's true; this part of town isn't kind, no, but without the automated glitz and glamour, there's no need to pretend.

You hear the soft shift of fabric as he leans in—not close enough to touch, but closer than before. His presence hums against the edges of your awareness.

“You’re not scared of the dark?” he asks, voice smooth, teasing. His smile is wide, charming, disarms you in a way that it shouldn't.

You hesitate, trying to bite back your growing timidness. “Only when it’s creepy,” you say, "when it creaks or breathes back at me.”

That makes him huff, amused. Not quite a laugh, but close enough. “So, no ghosts in here?”

“Well, yeah, we have those,” you shrug, “They just mind their business.”

That pulls something out of him, something real and small that feels like a reward. “Interesting bar,” he continues, finally reaching for the tea. “Do you see much traffic here?”

You keep your face still. “Some.”

“Travelers?”

You nod, wary of where this is going, though nothing in his tone gives anything away. Not pushy, not prying. Just drifting. “People passing through,” you say. “They come. They leave. Same as anywhere.”

He sips. There’s something practiced in the way he does it. Measured, like he’s used to watching, used to waiting. “This part of the district,” he says after a beat, “doesn’t get much patrol. No official presence. Doesn’t that bother you?”

You shrug. “They never helped much anyway.”

Another pause. Another small pull of his attention. You realize too late how much you're giving away, when you see the thought behind his eyes, whatever he's cataloging for whatever reason, but he doesn't press it.

“Sometimes the places with the least oversight are the ones that know best how to take care of their own,” he says, almost like a proverb.

You nod. You’ve learned to let silences hold the things you don’t want to voice.

He drinks again, not watching you now, not exactly, but still aware of you. His presence wraps around the room like heat—delicate, thick, hard to ignore. You wonder if he’s just a traveler; surely not, with how handsome he is, how subtly elegant, the way he speaks. You wonder what he’s really looking for.

The thought doesn't go farther than that before a stool screeches from the back of the bar. Not the clean scrape of someone careful, but the lazy sprawl of someone who thinks the world owes him the space and time.

Jogo has been here since before the outage, hunched in the far corner like he’s part of the decor—one of the peeling posters or half-lit neon strips that doesn’t work right anymore. You should’ve made him leave with the others. You didn’t. You never do.

“Still no power?” His voice lurches into the dim, louder than necessary, too smug. “Place like this, surprised it had any to begin with.”

You press your palm flat to the bar. Not in fear—just to keep still. Shame flickers inside of you at the insult, a small flame, ever-burning; no pretending in the dark, no pretending you and your handsome stranger could be from the same world.

Jogo gets up, boots thudding against the composite floor. “Surprised you’re still running this place at all. Must get real lonely in here, huh?”

The sound of his approach stretches the silence thin. You don’t answer. Words feed men like him; it's always best to let them starve.

He stops at the bar, leans in with that breath like rot and synth-spice. “What’s wrong? Cat got your—”

He sees Suguru—who you don't know is Suguru, not yet—still half-sitting, one elbow resting on the counter like he’s got all the time in the world. Jogo must not have noticed him in the shadows before, but now he has, after the air has changed around him, gone colder, thinner. Like the room is holding its breath, too.

Suguru lifts his gaze to Jogo, calm as still water. "She’s busy," he says, voice smooth enough to be polite, but not a bit friendly. "Maybe try saying what you need without spitting."

The smile he wears is soft. Mannered, almost pleasant, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Jogo blinks, tries to laugh. It dies somewhere in his throat. “Didn’t mean anything by it,” he mutters, suddenly smaller. “Gonna smoke.”

He turns on his heel and stumbles out, too fast to be casual, too slow to be brave, and the door hisses shut behind him. The silence returns, heavier than before—but gentle, too. You breathe, slow, and let your hand drift from the counter. Suguru hasn’t moved.

When you risk a glance, he's watching you, eyes like dusk, plum-dark and unreadable, but not cruel, not smug; observant. Like he's measuring the weight of the moment and choosing not to tip it.

“Didn’t mean to bring any problems with me,” he says, voice low, dry with something like an apology.

You shake your head, smiling reflexively. “No problems, just finicky ghosts.”

He smiles, enough to show his teeth, and something sour in you eases, recedes. “That so?”

You nod once. It feels like the right answer.

He leans back again, and the moment should pass, but it doesn’t. Not really. The bar settles around you both like the world has exhaled, but there’s still something coiled in the space between you, waiting. Watching. Becoming.

TWO

Suguru comes and goes like a rumor—whispers first, then footsteps, then silence.

You don’t know what Suguru does, or what he has to do to come back. He doesn’t tell you, and you don’t ask—not because you don’t care, but because some part of you already knows it’s nothing soft. Whatever world he disappears into when he’s not here, it stains his silence, lingers in the way his eyes avoid yours when he’s too tired to pretend he’s fine. It sits between you like something alive and untouchable, a quiet, clawed thing neither of you dare disturb.

Sometimes he brings strange gifts—tokens you don’t understand, bought in currencies you’re sure you never want to learn. Once or twice, he shows up with that white-haired menace in tow, loud and too tall for your doorway, trying too hard to be funny and laughing like he owns the air.

But most of the time, it’s just Suguru, and the rain.

He comes when he wants to, leaves without warning, watches you too long sometimes, like he’s memorizing the shape of your silence. Like there’s something he wants from you but doesn’t know how to hold without breaking. And still, he never says why he comes, and, still, you never ask him to stay.

But the space between those two things—what you don’t say and what he won’t admit—is shrinking.

In the morning, you stir—bones stiff, muscles whispering their usual complaints—and the city mutters back outside your window, indifferent. Your apartment is still, small, the kind of place that remembers everything you’ve ever done in it, that won't let you forget.

You don’t want to wake up, but your body doesn’t care what you want. You shift, stretch, dreams still clinging to your lashes like cobwebs—and then you hear it: soft, wrong, from the kitchen.

And that easily, you’re no longer alone.

It only takes a breath for your nerves to remember themselves. You already know who it is. No need to ask.

The air has changed. Sweet, smoky, with something metallic curling at the edge; sharp, familiar, a memory you didn't have to invite back in. He’s here, Suguru, and of course he’s made himself at home again, like this place was carved to fit him and not the other way around.

The clock says six. Early, but time doesn’t mean anything to Suguru; he isn’t ruled by it, doesn’t bend to it. He arrives when he wants, leaves when he’s done, and you—you just let him.

The floor is cold beneath your feet. Not just icy—artificial, indifferent, the kind of chill that comes from old synth-tiling, worn thin by time and use. In the corner, your heater clicks to life with a tired hum, flickers once, then settles into its usual half-hearted wheeze. It’s trying, and failing, just like every other morning.

Suguru’s already steeped in the hush of the kitchen, the shadows wrapped around him like old friends. He doesn’t turn, just moves, slow and precise and controlled, the way he always does—tea, window, silence—and your exhaustion finds you again, soft and sudden. You should be used to this—used to him—but surprise has a way of wearing new faces; even the expected can weigh heavy.

His voice cuts through the morning, low and smooth. “Good morning.”

You rub at your eyes, suddenly too aware of yourself. Of the old pajamas clinging to your skin, the sleep still dragging at your limbs, the way your hair’s decided it has a mind of its own. Bare, vulnerable things.

Your words are dry, meant to sound casual. “Back so soon?”

He glances back, just enough. Eyes finding you like they were made to—slow, deliberate, full of something unreadable that still manages to see too much. You catch the shape of his smile in them before it ever touches his mouth.

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

His ease scratches at something inside you. Not longing, not quite, something worse, maybe, that doesn’t have a clean name. The kind that slips into your throat and settles there. Every time he comes like this, unannounced, unbothered, it’s like he leaves part of his shadow stitched into your space when he's gone.

You sigh, slow and shallow, trying to collect your thoughts before they show on your face. “No Gojo this time?”

His name lands heavy in the room: Gojo—noisy, untouchable, always dragging storms in behind him. You already know the answer; if he’d come, it would have been obvious, because the walls would still be vibrating. He’s never hidden the disgust in his mouth when he talks about this place, your dirty little corner of the star-system, as if it's a smudge on Suguru’s reputation. Shame and relief crawl into your chest together and sit there, when Suguru shakes his head.

“He can handle things on his own every now and then.” A pause. A glance. “Don’t tell me you miss him.”

Your laugh breaks out too fast, too sharp. It’s loud and uglier than you want it to be, but real, the way everything Suguru drags out of you is.

He turns fully at the sound and steam curls from the mug in his hand, held like an offering. He doesn’t speak, just smiles—that Suguru smile. The kind that knows too much. The kind that doesn’t need words to press against you. His presence settles like warmth between you—just enough heat to stay. Just enough to forget it will burn when it leaves. You take the mug, fingers brushing his, barely, and he steps aside.

And then you see it.

A package on the counter no larger than your hand, plain brown paper folded with precision, sharp corners and clean edges and neatly tied with a band of thin copper wire.

You eye it warily. It looks expensive. More than that—it looks deliberate. That kind of care—small, quiet, meticulous—is more him than any signature. You feel it in your chest before your brain can catch up. No one else wraps things like that. Not in this city. Not for you.

“What's this?” you ask, already knowing he won’t answer the question directly.

Suguru just slides it toward you quietly.

You pick it up slowly, running your fingers along the cool surface. The band slips off with a soft click, revealing beneath the paper a slim e-journal—compact, beautifully made. The kind sold by back-alley specialists who don’t advertise but somehow always have a waiting list. The kind you’ve lingered near before, just to stare. A soft hum rises from it as the display lights up with a warm, golden pulse. Your name flickers in the top corner, small and elegant.

You blink. “These aren’t easy to get.”

Suguru doesn’t respond right away. His eyes flick to yours, unreadable. “You said your old one was glitching.”

You can’t even remember when you said that. Weeks ago, maybe, in passing. You doubt you even meant for him to hear it.

Your chest tightens, that odd pull of gratitude and disbelief tangling behind your ribs. You press your thumb against the screen, watching it open to a clean interface—blank pages, empty folders, but one tab already labeled: Home.

"Suguru…" you start, voice shaky, barely pushing past your throat.

He just tilts his head slightly, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t mention it.”

The journal hums gently in your hands, in response. It’s light, sleek, and somehow heavier than it should be. A gift like that isn’t about what it is, not with him, it’s about the way he remembers. The way he’s been gone for weeks, and yet, when he returns, he still knows exactly what you need.

You keep your eyes on the journal even after the screen fades to black, the glow slowly dimming beneath your fingertips. It feels like the only thing anchoring you, like if you let go too quickly, the quiet swell of feeling might show on your face.

He’s here. He brought you something. He thought of you.

And you like the way that feels. You don’t hate it—not at all. You’re just shy about the way it wants to spill over. You’re not sure what he’d do if it showed too obviously, but from the way he’s watching you, eyes half-lidded and amused, maybe he already knows.

You squish your lips together, trying to tide back your smile. “You know, I was managing just fine with my ancient, barely-functioning piece of junk.”

Suguru hums, warm and buttery. “Mm. I noticed.”

“I was!”

“You say that, but I watched you slap the screen four times just to open the calendar.”

“It still worked.”

He lifts a shoulder in a slow shrug, like the act of teasing you is something luxurious, a taste he wants to savor. “Barely.”

The air feels lighter already. You’re still holding the journal—still feeling the warmth of its casing, still tracing its smooth edge with your thumb like it might disappear if you let go.

You move to the kettle to keep yourself from lingering too long in your thoughts. The tea’s already ready, still warm in its ceramic pot. You pour him a cup without asking—it’s second nature by now—and the motion steadies you.

When you pass it to him, your fingers brush again. This time, the contact lingers just a little longer than it should, and you pretend not to notice how your breath catches in your throat. You don't dare meet his eyes.

“Thank you,” Suguru says, voice softer now. How many times will you have to say it back before you're even?

You nod once, keeping your arms folded loosely across your chest. “You didn’t have to bring anything, you know that, right?”

“I know.” He blows gently across the rim of the cup before adding, “but I wanted to.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. The steam from his tea curls upward, catching the low light spilling through the window behind him. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between patient and quietly pleased. And it settles deeper than you expect it to.

“Well,” you say, small this time, “it’s nice. You’ve officially outdone yourself.”

Suguru leans beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he shifts. His presence is always heavy, but now it feels warm, grounding. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”

You let out a breathy scoff. “Liar.”

His mouth curves, a small, knowing smile. “Maybe.”

The silence that follows stretches—not tense this time, but gentle. Lived-in. The kind that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. Just... a moment shared. A stillness made from something softer than what this world usually offers.

When you finally look over again, he’s already watching you—eyes dark, but not distant.

This time, you don’t look away so quickly.

And for a second, everything feels suspended: his hand cradling the tea, the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the soft click of the journal as it powers down completely. The hush of the kitchen wraps around you like a secret, and you let yourself stay there just a little longer than you should.

THREE

Something eats away at him.

You don’t notice it at first—he’s always been distant, unreadable in ways that feel deliberate—but something shifts. Subtle at first, then sharp as a crack beneath ice.

Whenever the mask slips, Suguru speaks in riddles. About rot. About weakness. About the way curses cling to people like smoke in their lungs. Suguru never says what he means outright, but you start to understand that what he hunts is no longer just out there: it's in him now, settling deep. You’ve always been afraid to ask where he goes, what he does in the stretch between his visits—but one day, something starts ticking inside you, soft and slow, like a countdown. And you know you have to ask, soon, before the poison spreads.

He comes in just after midnight; a whisper of the stairwell, the slow press of the door, the scent of cold air and blood and rain. The room bends with his presence, drawn to him like gravity to a star, but tonight he is no source of light. Now he swallows it whole.

For a long, terrible moment, he simply stands there, tall, broad-shouldered, soaked through the folds of his coat. Hair down, black and heavy, falling like a curtain, hiding more than it shows. You don't speak. You don't want to fill up any more of the space than you have to.

Suguru crosses the room like a man half-remembering the shape of it, as though he’s not really here, not yet. His eyes skim the walls, the ceiling, the half-empty cup on the counter like it’s all unfamiliar, like he’s unsure whether he’s still dreaming.

He finds the edge of your bed—an altar he has never bowed to—and sits slow, deliberate. The same way someone eases into the bath after a long battle.

The silence feels brittle, glass under pressure. His hands are braced on his knees, fingers twitching, opening and closing like he’s trying to hold something he can’t quite name.

“Did you eat?” you ask, because you don’t know what else to say.

His gaze flicks to you. Something unreadable in the dark plum of his eyes, bruised purple, shadowed and strange.

“No,” he says. Then adds, almost like an afterthought: “I'm not hungry.”

You don't care if that's true or not. You have to do something with your hands, offer comfort made just for him, even if it's instant and simple and comes from a packet—but before you can leave the room, he asks:

"Do you think people are born evil?"

He’s not looking at you. Just at the floor, at the space between his boots, like the question fell out of him without permission.

“I don’t know,” you say softly, and it's true—you don't.

You never had time to wonder about things like good and evil, never had the luxury. Your choices were simpler, narrower. How to keep the lights on. How to make enough for the next meal. How to stay whole in a place that’s always trying to carve pieces from you.

But this—this is a crack in his armor, and through it you see the shape of his world. A world built on consequences, on lines drawn and crossed again. You wonder who you’d be if your life asked those kinds of questions, if every choice you made had to hold up under the weight of whether it was right or simply necessary.

Suguru looks up—and in that moment, he’s someone else. A snake in the grass, coiled so tight you hadn’t noticed his presence until too late. He remains seated on the edge of the bed, and you’re still standing, but the distance between you feels like a black hole, sucking you in; it doesn’t give you control, doesn’t make you feel safe.

“What if I told you they were evil? Would you believe me?”

The question hangs in the air, sharp and unsettling. You don’t like the way he asks—don’t like any part of it, truthfully, but this, especially, settles under your skin like a stain that won’t wash out. It makes you wonder if he’s lied to you. If he’s been playing you all along, smiling just long enough to hide the knife in his hand, to keep you from seeing the truth.

Suguru has always unnerved you, in ways you never quite could face. From when he stepped into your bar, drifting in from the dark street outside, bathed in the emergency lighting. Like a warning you were blind to.

Since he walked into your apartment tonight, his attention has been scattered, drifting through the room like smoke, but now it’s all on you. You thought you wanted it, thought you could handle it, but now, under the weight of his gaze, you feel like prey. His focus presses on you, slow and deliberate, until every breath feels too shallow. When he rises from the edge of your bed, you step back, head bumping into the wall of your cramped room. The space between you disappears with one swift motion, and suddenly, he’s right there—close, too close.

"Would you kill them if I told you to?"

The question hits you before you’ve even had a chance to form an answer. You shake your head, words bubbling out in a rush, helpless. "I don't know."

"If I told you they were born wrong, would you kill them?"

You don’t know. The answer drips out, thick and slow, but it's the truth. "I don't know."

"If I told you they were little demons, twisted and demented, brought nothing but death and ruin—would you kill them? Even if they were young?"

You can’t answer anymore. The question feels unceasing, endless, like it’s reaching beyond you. His eyes, once dark and intense, have gone empty—hollow like a well. You don’t know if he’s even still looking at you, if he sees you at all.

Then, you notice it—blood. Slowly seeping through the chest of his white shirt, dark and damp, spreading like ink across the fabric. The realization hits you harder than anything he’s said, because there’s truth in it: something has collapsed inside him, something broken that you couldn’t stop.

“Y—you’re bleeding.” The words sound too small, too stupid, leaving your mouth like an afterthought, but he's still so close, close enough that you could count the long, dark lashes of his closed eyes when he blinks—and something flickers across his face. A snap, and then everything cuts.

His expression barely changes from that haunted look, but his voice is steady when he says, “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” The words leave you with more force than you expect, anger flickering beneath the surface of your worry. You latch onto it, grounding yourself with it, needing something to steady you against the unease crawling up your spine. “You’re hurt and you didn’t tell me.”

Suguru straightens, settling back onto his feet, back into his bones. It should be terrifying, how familiar he seems in that moment, how quickly he slips back into himself, but you're so desperate to get him away from that horror that you don't care.

His voice is sharper now, edged with something close to irritation. “Was I meant to?”

“You could’ve said you were bleeding.”

“It’s not new.”

“It’s new to me.”

That stops him. The space between now and the last time you saw him flickers behind his eyes—not like before, not like a wound he couldn’t name, but something else. A fact. A shared recognition: That was then. This is now. He is not whoever he was then. Not here. Not with you.

He closes his eyes, eventually. Breathes out a quiet sound, almost a hum. “It is,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

But he doesn’t step back. Doesn’t give you the space to go. There’s no hand on your wrist, no body blocking your path—but you know, with a kind of terrible clarity, that you couldn’t pull away from him right now, even if you tried.

It can’t be life-threatening, you realize, now that your heart isn’t pounding so loudly in your ears. Not a picked scab, but not a torn stitch either; the blood looks worse than it is, startling against the clean white of his shirt, thin and vibrant where it crosses in straight, resolute lines. In better lighting, you might have been able to see through the soaked fabric. You’re not sure that would do either of you any good.

The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, something so profoundly unlike him it feels like a slip in character, and the pale glimpse of his collarbones is distracting, delicate in a way you hadn't expected. You shouldn't be looking, but it's hard not to. Enticing in a way that pulls gently at your attention, makes your breath catch for reasons you don't want to examine, not with him so close. You almost can’t stop staring, can’t help but wonder what else you’re missing—until the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely, but enough.

You clear your throat and press your spine against the wall, like it might make more space between you. It doesn't. "How recent is ‘not new’?”

“Weeks,” Suguru says, casually—so easily it startles you. You’ve never talked about his work before, and you’re still not, not really, but you’re closer now than you’ve ever been, in too many ways. “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine now,” you say, not quite believing it. His smile tightens, enough that it reaches the corners of his eyes, though you wouldn't call it warm.

And then his hand moves. Slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling you. His fingers rise until they hover beside your face, and when they finally make contact—just the backs of his knuckles brushing your cheek—it’s featherlight. Reverent. It’s not possessive, not even asking; it’s a question in the shape of a touch, and somehow you already know the answer is yes. The air between you grows impossibly still, as if the world stopped turning just to see what you'll do next.

Your heart stumbles. You’ve never seen him like this—not the version that walks in shadows, not the one who smiles like a blade—but something else. Something stripped down and aching. It terrifies you how badly you want him to stay.

His eyes don’t leave yours. They could lie, but they don’t. "Yes," he says, "I'm fine now."

FOUR

Not much time passes, surprisingly.

Days, maybe a week or two, though time stretches differently when you're waiting for something—or someone—you’re afraid won’t come back.

Outside, the neon gutters spit their color against the wet pavement. The air smells like ozone, like the sky’s about to split open again. Maybe it will. You wouldn’t mind. Rain makes everything seem farther away. The night is nearly over; you’ve wiped the counters twice, swept the floor even though no one spilled anything, stacked the chairs with a little more force than necessary. You move slower than you need to, hands lingering on small tasks just to stay busy, just to keep from looking at the door.

The place is quiet—finally—and you welcome it.

Suguru left as he always has: without reason. Something has changed, yes, but still, he left you in the same shape he always does—like the world has flipped itself inside out. He never leaves without unmaking something. Every return, every departure, carves a new gap into you. They don’t heal. You don’t even notice they’re there until you're trying to stand still and find you can't—until gravity presses in wrong, sideways, like it's trying to fold you in half.

You've never seen him that way, so unraveled. It's been replaying in your head on repeat, unending: what if I told you they were evil? Would you believe me? Sometimes you think you should’ve said yes. Not because you would believe it, but because maybe—just maybe—he would’ve stayed, but that thought brushes up against something inside of you that’s cold and rotten and not meant to be touched. It makes your stomach twist. You don't like who you are in that version of the story.

You tell yourself, maybe it's for the best that he's done, that he doesn't come back—but the thought feels distant, like it doesn't belong to you. Like it doesn't belong to him, either.

You don’t hear the door open, but you feel it, a shift in pressure, like the world exhaling. You turn just as he steps inside, though it's not quite the same as before; his hair is down again, though only half-way, not the wild ink-spill it was before, and his shoulders seem more relaxed, like he’s shed whatever that unseen weight was. He’s not walking with that same tight, controlled confidence; this is different, lighter, somehow, but there’s still something about him, something sharp behind the soft way he moves.

And he's not alone.

Two little girls are with him, though they haven't moved from the door, haven't commanded the space as he has. They're just watching. One of them has her arms crossed tight like a shield, the other clutches something—maybe a toy, maybe a scrap of cloth—pressed to her chest like it might anchor her. Both of their eyes seem too old for their small, round faces.

It's been playing in your head on repeat, unending: would you kill them? Even if they were young?

You stand there, unsure of what to say. The silence stretches, taut as a wire, until his voice cuts through it.

“It’s quiet tonight,” he says, lightly. Too lightly. Like he’s trying to smooth the air between you, pretend nothing’s changed. Maybe it’s for the girls’ sake. Maybe it’s for yours.

You open your mouth. Close it again. A question rises and flattens against your tongue. You don’t ask. He doesn’t offer. But that’s always been your dance, hasn’t it? The space between what’s said and what’s not.

He follows your gaze, then crosses the bar to stand in front of you. In front of them. “I’m tired,” he says, quiet and sharp. “Of that world, of the filth it feeds on. Of fools who think hurting someone small makes them strong.”

That word—small—lands like a dropped glass; the question you never asked answers itself, shattering quietly between you.

Suguru lifts his hand to your face, like he did the last time—but now the gesture is different. Looser. No tremble at the edges, no hesitation, as if he’s no longer afraid he might break whatever he touches.

His thumb grazes the arch of your brow, traces down to the soft skin beneath your eye. You think—maybe—he’s counting your lashes.

“I want them to live in a world that’s better than ours,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath. “Safer.”

You've always thought Suguru was built from something other. Something finer, sharper, less breakable. A different species from whatever you are, clinging to the bottom rungs in your corner of the world, but now, up close, that divide feels thinner. Imagined.

You don’t know where he came from, not really, but you know where he is now. You’ve seen the edges of it, the pieces he hasn’t named and maybe never will, and they’re ugly. Embedded like grit beneath his fingernails, worn into the quiet lines of his face. Ghosts clinging to the hem of his voice.

You’re not the same. But there’s something unkind that lives in you both. Something heavy, and tired, and human. Something he wants to cut out—for their sake.

You glance back at the girls. They’re clinging to each other now, as if the world might fall out from under them at any moment, and the only thing they trust to hold is each other. Their small hands are tangled in fabric, sleeves bunched in fists, pressed so close they breathe as one. The sight turns something in your gut—sharp, instinctive, like a wire pulled too tight.

The thought that someone, anyone, had wanted to hurt them—had tried—makes your throat close. Your body moves before your mind does and you lean into Suguru’s touch. Maybe it’s deliberate, maybe it’s not, but his hand doesn’t hesitate. His fingers drift into your hair, curling there like a root finding soil, like he belongs.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You don’t have to. The quiet stretches, warm and fragile.

Then, softly—barely above a whisper—you say, “I don’t know where you’re going to find a place like that.”

Because you don’t. You’ve lived your whole life in the dirt of this city, in the cracks of what people like to pretend is order. You’ve never been offworld, never even dreamed of it, but you’ve heard enough to know there’s no such place waiting out there, not one untouched, not one that won’t eat girls like those alive the moment you look away.

Suguru hums, low in his chest. The sound rumbles through his fingers where they rest against your scalp.

“I’m not going to find it,” he says, quiet but certain. “I’m going to make it.”

And when he says it, you believe him. Maybe not in the way of miracles, but in the way storms believe in rain. His hand lingers in your hair a moment longer, then slides down, slow, catching at your jaw, your cheek. He doesn’t move away. You don’t either.

Behind you, one of the girls makes a soft noise on the tile, barely a scuff of her feet, but it tethers everything back to the moment. The realness of it. This isn’t a story. It’s a turning point.

Suguru glances toward them, then back at you. You're not used to seeing him like this, less worn, less closed off. Like the jagged edge he’s always carried has been tucked away for a moment of stillness.

“It's not going to be easy, and I’ll need someone who knows how to build things that last. Someone steady.”

He’s not smiling, but his eyes hold the weight of something close to it. Hopeful, uncertain, wanting. A line cast into a dark sea.

You could laugh, if it didn’t feel like your whole chest was shaking. There’s no question what he means. Not really.

The silence sits between you again, but it’s different now—waiting, watching. Becoming.

And when you speak, your voice is quiet, but it doesn’t tremble. “Someone like me,” you say.

Suguru's thumb brushes your cheek again, soft as a promise. “Exactly like you.”

[eminemily05]

Ratchet x AFAB Reader—Periods—

Currently, I’m battling some cramps of hell of my own. And I wanted to write a story to make myself feel better. Now that I have, I’m sharing it with you all.

I hope this at least helps some of you feel better. Periods are never fun, but always make sure you take good care of yourselves. Treat yourself to sweets, take a nice warm bath, and just..be kind to yourself.

It may suck, but your body is actively doing what it does best for your health. Even if that means cramps every month…or few months, depending on your situation..

Now, please enjoy this little Drabble I’ve made. And I hope it brings some warmth to your hearts (and cramps, 🙏)

———————————————————————————

“Ratch…”

Your soft call tore the medic away from his current focus at the main console. Voice wavering and weak…was that hurt he sensed..?

Looking over, he glanced at your small form. Curled up atop the tatted yellow couch, head perked slightly. Your expression was scrunched in one of discomfort and pain. Olfactory sensors flared and flagged a key chemical scent wafting over.

Blood.

Immediately, he abandoned his current project. Taking a few hurried steps to stand behind the raised platform, glancing down at you with worried, appraising optics. You looked back up at him, a pained whine leaving your throat.

You squirmed around, hands pressing down against your abdomen to try and quell the spikes of discomfort. “I-It hurts…”

Scanning you, he gave a soft sigh. Concern flashed through his optics, antenna dropping just slightly. He knew this was a rough time for you.

You had explained to him what it was the first time this had happened. Naturally, it was going to occur in their presence, within the months you’d stay there. So, you figured if anyone needed to understand your predicament with periods, it was Ratchet.

At first, he’d been horrified. Not at you. Gods never. But at the fact that this was so normal. The idea of a Cybertronian bleeding Energon every couple times of a Quartex nearly sent him into shock. Not to mention how painful you had described it to be.

I mean, on par with a human heart attack? For something so small, your species seemed so durable.

But, as the team’s hybrid medic for human and machine, he took it upon himself to learn. Through the web, and you. He learned what he could, and asked for help when he needed more explanations. Now, he felt well equipped.

Ratchet gently set a digit against your lower belly, taking a measure of any inflammation or otherwise unseen pain. He could just hear how painful the cramps sounded.

“Did you take any anti-inflammatory medication? Pain relievers or Acetaminophen?” He glanced at your face as you nodded. Hmm…clearly it hadn’t kicked in yet..

You gripped onto the digit against your lower stomach desperately. “I-I took them some few minutes ago…but I forgot my heating pad at home…” Looking up at his optics, you gave an expression of discomfort.

His spark flared at the sight, audials flicking down as he sighed.

“Of course…” Glancing back at the console, he weighed his options.

He still had piles of work to do. Formulas to refine, tools to repair, files to decode. Then, he looked at you. His human. His pained human, and he didn’t need any other convincing.

Gently, he lifted you in both servos. Whining slightly at the sudden movement as a flare of cramps spiked in your belly. He pulled you against his chassis, engine rumbling gently just under the surface.

“Relax, Sweetspark…I have you..” he mumbled softly, finials clicking up just a notch as you nodded and curled your body against his frame.

Carefully, he made his way to his habsuite. Cautious, as not to rile more cramps in your poor body. His engine gave a worried whine as he glanced at you, body desperately seeking warmth. He crooned at the sigh, optical ridges drawn in concern. “I know…I know..”

Curse your biology for making you suffer like this. He couldn’t even imagine the pain you were dealing with. And it hurt that he couldn’t do much to relieve it.

As he punched the code in for his habsuite, he pressed you to his warm chassis and entered. Metal thumb rubbing soothingly against your hair.

He carried himself over to his berth, settling into the malleable metal that accommodated his back kibble. Gently, he settled you on his chassis. Watching as you squirmed around for a comfortable position.

Eventually, you rested flat on your tummy. Stomach pressed against the warmth radiating from his chassis as soft whines left you. The pain continued to spike as you sought out the heat.

“Ratchet..” You cried desperately, soft hands gripping onto any purchase of his frame you could find. “I-It hurts.!”

His spark flared, plating hissing at your pain. He couldn’t help but feel helpless, useless. Watching his little partner as they wriggled and cried, unable to really do anything.

Curse the gods for bringing this upon them. If he could smite this pain-

Without even thinking, his engine rumbled and revved loudly. The vibration, combined with the rising heat of his cylinders firing, seemed to quell you somewhat. He watched as your little frame untensed a hair, and he needed no more time.

Gently, he set his engine to a low rumble. Idling it quietly and relaxing as the vibrations and warmth slowly settled into your form. Your brow unclenched, a soft sigh of relief escaping as you glanced at him.

He sighed, resting a large servo over your form. The metal acting as the perfect insulation—and bonus weighted blanket— for your body. Steadily, you relaxed and practically melted against his plating.

Yet, he couldn’t help but still feel bad. “I’m sorry…I wish there was more I could do to relieve you of this..” he grumbled, tone full of annoyance but optics full of silent shame. Shame he couldn’t help his own mate.

A gentle kiss against his chassis soothened his thoughts. You looked up at him, eyes lidded with a sense of exhaustion.

Had they taken that much out of you? Curses!

“This is perfect, Ratch.” Your soft smiled cut through the berating thoughts of his spark and pride. “Best heating pad I’ll ever need.”

He chuckled softly as he watched you settle in against the plating. Eyes closing softly as the warmth pulled you closer to sleep.

“Besides…” you mumbled, a happy smile on your face. “Having my big, metal partner to help me makes it feel just a little bit better. Don’t beat yourself up.”

The last part was a bit muffled, as your cheek pressed against his chassis and you were out like a light. Humming, he ran a thumb over your hair. A soft smile graced his faceplate as he watched you subconsciously lean into it. Shutting his own optics in the process for recharge.

“Sleep well, sweetspark…I’ll be here when you awaken..”

[moonstruckme]

have a bonfire - send a character + a trope (one bed, fake dating, etc.) and I’ll write a drabble

steve harrington + friends to lovers maybe? definitely feeling lovesick steve rn 😮‍💨

Thanks for requesting lovely mal <3

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 698 words

The movie theater is dark, and yet Steve catches sight of you the second you step inside. His heart does a dumbass little somersault. 

“Y/n’s here?” he whispers to Robin, who’s sitting next to him and using her licorice as a straw. On his other side, Eddie’s kicked his feet up on the seat in front of him like a total asshole. 

“Oh, yeah.” Robin waves to you, and you spot them, heading over. “I invited her.” 

“You didn’t say she was coming.” 

Robin gives Steve a sideways glance. It’s tinged with a meaning he refuses to decode. “I didn’t realize I needed to check with you.” 

He huffs. You’re climbing the steps, still three rows from reaching them. “Move over by Eddie.” 

Robin turns towards him now, eyebrows raising. “You’re not serious.” 

“Go!” 

“Dingus.” She musses his hair spitefully as she stands, just so he’ll have to fix it, waving over her shoulder at you as you start shimmying down their row. 

You wave back, smiling bemusedly as you take her seat beside Steve. “Hey,” you say. 

“Hey.” He’s grinning like an idiot, and he can’t seem to stop. He wasn’t expecting to see you today. “Long time, no see.” 

You go a bit sheepish, the previews casting a red hue over your features. “Yeah, sorry. Work’s been keeping me busy lately. Three people quit at once, so everyone’s expected to cover until they can hire new ones.” 

Steve grimaces. “Yikes.” He has the urge to tell you to quit and let him pay for everything, as if that’s something he can fiscally manage or even remotely normal. “That sucks,” he says instead. 

“Yeah, hopefully it’s not for long.” You get comfy, slipping off your shoes and putting your socked feet up on the seat. Your knees lean onto your shared armrest, within a pinkie’s reach of Steve’s hand. “I actually just got off, I didn’t grab anything from concessions because I was worried I’d miss the beginning.” 

“Oh, no way.” The movie starts, and he lowers his voice but neither of you turn towards the screen. “Want me to run and grab you something?”

You give him a funny smile. It makes your cupid’s bow flatten out and Steve thinks that if he were to kiss you, he’d start there. “No,” you whisper, “you shouldn’t have to miss anything either.” 

“It’s okay,” he promises you. “I don’t even really care if I see this.” He has been looking forward to it ever since he saw the commercial, honestly, but he’s happy to miss it for you. 

“I’m fine,” you reply, “but thanks, Steve.” 

“At least have some of mine.” Eddie shushes him loudly, and Steve kicks the underside of his knee, making the other boy curse. “I’ve got coke and popcorn, that okay?” 

The movie glows blue over your face as you grin, eyes twinkling in the low light. “Classics. But I’m not gonna take your food.” 

“I’m not gonna eat it all,” Steve argues. “These are both extra-larges. You think I bought that all for myself?” He absolutely did. 

You lean in closer, your knees touching the side of his hand. “You paid for them,” you whisper. 

“So?”

“So, I’d feel bad.” 

“Then make it up to me.” Steve hopes he doesn’t look as nervous as he feels. He’s never been able to lay on the charm with you like he can with other girls, he doesn’t know why. Or maybe he does. “Come with us back to my place tonight. We’re ordering pizza.” 

“So,” you murmur through a smile, “make it up to you by taking more of your food, is what you’re saying.” 

“Uh-huh, exactly.” He takes a sip of his coke and then angles the straw in your direction. “Deal?” 

You drop your eyes for a second, shaking your head like he’s silly, and Steve knows he’s won even before you meet his gaze again. 

“Deal.” You wrap your lips around his straw, sucking in a mouthful before letting go. “You drive a hard bargain, Harrington.” 

Steve grins, laying bay in his seat and totally not thinking about how his pinkie is grazing your thigh. “Yeah, that’s what they tell me.” 

[reidsdimples]

When Everything Changed | Part 1

Enemies to lovers | Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader

Angst 🖤

Spencer isn't a fan of the BAU's new genius (you).

You didn’t have a particular like or dislike for Dr. Spencer Reid. For the most part you felt fairly neutral. He was a colleague, one of the team. The two of you weren’t super close but Garcia says that’s because there’s not enough space in the BAU for two genius’s.

He didn’t seem to care for it when you blurted out facts that Hotch asked for or knew a statistic down to a closer decimal than he did.

“If you would do your reading on rapidly updated internet databases instead of printed out media, your statistics wouldn’t be a month behind,” you sniped at him after he sassed you.

Hotch gave you a pointed look.

“He said 13.6% and you said 13.2%- that discrepancy is not one I’m concerned with. 13% would have been fine,” Hotch said and looked back down at the case file before him.

The jet hummed softly, Rossi raising his eyebrow at Reid who seemed to have something to say.

“Reid what do you know about sharp force injuries to the ears?”

“The ear canal is a sensitive and vulnerable part of the body, often associated with communication and hearing. The criminal may have chosen this specific method as a way to assert control or power over their victims by targeting a vital sensory organ. Depending on if he wound it into the brain slowly, it may have been a sadistic killing,” he answers rapidly.

“You think this was torture? It looks more like an instant death,” you answer.

“Ancient torture methods focus on the ears as a way to deal pain by shattering the ear drums and rendering the victim deaf. Given the amount of blood in the right ear I’d say it was done antimortem as a form of torture while the pick through the left ear was the killing blow. He even angled this ice pick upward and into the brain,” he runs his long fingers over the crime scene photos to show you.

You’re almost in awe that he was able to deduce that before seeing the bodies but you say nothing.

"The first two only had an ice pick to the ear which killed them," Hotch said.

"Maybe he hadn't learned yet that he enjoys the torture," Rossi adds.

“Either way this unsub has a fascination with ears,” JJ says.

“Maybe he’s deaf himself?” Morgan chimes in.

You accidentally kick Reid’s ankle while adjusting in your seat across from him, he snaps his head up and narrows his eyes on you.

The conversation spurs on all the way to Portland, Maine where the smell of saltwater invades your nostrils as you step off of the plane.

-

The following day you’re partnered up with Reid to sort through a series of clues left by the unsub. Two more bodies dropped in twenty-four hours, leaving 8 riddles on 8 bodies that needed to be decoded.

“I can take care of this myself,” Reid argues with Hotch.

“I know you can but an extra set of eyes can’t hurt, we’re on a time crunch. Monica Dentz went missing four hours ago. If he sticks to his MO, she only has ten hours left,” with that Hotch exited the room.

Reid rather aggressively tossed his should bag on the table before snatching up copies of the riddles from the table and pinning them to the board.

“I’m not trying to get in your way,” you sigh. You watch him organize the riddles on the board.

“Try harder,” he snaps.

You scoff but your eyes scan over his tall frame as he puts the board together. Nope.

“I think the first one is talking about a ship, same with the third and fifth,” Reid says as he flips a pen in his fingers.

“If you’re taking it literally. ‘Alone in the tide’ could just be a metaphor for loneliness,” you point out.

“And what do you make of ‘the bow takes charge, towards the arctic waters where she sleeps’?” He asks. He’s less condescending this time, more curious but still annoyed.

“That.. that’s probably about a boat,” you accept.

“If you look at these as a story, where you read them from the first lines strung together and then the second lines… it reads like a book. I think someone he loved died at sea,” it seems to click for Reid and he starts scribbling on the board. “And here… I think this means there was an explosion. A boiler room maybe?” He’s moving around the two boards quickly, talking fast, pushing his hair back from his eyes. For a moment you almost find it adorable.

“Maybe he went deaf in a boating accident that killed someone he loves…” you add, standing to look at the board.

He calls Garcia and then Hotch.

“He’s killing them on a boat, it’s symbolic for him. We think he was a victim of a boating accident and lost his hearing…” he continues to speak but you become distracted.

Why were you becoming attracted to him? He was never ugly but you had never noticed him this way before. He was too busy infuriating you with his attitude. Yet he was growing on you in the last few months. Weird.

“Now what?” You ask him.

“We wait for them to get names. Hotch will tell us where he needs us next, we’ll continue to work the profile from here,” he places the pen in his mouth and flips through the victim profiles again.

“Don’t you have an eidetic memory? Why do you keep going through those…”

“Helps me deduce the information,” he shrugs dismissively.

You frown.

“Ya’know,” you sigh and pull up a chair across from him. “I have no intention of overshadowing you.” He glances up from the file.

“So why do you go out of your way to correct or narrow down my answers?”

It’s a perfectly reasonable question. You didn’t know why you did it.

“Habit? I’m used to being the smartest person in the room,” you admit.

“Right,” is his only response as he opens another file.

You don’t know what else to say so you take a look at the profile the team has built.

2 hours pass in awkward silence before Hotch calls the two of you to meet them at the east harbor for a raid of the now named suspects boat.

Once you arrive, Morgan and Prentiss greet you while you’re fumbling with your vest. After a moment and a frustrated sigh, Reid steps behind you.

“Here the strap is twisted up,” he says.

His fingertips graze your hip where your shirt is riding up. Your breathing hitches but you try not to appear affected.

“Thanks,” you tell him.

“Sounds like a plan,” you answer Prentiss who had been explaining the entry points.

“The two of you friends now?” Morgan asks Reid.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Reid answers stoically with his hand propped on his gun. You scoff and shake your head.

“What?” Reid turns his head to you.

“Nothing, let’s just do this,” you snipe. Morgan and JJ exchange an concerned glance.

The man was impossible. You understood if he had walls up, if he didn’t like new people or the competition. But he’s not even trying to welcome you in the slightest.

The scent of ocean air and dead fish fills your nostrils as you follow behind Morgan down the dock. Reid and JJ creep onto the stern of the considerable sized old yacht while Hotch, Rossi, and Prentiss took the bow. You and Morgan are entering through the main entrance of the cabin with deadly stealth.

You hear varying 'clears' come from your coworkers before you point Morgan to a hatch leading below deck. You think you can hear shuffling of some kind happening but it's hard to tell with the sway of the ship.

The rest of the team enter behind you but its Morgan who insists on jumping down first, forgoing the small ladder.

"Randy Lional, put your hands up," he's shouting as you drop down behind him.

You raise your gun as you take in the scene, someone else drops down behind you, it's Reid based on the silver revolver in your line of sight.

The man is crouched over an unconscious Monica Dentz, one of her ears bleeding and her wrists bound. You think she's still breathing.

"Put the gun and the ice pick down man," Morgan yells and then Hotch is next to him.

"He can't hear you," you tell Morgan when Randy drags the barrel of the gun over the girl's half naked body as though he's lost in a trance. His burly back is turned to the team and the situation is so unique that none of you know how to intercept him.

You push between Morgan and Hotch to slowly approach him. It's Reid who grabs your arm and shakes his head, something like concern playing in his hazel eyes. You take your arm from him and turn to the unsub.

An idea strikes you so you pull off your earring and toss it in his direction, it slides across the floor into his line of sight, causing him to jump up and turn around.

The man's eyes are wide, dark bags below them. He's frantic as he shakily points the gun at you. His stringy strands of hair are oiled to his chubby aged face and he appears to be shocked by the FBI's presence. He's aiming the gun at Monica's head.

"Put the gun down," Morgan yells again, gesturing at the weapon.

You begin to use sign language, after putting your own gun back in its holster. Reid steps closer to you, his revolver still raised.

"I know that you're hurting. I know what happened that night. I'm so sorry about your parents," you begin to sign. "But torturing others this way is not going to change what happened to you."

Reid glances at you, seemingly impressed by your use of ASL.

"She's trying to talk him down," Reid informs the rest of the team.

"Please, drop the weapons," you sign to him again. He looks more sad, defeated than before and you're hopeful.

"Does he profile as suicidal?" You ask the team.

"Yes," Hotch answers. You swallow hard.

Just then Monica stirs awake and begins screaming against the cloth gag in her mouth.

What happens next feels like slow motion, you don't even know how to process it.

Randy raises the gun and fires at you, three shots in rapid succession before you can blink. And then Reid has stepped nearly completely in front of you, firing two shots along with a barrage of shots from the team.

You hit the floor in a daze and chaos ensues.

"We need medics!" Prentiss is screaming into her ear piece.

"Two agents hit, one victim, subject deceased," Hotch is speaking into his mic as he rushes over to you.

The blinding pain is in your shoulder, the blood hot as it oozes out of you.

"Reid," you search for him.

"Ah, I'm okay. I'm okay," he doesn't sound okay.

And then you see it, the wound in his neck, the blood pouring from his mouth. Reid is grabbing at his throat for the wound, blood coating his hand. Crimsons running down his slender wrist and long fingers. Then Morgan is applying pressure to the wound while JJ is tending to you.

You wince in pain as she is pressing down on your shoulder. You can physically feel the metal bullet sitting inside of your body, sending pain radiating in all directions. People are talking all around you, JJ's eyes are full of tears as she tries to get you to stay conscious.

"Come on kid, look at me," Morgan is pleading with Reid. no no no.

"Why did you..." you try to ask why he stepped in front of you but the room begins to spin. You start to see double and you don't know if its you or Reid groaning in pain. Reid's eyes are rolling back in his head and he's starting to go limp in Morgans lap.

Reid took a bullet for you, and it may kill him. What if he dies thinking you hate him?

A blur of paramedics enter the space before you lose consciousness murmuring Reid's name.

A/N- Hope you guys love this. I'm already working on the 'lovers' part.

[pluviatrix]

helloooo do you have any tips for writing a character with a southern accent? i don't really have a specific area in mind but i Am asking because i'm writing the hero of twilight lol. is there any general slang or word variations i should use in his dialogue?

YES !!!!!!!!!

(prepare for yapping)

i have been WAITING for this one. sat up in my chair and rubbed my hands together like a fly. so often i have read things where people have clearly never been in two feet of a cow or a fried oreo and i will do everthing in my power to avoid that. letsgo

FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS: what kind of southern accent are we considering here?

southern accents and dialects are incredibly diverse along geographic, ethnic, and socioeconomic lines. but, in my anecdotal experience, there are two accent 'types:' a drawl, and a twang. i don't personally hear a drawl a lot where i'm from so i can't totally advise on this one.

a twang is, well, twangy. it's quicker and sharper. IMHO my accent (which is not strictly southern but very very related to appalachian accents) falls in here, and since I give twi an appalachian accent, that's what i'm gonna be referencing lol

(there are some broader characteristics to a character's speech that will flag them as southern, but some of these are specific to me)

a lot of people do not like accents written out phonetically (like, for example, see the points two points below) so that might be something to consider.

i am an editor by trade but just on instinct i find myself struggling with (standard english) verb-noun agreement. i catch myself writing stuff like "they was" and "we was". I don't tend to see "i were" i think that's more an across-the-pond thing, but correct me if i'm wrong anyone.

words will mash together so easy. there's stuff like: jeet (did you eat). wouldna (wouldn't have.) gonna. hafta. wanna. it's about efficiency.

i cannot remember the last time i said the final consonant of contractions or -ing verbs. i am allergic to g's and i am allergic to t's. don. walkin. doin. talkin. some people put apostrophes where the missing letters are and personally that drives me crazy but it's honestly just a matter of taste.

i see people changing and to an'. yes that's how it sounds. i sometimes turn 'of' into 'a' in dialogue so i'm not immune. keep in mind just how much abbreviating you're doing cuz sometimes i gotta decode dialogue between all the abbreviations. it's written, not heard.

ain't, naturally. runner-up: cain't.

someone's gonna tell you that y'all is the be-all end-all of the southern/appalachian plural you. WRONG. consider her sister: the appalachian yunz/yinz, underappreciated, ignored, so sad.

double negatives. TRIPLE NEGATIVES. "You ain't never"

this is more of a twang-type accent characteristic. (note: 'of' is often ommited in phrases like 'more of a.') z-sounds like "wasn't" turn into "wudn't," but for those who don't like writing dialectic speech phonetically this is not necessary

another characteristic of this accent i write twi with is that sometimes words just fully get dropped. certain constructions of verbal clauses using present perfect tense drop the modal completely. i call this the have-drop just in my own head cuz it happens the most with "have been" sentences, where "have" is just removed.

same with above, the standard english sentence is, "The car needs to be washed." i have never said that ever in my life. It's "The car needs washed." It's a holdover from Scots-Irish english.

VERY IMPORTANT: even with all of this, if you don't get the word choice right, or the melody, or the sayings, it's not gonna sound right. I can't really summarize this so I'm gonna use examples from my own writing for clarity.

"i seen" and "they got" and "em"

not sure if this is a southernism. but certain verbs -- something keeps, someone is wallerin all over you (like. smothering you and in your business and not leaving you alone. children and dogs do this) -- kind of ping the sensor imho.

"bubba," "i done told you," "don't be ugly," "have a conniption," "bless your heart," "ornery," that's kind of what i'm talking about. honestly i'm pulling a blank on wild appalachianisms my family say but like, inserting any of these is gonna make your dialogue sound real ... real.

my grandma's told me she's "down in her back," i've missed something so close to my face "if it were a snake it woulda bit me," we "love her to death, but..", we're "praying for him," my mother's nose is upturned so she's "gonna drown in the rain". they can get real fun and real silly.

important bits:

christ if i hear one more time that bless your heart is an insult i'm gonna have a conniption (lol). it is NOT. it certainly can be. it can be passive aggressive. but that's like, one use. it's pity, it's sympathy, it's humor, it's commiserating. if a kid has a big bruise and his mother's telling you that he fell down some stairs at school you gasp and say bless his heart. that's what i mean. and also you can use it to insult somebody with the art of the implied insult of course.

don't be ugly doesn't mean you're ugly. it means you're making a scene or you're being cruel or you're not obeying your mother.

it's about being emphatic !!

it can also be dependent on who you're around. people's accents can be thicker back home and around family and friends and stuff and sometimes it can just be a little twist on a vowel or two!

lastly: have fun. these are not hard and fast. these are silly. this is just my experience. i fully encourage anybody from anywhere else in the south or in the appalachians or her sister regions to weigh in as well.

[sillyjpeg]

BOOK OF BILL WEBSITE CHANGE

this contains MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE WEBSITE CHANGE. if you want to find shit urself, dont read this!!!

also this is part one of probably many bc i cant fit everything in here. curse you image limit

i wont be going over alot of the not as important stuff, but still go explore the website for it because i got alot of good laughs!

RIGHT OFF THE BAT. In the top right corner of the screen when the lightning flashes, there are words revealed carved in the wall. it reads: VALLIS CINERIS. when this is typed into the computer it gives this video:

haunting. really giving me analog horror vibes. wasnt sure what else to do with this though.

I also noticed that on the candle in the right side of the desk, there is a code

this is decoded used the rune code, and translates into CURSED. when put into the computer, this is what is given back:

interesting.

One of the first things me and my friends did was go through the main characters names. the most interesting one of these for me is definitely Stanley, but i want to go over Pacifica first because Stanleys is LONG.

When you type in Pacifica you get this:

I love her signature btw. BUT if you type in Platinum Paz, you get somethin very, very interesting.

This may not be in the right order so forgive me, but at the end of that code, if you use a shift decoder (im so smart sue me)

it says: "STAY AWAY FROM HER CIPHER. SHE HAS THE PROTECTION OF THE LUMBERFOLKS SPIRITS"

pacificas character development has always been special to me, and this was honestly chilling. in the book of bill we see that she has nightmares about the lumberjack, and this shows how much guilt she carries. her finally finding her peace with what happened made me smile :)

but as nice and heartwarming as this is, were moving on to STANLEY PINES! and oh BOY are the stanley lovers having a field day. so first of all, if you type in Stanley, it will take you to a few different links. including gold chains, brass knuckles, an 8 ball cane, a fez, and a colonel neck tie. funny right? if you keep entering his name, this pops up:

Below this is a bunch of things with the label of being shameful. one of them is very interesting but im gonna put some lighter stuff first for the sillies.

i need alex to show us the photos from the hunky drifters catalogue alex can you hear me please i mean WHO SAID THATTTT WHO SAID THATTTTTT

ALSO NO ONE COMING TO HIS FAKE FUNERAL EXCEPT HIS MOM :( she loved her little free spirit stanley

ALSO- him stripping for flour in Tijuana, again, i need photographic evidence.

his ex wives list also made me giggle. he was MARRIED TO OLD GOLDIE????? also Marilyn being Eda made me giggle, i love the fact that they got married at some point. get them back together please. also stan having smaller hands than ford and being self-conscious about it stan i love you mwah mwah mwah

ALSO FILBRICK TRYING TO SELL STAN FOR GETTIN AN F- PLEASE

anyways now onto the section at the bottom of the Wheel of Shame page!

Its titled : HOW HE BEAT ME. im not adding a photo bc ur guy is running out of room :(

you have to click on this repeatedly to get anything good out of it, so i took the liberty of milking it for all it had!!! i didnt take screenshots of everything because some of it was redundant, but here are the interesting and or funny bits:

just reiterating, this is not all thats in there, im just putting parts that stood out to me. please take the time to go through all this urself bc its a TREAT.

now into the crazier stuff

hes obviously having some sort of breakdown, just like we see at the end of the book of bill. the last page i decoded myself, and i got this using all the different decoders:

"THROUGH LQS SFSE CN EVERYONE IVE EVER"

for "LQS SFSE CN" i used the original bill cipher code, and im not sure why it gave me this. a smarter, better decoder probably has the answer.

i can theorize a few different things on what this could possibly mean even with it not being all decoded. the one that comes to mind is "I can still see through everyone ive ever met" maybe knowing too much? but without the middle part decoded i cant say much. if you have the solution for this please leave a comment as any help would be greatly appreciated. this all did drop a few hours ago so i doubt many people are working on decoding all this.

UPDATE!! I TRANSLATED IT WRONG.

IT SAYS “THROUGH THE EYES OF EVERYONE IVE EVER”

this makes alot more sense. bill can see through others eyes so it most likely is refering too how he possesses people and sees through their eyes. In the book of bill he shows how angry he is having to watch the Pines family be happy.

It says that when he closes his eye, he can still see through the eyes of everyone hes ever…possesed? probably. So can Bill still see through Ford, or maybe Dipper, and he cant turn it off. Whenever he closes his eyes he is haunted by the happy life he failed to destroy. To see through their eyes.

This poem using gambling as a way to describe Stan's life choices really struck me. the more i thought on it the more it made sense. he gambled that Ford's project would probably still work, gambled with all of his sham products. His entire life has been a betting game. The most interesting thing about all this is the end of the poem. It reads

"IM STILL ON YOUR MIND"

this has been a theory for awhile in the gravity falls community that if stan got back all his memories, including ones about bill, wouldnt bill come back? for me this confirms the theory, and opens up a whole new can of worms which i will talk about later.

I have reached my image and video limit, but expect more posts!

stay weird yall :)

[teddypickrwritings]

A Rare Moment of Weakness - Identity V x Reader

A/N: Some character lore is just so sad and depressing that I start tearing up…I just want to hug them. I’ll most likely do this with more characters in the future!

cw: PTSD

Mercenary

It was obvious just by looking at him that Naib Subedar was hardened by war. That was just the norm for anyone who served in the military. Naib was not one to talk about his experiences, though. Nobody questioned him, they just let him do what he wanted.

One day, while you were in a match with him, you saw his stoic mask crumble. You had managed to escape from the hunter with minor injuries and were hoping that you would cross paths with someone that could heal you. You had stumbled onto Naib’s cipher just as he missed a calibration and it shocked him—literally. The look of terror that flashed on his face gutted you pretty badly. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the sudden loud noise reminded him of bombs and such.

He wasn’t embarrassed that you saw him mess up. He didn’t shrug you off when you instinctively gave him a hug. In fact…he really appreciated it. A lot. Naib held you for a little longer than necessary, only letting go when he realized you were injured and immediately started to heal you.

“I’ll decode with you…or I can do it for you, if you’d like,” you offered once he was done.

Naib nodded slowly, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Thank you, (Y/N),” he mumbled.

Wu Chang

A sudden rainstorm had interrupted your walk and completely soaked you to the bone. Had you stayed outside longer, and if Xie had not come to your rescue, you would have certainly gotten sick. He had immediately left to find you the second the rain had turned heavy. You had begun to protest when he scooped you up in his arms, but quickly silenced yourself when you noticed just how worried he looked.

“(Y/N), I am so sorry. We shouldn’t have left you alone out there,” Xie said once you had changed into dry clothes. He had managed to calm down for the most part, but his voice was still laced with anxiety. “We didn’t know it would rain. I’ll never forgive myself if you get sick…”

“I’m okay!” you reassured with a tired smile. You reached over and gently squeezed his hand. “Thank you for getting me out of there before it got too bad.”

Xie gave a weak smile of his own, but his eyes still looked pained. He paused, seemingly listening to something. Then he nodded and his form changed to represent Fan. The Black Guard checked your vitals, and after confirming that they were normal, held your hands tightly. “He wanted to be able to save a loved one this time,” he explained. And that was all you needed to hear for you to understand.

Hermit

“Alva, do you ever feel frustrated?” you asked tentatively, watching the inventor writing notes in one of his many journals. His quill came to a slow stop as he pondered your question.

“It is natural for one to feel frustration,” Alva said vaguely. He turned in his chair to look at you with an unreadable expression. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just curious…you always seem so composed. I admire it,” you admitted.

Alva allowed a small smile on his face. “Nobody is ever what they seem, (Y/N). Keep that in mind,” he said, beckoning you over with a little wave of his hand. You stood up and went to him, surprised when he enveloped you in a hug. “I am sorry that I do not show emotions very often. I am…still getting used to the feeling by having someone I can trust.”

You could’ve sworn you felt him tremble a bit when he said that. But the moment was over too soon and he released you. “You have a match, yes? You shouldn’t be late,” he said and gave you a little push towards the door. You left with a smile on your face; Alva trusted you. That was all you could think about.

[paiges-1vur]

from across the crowd pt. 2… and as always enjoy loves <3 🏀⚡️🪩

“you probably have a boyfriend.. right?”

I heard what she had said, but it was like the words didn’t register in my head for another minute. i blush for a moment, and look down before looking back at her, smiling. “no..” I say giggling slightly. why am i acting this way? Tiff lock in. she seems genuinely surprised, but before surprise another emotion crosses her face that i cant decode. “a beautiful girl like you must have a boyfriend, though” she says in total surprise. she must think im lying. “no.. no boyfriend haha” I say trying to calm my nerves. why am i so worked up right now?

“well im sure your ex boyfriends regret ever leaving you, or letting you leave” she says, flattering me. i tense up for a moment. how do i put this? “ive.. never uh- had a boyfriend” i say shyly, slightly embarrassed. i can tell my cheeks are red, but i cant do anything to hide it. “no way..” she says quietly matching my volume. she pauses before speaking again. a smirk spans over her face and she puts her hands in the pockets of her sweats. my eyes flicker down to them for a minute. my breath catches in my throat. im suddenly brought back to reality by u the sound of paiges voice, louder this time. “did you hear me?” i look up to see paige a little closer than before, hovering over me. a smirk that can only be described as devilish on her face. shit. she saw me. “uhm, im so sorry, what did you say?” i say hurriedly, my face even redder than before. nice going tiff way to be nonchalant. “dont worry about it” is all she says in reply.

she looks back down, into my eyes. “whats your name, pretty?” she asks me intently, looking down at me. “my name is tiffany but my friends just call me tiff” i reply, proud of myself that i didnt forget my name. “tiffany,” paige says it again. “even your name is cute huh” i cant help but blush and look away from her for a moment.

theres silence for a minute. but not necessarily awkward silence. just us co existing with each other. i decide to say ‘fuck it’ and be bold. when is the next time im ever going to talk to a hot basketball player, who by the way seems to be very into me. i break the silence. “paige, if you want to know anything, just ask me” i say in a low voice. i could tell something was puzzling her. she knew i had never dated a guy, so im sure she was wondering if im into guys at all.. she looks down at me, her voice dropping an octave. she moves a little closer to me, and we are still in the tunnel towards the locker room so its just us still there at this point. she leans into my ear, and whispers “so no boyfriends.. hm” i can smell her scent even stronger than from her sweatshirt and it’s intoxicating. my eyes flutter closed, breathing her in. she pauses for a moment and i can hear her breathing, “no..” i reply my voice breaking slightly. just when i think shes about to question me farther she leans away from my ear. “just wanted to make sure i heard you right.” she says smirking at me.

she then reaches down next to her and grabs her bag. she puts it on and grabs her glasses, also putting those on too. i secretly hope this moment never ends. “so, will you be out celebrating the win at teds tonight?” i speak up and ask. her eyes flicker to me, still in her hoodie and she smiles. “will i see you there..?” she asks looking at me. gosh. how is she even more sexy with her glasses on. “i guess so” i reply, biting my lip.

she looks me up and down one more time. i can tell seeing me in her hoodie is making her think of a lot of different scenarios right now. “i need to go find my friends,” i finally speak, “but it was really great to meet you paige… i guess i’ll see you tonight.” I say smiling, trying to process everything that just happened in the last 20 minutes. she smiles back at me “here, let me walk you out” she walks over to me. we walk out of the stadium and i look over and up at her. she really is big. my croatian genes may have made me a lethal face card, but in the height department they lacked. heavily.

I spot my friends car and stop walking, before looking at paige. this was a sight. she had pulled on pj pants after the game and had her keys hanging out of her pocket. she had also pulled the hair from her ponytail into a messy bun. i also never would have guessed that paige had glasses. but then again, i had only known the girl for less than an hour. i move closer to her and pull her into a hug. “it was so nice talking to you, ill see you tonight paige.” i say, making sure the hug stays somewhat friendly. she bends down to hug me, and her scent floods my senses once again. “bye tiff, ill see you tonight love” I walk over to the car before really thinking about what she said. before i get into the passengers seat of the car i look back at paige. shes standing with her hands in the pockets, and her stance looks quite intimidating. as soon as she sees me get into the car safely she turned around and walked to her car.

i sit down in the passenger’s seat of madisens car. i buckle up before i look up to see everyones eyes on me. their mouths are wide open and theres silence.

“what?” silence.

“TIFFANY KAY TELL US WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK JUST HAPPENED”

[hmhas-00]

Ch. 16

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- It gets pretty angsty this chapter & the next few chapters! I hope the girlies can work this one outttt…🤞🏻 Please like and reblog, it means so much to me! <3 ALSO I’ll be posting twice a week again starting next week. Tuesdays and Thursdays!😌

Remy’s POV

I looked at the time on my dashboard, anxiously tapping my foot against the weather mat in my car. It was 4:15pm and they were still not here. I don’t know what the hell the crack I was smoking earlier was laced with when I thought there was even a slight chance of me getting to San Jose by car on time. I searched for the fastest, cheapest flight out of LAX I could find, and booked it.

If I could get out of here and to the airport by 5:30pm, I’d make it on my flight on time and get to the concert by 8pm the absolute latest.

I got out of my car, headed straight to the women’s restroom, when I saw Joe and three other slightly younger men sitting at a table. They were loud, drinking out of fancy cocktail glasses, and barely even noticed me walk by. I made my way over to the table, probably looking confused and a little bit pissed off.

“I didn’t see you guys come in?” I stood by their table. The four of them turned to look, fixing their eyes on certain attributes, before Joe got up to pull my chair out so I could sit. His hand grazed my lower back, his touch invading my personal space, as I sat in the chair.

“Well, we were at the bar at first, getting a couple drinks.” Joe sat back down after me, reintroducing me to the corporate bodies next to me. His hand rested on my shoulder as I mentally took myself out of my own body to get through dinner.

“Would you like to order anything? We have sushi coming out any minute. You want a drink? It’s on the company card tonight.” One of the men, Victor, offered.

“I’m okay, Victor, thank you.”

“Please, call me Vic.” He insisted.

I nodded, smiling politely, wanting to get on with the reason I was here.

I began to bring up my ideas, explaining what Rachel and I wanted to do, and even opened up the opportunity for Joe to tell them how much he likes my writing. I felt like I was just there to be stared at, like a museum display that no one bothered to read the inscription on.

I watched as they looked me up and down while I spoke, taking their time to notice the square neckline held up by my ribbon shoulder straps. I tugged at the hem of my red dress, feeling exposed and in the wrong company. I very quickly noticed they weren’t really interested in what I had to say.

They would interrupt to compare what I was saying to something that didn’t really relate, as well as direct questions toward Joe, that should’ve been for me.

I found myself fighting to get a word in, as the room would fill with laughter due to their inability to be serious.

“Seriously. How many time a day do you need to make copies for this guy, huh?” The one named Connor joked.

I fake laughed, asking myself if this was even worth it at all. Maybe this is how they network. Maybe this is how I get in with the important people, I lied to myself. I had to play the game.

“So, Michael.” I put a hand on his arm, leaning in and noticing a wedding ring on his finger. “What’s good to drink here?”

I noticed his demeanor a little flustered, flipping through the drink menu for me. Side eyeing, I caught a glimpse of Connor looking at my legs. I gracefully cross them, showing off a little more skin.

Michael waved a waiter over, ordering me a Cosmopolitan. I hated cosmos. I smiled at him with my eyes. I sipped it anyway, making sure to be delicate and proper, unlike them.

“Are you sure you want to be writing these things, instead of posing for them?” Vic said.

“Oh Vic, it’s my dream to be a columnist.” I nodded, flipping my hair behind my shoulder. “Maybe I could show you some of my outlines?” I reached into my purse, pulling out my phone.

“You can just email those to us, sweetheart.” Vic shrugged me off.

Upon seeing my phone, I saw I had 4 missed calls from Billie. My stomach dropped, seeing it was 5 o’clock already, making me more anxious by the second.

“Excuse me a minute.” I stood up, sashaying towards the restrooms. I dial Billie, staring at myself in the mirror.

“Helloo.” She answered.

“Hey, sorry I didn’t answer sooner. What’s up?”

“I was checking on you. About what time are you getting here?”

“8pm the latest.”

“But, that’s right when I go on stage.”

“I’ll be there, don’t worry! We’ll do Guess together. Or Bad Guy. Whatever you want.” I adjust my strapless bra and breasts.

“Okay. I’ll see you there, then!” I could hear them sound checking instruments in the background.

“Of course. See you soon.” I hung up.

I walked out, knowing I had to beat traffic to make my flight on time. I sit back down as they feast on sushi. I grab a few pieces, careful not to get any soy sauce on my dress. They continued to talk through me and about me, without even really acknowledging me.

Anytime I contributed to the conversation, I swear they looked at me with pity in their eyes, like I was this ditsy, precious, little thing. It made me hate myself. I wish I was another man they could respect and admire.

“Gentlemen, you’ll have to carry on without me. But I thank you for your time. I had a great time with you.” I began to stand up.

“Oh, please, stay a bit longer!” Michael begged, waving the waiter over to get me another drink.

“Really, I need to get going. But please, enjoy yourselves.” I smiled, rage building inside me.

“Before you leave.” Connor stood up, with a glass of red wine in his hand. “You don’t spend an hour with a young lady like this and not give what she wants.”

I looked over at Joe as he stood too, “Rachel’s office is yours. She’s going to be working remotely from her apartment and we wanted you to have it.”

“The- the office?” I squinted, confused as to what he meant.

“Yes, for now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He laughed, the rest of the men joining him.

I laughed in disbelief. “That‘s not what I wanted-“

“I look forward to those ideas of yours in my inbox tomorrow morning.” Connor leaned in to say goodbye. He hugged me, laying a clammy hand on my lower back.

Michael waited his turn before planting an uninvited peck on my cheek, and Vic gave me a goodbye hug, pressing his chest into mine a little too tight.

I nodded, my head throbbing and spinning from how ridiculous I felt being passed around like an appetizer.

I sped to the airport, making maneuvers I’ve never made before.

I made it 20 minutes before boarding began, going through security with nothing but my small, leather clutch. It didn’t even matter to me that my outfit was getting strange reactions from people passing by.

As if tonight couldn’t get worse, the pilot announced a delay due to an issue with the tarmac. You have to be kidding me. I text Billie I’ll be a little late, but would be there in time for Guess.

The next 2 hours go by and the plane finally lands in San Jose. I shoot out of my seat, not minding the people reaching for their overhead carry ons. All I care about is calling an uber to take me to the arena.

By the time my uber driver pulled up, it was 8:45pm. He did a double take, unlocking his car and greeting me.

“Hello, are you-“

“Remy, yes. I’m going to the SAP Center.”

He looked at me thru the rear view mirror and began to drive, noting my rush. “Is this a special event?”

“Kinda.” I tapped my foot, constantly checking the time. The acid in my stomach created a whirlpool of anxiety.

Eventually, we made it to the venue. I made sure to tip the driver, running as fast as possible, ignoring my aching feet in these heels.

I showed my backstage privileges to security at the door, hoping they wouldn’t hold me up much longer. By almost 9pm, I was finally backstage, where Maggie and Patrick greeted me and offered me food.

“I’m so late, did she already do Guess?”

She nodded. “You just missed it.” She looked like she knew Billie would be upset, like Billie already knew I wouldn’t be on time.

It felt awful, watching Billie do the barricade walk without me, smiling at her fans, taking the time to hold their hands up close. I watched the rest of the concert alone backstage on a screen, while Maggie worked her Support & Feed stand outside.

Once it was over, I stood up, fixing my dress and putting my heels back on.

Billie walked in a few minutes later holding her water bottle and a sweat rag. She looked at me, her head tilted, her brows furrowed, and her mouth slightly parted.

I braced for impact, hoping she wouldn’t be upset.

“What are you wearing?” She put her things down, taking off her rings.

I looked down at my bright red dress, “I had a work event, I didn’t even bother to change-“

“Yeah right. You wore that for work?” She stood, watching me trip over my words.

“It was at a restaurant- it doesn’t matter, I’m here now.” I anxiously laughed, hoping she’d stop focusing on that.

“Is that why you were late? You were eating with that girl? What was her name- Sydney?”

“Stevie, and no, if you must know, it was dinner at Nobu with Joe and a bunch of the executives from Variety.” I crossed my arms.

“Wait, wait, wait. What? Dinner? How’d you have dinner and drive up here, 5 hours away.” Her voice raspy as she tried to catch her breath. She needed her inhaler, I could tell.

“I didn’t. I flew on a plane.” I furrowed my brows. She was so upset, I felt like anything I said would automatically annoy her.

“You flew here? You mean this was your last stop of the night.” She scoffed. “What a waste of fossil fuels.”

“Billie, I’m so sorry, I thought it would work out better than this, and then my flight got delayed- Believe me, I tried my best to get here on time. It’s not my fault!”

“Nothing ever is, is it?” She sat on the couch. “You said you’d be here and you chose whatever the hell you were doing over keeping your promise.” Her voice was low and exhausted.

“Hey! It was for work! I couldn’t miss it! Joe promised it would get me closer to my own column! All three of the execs were there to listen to my ideas.” It stung knowing it wasn’t even worth it. But I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire

“Oh so that’s why you dressed like that! That’s why you’ve been dressing like that. Showing off, thinking it’ll get you in with the elites? Who told you that? Rachel?” She shook her head.

“What are you talking about?” I squinted my eyes.

“You send me pictures in your new work clothes, looking like the secretary every married piece of shit hides from his wife… you don’t even look like yourself anymore. And you’re fine with that. You’re fine with flaking on your friends, and giving yourself up, just to write some bullshit on a magazine no one even reads! You don’t even read it!”

“I- what the fuck do you mean!” I uncrossed my arms, feeling that sting. “I showed up! I’m here, and I tried my best! I’m sorry that I have to make just a few compromises so I can advance in my career!”

“Once you get this promotion you’ll have to make a few more compromises.” She held her fingers up, making air quotations. “And one day, you’re gonna realize you spent your whole life compromising, and never showed up for your friends or for yourself!” At this point, she was shouting. Every word resonated with me, but I didn’t want to face it.

“This is about you not understanding how much this means to me. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, I hate what those people have turned you into. Look at your inability to tell people no! Rachel takes advantage of you. She makes you do her work and she gets all the credit, and you let her! And Joe tells you where to be, and what to do whenever he wants! You haven’t taken a day off in so long! Even on weekends he makes you do shit for him! And you’re not even clocked in! You get paid salary, you’re screwing your self over! What- you think they’re giving you overtime? They know you’ll fucking do anything so they made you their bitch! And don’t even get me started on you wearing this shit just so they’ll look your direction!”

“Oh, fucking please! Look who’s talking! As if you even worked a day in your life! You have the perfect voice, the perfect face, you wear whatever the fuck you want, and everyone just fucking throws their money at you! You could show up and scream into the microphone, and still sell out arenas. Everyone says yes to you, whatever you want, whenever you want it, and if there’s ever an issue, you can pay for it to get solved. I have a family to take care of, I have bills to pay! I don’t get to travel the world and be admired! I have to bust my ass to barely make it to the end of the month!”

She stood up, shaking her head, “Oh hell fucking nah! You’re really going to go there? You know the hard work and dedication I’ve-“

“You’d never understand all the hard work and dedication that went into the position I have today-“

She cut me off, “WHAT POSITION? You mean the assistant to the assistant manager bro?”

“No! Thanks to them tonight, I have my own office now! And they asked me to email them my outlines for a new column! You swear I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing!”

“OHHH WOW! My bad! She has her own office now! She’s bad as fuck!” She waved me off.

“Yeah, sorry for assuming you’d give a fuck.”

“You lied to me saying you’d be a little late, knowing you were 5 hours away, because you double booked yourself, even though you pinky promised ME you’d show up! You took a flight to make up for your lie and contributed to global warming!! And meanwhile the ICE CAPS ARE MELTING! You know what next time- don’t even show up!” She ranted, throwing her hands in the air, pacing now.

“What about all of the stupid fucking things you’ve bought that you said you’d never buy if you had this kind of money? What about all the cars! Those burn fossil fuels too, genius!”

“I barely even drive them!”

“Exactly!! Stupid!”

“What does that even have to do with any of this?”

Flustered, I found anything to cling onto. “You’re judging me and you don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about! I can’t just drop a band and get whatever I want! I need theis job!”

“You can get any other job you want!”

“No! That’s you!” My speech rapidly increasing in pitch. “Look, Billie, I was trying to be supportive and show up for you, while also worrying about my career. When you couldn’t show up for me because of something happening in yours, I was never an asshole to you!” I pointed at her, watching her expression change.

“When I pinky promise to show up, I show up!” She got closer, staring in my eyes, her voice sharp and aggressive.

“I DID show up!” I looked at her, pronouncing every word forcefully.

“You know what I mean! I wouldn’t be 5 hours away and have to rush over! I would just- BE THERE!” Her voice broke, becoming creaky and guttural.

“Billie. I am trying my fucking best here.” I felt like I was being shot in the heart.

“No! You know how exhausting it is to rely on you, and trust you’ll be there, and every single time I end up disappointed! At some point, it’s not just you thinking about your career, it’s you not thinking about me.” She took a deep breath after finishing out her sentence, wheezing a bit, thanks to her asthma. She grabs her inhaler out of her pocket, taking a hit. I watched her stabilize her breathing. I tried to think of anything to respond with, but I didn’t even know where to start.

Billie continued, “You KNOW he’s using you. You KNOW those pigs aren’t the least bit interested in what’s on your mind. Joe didn’t even care about you until you started walking around the office in a mini skirt!”

“You just can’t fucking believe that one day I could be SOMEONE other than just Billie Eilish’s friend!”

“No? What I can’t believe, is that you’d really let some piece of shit treat you like that in front of people, and not even allow you to grow unless you suck his metaphorical dick. That’s abuse of power and you know it! And you of all people should know I know a thing or two about that!”

“You of all people should know how hard it is to accept it in the first place!” I shut her up.

She glared at me, her eyes glossing and her jaw clenching, like she wanted to cry. She scanned my body, ending her stare at my red, strapped heels.

“Just leave. Don’t worry about squeezing me into your schedule anymore.” She grabbed her things, throwing them in her duffle bag.

[galazry]

Sick Day

pairing: wanderer x gn!reader [established relationship] genre: modern au, fluff cw: wanderer is like an asian mom here words: 583 a/n: drabble based on this brainrot. had a headache and thought about how wanderer would take care of their sick s/o.

Your head has been throbbing for god knows how long. It seemed that the constant all-nighters you've pulled have finally brought your body down. Good thing you have your boyfriend to take care of you. As soon as he got the news that you were sick, he instantly appeared on your doorstep, ready to take care of you. A sweet act from someone like him. If only he could tone down the nagging...

"What did I tell you? Stop pulling all-nighters! But did you listen? Of course not! Now I'm stuck here, taking care of you."

"You know you don't have to... I can perfectly take care of myself..."

"Don't make me laugh, [Y/N]. Do you think I'm going to let a sick person take care of themself?! Just focus on getting better so you can quit bothering me!"

Wanderer nagged as his hand skillfully cuts an apple for you. Even if he was in the kitchen, you could hear his grumbles and nags loud and clear. In response, you let out a weak chuckle, not moving an inch from your bed. It was a relief that you've submitted your assignments, so that's one thing to worry less about. Though, you can't help feel bad for your boyfriend. After all, you were both supposed to go on your weekly date, but your body had other plans.

"Open your mouth."

"You know I can eat those by myself ri-"

"Just open your mouth, will you?!"

Your boyfriend holds out a piece of apple, waiting for you to do as he says. With a soft sigh, you opened your mouth for him to prevent anymore nags and grumbles from the man. The apple was sweet, not tart, just how you like it. Even though you were more than capable in doing so, it was nice to have someone to take care of you while you were sick.

"Thanks for taking care of me..."

"Hmph, you better be thankful. I can't believe I'm spending the weekend to take care of you. Now, quit talking and eat. After you've finished, go to sleep. I'll make you a bowl of porridge for dinner."

Even though his words seemed harsh, you knew that deep down, he was actually very worried about you. How did you know? Well, with a little decoding and with how he acted— Wanderer going out of his way to go to your place, him buying you all sorts of medicine (most of which you don't actually need...), buying you fruits and cutting them up— it was quite easy to see that he's very much worried about your well being. You, then, followed his say-so; eating the apples before going back to sleep. It didn't take long for your breath to steady itself as your chest rises and falls.

Unbeknownst to you, Wanderer, who had just finished washing the bowl, comes back to stay by your side. A worried expression, that he doesn't dare show in front of you, adorns his face. His hand caressed your head gently in a way that he's sure won't wake you up.

"Please take care of yourself better... I hate to see you get sick like this..."

The silence that surrounds him was unfamiliar. Wanderer had grown used to you being loud and full of vitality that seeing you bed-ridden, looking so weak and pale, hurts him more than he thought it would. He then leaned down to plant a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Get well soon, my dear."

[neerons]

Some of Clavis Lelouch’s best quotes + Cyran's bonus quotes

"Tell me, Emma, what do you think is the best way to wake someone who's really bad at waking up? (...) That's right, you stab them." (—Clavis talking about Chevalier to Emma)

"Finding such a handsome man in your room is enough to leave anyone breathless. Take your time. I know I'm easy on the eyes. (...) Oh, nice reaction! There's nothing like a good AHHHHH to get me in the mood."

“I didn’t do anything. But next time, don’t be intimidated by these status-crazed nobles. You don’t owe them anything—not even a smile. If someone looks down on you, look down on them in return. Otherwise, your self-worth will start to plummet. Never abandon your self-respect just to calm the situation. I know you’re a wonderful person—I wouldn’t have chosen you as my wife if not.”

"You succumbed to delusion."

"You weren't paying any attention to me at all. I got so lonely, I almost died!"

"...I want to make love to you."

"I'll tell you a secret about Chevalier. You want to know right? I bet you do. (...) He likes romance novels, but the reason for that is... Me. (...) One day, I secretly added to his pile of books... I put a book that boasted its dewy, spicy romance in the pile."

"Haha! When you're as handsome as I am, you look good no matter what state you're in. You just need better understanding of aesthetics." (—Clavis to the "Obsidianite soldier")

"Haha! You don't need to apologize. Who says only kids are allowed to be bouncy? What's wrong with adults being genuine about loving the things they love?"

"Oh, the things you say! Don't you realize you threaten to unleash the beast that hides behind this gentleman's visage?" (—Clavis' thoughts about Emma)

"What a fool I was to think I was done falling in love with you. The depths I could fall for you seem endless."

“We can do it on the table, or by the windowsill again, if you like. Ah, but I don’t recommend the floor—not unless you’re into that.”

"I would never allow my lovely fiancee to live a life of fear. And so I must take it upon myself to indulge her in a life of joy." (—Clavis' thoughts about Emma)

"Wait, wait, wait! (...) Chevalier, you cannot possibly be trying to replace the words 'I love you' with that one kiss. (...) Why else would Emma have dressed up so beautifully? It's all so she can hear you say those three words! (...) Yes, not all things need to be said, but there is a purpose in giving words to feelings. That's how you can bring them into the real world. Chev, you can't let Emma guess how you truly feel forever. Just tell her. (...) The average person can't read minds like you do. Don't assume that Emma knows everything just because you do." (—Clavis to Chevalier, in Chevalier's route)

"I'm charming, aren't I?"

"Here you are, alone in a secret room with a handsome prince. Why are you only interested in those lifeless husks? (...) That's a little offensive, you know."

"Haha! Go to hell." (—Clavis to Chevalier)

"Goodness, I've never visited that bookstore, and to think it was hiding a gem all this time..." (—Clavis' thoughts about Emma)

"Dear me, it looks like they started running the second they spotted me. Haha! That's optimistic of them. " (—Clavis talking about Yves and Licht to Emma)

"You could at least call it artistic. My handwriting conceals talent that would surpass that of a genius artist. (...) It's readable. So long as you take the time to decode it! Haha!" (—Clavis to Jin)

"Ah... Hahaha! I can't believe you headbutted me! You should've slapped me, at least."

"There's no rule that says you have to drink alcohol once you come of age. That said, it might be more romantic to let you get drunk and then take care of you until you sober up. Wait here, I'll just get some—"

"Of course, I'm not trying to criticize your own personal standards for good and evil. But throughout our lives, we're constantly being confronted by our perceptions of good and evil. And there are times when we might regret it later, if we decide to be critical of something simply because 'it's evil'. Our own individual standards for good and evil may not always be aligned with the kingdom's standards for good and evil. And if that happens, wouldn't you want to remain true to your own standards? To what you believe is good and right?"

"So you're comfortable drinking. I'll keep that in mind." (—Clavis' thoughts about Emma)

"(...) I'm well aware that of all the princes, I was the one most loved by his mother. Although I suppose it's not really a surprise, given how adorable and cute I was. (...) Haha! Why are you apologizing? There's no rule that says we can't talk about the deceased. And there's no need to feel guilty, either. I'm not some silly child who gets all worked up just from thinking about her." (—Clavis talking about his mother to Emma)

"I love drawing attention to myself, you know that. I wanted everyone in the palace talking about me, so I made it seem as if I'd gone missing." (—Clavis to Sariel)

"...You're surprisingly sweet on Emma, aren't you?" (—Clavis to Chevalier)

"Well obviously, because I like rabbits. And from what I know of rabbits... They may seem aloof, but they're actually very sweet and loving, and if you're lucky, they'll even let you see that side of them. I think they're adorable. And despite being delicate and easily frightened, they won't run from anything—they'll stand their ground and put on a brave face. I can't think of any other creature that instills in me such an urge to protect them. You see? Everything about them is lovable." (—Clavis talking about Emma secretly)

"But that's why Rhodolite is so well-balanced. If we all agreed with Leon, the kingdom would constantly be in danger from outside. If we all agreed with Chevalier, it would end up a dictatorship."

"You're about the only person who willingly visits the brutal beast's lair."

"Just so we're clear, this doesn't even count as a setback to me. I've tasted defeat countless times at the hands of a brother more beastly than anyone in Obsidian. I've never once made the right choice. I'm a loser, constantly making mistakes, and constantly being laughed at for them. (...) When you fail, it's easy to give up. It's easy to think your ideas are wrong, and yield to the right choice. But this is what I do. Every time I fail, I get up again, and I fight even harder, so that next time, maybe I won't fail. I don't care about what's right for the kingdom. I stay true to what's right for me, and that's the only way I've found any meaning in my life. Even if what I believe to be right and true is actually wrong, and even if I'm called evil and wicked for doing what I do... I'll fight against the brutal beast's methods with everything I have in me. And I'm not going to die until I've made him kneel before me, and accepted that my beliefs are just as righteous as his are. (...) And since I've spent my life tasting nothing but defeat, I think I can declare this with some certainty. So long as you go on living, you'll never really be a loser. Because there is no such thing. Even if you lost this time, you just have to win next time to be the winner. And if nothing else, you'd be able to die a prouder man than you will now. (...) Today's failures will lead you to tomorrow's hope. Always, as long as you don't give up. And that's why I'm going to get up and try again. What about you? Are you going to die a dog's death here?" (—Clavis to the "Obsidianite soldier")

"What a shame... Were my hands not bound right now... I'd already be making love to you."

"Haha! Not a chance. I adore her." (—Clavis denying disliking Emma to Gilbert)

"I've always tried to be a gentleman, and live by the tenet that women are free to come and go as they please. But with you, I find myself wondering whether I should be using handcuffs, rope, or maybe a strong net."

"All right, then, I guess I'll just have to slip a few weapons into your luggage to help celebrate your departure. At the very least, I've already included a shovel." (—Clavis helping Emma escape from Obsidian)

"My brother is an absolute genius when it comes to angering people in just about every way possible. He outclasses us all in that, too." (—Clavis talking about Chevalier)

"Dearie me, don't tell me you're here for a secret tryst with my brother? I never imagined this unsociable beast might finally have his sexual awakening—" (—Clavis talking about Chevalier to Emma)

"(...) It's a water jet device designed to keep you cool in sultry summer evenings. I made it expressly for you. Isn't it brilliant?"

"The only people he could hold a proper conversation with were those who faced him head-on." (—Clavis' thoughts about Chevalier)

"(...) I don't care about me, but I don't think it's appropriate to be pointing guns at a woman, do you?" (—Clavis protecting Emma from 'someone')

"You really are gorgeous... I'm so captivated by you... that I feel I might forget how to be a gentleman for good."

"You could tie me down any day, my lovely fiancee."

"Ah. Hello, insecurity. I had not missed you at all. If I want to make my lovely fiancee happy, I'm going to need to start being more confident." (—Clavis' thoughts)

"You're so beautiful when you're watching something with rapt attention."

"How could you treat your kind little brother like this, when he worked himself to the bone trying to keep your library nice and tidy? I'm going to tell Emma on you." (—Angry Clavis to Chevalier)

"Well, first, I'd love to be able to pamper you in the bathroom. I want to wash your hair and gently exfoliate your skin so it's super soft. (...) Next, I want to hire a famous artist to draw a portrait of you that I can hang on my wall. I want one so big it'll cover the entire thing. Maybe I'll even get a bunch of you drawn. Seeing lots of you while I work would be good for motivation. (...) Also, I would love it if we could change up how we say good night. Every day, before bed, I want us to say 'I love you' instead of just 'good night'. (...) Oh, it's also my dream to go on a trip around the world with you! I just want to explore new sights with you and kiss and cuddle you in new places."

Cyran's bonus quotes:

"(...) Prince Clavis lies incessantly, so feel free to ignore everything he says. (...) Everything. You've no need to be worried about his feelings, or even keep him company. And it might be in your best interests to refuse to eat any of this." (—Cyran talking about Clavis and his cooking to Emma, in front of Clavis)

"You're still half-asleep, aren't you? You're a disgrace." (—Cyran to Clavis)

"When we finally catch up to him, I think we should team up and give him a good scolding!" (—Cyran talking about Clavis to Emma)

"Since you left me behind like that, I've decided to hold a grudge against you forever. (...) Do it again and I'll throttle you, master or no. Just so you know." (—Cyran to Clavis)

"My Lady, I'm afraid that Prince Clavis's plan is truly stupid. A prince in his right mind would never even plan such a thing, and the average person would recoil in shock at the very idea of it."

"Prince Clavis, you can't just go casually tossing your head in her lap like that. My Lady, you're more than welcome to slap him awake at this point."

"(...) despite all that, there was one fool prince who stormed into the camp where the prisoners were being held. Yep, I'm talking about the idiot prince currently sleeping like a babe in your lap."

"From the way he acts, it's easy to mistake him for a fool and a scoundrel, but... at heart, he's the kindest, most compassionate man I've ever met." (—Cyran talking about Clavis to Emma)

"...So where is he, this handsome man? (...) ...You're a total mess right now, you realize. You look dreadful. Want me to get you a mirror?" (—Cyran to Clavis)

"My Lady, I truly am sorry, but... I've been ordered to inform you that, and I quote, 'your prince is in grave danger and needs you to rescue him! Ahaha'! (...) ...He insisted I include the 'ahaha' at the end." (—Cyran delivering a message from Clavis to Emma)

"Very well. I'll inform him that you said to die in pain and agony." (—Cyran talking about Clavis to Chevalier)

"Really? Are you sure? Ahh, this is great, it means I can get away from my troublesome master for a while. I look forward to serving you, My Lady, and I'll do my absolute best for you!" (—Cyran replying to Clavis' order to be Emma's personal bodyguard)

"My Lady, you're the sort of person who worries constantly about other people, without ever thinking about yourself. Like at the party, when you tried to protect Prince Gilbert from that guy with the knife. That sort of thing."

"...Farewell, my peaceful days."

"...Stay strong, my lady. I know exactly how you feel, but know that I am cheering you on."

[flowercrownsandherondales]

Against the Odds pt. 16

The way it took everything in me not to spoil this chapter to @cloverleaf20 in the comments. I put my computer away, saw that comment, and opened that bitch right back up. If there’s any clarification or anything anyone is confused about when it comes to this story feel free to send me a ask! Otherwise let me know what you think!

previous

XVI: I’ve Given All I Can 

I watched her sleep, nursing my whiskey on the couch. 

She looked peaceful, face unmarred by the pain she usually carried, even if it had lessened in the past few months. 

Still, like mine, it would never fully dissolve. 

I took another sip, crossing my legs again and uncrossing them. Trying to soothe an itch that couldn’t be scratched. It always felt like this. Walking around with a pebble in your shoe, never able to shake it out. 

She helped me forget about it for a while. Her mere presence and I was able to relax, but it always came back. 

Y/N shifted in her sleep, her hand reached out past her pillow, blindly searching for something unseen, never quite in reach. Eventually she gave up, hand going limp again as she twisted in the covers. I tried to decode who she was reaching for. Wyatt? Wiley? Her ma or pa? 

Sometimes I wondered if she saw the ghosts of them like I did. 

I would catch her every once in a while, sweeping my floors, dusting a random shelf she had already dusted a hundred times during the week. Her eyes would wander, falling to a space in between. Her shoulders would go ridgid, spine straightening, every muscle and tension going taunt. Who was there? Who did she see when she had a moment of quiet? 

Wyatt Callow, the odd boy with a stocky build. Socially inept, still gentle in a way only someone who had been beaten down could be. I’d been too harsh with him, refusing to ally, talking behind his back with Louella when I thought he was asleep. Telling him to not be weird, to hide some part of himself, a part that a girl at home was mourning. 

I had barely given her a glance when we were shipped off to the Capitol. Lenore Dove, my beloved girl, sobbing and screaming for me as I banged on the glass. I didn’t even notice the girl who had once been my closest friend standing next to her, comforting my girl. Y/N, who waved goodbye for the last time, who was pregnant. 

In my sleep syrup induced haze I could faintly recall Burdock and Blair discussing it. I had walked down the stairs to the both of them in the house, deep in a hushed conversation. Blair had sat on the couch, Burdock pacing the floor in front of him, fists clenching and unclenching. 

“There’s gotta be a way she can… deal with it?” Blair had asked, which I could tell just from his facial expression was inches away from setting Burdock off. 

“Deal with it? Are you talking about a fucking abortion?” he seethed, teeth clenched. Blair had just looked to the floor, hunching his back in defeat. 

“Astrid… she can help her, right Burdock? I mean she knows what herbs she needs to take. Y/N can’t have this baby, she just can’t. Her family already struggles, and it’s just her. How could they possibly survive adding another person into the mix?” Burdock just stared at Blair incredulously. 

“I mean- he’s gone. There’s no one to help her take care of a child. Plus, that kid comes out looking like him, it’s just gonna send her into a spiral. She can barely take care of herself right now, you’ve seen her.” Blair pressed on, every word causing Burdock to wince. 

I had left the room after that, dragging myself back up the stairs and into my room, holding Lenore Dove’s picture tight to my chest and attempting to stop my sobs from announcing that I was awake to my two friends downstairs. 

I remember wondering how she could be so careless. How Wyatt could be so careless. Lenore Dove and I had discussed it, both of us deciding to wait until she could get her hands on the right herbs to prevent it, until we could go through with the handfasting ceremony, and I wouldn’t have to look after Sid so often. 

I couldn’t say I had thought about it more than that. Burdock had left, Blair eventually following his lead. Shamefully, my mind never drifted to her again. I had seen her in the hob once or twice, a boy that looked just like his father following her closely. It hurt too much to see Wyatt ‘s face. The same way it hurt to see Merrilee Donner walking with the Undersee boy. I would look away, racing back to lock myself at home and drink through the night. 

I couldn’t avoid it when they called his name. My eyes were glued to the boy, then to her. I wonder if my ma had the same look when they had decided to send me into the arena. Watching helplessly as your child is marched to their death, wanting to volunteer, knowing there’s nothing you can do. 

Burdock had ripped through the Justice Building while she spent the last few minutes with her boy. He’d grabbed my shoulder, pushing me into the corridor, eyes blazing in fury. 

“You better get your fucking act together. Remember who she is, who she was to you. If I have to watch her deteriorate after this, it’s on you Haymitch.” 

He stormed off after that, always the protector, always the one to volunteer himself to help anyone who needed it. A true saint. 

Then she had come to me. 

Tear stained, shaking like a leaf, absolutely detached. And all she asked was that I be nice to him. She didn't ask me to save him, unlike the other parents who came before her. Y/N Y/LN, forever the realist. 

I made sure to honor her request. Wiley had sat in front of me on that train, and instead of Wyatt, all I saw was his mother. 

And I had loved her. A part of me always would. 

“Mr. Abernathy, I know I’m not gonna win.” Wiley had sighed, his eyes completely numb to what was to come. I didn’t bother convincing him he was wrong, just solemnly nodded. It was just us, I had come to grab a drink and caught him sitting there, watching out the window. 

“Can you take care of my mama? She’s gonna be real sad, like she is about my daddy. Mama likes sunsets, and I don’t want her to stop watching them just because I’m gone.” 

That had taken me back. This kid, the looks of Wiley and Y/N, the deep wisdom of my Lenore Dove. The innocence of Sid. This kid who was gonna die, who just wanted someone to look out for his mama when he was gone. I had just nodded, unable to speak, unable to breathe. 

I would do anything to save him from what was to come. Anything to make his death easier. 

He told me all about her. How she took her coffee in the morning, how she was unable to tell him about his dad. How she snuck cigarettes while she was washing clothes, or played him records on her pa’s old machine when he couldn’t sleep. 

I held him after his interview, his body shaking as he sobbed into my chest. He’d finally faced it. The fear, the exhaustion. I soothed him, rubbing circles into his back the way I would now do to his mother. Watching both of their eyelids get heavy, body going lax in my arms. 

I had begged the sponsors to send him anything. Spinning tales of taking care of the boy, watching him grow up. Trying to convince them that I was there for Y/N when I wasn’t. They had eaten every word, throwing money my way. I had a pile saved up, wanting to send things steadily rather than all at once, refusing to risk too many parachutes giving him away, and putting a target on his back. 

I was only able to send the flint striker, my own greatest asset in the game, before his throat was slit in front of us. 

But I was able to keep one promise. I sat with Y/N under sunsets, sharing a smoke. And just like she’d done as a kid, she crawled right back into my heart. 

It was easy with her. I didn’t want to admit it, feeling like I was feeding Lenore Dove a gumdrop all over again with want or need I felt for Y/N. 

But then beloved came to me again, as she so often did, and all but begged me to let Y/N in. 

And who was I to deny her? To deny either of them.

The only woman who would ever begin to understand my pain, bearing her matching wounds to me. A match made at the hands of abuse. 

I didn’t love her like all-fire. I didn’t look at her like she hung the moon and stars. She wasn’t on the same pedestal I placed Lenore Dove on, a girl who would always understand far more than I could comprehend. 

Y/N was my equal at every turn. She was the moon to Lenore Dove’s sun. 

I loved her like I loved comfort. Like I loved pouring a drink and laying on the couch after living through my nightmares. Loving her was like coming home after a long day and having someone tuck you in tight, washing all the dirt from your face and handing you a home cooked meal. 

I looked at her now. The way her hair fell over her face, the way the blanket had fallen around her waist, exposing her healing scars that littered her back. 

I thought back to this earlier. Effie pushed me out the door, spending the next few hours making her look like a Capitol socialite. They wouldn’t start working on me for another hour, needing less time to make me spotless. I’d had it all done just a few months ago, they wouldn’t be starting at square one like they were with her. 

I rifled through the bar cart, attempting to find tongs for the ice. A note slipped out, nothing marking it was for me. Still, I went back to my room, shutting myself in the bathroom where there were no cameras, and opened it. 

Haymitch, 

I understand your reservations against me. Still, I hope that you’ll take this warning and make the necessary precautions. There are issues regarding our recent Victor. He seems to have decided to idolize you. There are reasons you are needed to perform, to take the edge off of whatever this boy is attempting to do. He’s whispering things to Capitol citizens, secrets that are shining damning light on the sanctity of Panem. The people need someone else to focus on. There are rules regarding Victors, especially ones that have recently won. He’s young, and doesn’t understand the repercussions of what he’s doing. Keep what you can close. 

P. H

Carp Delmar. Mags had warned me about him during the games. I’d been pulled aside by her and Plutarch, whispering in the corridor that he was asking in depth questions about the Quarter Quell. He’d mentioned that he wanted to break the arena like I did, which had taken Mags off guard. She’d asked him why he thought the arena had broken, knowing full well that the Capitol had tapes from my games tampered with. He’d confided in her, saying he had managed to find out one way or another. 

Plutarch had been adamant he would not be the one to turn the wheel of the rebellion. 

Carp was smart for his age, but lacked discipline. He was reckless, assuming he could find a way to rebel without the help of anyone else. 

But his biggest weakness? 

He couldn’t keep his mouth shut. 

I ripped the letter into shreds, tossing it into the toilet. Plutarch could have easily been caught for something like that, unless he had Beetee fuck with the cameras on the train, or he knew a peacekeeper that owed him a favor. Honestly, I didn’t truly understand how Plutarch operated, or how he had gotten away with it for so long. 

Still, it answered the question that had been on my mind since Snow’s initial threat. 

Why did he care so much about Y/N and I? What’s the end goal?

We weren’t only puppets to give the Capitol something new to look at. We were a cautionary tale to Carp Delmar. The pain the Quarter Quell caused Y/N, everything Snow had taken from both of us. 

But what more would he require? 

I imagine a wedding would be coming. What I dreaded was what would come after. 

Y/N would never willingly have another child. 

And I would never ask her to. 

But I wasn’t the one in charge of asking. It was a ridiculous notion to even think he would ask. 

I had no one left to lose other than Y/N, and that would kill me. 

But Y/N still had a few left that could be picked off one by one. I could almost see it, holding her upright in the graveyard. Headstones littering in front of us. Burdock, Katniss, Prim, Astrid 

Something inside me knew she would hardly survive it. She was strong, stronger than anyone I knew. She had handled burying her son. But I would catch glimpses of her, the way she carried herself, her spacing out, that led me to believe one more crack and she would explode, left looking like the mine Blair had been killed in. 

Still, Snow had no leverage over me but her. I would be upset if the Everdeen’s were killed, but I had also distanced my heart from them years ago. 

But if we were to have a child. If we were given the order to fulfill that request, raising a lamb to slaughter…

Y/N would end up dead too, and Snow wouldn’t have to raise a single weapon towards her. She’d take care of it herself. 

I looked at her again, taking a slow drink and watching her chest rise and fall. Whatever came next, whatever Snow was going to make us do, we’d play the part. 

I’d hold her through it. They could put me on a table and bleed me dry. I’d get her through it. 

The door opened, startling me out of my thoughts. There stood Plutarch Heavensbee, a tight look on his face, hands folded behind his back. 

“The President would like to meet with you.”