#insomnia for about 7 months does to you

[makeitpoppy]

about the last thing i reblogged, the stress one

YOU GUYS

i've always been a sensitive human bean in terms of allergies and having sensitive skin, AND i already knew im basically a little walking bundle of stressed out angry nerves

but my body literally decided to rebel against me and let me tell you, one more problem and im going to wrap myself in bubble wrap or become the modern real life bubble boy

[sulfies]

I do think Altair, Ezio and Connor be mortified by the concept of Animus but At first they would probobly think that its funny, like Ezio would be going "so you just lie down, watch us go about and wake up with our skills?.... Thats cheating!!!" Altair would be prob a bit salty. Connor would wish he had that of an easy time training.

Then they learn its not like "lying down and resting while animus does the work" at all;

Desmond wakes w muscle spasms and phantom pains from injuries he never got. He has chronic insomnia because his sense of time has been blinded so much he is basically jetlagged 24/7. He doesnt remember how long a day is supossed to go, how slow a month passes, how decades indeed take decades. He has backpain from lying down all day without being able to move, then his muscles protest when he has to move out of animus because thats the only time he used them. He forgets to eat, sit, drink, shower till someone tells him because he didnt have to in animus. He is shocked when people speak to him unprompted because there was always a reason for someone to talk to him first in animus.

Then they learn about his bleeds, how he became a puzzle of their skillset but also their minds. How he forgets his likes and dislikes because he has been others daily, longer than he has been himself in a while. He forgets where he is, if he is supossed to be there, if what he is seeing is supossed to be there. He forgets his name sometimes, replies to anything but his own even if the person is in the room as well. How he freaks out when he sees his reflection sometimes, remembering it as a strangers face. How he sees and talks to things that arent there but maybe was or will be.

They learn he isnt even himself sometimes, cant remember how to be. He doesnt know if he is mad at someone because he doesnt like them or if its Others feelings bleeding. They learn some of his own memories been forever replaced by their own and he doesnt even realize he never met that person only Connor has met before. He cant remember the day his mom got him his 5th birthday gift but Ezio's 5th birthday and his new gift of a carved horse figure is fresh in his mind. He doesnt remember his girlfriend from when he was 19 but he remembers Altaïr's one crush that lasted a week. He cant remember if he ever tried a dish but knows if one of them would like it based on the ingridients. He cant remember faces of his classmates at the farm but knows the novices names by heart.

They learn while they might have sacrificed their bodies and years for their training Desmond has sacrificed his whole self for it.

And it doesnt seem like cheating anymore.

[sopiao]

ghost with a pregnant!wife!reader with late night/general cravings :P

sending him to the nearest convenience store late at night started to become a regular thing a couple months after you two found out your pregnant.

Cravings start pretty early on but their more mild, craving and wanting food at random times of the day or having certain snacks on your mind for hours whenever it’s mentioned. But on the second trimester is when it gets really bad, odd foods or combinations start to taste amazing, the cravings and need for certain foods gets so strong it feels like your starving even after a full meal.

But your husband already knows how to deal with you, knows how to talk to you and calm you down in any state of mind. He was especially attentive and sensitive when you both found out about the baby.

Always scratching your back whenever you need him too. Keeping up with his research and looking up every little detail or notice. If you mention that your feet hurt or that you woke up in the middle of the night. He’ll spend the next hour surfing the internet to see if it’s something that’s bothering you or the baby.

He’ll sing it hum to your bump (only when your asleep), caressing the round with his scarred hands, sometimes even holding normal conversations about his day even though the baby can’t answer back.

Simon already can’t get much sleep with his insomnia or late nights that he’s up working. But when you wake him up in the middle of the night to tell him that you’re hungry. He immediately sits up, still a bit tired and lucid, but is more than willing to drive you to Sonic to get you whatever you want, or to the nearest gas station or 7-11 to buy you your snacks.

He’d still be half away when he’s standing in the aisle with you. Slightly swaying side to side, still in his pajamas which is just a black tank and black sweats. Watching you, still wearing his sleep shirt, happily fill your arms with snacks and drinks.

Simon still keeps his.

—

“Love, seriously?” Simon walked into your and his shared bedroom, holding a plastic bag of food you asked him to buy. The small confused smile on his face when he sees you sitting in the middle of the bed, watching your favorite show.

“What? You know I get snacky sometimes” You shrug, wearing one of his favorite band shirts that he loves to see you in, as you watch him walk up to the bed and set the bag in front of you. Sitting at your side with his hand on your stomach, pecking your cheek.

“Chocolate and strawberries are fine. But watermelon and salt? You don’t think that’s a little odd?” Your husband chuckled, sitting behind you in a way that your sitting between his legs and you can rest your back on his chest. Rolling your eyes, rummaging through the bag.

“I’m carrying the baby here. Don’t question the baby’s needs” You try to shush his sass by loosely laying your hand over his mouth. He chuckles full of adoration, holding your hand as he watches you snack away. Wrapping his strong arms around you, mainly your bump, likes to think that he’s protecting both you and the baby when he does this.

—

There were many nights that he woke up, sleepily searching for your figure in the bed with his arm. But when he can’t feel for you he sits up and opens his eyes to find your spot of the bed empty. And the door open with the hallway and kitchen lights on.

“Hun? What are you doing up?” He grumbles, rubbing his face to try and wake himself up, leaning against the door frame. His heart drops when he sees you turn around with a knife. He strides over and swiftly but gently removes the knife from your hand.

“I got hungry and I didn’t wanna wake you” By the sound of your voice he can tell that you’ve been up for a while and is wide awake.

Yes, you are often clumsy, but not that clumsy. Ever since the bump started to become more pronounced he was more protective of you from counter tops, shark objects, or anything blunt.

“Love, I don’t mind helping you with anything, especially now. You won’t bother me by asking” He explained in a tone that was slightly scolding but still very loving and soft, feeling so lucky that he was like this to you, it was so different than how he is with others or at work.

Simon later finds out that you just needed to cut your sandwich in triangles. For some reason it just taste better for you.

—

He never once complained or thought negatively about how much you eat. Simon is absolutely in love with the thought of getting to hold a chubby baby on his inked arm. How chubby the little arms and fingers are. Being able to squish the chub of the cheeks and the roundness of the tummy.

Loves to think that every time you eat and indulge in your weird snacks, that the baby will grow more stronger and healthier. And if your happy, the baby is happy.

Simon even remembers which of your unusual food combos and snacks is your favorite to pack in your hospital bag.

[graciegoeskrazy]

she's begging you to stay stay

Matty Healy + preteen!lost!daughter!OFC!r

warnings (buckle up): angst, little fluff, language, absent father, dead mom, cancer, children's home, R IS TWELVE, foster care, insomnia, a lot of these things are mentioned but aren't in graphic detail at all. R HAS A NAME IM TRYING SOEMTHING

a/n: I got this request and was lowk kinds unsure but I just started and couldn't stop typing. im nil a lot of that I post is super short but this like literally like 7 thousand words which Ig is pretty standard but whatevs for me its crazy. I might actually hate this I genuinely haven't decided yet. anon depending on what you think im ether sorry or you're welcome lol <3

You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the peeling wallpaper, a million thoughts racing through your mind. You feel a mix of grief and numbness, a strange emptiness you can’t quite shake. The scent of mold and old candles is an odd comfort to the starkness and uncomfort of the room around you. You hear the faint sound of Nora’s voice drifting through the thin walls. You don’t move, just keep staring at your hands in your lap, the same position you’ve held for 3 days now, pretending not to hear the voice on the other side of the wall.

“Is this Matthew Healy?” she says, her voice steady.

“Depends. Who’s this?” The voice on the other end is wary, guarded.

“This is Nora from Wess Hill Children’s Home in London. How are you today?”

She could hear shuffling on the other side. “Fine. What’s this about?”

Nora takes a deep breath, glancing at your continuing. “Mr. Healy, on Tuesday we got a call asking for an emergency placement for a girl. Her mother passed away. She’s 12 years old, name is Matilda Moss - does that ring a bell?”

If you were right next to Nora you would have felt the unamusement in his voice. “‘Fraid not, ma’am.”

Nora’s expression tightens slightly. “Interesting. What I find really interesting is that on her birth certificate, it lists you, Mr. Healy, as her biological father.”

There’s a long pause. “I’m sorry, what?”

Nora sighs, her eyes softening as she looks back at your door again. “I’m sorry you have to find out this way, truly. But I have a home that only fits 24 and a long waitlist of children, so I need to know if I need to send this child into foster care or tell her that her father will be coming to see her.”

“W-Wait a minute. How are we even sure it’s my child? There could be thousands of other white blokes in London with the same name. How can I even believe you? How do I know you’re not a scammer or some idiot trying a prank?”

Nora’s voice remains calm, but there’s still an edge. “Does the name Florence Moss mean anything to you, sir? Ring any bells?”

The line went silent.

“I need to know what it’s gonna be, sir. I’m not trying to inconvenience you either way; I just need an answer.”

You hear a long sigh on the other end. “I-I don’t…I don’t know—”

“She was sick, Matthew. Cancer.”

There’s a heavy silence. Then, Nora speaks again, her voice gentle but firm. “Her will clearly states that in the unforeseen circumstance of death, She wanted her daughter to be placed with her father, you.”

Another pause. “What’s her name again?”

“Matilda George Moss-Healy.”

“And she’s 12?”

“12 and 2 months.”

A soft exclamation, almost a whisper. “Wow. I’ll be there at 3.”

It didn’t matter what Nora could do or say or give you to make you feel better, There was nothing that could be done in order to make the past 3 days not feel like a living hell. There was nothing you, yourself, could physically do to make the permanent ache in your heart disappear. The only thing, you thought, that could make this all go away, that could make this nightmare end, was your mother. But she was gone, and there was nothing that could be done. Your heart pounds in your chest as you realize that in just a few hours, you’ll meet the man you’ve wondered about your entire life.

—-------

If there was one thought that was evidently clear in Matty’s mind, it was that he needed to call George.

His hands trembled slightly as he fumbled for his phone, the sleek device feeling unusually heavy in his grasp. He pressed it to his ear, each ring seeming slower and slower as it rung. He paced the small, cluttered room, his mind racing with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

Finally, George’s voice crackled through the line, casual and unbothered. “Sup, dipshit.”

“I just got the strangest call,” Matty said, his voice strong, skipping over the usual pleasantries.

“‘Kay?” George’s tone was wary.

“From a woman working in a children’s home?” Matty continued, his mind still reeling from the conversation.

“What charity they want you to perform now?” George asked, his voice light but curious.

“No, it’s not that.” Matty paused, taking a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s about Flo? Florence Moss?” Matty’s voice wavered slightly, the name stirring up a flood of memories.

There was a noticeable pause, the air thick with anticipation. “Woah! That’s a name I never thought I’d hear again!” George finally replied, his tone shifting to something lighter, a huge comparison to Matty’s frantic state.

“So that’s a yes?” Matty pressed.

“You kidding? I LOVED Flo. She was like a sister to me! Shame though, innit?” He said, refurrging to the breakup Matty and Florence went through. “Anyways, what about her?” His voice softened.

“She died, George. Couple days ago. Cancer.” Matty’s words were blunt, but they carried a heavy weight.

Another long pause followed, the silence almost deafening. “You doin’ a bit? ‘Cause it’s not funny, mate-”

“It’s not a bit. And she had a child.” Matty’s voice broke slightly, the reality of the situation hitting him.

“What?” George’s shock was palpable, even through the phone.

“Who has my name on the birth certificate?” Matty continued, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach.

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“Not shittin’ you.”

George was in pure disbelief. “How can you be sure?”

Matty ran a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. “Um, ‘cause Flo and I were together for like two fucking years and we broke up like 12 years ago and the girl’s age is 12?”

“It’s a GIRL? Oh mate, you’re fucked.” His bluntness would usually make him light, but this time it made him nearly question his entire life.

“Not the sentiment I need right now.” Matty snapped, his patience wearing thin.

“What are you gonna do?” George’s voice was calmer now, but still tinged with concern.

“I-I feel like I have to go get her? Right? Otherwise, she’s off to foster care? I mean, she’s my child. Right? I don’t know. Maybe not.” Matty’s words tumbled out in a rush, his uncertainty evident.

George sighed, a long, weary sound. “I think you’re fucked either way.”

“Oh, thanks sooooo much, Uncle George,”

“No. I mean, if you bring this girl with you, raise her, be a dad, do whatever the fuck, your life is gonna change, right? If you call that woman back, tell her to send her into foster care, although that woman might legally have to tell you ‘Okay. Thank you,’ we both know you would never forget her and maybe even end up regretting that choice.”

Matty stood in silence. He knew his friend was right. No matter what he chose, his life was about to be irrevocably changed. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders, pressing down with a relentless force.

—-------

“Hi, um, I’m looking for Nora?” His voice echoed slightly in the wide, institutional hallway.

“Ah, you must be Matthew. Nice to meet you.” Nora’s voice, though warm, had an undertone of weariness, like someone who had spent years navigating the complicated emotions of others. She shifted uneasily. “I informed Matilda of your…arrival today…and she’s not the happiest about it.”

“Meaning?”

“She won’t come out of her room.”

“Oh. Great.” Matty ran a hand through his hair, worry clear on his face.

“Just…keep in mind she’s still mourning.” Nora’s sing-song voice couldn’t hide the gravity of the situation. She led him down a narrow hallway, the walls adorned with children’s drawings and faded motivational posters. The scent of old wood, cleaning supplies, and the faintest hint of sadness hung in the air.

“Tilly! Someone’s here to see you.” Nora’s voice called out cheerfully, a futile attempt to coax you out.

“Matilda! Come on out, darling, it's alright.” She paused, listening for any sound of movement. “You know I have the key right here; I can just open it if I wanted to.” Nora said, voice comedic for the times. “Tilly, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

After a silent few seconds, she took her ring of keys and picked one to unlock your door.

Inside your room, you sat curled up on the bed, hugging your knees to your chest. The peeling wallpaper, once probably a cheerful pattern, now seemed to close in around you, a suffocating reminder of the world outside your door. The scent of mildew and the faint smell of your mother’s perfume clung to your clothes, creating a strange, bittersweet comfort. Nora’s voice penetrated the cocoon of silence you’d wrapped yourself in.

“Tilly, this is Matthew.” Nora’s voice softened, a hint of sympathy in her words. “He’s here to take you home, my love.”

You visibly winced at the word ‘home.’ Home was a concept that had shattered the day your mother died.

Nora took a step towards your bed, slowly rubbing your back in order to coax you to come out. “Why don’t you sit up, my love?” Nora said gently. You didn’t move.

She sighed. “C’mon, Tills.”

With a heavy sigh, you slowly uncurled yourself and sat up.

Matty felt out of place, a stranger in a place that was the closest thing you had to refuge.

“I’ll just leave you two alone for a moment. I’ll be right outside.” Nora closed the door softly, leaving you and Matty in an awkward silence.

He took a tentative step closer, his eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and uncertainty. The room seemed to shrink around him as he struggled to find the right words. “I know you’ve gone through a lot in the past 48 hours,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his own emotions was evident, and he hesitated, unsure of how to bridge the gap between you.

You looked up at him, your eyes red from crying. The raw pain and vulnerability in your gaze made his heart ache. “You don’t have to take me with you out of…guilt,” you said, your voice trembling. “You don’t have to be here now just because you didn’t want to be here before.” The accusation hung in the air, a heavy reminder of his absence in your life.

He winced, the truth of your words cutting deep. “It’s not guilt, Matilda,” he replied, taking another step closer. “I genuinely didn’t know. If I had, things would have been different. I would have been there for you and your mother.” His voice broke slightly, the regret palpable. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m here now because I want to be. Because you deserve better than what you’ve been given.”

You studied his face, searching for any sign of dishonesty. His eyes were earnest, the sorrow in them mirroring your own grief. “Why didn’t she tell you?” you asked, the question that had been gnawing at you since you learned the truth.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the unknown. “Maybe she thought it was for the best. Maybe she was scared. I wish I had the answers, but all I can do now is be here for you.”

The silence stretched between you, filled with unspoken questions and the ghosts of what might have been. “I’ve spent my whole life wondering about you,” you finally said, your voice barely audible. “And now you’re here, and I don’t know what to think.”

He nodded, understanding the turmoil within you. “I can’t change the past, Matilda. But I can promise you this: I will do everything in my power to make sure you’re safe and cared for. I’ve got a house, with a nice room, food, and I think staying there would be better than the rotting twin mattress you’re sitting on in the smallest room I have ever seen that’s probably infested with black mold.”

“Everywhere in London has black mold,” you muttered, a hint of defiance in your voice.

“Mine might have less?” He offered a tentative smile. “Come home, Matilda.”

“I don’t have a home. Not anymore.” Your voice was barely a whisper, the pain of loss weighing heavily on your words.

“I’m not saying this has to be forever. If you want to leave and go live with someone else, then that’s fine by me, but if you don’t come with me tonight, they’re gonna put you in foster care with a family who more than likely won’t give a shit about you.” He paused, gauging your reaction. “She didn’t tell you that, did she?”

You shook your head, the reality of the situation sinking in. “I don’t want you to go somewhere without knowing that you’ll be safe.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He looked surprised, almost disbelieving.

You paused once more, “...Okay.”

—-------

Matty let you be for a moment as he told Nora about the news. She was overjoyed and surprised as well. They let you know that Matty would be taking you home. As they talked, your mind wandered, a turbulent mix of emotions swirling within you. You glanced around the room, noticing every detail—the worn carpet, the sagging ceiling, the chipped paint on the window sill. Everything felt surreal, as if you were trapped in a dream you couldn't wake up from.

You tried to grab his attention, your thoughts racing. You almost called out saying ‘Dad’ but stopped yourself just in time, the word feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue. The idea of calling him that seemed too intimate, too close for someone who had been a stranger just hours ago. Your mother had always been careful with her words when you asked about your father. She painted vague pictures of him, always avoiding specifics. Now that he was here, standing just a few feet away, the reality of his presence was overwhelming.

Would ‘Matty’ be awkward? He was indeed your father, but calling him that didn’t feel right either. You had no shared history, no foundation of familiarity. The name felt too casual, too friendly for someone who had suddenly appeared in your life amid the chaos and grief. You felt a pang of frustration, unsure of how to bridge the gap between you.

As you struggled with your thoughts, you offered a simple “Hey,” to get his attention instead. Your voice was soft, almost tentative, as if testing the waters of this new, uncertain relationship. He turned to you, his expression a mixture of relief and anxiety, mirroring the storm of emotions within you.

He responded with a gentle smile, his eyes searching yours for a connection. "Hey," he replied, his voice warm but cautious. In that moment, you both stood on the precipice of an unknown future, bound together by circumstance and the fragile hope that perhaps, in time, you could find your way to each other.

“I’m all ready to go, I think.”

“Awesome. I’ll get your things in the car.” He moved to gather your suitcases, his movements quick and efficient.

Nora hugged you tightly, her smile warm and genuine. “I’m happy for you, Matilda. You’ve been through a lot these past few days, and you’re doing so good.”

“Thank you for your help, Nora.” Your voice was soft, but there was a hint of gratitude in your words.

Her smile deepened as she led you from the desk to the front door. “I hope you know it comes from a good place when I say, I hope I never see you again.” The words made you laugh for the first time in three days, just a little, but it was a victory Nora cherished.

Matty muttered a few words when joining you in the car after bidding farewell to Nora. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at him.

“You allergic to dogs? I’ve got one. His name is Mayhem. Weird name for a dog, I know, but it suits him—not that he’ll be a problem or anything. He’s a good boy.” He tried to fill the silence, his voice almost nervous.

“Do you usually not talk this much?” You shrugged, your eyes fixed on the passing scenery.

“Only when my mom dies.” Your words were blunt, a stark reminder of the grief still fresh in your heart.

Oh, so she definitely has my humor. Matty thought to himself, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. The drive was filled with awkward silences and hesitant attempts at conversation, but beneath it all was a shared sense of loss and a fragile hope for something better.

—-------

The moonlight filters through the window, casting a soft glow over the cluttered room. You continue to scroll on your phone as you pull the worn, thin blanket back over your shoulders. A yawn crosses your features. It wasn't your plan to be up at 3 a.m., but insomnia has become a close friend since your mother passed away. It's been three weeks and four days since you moved in with Matty. He made it very clear from the beginning: if you didn’t want to live with him, that was fine. He was in full support of whatever you wanted, as long as you were safe. He was ready and willing to have the conversation with you as soon as possible. Having your mother die of cancer, meeting your father for the first time, burying your mother, adjusting to a new life you had no clue you would be living just a month ago, and so on and so forth took its toll. You started to worry that the waiting game of seeing how long this quiet could last was starting to run out.

The footsteps walking down the steps and into the kitchen pulled you out of your drowset state. It was matty, dress in blue lounge pants and shit, complete with a random flannel that you would bet he just picked up off the floor and threw on before he come downstairs,

"Good morning," he says with a yawn, his voice low but still awake, a stark comparison to your drowsiness.

"It's 3 a.m.," you reply, your voice tinged with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.

"Yeah, it's the morning," he says, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. He holds out a steaming mug, the rich aroma of coffee wafting towards you. "Want some?"

"Sure," you say, accepting the mug and wrapping your hands around it, savoring the warmth that seeps into your skin.

You take a sip, the bitter taste jolting you awake. You look anywhere except his direction."You a musician?" you ask, breaking the silence.

"Yeah," he nods, taking a seat across from you. "You?"

"No," you reply, shaking your head. You watch him, trying to piece together the fragments of your mother’s stories with the reality in front of you.

“Do you know why my mom used to tell me I was named after my father and an ‘old friend.’"

"‘Old friend’?" he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, my middle name. Matilda came from ‘Matty’,you knew that, but where did my middle name come from?” you continue, feeling a strange sense of vulnerability.

"What's that again?" he asks, leaning forward slightly, his eyes narrowing in curiosity. Also trying to not secretly swell with love as he was reminded of your similarities.

"George. Matilda George."

"George. Your middle name is George?" He looks at you with an expression you can't quite read.

"Jeez, I know it’s a guy's name but you don’t have to be a dick about it—" you snap, feeling defensive.

"No! No! It’s not that I just…" he trails off, shaking his head. He grabs his phone out of his pocket and walks towards you. "This is George." He shows you a photo, and judging by the state of Matty’s facial hair, it’s a semi recent one. The pair are on what looks like a stage, together. Drum sticks in George’s hand, and a Guitar in your father’s.

"You know him?" you ask, your confusion deepening.

He smirked. "We’ve been best friends since we were 13. Him and your mother were friends since practically birth. He introduced us to each other." He pauses, seeing the confusion etched on your face. "She never mentioned him?"

"She never mentioned you, so," you retort, the bitterness in your voice surprising even you.

You stare into your coffee, the steam rising and swirling in the dim light. You decide to speak up, trying to change the mood hanging in the air. "She also said my father traveled the world a lot, loved his friends, and loved me, but couldn’t take care of me," you say softly, repeating the words your mother had told you countless times. "You travel a lot?"

"Something like that," he replies, his eyes distant as if he's seeing a different time and place.

—-------

Matty didn’t like leaving you for too long, so he kept to working from home as much as possible.​​ Today, he said he needed to help George with something and then he would be back with dinner from your favorite restaurant. He’s done this a few times before and each time, again and again, the urge to play the stunning grand piano situated in the corner of his office grew more. 

You kept away from it. There were even spots or rooms in the house that you kept away from. Even though you and Matty were so much more comfortable, it still felt like there were boundaries, unspoken lines you weren’t sure you could cross. His office was one of those places, a domain you didn’t feel entirely comfortable invading. The grand piano, with its polished ebony surface and ivory keys, seemed like an artifact from another world, a world that you weren’t quite a part of yet.

Today, though, was different. The house was unusually quiet, the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway amplifying the stillness. You wandered through the rooms, your footsteps echoing softly on the hardwood floors. You paused by the door to Matty’s office, your hand resting on the doorknob. You glanced around, as if expecting someone to stop you, but the house remained silent.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. The office was bathed in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun, casting long shadows across the room. The grand piano sat in the corner, almost beckoning you. You walked over to it, your fingers grazing the smooth surface. You hesitated for a moment, then gently lifted the lid.

Taking a deep breath, you sat down on the bench. The familiar scent of polished wood filled your senses, bringing back memories of when you used to play. Your fingers hovered above the keys, and then, almost instinctively, they began to move. The first notes were tentative, but as you continued, they grew more confident, filling the room with music.

You closed your eyes, letting the music take over. The melody was a blend of old memories and new emotions, a testament to the changes in your life. The piano seemed to respond to your touch, the sound resonating deep within you. You lost track of time, immersed in the music, the outside world fading away.

You didn’t notice the front door opening or the soft footsteps approaching the office. Matty stood in the doorway, watching you with a mixture of surprise and admiration. He had come home earlier than expected, and the sight of you playing the piano was both unexpected and heartwarming. He leaned against the doorframe, not wanting to interrupt this rare moment.

Once the last notes sounded, he spoke, startling you as you took your hands off the keys. “Sounds beautiful,” he said softly.

You jumped slightly, your fingers slipping off the keys. You turned to see him standing there, a gentle smile on his face.

“When did you get home?” you asked, a bit flustered.

“Just now,” he replied casually, stepping into the room.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, feeling a mix of embarrassment and curiosity.

“Long enough to realize you lied to me,” he said, his smile turning into a teasing grin.

“What?” you asked, confused.

“You’re a musician! You play piano.”

You paused, thinking, then continued. “Well, you lied to me too.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How?”

“You never mentioned you were in a band. A really famous one!”

His expression changed. “I didn’t lie to you, I just didn’t tell you.”

“Why?”

He took a deep breath, his expression softening. “Well, what do you say when you're meeting your 12-year-old daughter for the first time? I don’t know, but I do know it’s definitely not ‘Nice to meet you, I’m famous,’ I’ll tell you that.” You couldn’t help but smile at his honesty. “How’d you find out?” He asked.

You adjusted your posture and spoke. “I finally told my friends, and we did an internet deep dive in English class.”

He chuckled. “And I wonder why that’s the only class with a B.” He said, leaving the room as he did so.

You followed behind him, the both of you now making your way to the kitchen. “Is that why she said you traveled a lot? Because you were on those tours?” you asked, the pieces starting to fit together.

“I can only guess,” he replied, shrugging. You sat on one of the bar stools, across from where he was unpacking the groceries and starting to prepare dinner.

“Have you ever met Beyoncé?” you asked, your eyes wide with excitement.

“Only in passing,” he said nonchalantly, keeping his focus down.

You sat up in shock. “Really?!” You asked, mouth agape.

“I mean, yeah. It’s hard not to go to the Grammys and not walk past her and Jay-Z’s table.”

“You’ve been to the Grammys?” you asked, amazed.

“Yeah, we were nominated.”

You honestly couldn;t believe it. While spending that time on the internet earlier, a lot of the pieces were starting to come together. It’s just that you didn’t expect your own father - I guess I should start calling him that now - to be this huge ‘star’. “Shut up! Did you win?”

He laughed and looked you in the eyes. “Do you see a shiny gold trophy in our home? Should’ve though.” You shook your head in amazement. “How long have you been playing?” he asked, after a moment.

You became a bit quiet again, not impressed by the fact the conversation was heading this direction. “I don’t know,”

“What was it that Miss Julia said? About being open and honest with each other or something like that-”

“Ten years,” you interrupted, shooting him an unimmpressed look. He just smiled.

“Wow. How the hell did your mother get a two-year-old to stand still?” He asked.

“Well, I was an angel,” you said, a mischievous grin on his face.

“Really? What happened then?”

You rolled your eyes and let out a slightly dramatic sigh. “Those dad jokes kicked in real fast, didn’t they?”

The room seemed to grow warmer as the two of you shared this moment. The room grew quieter, but it felt different than before. It felt, comfortable. The kind of comfortable silence you only felt with your mother. Even if it wasn’t exact - even knowing you might not ever feel that exact comfortable silence ever again - this one felt nice. It felt…right.

“You know, you’re really good,” He said.

Your eyes followed back to him after his voice took you out of your own thoughts.

“Thanks,” you replied, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks after deciding to not turn the compliment into something cheeky.

“I mean it,” he continued. “You have a natural talent.”

You just hummed. And he was glad to see you smile a true smile for the first time.

The lines that once seemed so rigid began to blur. The house, with its many rooms and hidden corners, started to feel less like a maze and more like a place where you could both find and create new memories together. Life started to feel hopeful. And even if it was for just that moment, it would be nice while it lasted.

—-------

Matty paced back and forth in his living room, phone clutched tightly in his hand. The sun had barely risen, casting long shadows across the room, but the day had already brought an unsettling sense of dread.

“She’s gone,” Matty said into the phone, his voice trembling with panic.

George’s voice crackled on the other end. “Who’s gone?”

“Matilda.”

“What do you mean she’s gone?”

“She’s left,” Matty said, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I got an alert from her school that she didn’t show up today. I looked in her room, her duffle bag was gone and some clothes were off their hangers in her closet. I think she ran away.”

“What? Okay, don’t panic. Are you sure?” George’s tone was urgent but tried to stay calm.

“Yes!” Matty’s voice rose, frustration and fear mingling. “I don’t know where she could’ve gone!”

“Okay- it’s okay. Calm down. We’ll find her.” His voice was firm, trying to ground Matty’s spiraling thoughts.

Your father heard Adam’s voice from the back. “How are we supposed to know what we’re looking for? We’ve never met the kid.”

“It’s my face, with my hair but longer, on the face of a pre-teen girl,” he said, his voice breaking slightly as he tried to scramble to find his keys. Just then, his phone rang. “I’m getting another call, hold on.”

He hung up George’s line and answered, hopeful it was an answer to getting you back on the other end.

“Hi, I’m calling from the London Police Department. I’m calling for a Matthew Healy?” a calm voice said.

“Yes, this is he.”

“Hello, sir. We’ve got a report for a runaway juvenile by the name of Matilda Moss-Healy,” the officer said, his tone professional and steady.

Matty’s stomach dropped, a cold fear gripping him. “Yes, that’s my daughter. Is she okay?”

The officer’s voice remained calm. “She’s safe. A concerned citizen noticed her alone. She’s here at the station.”

Relief flooded through Matty, making his knees weak. He let out a shaky breath. “Thank you, thank you so much. I’ll be right there.”

He hung up, immediately calling George back. “She’s at the police station. She’s safe.”

“Thank God,” George muttered. Not that Matty could see it but his face showing visible relief.

“Let’s go get her,” Ross said, already heading for the door, determination in his stride.

Adam leaned into the phone for Matty to hear him. “We’re with you, mate. We’ll come pick you up and then we can head there.”

—-------

There was a group of officers in uniform huddled near the front desk. Matty ran straight for them, his friends not far behind. His heart pounded in his chest, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Hi, I'm looking for my daughter, Matilda. I got a call saying she was here,” he said, the urgency in his tone barely masking the anxiety coursing through him.

One of the sergeants, a tall man with a stern but kind face, nodded and spoke. “Right this way.” His voice was steady, a professional calm that contrasted sharply with the turmoil inside Matty.

As they walked, the sergeant began to explain. “A biker a few miles away noticed a young girl using an ATM and riding the metro alone. Thought it was suspicious for a 12-year-old.” The sergeant's words were clear, but they blurred together in Matty’s mind, his focus elsewhere. He kept nodding, mumbling a simple ‘mhm’ at intervals. His mind raced with thoughts of you—how you must be feeling, what you must be thinking. All he could do was silently hope you were okay. However, he wouldn’t hesitate to punish anyone who would even try to lay a finger on you.

He unconsciously quickened his pace, causing the officer to lengthen his strides to keep up. The hallway seemed endless, the sterile scent of the station mingling with the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. Finally, the sergeant’s voice broke through his thoughts. “She’s right in there. Take all the time you need, or no time at all.”

Matty nodded, his throat tight, and the sergeant walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts for a moment. Ross, Adam, and George appeared from behind, having finally caught up with their friend. They all stood before a large glass screen, its dark tint revealing it to be a one-way mirror. You couldn’t see them, but they could see you.

“That’s your face alright,” Adam said softly, causing Matty’s lips to twitch into a short, bittersweet smile. His eyes never left the glass, never left you.

He turned around to face his friends, his expression a mix of determination and vulnerability. “Just give us a minute, yeah?” The three nodded in understanding, sharing a look of solidarity and concern, and walked back to the front reception desk.

Matty took a deep breath, steeling himself before he entered the room. His heart ached with a mixture of hope and fear. He pushed the door open slowly, his eyes landing on you immediately. You sat there, looking small and lost in the large, sterile room, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

You didn’t notice the metal door creak open. Too lost in your own anxious state of mind. “Matilda,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. As your eyes met his, he felt a wave of emotion crash over him, almost overwhelming in its intensity.

You bolted toward him, your shaky legs propelling you forward as fast as they could. The moment you collided with him, it rocked him back on impact. You clung to him, your small frame trembling as you buried your face in his chest, sobs wracking your body. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your dirt-streaked hair.

He took in your state, his heart breaking at the sight. Your hair was matted slightly with grime, and you smelled of cigarettes and the harsh streets of London. But despite your disheveled appearance, you were safe. Not a scratch or mark on you. Relief washed over him, mingling with the overwhelming urge to protect you from ever feeling this kind of fear again.

“Tilly-” he began, his voice choking with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” you interrupted, your voice muffled against his chest.

“It’s okay-” he started to say, but you cut him off again.

“I’m so, so sorry.” Your sobs intensified, your words tumbling out in a desperate rush.

“Tilly, it’s okay, just calm down-” His voice was soothing, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions swirling inside him.

“I was just so scared.” Your voice was small, filled with a vulnerability that shattered his heart.

“It’s okay, baby. Breathe,” he murmured, his hand gently rubbing your back in a comforting rhythm.

“I won’t do it again! I swear! I just—”

“Matilda. Look at me.” His voice was firm yet gentle, his hands cupping your face as he tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

You nodded, tears still streaming down your face but your breathing began to steady under his calming influence.

“Let’s go home, yeah? We’ll talk about it later, just let me take you home.” His voice was soft, filled with a promise of safety and comfort.

You nodded again, a small, broken “okay” escaping your lips. He hugged you tightly once more, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

He guided you to the front where the boys were waiting anxiously. Your head remained bowed, avoiding their concerned gazes. He gently sat you on the opposite end of the row of chairs, his touch soft and reassuring. “I’m gonna talk to my friends real quick, alright? They came with me, they wanted to help find you.” Your gaze drifted to the three men on the other side of the room. More specifically, to George, remembering the things Matty had told you about him and your mom and remembering his photo. “I also need to thank the policeman before we leave. I need you to stay here for a minute, can you do that for me?” You nodded silently. He gave you a short smile, and kissed your cheek before standing to find his friends.

As you sat there, lost in your thoughts, he turned to his friends. You were well prepared to space out again, but not before your eyes drifted to George one more time. His eyes met yours and gave them a smile. You smiled back.

“Thanks for coming, guys,” Matty said, his voice low but filled with gratitude. “I’ll get us home, we can catch the tube or grab an Uber or something.”

Ross, ever the practical one, nodded. “No problem, mate. We’re here for you. Just glad she’s okay.”

Adam’s eyes were filled with empathy as he glanced at you, then back to Matty. “Yeah, anything you need. Don’t hesitate to call.”

George, however, wasn’t ready to leave so easily. “Matty, let us at least make sure you guys get home safe. You shouldn’t have to handle this alone.”

Matty shook his head, though he appreciated the sentiment. “I know, George, but It’s fine. I swear.”

George sighed, his concern evident. “Alright, but if you need anything, call us. Anytime.”

Matty nodded. “I will.”

With that, the three men exchanged solemn glances, their concern for Matty and you clear in their eyes. They began to walk out of the police station, their footsteps echoing softly in the quiet space.

As they left, Matty turned back to you, his heart aching at the sight of your small frame hunched over, your head still hung low, anxious of what was to happen next. He walked over and sat down beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Let’s get you home, okay?”

[tropes-and-tales]

A Bit of Color (Redux)

Day 7: Virginity (Ray Merrimen x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Light angst (implied attempted SA, but nothing graphic); loss of virginity; smut (Fingering, PiV, protected); 18+ only.

Word Count:  4448

AN:  This is a sequel to this, and it was requested for Kinktober by @chemicalalice)

After the debacle of the Christmas gifts, and after Ray apologizes, he tries to do better.  After learning about your similar childhoods—growing up in difficult military families—he finally feels a kinship to you.  It’s a commonality he never had before.  You with all your color and light, you baked goods for the crew, your care for them.  Ray’s never known anyone so much his opposite, yet that common facet of childhood give him an in to understand you.

He tries to do better by you.  He tries to not be such a dick all the time, tries to remember his home training and thank you when you do something nice for them.  He tries to tell you when you do a good job; he tries to offer one of his small smiles when you make a joke.

He doesn’t tell you:  when LA has an unseasonable cold snap, he uses the quilt you made him for Christmas.  He doesn’t tell you that when his insomnia plagues him that night, he runs his fingers over the small, neat stitches of your handiwork, over the small blocks of soft cotton you cut and sewed together. 

He doesn’t tell you that months after you gifted it to him, months after he hurt your feelings and then clumsily apologized…months after all of that, he finally realizes how much time and energy you put into this quilt.  For him.

It doesn’t make him cry or anything like that.  Ray has no outsized flood of emotion at the realization.  It simply knocks something loose in his chest, scores a microscopic crack in the flinty wall around his heart.

-----

Your secret reveals itself after a heist.  You hacked the security system of a club, the guys robbed it, and now there’s a celebration out at Bosco’s house.  It’s low-key, just a laid-back thing.  There’s plenty of beer in the backyard strung up with lights against the Los Angeles dusk, music playing on the speakers. 

Everyone is loose, relaxed.  The guys start to reminisce about their glory days in high school, and by the time there are through their first case of beer, they shift to reminiscing about their high school conquests, their first times.

Ray sits back and listens; he barely participates beyond the occasional grunt of acknowledgement or chuckle when someone makes a joke.  He thinks back to high school, his football days.  Holly had been a cheerleader, and they’d been each other’s first—and Ray slips back into those memories.  The chatter and laughter around him fades, and he thinks back to how young he’d been then, how his future seemed to stretch out in front of him—

He's yanked out of his memories by Lavoux’s bark of laughter, then Bosco and Mack joining him. 

But not you.  Whatever joke Ray has missed, you’re not in on it.  Which makes sense—you didn’t go to high school with them, so you’ve been quiet for most of the night.  But when Ray sits up and looks at you closer, you’re slouched in your seat.  You look…discomfited.

It takes a long moment for Ray to catch up, but he does.  Amongst the memories of the guys’ respective first times, they asked you for yours—and when you told them you don’t have a “first time” story yet, the guys reacted with incredulity.

Ray just watches at first, his eyes bouncing between the guys and then you, their questions, and your squirming discomfort as you give sheepish answers.  The guys don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Ray guesses, but you clearly are.

“Are you religious or something?”

“No.”

“You waiting for marriage?”

“No.”

“Are you one of those…what are they called?  Asexuals?”

You shake your head at that, and it makes you stammer out an explanation:  that you want to, you’ve wanted to for a long time, but it’s complicated now that you’re older, that guys aren’t kind about it—

“Do you have any experience at all?”  It’s Mack who asks the question, and you drop your gaze into your lap.  You give a halting explanation about some moment in college at a party when a lacrosse player tried to…well, you hedge around it, you don’t say the word of what that guy tried to do to you, but you’re clear that he failed, that he’d been unable to get it up enough to do that to you, but that the moment made you fearful, and now you’re stuck, and it seems like only Ray can hear the edge of tears in your voice, the wobble in your words like you’re about to cry.

“Leave it,” he cuts in, but when you glance up at him in surprise, Ray is looking at Mack and Bosco and Lavoux.  “Leave her be.”

They do.  There’s a moment of awkward silence, but then Bosco shifts the conversation to the Lakers, and within a moment, everyone seems to have forgotten it.

Not you.  Ray catches you staring at him from underneath your eyelashes, and when he meets your gaze, you tip him a slight nod. 

Then you mouth a grateful, “thank you.”

Ray tips you a nod back.  He doesn’t acknowledge the feeling in his chest, the dull ache:  another knock against that flinty wall, another hairline crack in his defenses.

-----

Months pass.  If any of the guys remember that night and the revelation of your virginity, they don’t mention it to Ray.  You obviously don’t mention it either.

Ray doesn’t forget it.  It surfaces in his thoughts when he has a quiet moment, when he’s lying in bed during one of his bouts of insomnia.  His imagination pulls together that moment in college with the lacrosse player, and it makes Ray sick to think of you:  sunny, colorful you.  Young but already so steeped in tragedy with the death of your father.  The universe was cruel to put you in the path of a drunken rapist, so much larger than you.  Even if you escaped before the worst could happen, you didn’t escape unscathed, and here you are years later, wanting to be intimate with someone but too scared to do it.

You need someone you trust, Ray thinks.  Someone you feel safe with.  Someone who will keep your confidence, who won’t tease you.  Someone who will take you seriously and understand how important losing your virginity must be for you.

Sometimes, when he’s lying sleepless under your quilt, he wonders if he might be that someone.

-----

More months pass.  The crew is laying low since Mack got busted for a bullshit parole violation.  They go semi-straight, work in the garage working on cars and trucks.  They spend their evenings on their own, in a fallow season until Mack gets sprung in a few months.

You pick up work bartending, and Ray stops by a few nights a week.  He sits at the corner of the bar and usually stays silent, but when it’s quiet in the bar, you’ll come and talk to him.  Which with Ray mostly means you talk to him and he listens as he sips at his beer.

But the bar isn’t in the best neighborhood, and soon Ray finds himself there every night you’re scheduled.  He stays until closing time, and it isn’t long before he goes from walking you to your car to just driving you home outright.

It isn’t long before you go from sliding out of his truck with a thank you and a wave to inviting him in for a beer.

When he notices that you’ve started stocking your fridge with his beer of choice, he doesn’t mention it.

If you notice that he lingers longer each night he drives you home, that he nurses that beer a little longer, you don’t mention it either.

-----

Mack’s release date keeps getting pushed back.  It’s the legal system and its red tape at its finest.

You and Ray fall into a rhythm.  He drives you home after your shifts at the bar.  You give him beer, but you also feed him a late-night dinner.  It’s never anything spectacular, usually just reheated leftovers, but he likes the cozy domesticity of it.  Eating your food while he sits on your couch, you eating beside him.  Nearly close enough to touch.

A long time has passed since the last heist.  A long time since your reluctant admission to being a virgin, but Ray has never forgotten it.  He’s mulled it over like it’s a problem to solve; like the complex blend of your past trauma and societal expectations are, say, the schematics to a bank vault.

“You need someone you trust,” he blurts out one night.  You’ve been chatty all evening, telling him about some friend of a friend who got engaged.  You’re a little down on yourself—the news of the engagement has sent you into a minor tailspin.  You think you’re so far behind everyone that you’ll never catch up.

“Huh?” 

“If you want to lose your virginity,” he clarifies, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the bottle of beer in his hand.  “You need someone you trust.”

“Oh.”  He feels the tension seep off you.  He winces inwardly to have made you uncomfortable, but he plows forward.  It’s a problem he wants to help you solve, and he doesn’t examine why he wants to help you so much.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” he continues.  “You just need someone you feel safe with.”

It takes you an entire month more when you finally ask him.  You don’t meet his eyeline when you haltingly tell him that you trust him.  That you feel safe with him.

You’re so quiet, so unlike yourself when you tell him.  He can feel the fear and hesitation in you, and he can feel his own response to you trusting him enough to consider this:  the hairline cracks in his stony heart growing wider, fault-lines nearly wide enough to let you slip in entirely.

*****

You keep expecting there to be a reveal, a moment where the guys jump out and make fun of you.  You keep expecting this to have been an elaborate put-on by Ray and the guys, a cruel joke at your expense.

You’ve never been more wrong in your life.

Ray plans everything, which is pretty much Ray’s thing.  You wonder how much difference there is between planning a heist and planning the loss of your virginity, in Ray’s eyes. 

You don’t have enough experience with men to catch the way his gaze falls on you, turns soft by a degree or two.  You don’t notice that he gifts you with his rare, small smiles more than ever.  You don’t notice—how could you? —that Ray has fallen in love with you, a falling of miniscule moments, of quiet instances where you creep into his heart like groundwater finding its level. 

How could you notice that?  Even Ray hasn’t noticed it, and he has far more romantic experience than you.

He plans everything.  He sets the date.  He comes to your house, paper bag in hand, and you guess it’s condoms, but you notice that he’s put effort into himself:  he’s cleaned up his facial hair.  He’s put on a nicer shirt, and when he walks past you, you catch the scent of a recent shower—the slight spice of his body wash, the clean smell of his shampoo.

He brings a bottle of Moscato for you, but he’s clear—stern, in fact—that it’s just to take the edge off.  It’s just to smooth out the rough spikes of your fear.

“You need to stop if you feel yourself getting tipsy,” he tells you as he pours you a glass.  “You are in control tonight, so you need to be in control of yourself first.”

When your hand trembles as it grasps the wine glass, Ray’s eyes turn soft.  He reaches out and lays one of his big hands over yours, steadies you.

“Everything is fine,” he tells you, low and soft like he doesn’t want to spook you.  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, okay?”

-----

Ray has thought of everything.

The realization of how much thought and effort he put into this makes you flush from the top of your head to the tips of your toes.  Ray Merrimen, your favorite grump.  The stone-faced, unsmiling behemoth who glowers from the shadows and leads the crew like some grouchy demi-god.

Who thought he could be so gentle?  He takes his time.  He leads you carefully, but he checks in with you at each new step.  From sitting together on the couch, his palm gently laid on your bare knee as you sip at your wine.  From when he eases the glass out of your hand, then carefully tilts your face towards his.  From when he studies your expression before he leans in and presses a plush kiss to your mouth.

From when he builds up the kisses:  from closed-mouth to open, to teasing you when he sucks against your lower lip, when he slips his tongue against yours.  When he chuckles at the first low, involuntary moan you loose just from his mouth against your neck.  When his hands find your breasts and palms them softly through your shirt, when his thumbs find the pebbled nipples even through your shirt and your bra, and when he breathes in your ear how much fun he's going to have drawing your pleasure from you.

When you shiver at his words, he draws away and studies your face again.  There’s a question in his eyes, so you nod at him.

“I’m okay,” you say.  “I’m fine.”

He studies you a beat longer, then nods back.  He smooths his big hands down your arms, then reaches out and grasps your waist.

“Bedroom?” he asks.

You swallow hard, and you hope he doesn’t hear the gulp that sounds so loud in your own ears. 

“Bedroom,” you agree.

-----

You know from working with Ray that the man is meticulous.  He never rushes a job; he always takes his time.

He takes his time with you.  His patience for your insecurities feels infinite:  he strips you, he eases a thick finger into you, and he stills when you gasp, when you freeze up.  When you tell him to keep going, he doesn’t—instead he kisses you, works his hot mouth against your face, your neck, your breasts.  He kisses you until he feels you relax, and only then does he keep going.

He works his finger in you.  He adds another, kisses you through the stretch of it as he scissors his fingers to help stretch your tight channel open.  You can feel where his erection presses against your leg, and sometimes he presses himself against you hard, an involuntary reaction to whatever lust he may be feeling.  But he never rushes it, and he mumbles shy words of praise in your ear, and he takes his goddamned time.

He makes you come with his fingers first, the blunt end of his finger stroking some inner part of you, his thumb circling your clit.  You’ve masturbated plenty, but this feels like nothing you’ve been able to coax from yourself before:  his hand works you like a finely tuned instrument, but his other hand works against your breasts, pinches lightly at your nipples, rubs the pad of his thumb over the curve and swell of you until goosebumps prickle against your skin.  His mouth breathes out low-voiced orders in your ear, his breath hot against you as he commands you to come for him, to let yourself go, and you do.

It's not like anything you’ve felt before.  It’s the sudden release of tension.  It’s the hard snap of a rubber band pulled taut, then loosed.  It’s a flood of heat and light, its epicenter right where Ray’s hand skillfully works you, and it courses outward like shockwaves that make you tremble and whimper as you give yourself over to the sensation.

“That’s it,” Ray whispers in your ear, and you feel the brush of his lips a beat later against your cheekbone.  “Just like that.”

-----

Then comes the main event, and Ray slows down even more.  He checks in with you, props himself on an elbow to peer down as he interrogates you.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, and his stern face is softened by his low, quiet voice.  “Do you want to stop now?”

You lay a hand on his shoulder and study his tattoos as you answer.  “I’m sure,” you assure him.  “I don’t want to stop.”

“I’m gonna need you to look me in the eye when you answer, sweetheart.”

You take a deep breath, then you do as he tells you.  You feel shy, suddenly, exposed at the realization that Ray Merrimen—grouchy Ray, the leader of your crew—has essentially fingered you, wrung an orgasm out of you.  Shy too that you want to keep going, that you want him to be your first.

“I’m sure,” you repeat, and you look him square in the eyes when you say it.

The corner of his mouth twitches into his version of a smile.  “You’ll tell me if you want to stop, right?”

“I will.”

His small smile falls, and he hesitates before he adds, “I won’t hurt you.  I promise.”

You can’t know that he’s thinking about the man who hurt you all those years ago.  You can’t know that Ray is uncomfortable to be so much bigger than you, so much stronger.  You can’t know that Ray worries that something about this moment—him looming over you, you defenseless underneath him—will spark against your trauma and cause you anxiety.

If you knew any of this, you’d be able to reassure him:  that other guy is so far from your thoughts, he may as well not even exist.  Nothing about Ray’s care and attention conjures up the specter of that unhappy memory.  You feel safe underneath Ray.  You feel safe with him.

He takes a long moment to roll the condom onto himself, and then another long moment easing himself between your legs.  He props himself on one forearm and then presses forward, the tip of his cock brushing against your slick and swollen folds.  He pauses and looks down at you.

“I’ll stop if you tell me to,” he says, and for the first time, he sounds uncertain, even a little shy.  It strikes you all at once that maybe he’s nervous too, so you lift your hands and cup his face, draw him down to you.  You gift him a sweet kiss, then you deepen it.  You tilt his head and suckle against his lower lip as he had done to you earlier, and the groan that breaks free from him is sudden and loud.

“I trust you, Ray,” you tell him.

He drags the thick length of him along your slit, coats himself in your arousal before he pushes forward, breaches your entrance with the crown of his cock.  He never looks away from you, and his unflinching, unblinking stare feels almost unbearably intimate.  Like he can read your thoughts, like he can see into your soul.

He pushes forward, draws back.  He works himself into you, but he pauses to kiss you, to whisper in your ear how well you’re doing.  It doesn’t hurt, not really—it’s just the sense of pressure, of stretching, and you can see how it might hurt with an inconsiderate lover, but Ray takes his time to let you stretch to his invading length, so there’s no pain.  There’s only the overwhelming sense of being taken, claimed.

You realize he’s fully seated when you feel the press of his hips flush against yours, and he lowers more of himself onto you.  You feel the hot flush of skin on yours, slick with sweat, and his hot breath pants against your neck.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.  His voice sounds strained, but he lays a trail of kisses along your collarbone.  He doesn’t move otherwise—doesn’t pull out, doesn’t thrust.  He’s letting you get used to the feeling of him being inside you.  He shifts his head and gazes down at you.

“Good,” you mumble.  “I feel good.”

“Need your eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You do as he says.  There’s tension in his face, and you reach up to brush your fingertips over the lines in his brow, the two deep lines between his eyebrows.

“I’m good,” you repeat. 

“I didn’t hurt you?” he asks.

You shake your head.  “No, it’s…”  You trail off, try to focus.  You’d heard the term ‘cock-drunk’ before, had always scoffed at how stupid it sounds, but having him inside you, thick and hot and throbbing leaves little room for intelligent thought. 

Ray dips his head and kisses you deeply, licks against the inside of your mouth.  He kisses you until you’re breathless then breaks away.

“Gonna need you to use your words too,” he says, and it comes out gruff except for the smirk curving his lips.

You smile back up at him.  You lay your hand on the back of his head, run your fingertips through his close-cropped hair.  “It’s good.  It’s better than good, Ray.”

“Ready for more?”

You nod.  “Yes.”

Another long, lingering kiss and then he starts to move.  He pulls out halfway, pushes back into you, and his thrusts are smooth.  No jarring, no rough jolts as he reseats himself over and over.  The motion renews just how big he is; the tight walls of your pussy grip him, the friction of it knocks the wind out of your lungs.  You cling to his broad shoulders, and you feel the flex and tension in his muscles as he fucks you gently.  But he’s big, he’s so fucking thick, and you gasp each time his hips settle against yours.

“Still okay?” he grunts out, and you whisper that you’re fine, you’re perfect, but that he’s so big, so goddamned big like he might split you in half—

“No,” he groans.  “Fuck, don’t.”

You freeze underneath him, suddenly terrified you’ve said something wrong, but then he groans in your ear before he lifts his head and stares down at you, clarifies.

“You can’t…. shit, you can’t say that, sweetheart.”

“S-sorry—”

He shakes his head to interrupt, quirks his mouth into that half-smile he has.  “You can’t look at me with those goddamned puppy-dog eyes and say stuff like that.”

“I’m sorry, Ray—”

“I’m already on a hair-trigger,” he grits out, and you’re too inexperienced to know the warning signs of his impending orgasm, the erratic way he’s thrusting into you, like he’s trying to hold back but his body is working independently of his will.  “Fucking jacked off twice before I came here…shit, want to make it good for you…”  He groans again, drops his head beside yours.  “Fuck, you feel so good, I can’t—just don’t—”

But he’s passed the event horizon of his pleasure, it’s too late to stop himself, and you’re bewildered for a beat as he groans out a string of curses, as he deals you a couple of shallow, rapid thrusts…but then you feel the throb of his cock inside you, his body rigid above you before he sighs and sags against you.

“Shit,” he breathes out.  “Shit, shit, shit.”

*****

Ray would be ashamed, but you don’t let the feeling take root in him.  Once you realize what has happened, you soothe him.  You kiss him, you stroke your hands over his arms, his shoulders.  You tell him everything is fine, that you enjoyed yourself.

Only you.  Sweet, sunny you.  Only you could turn your disappointing first time into a loving moment for him, and after he cleans you up, he grumbles as much to you. 

“But I’m not disappointed!” you protest.  “Not at all!”

“You didn’t get to come.”

“I did,” you point out.  “And it was amazing.”

Ray rolls his eyes.  He’s trying to argue with you; he wants you to yell at him for failing you.  “You know what I mean.”

“It still counts.  And I’m not a virgin anymore, so…mission accomplished.”

He sighs, and he makes one last attempt at wallowing in his failure.  “You want me to leave?” he asks, and he doesn’t know what scares him more:  you sending him away, or you asking him to stay with you.

“No!  Not at all.”  You look at him with those big doe-eyes, like some anime baby animal, and it’s made worse that you have no idea the effect you have on him.  “Will you stay?  Please?”

And maybe getting a lousy lay under your belt gives you some courage because you hook your chin on his bare chest, cast those sad eyes on him until he’s staring back at you…then you drop a kiss on his chest.

Then you bare your teeth and nip him there, light as air, but enough for him to feel the indent of your teeth against his skin.  And then your tongue on him, laying wet line along the line of his tattoos, and the whole while you bat your eyelashes at him.  Ray’s cock twitches at the sensation.

You goddamn menace.  Has he created a monster?

He stays.  Ray gets his hands on you, manhandles you until you’re underneath him again—your squeal of surprise makes his cock twitch again—and he cages you in with his arms.  There’s a split second of worry that you’ll react badly to him being a shade rougher than he has been all evening, but there’s a gleam in your eyes, and your lips are parted as you gaze up at him.

He opens his own mouth to tell you he’ll stay, that he owes you after his embarrassing premature ejaculation, that he intends to make you come on his cock more than once, but maybe he has created a monster after all. 

You don’t let him get the words out—you arch up towards him, you surge up and kiss him hard.  It takes far less time than usual for him to recover, and when he finally slides into you the second time, he’s able to make the first time up to you—he makes you come twice before he finally joins you on your third orgasm, and when Ray comes with you, it’s not like any orgasm he’s had before:  sparks of color explode behind his eyelids, and it’s damned near percussive—enough to finally bring down the stony remains of the fortress ‘round his heart, leaving him defenseless to you.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drabble Roulette: Tommy Miller - Only One Bed

Hey hey! This weekend (July 6 -7) I’m going to be playing drabble roulette! I’ve curated a list of characters, tropes, AUs, and kinks and I’m spinning the wheel! Hopefully I can do this once a month as a little writing exercise.

Character: Tommy Miller

Warnings: this drabble includes elements such as dub/noncon. Please mind these warnings and take care.

Explicit, 18+. Please reblog and leave some feedback.

(this is the last one for this weekend)

“You have got to be kidding me,” Joel hits the steering wheel, “you said you took this thing for an oil change.” 

You look from one Miller brother to the other. You’re used to sitting between them, being the peacemaker. It isn’t in your job description but it’s fifty percent of your work. 

“Actually, what I said was I was going to take it for an oil change,” Tommy smirks. 

“You think this is goddamn funny,” Joel sneers. “What the hell are we gonna do now?” 

You sigh and look through the windshield of the stalled truck. Great. It’s bad enough to break down but it’s another to be stuck with these two. 

“Well, we’ll call a tow, you got insurance,” Tommy scoffs as he takes out his phone, “that’s your problem, Joel, you always jump to the worst...” 

His voice trails off and so does your hope. That’s not good. You look at Tommy’s phone then glance over at the other man growling over the steering wheel. 

“I always what, huh? Why don’t we talk about what you always do, Tommy?” 

“Joel, please,” you pat his arm, “it’s fine. We’ll figure this out.” 

“I don’t got oil. I used the bottle last time he did this.” 

“Relax,” you show your palms and turn to Tommy, “what’s going on?” 

“Well. Uh, could be my provider but...” he raises his phone and squints, “no bars.” 

Joel huffs and leans in his seat, fishing out his cell. He unlocks it as you follow suit. Your bars are blank and the man to your left grumbles in shared disappointment. Great. 

“You just had to book a job up in buttfuck,” Joel grits. 

“You’re not helping,” you gird gently, “come on, get out, take a breath.” 

Joel shakes his head and unbuckles his seat belt. He shoves through the door and jumps down to his feet. He slams the door and you sit in silence with Tommy. He fiddles with his useless phone. 

“Well, he’s in a mood--” 

“Tommy, please,” you say, “you better sort this out. I wanna go home tonight.” 

🛻

You don’t make it home. You’re stuck. As night sets in, you resign yourself to your fate. 

You help the men clear out the truck of the bed, covering the materials in tarp as you stack them to the side of the road. You use another plastic sheet to shield the back of the truck from the elements. You use your coats as pillows and make due of two emergency blankets not quite long enough to reach past your ankle. Well, you don’t get much of those, though you can feel the warmth of both men, laying on either side of you. 

Joel as his back to you. He rolled over almost immediately. He’s so mad he hasn’t said a word in hours. You’re no more happy than him but you can’t afford to show it. You need at least one of these men to be responsive. 

You close your eyes, uncomfortable as the tarp makes the space humid, even with the chill blowing in from the tail of the truck. The metal is rigid and offers little comfort. You’re not going to sleep. You keep your eyes closed, hoping for even just a few minutes. 

The crickets underline your insomnia. You sigh. You hate this. The more you think of it, the more agitated you become. You’re mad at both of them; Tommy for his negligence, Joel for not double checking. If it’s happened before, they should both know better. 

You flinch as Tommy moves closer. You have your arms crossed, fingers twined together as you lay on your back. He rolls onto his shoulder and shifts towards you. 

“Awake?” He asks in a whisper. 

“Have been,” you answer, keeping your eyes shut. 

“Mm, yeah,” he crowds you, “wanna know a trick.” 

“A trick?” 

“To help you sleep,” he rasps, “always gets me.” 

You furrow your nose and shrug, “sure, why not? Don’t say counting sheep, I tried that.” 

“Oh, trust me, it’s a lot more fun,” he touches your arm, following your sleeve down to the cuff. You twitch in surprise, “just, stay still.”  

He hooks a leg around yours and pulls it away from your other. His hand trails along your lower stomach and you grasp his wrist as he dips down the front of your jeans, “woah, Tommy--” 

“Hey, come on,” he whispers, “don’t wanna wake that sleeping grizzly, do you?” 

“Get off-” 

“You said you wanted help sleeping,” he accuses, keeping his hand wedged down your pants, “so lay back and relax, sweetie.” 

[brewsterispunkk]

THE TUTOR

part 2/4

pairing: eddie munson x afab!reader (period is mentioned), eddie munson x fem!reader

WC: 4.1k

summary: reader and eddie begin their little deal.

warnings: idiots. just idiots. also brief SA-- nothing explicit, just groping--NOT main pairing, recreational drug use

A/N: here is part 2! hope u love it! pls pls pls leave feedback ;) read it and weep.

Senior Year Bucket List

1) Get drunk

2) Skip Class

3) Do a drug

4) Sneak out

5) Skinny dip

6) Get a boyfriend, lose my virginity

You sighed and shook your head as soon as you’d written that last part, hands only half-shaking.

This was fine, you thought to yourself. 

It wasn’t weird, you kept telling yourself. It wasn’t. Eddie himself had asked you to come to school Monday with an itemized list of what exactly you’d felt like you’d missed out on. “A bucket list of sorts” he called it. 

You had to keep yourself from adding “feeling safe” to the list of things you’d felt you’d missed out on.

That was difficult for you sometimes. 

For the most part, you’d been able to compartmentalize what had happened to you last summer: the deaths, the torture, the “mall fire.” The rest of Hawkins knew that you’d survived it, along with Steve, Robin, and the kids. You’d gotten away with minor bruising to the face and neck after a Russian tried to choke you in an effort to get you to talk. It wasn’t ideal, but it could have been worse. Steve had been the one to take the brunt of the torture. You and Robin had screamed yourselves hoarse while they beat him in the other room. 

You sometimes still had nightmares about the sick sound of their fists hitting his face.

When you’d emerged as one of the survivors of what they were calling the “Starcourt Mall Fire,” your mother had been relieved. After your father had split when you were ten, you were all she had. Still, she hadn’t been prepared for the effects of what had happened to you. To be fair, neither were you. Neither were any of you. 

You’d always been shy, ever since you were a kid, but now instead of having a generally quiet disposition, you were skittish. The slightest noise made you jump, and you couldn’t stand to listen to Reagan talk about the U.S.S.R. on the news without having a panic attack. The nightmares had subsided after about two months, though they returned whenever you were stressed. 

You found you always looked over your shoulder, always looking out for some unknown thing that might be stalking you. When people talk about saving the world, they never talk about the ugly parts. About the broken fingernails and the insomnia and the muffling of sobs behind your hand as you break down in the girls’ bathroom. 

It’s a lonely thing, being a hero. An unfair thing. You felt like that night at Starcourt, when Hopper and Billy Hargrove hadn’t emerged from the fire, your adolescence had been stolen from you. That it had disappeared with the smoke and ash as it engulfed Scoops Ahoy and the rest of the shopping center. You hope that if Eddie actually does follow through with this little deal of yours, you’ll be able to experience at least a little of it. 

- - - -

“So,” Eddie drummed his hands on the top of your desk as he slid into the seat in front of you. “What do you have for me, miss tutor girl?”

He was awfully chipper for 7:00 in the morning. You blinked at him and skated your gaze across the room. 

It was close enough to first period for the room to be reasonably filled with students, most too sluggish to notice. But a few girls towards the front looked over their shoulders at him, eyes narrowed, before zooming in on you, where they widened curiously. 

“What, scared for your reputation?” Eddie was only half-joking, his eyes a little guarded. They narrowed at you. 

You shook your head almost comically. 

“No,” you burst. “No, not at all. Just had a weird night.”

“Hm,” he looked at you skeptically. You rolled your eyes.

“We’ve already talked about this, Eddie. I don’t have a reputation for you to ruin.”

He snorted at that.

“Alright then,” he leaned forward, his chin on his fists. “What’s got you so skittish, then? Another crazy party like Friday?”

“No,” you sighed, leaning down to retrieve your list from your backpack. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

 “Okay.” He looked like he didn’t believe you. You didn’t blame him; you couldn’t have been that convincing. You couldn’t bring yourself to care.  

“Did you bring it?” He asked. 

You nodded, slamming the sheet of notebook paper onto the desk and slid it over to him. 

“Here you go,” you pulled at your sleeve nervously. “Just don’t laugh, okay?”

Eddie looked at you and feigned shock. 

“Me? Laugh at you? I’m offended.”

“Eddie, I’m serious,” you felt your cheeks flush and your stomach plummet. “I’m just–It’s embarrassing. I’m being very… vulnerable and if you’re gonna laugh, we can just forget about it—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” his warm hands covered yours where they were sitting on the desk. He squeezed your palms reassuringly.  “I was kidding. I won’t laugh. Scout’s honor.”

You looked into his eyes for a moment to see if he was serious. All you saw was sincerity. You let out a deep breath. 

“You were a boy scout?” 

His lips spread in a wry smile as he turned to the paper. 

“Nope,” he unfolded the list. “It’s the thought that counts, though, right?”

You shrugged. 

“I guess?”

“Okay, what do we have here?” 

You sat in awkward silence as Eddie scanned the page, dark eyes focused. Hie brows were furrowed and his lips pouted in concentration. 

“‘Get drunk,’ we can certainly make that happen. ‘Skip a class,’ you won’t need to ask me twice.” He stopped for a moment and huffed a laugh. 

You felt your cheeks heat up. 

“What–”

“‘Do a drug.’” He said with a secret smile–like he knew something you didn’t. 

“Yeah,” you drew out. “I figured you’d know a guy.”

“Oh,” Eddie laughed. “I know a guy.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,�� he smiled at you, before turning his eyes back to the page. “Ohh.”

Eddie’s eyes sparkled as he turned them back to you. He looked like a sprite, you thought. With his wild hair and mischievous smile. He was gorgeous. 

“‘Get a boyfriend,’” he set the list down on the table. “Am I going to be playing match-maker, teacher’s pet?”

You rolled your eyes. He was teasing you. 

“If that’s what it takes,” you quipped, your nervousness having melted away. “And I am not a teacher’s pet.”

“Whatever you say,” he raised an eyebrow at you. 

As you opened your mouth to respond, the clearing of a throat interrupted you. 

You looked up to see Cameron Reyes leering over Eddie. 

“Hey. You’re in my seat,” he sneered. “Beat it.”

Eddie sighed, before slinking out of the seat slowly, taking his time. 

“My apologies,” he smiled at Cameron, before dropping into his own seat, next to you. 

You glared at the back of Cameron’s head. 

Why did he have to be such an asshole?

Cameron was on the swim team and you’d had classes with him since Kindergarten. He hadn’t always been a dick; In fourth grade when you’d skinned your knee, he’d helped you up and walked you to the nurse’s office. It wasn’t until high school, when he’d begun running with guys like Tommy Hagan, that he’d changed. Now, you couldn’t stand him. 

That was the way of things, though, in Hawkins. There were the bullies and the bullied—rarely anything in between.

- - - -

As you walked down the halls, you felt their eyes on your legs and you regretted letting Robin convince you to wear this skirt. 

The denim felt heavy on your hips. You wiped your clammy hands on the blue material, wishing that you didn’t have to walk practically across school to get to pre-calc. 

“Looking good,” someone whistled from behind you. You felt dread seep down your spine. 

Please no, not here. 

This wasn’t the first time you’d been catcalled. 

The first time was when you and Robin were thirteen and walking to the general store down the road from your houses. A few men in a pick-up truck had rolled their windows down and told you in great detail all they’d liked to do to you. You and Robin hid inside the general store until the clerk called your mom to pick you up. You hadn’t even gotten your first period yet. 

However, this was the first time you’d been catcalled at school. It still felt just as scary as the first time. 

“Where have you been hiding those legs, teacher’s pet?” 

You whipped around at the nickname, bristling at it. You hated when people called you that, unless that person was Eddie. 

You were faced with a basketball player; one of the guys who hung out with Jason Carver and sometimes Lucas. Thomas Reed. Your skin crawled at the way he and the two boys behind him looked at you. 

“Fuck off,” you spat at him before turning on your heel and walking faster to your destination. 

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that!” He called after you, but you could barely hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. 

It only calmed when you’d reached your classroom.

- - - -

“Are you even listening to me?” You smacked his hand where it was tapping on the wood of the library table. Outside, a heavy autumn rain pummeled the sidewalk, the trees swaying with it. 

“Yes,” Eddie rolled his eyes. 

“What did I just say?”

“That…Holden is a whiny little bitch.”

You sighed, bringing a hand to your forehead. 

“No.” You ground out. “And if you write that in your essay, Ms. Taylor is going to fail you and me, so please, can you take this seriously?”

He sighed and had the nerve to look a little guilty. It made your heart clench a bit. 

In the few sessions you’d tutoring Eddie, your crush had done anything but lessened. In fact, it had grown tenfold. It was one thing to admire him from across the room, it was another completely to spend time with him and actually be able to talk to him. 

You found that in addition to being cute and pensive, he was kind and not at all the scary loner that everyone painted him to be. If he hadn’t cemented his reputation by being an avid player of D&D, he would’ve been popular, you thought. 

And all this goes to day: you couldn’t stay mad at him, even when you wanted to.

“Okay,” he said, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. You briefly reminded yourself to offer to cut them for him later—he’d been complaining about them getting in his face all session. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“What?” Your attention snapped back to him. Eddie looked at you like you’d grown another head. 

“Uhh, I asked what you were saying?”

“Oh! Oh yeah,” you shook your head. “I zoned out.”

“I gathered that.” Eddie snorted, leaning forward. “Uh, off-topic, but I was wondering, when do you wanna get started on that bucket list?”

“Oh. Whenever.”

“I was thinking we could start this week.”

“So soon?” You practically squeaked. As excited you were about these new experiences, you were nervous. Especially because the person you’d be experiencing them with was Eddie. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself. 

“No time like the present,” Eddie’s voice was chipper. “So, what did you wanna start with?”

“I thought we’d start small and work up to something bigger?” You asked.

“That sounds good,” Eddie nodded. “How does skipping class work for this week?”

“Ugh, not well actually.” You sighed, sour. “We have that exam this week in Taylor’s and then for Chem I have—”

“Relax, we don’t have to start with that one. Hmm, what else…”

“We could always—”

You cut yourself off, thinking better of it, but Eddie caught you. 

“Nevermind.”

“No, what is it?”

You looked at him skeptically. 

“If you wanna do something, you gotta tell me. It’s your bucket list, tutor-girl, not mine.”

“What if we…did a drug?”

God, you sounded like such a teacher’s pet saying it.

“Okay, teacher’s pet.” Eddie’s face was gleeful, excited. “You’re full of surprises. We can do that, definitely.”

“Okay,” you let out a breath. 

“Any reason why you jumped to that one?”

“I just– I’m so stressed.” Thomas Reed’s lustful gaze flashed in your mind and you shook it off. 

“You okay?” Eddie grabbed your hand on the table. You swallowed. 

“Yeah,” you said lamely, mouth dry. “Just–a lot going on. School.”

“School,” Eddie repeated like he didn’t believe you. His eyes held yours for a moment before he nodded. “Okay teacher’s pet. Drugs it is. Any preference?”

“Nothing too crazy. Just something to take the edge off?”

“I can do that,” he smiled. “This is gonna be fun.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just think you’ll be funny high.”

“We’ll see,” you narrowed your eyes at him. He just smiled at you for a moment. Your eyes held his and you had the sudden urge to reach over the table and kiss him. You coughed, turning back to your notes in front of you. 

“Anyway, what do you think Salinger’s trying to say?”

“Other than the fact that Holden is annoying?”

“Eddie, I’m serious—”

“I am too!” Eddie insisted. “All this shit about ‘phonies,’ when he’s just like them–”

“You know, I thought you’d relate to Holden.” You smirked at him.

“What?”

“Well, he’s an outcast—all teenage angst and—”

“I’m twenty, thank you.” He snapped at you, causing you to stutter. 

“Oh, no I didn’t mean outcast like—”

“No, it’s okay,” Eddie chuckled, waving you off. “It’s true. And I like it that way.”

You eyed him skeptically. 

“Really, I do.” He folded his arms over his chest. “There are too many assholes in this school. If I wanted to fit in, I’d have to act like them. At least a little bit. Besides, I’ve got people. Not much, but I’ve got’em.”

You hummed. 

“I’ve never thought of that.”

“What, Holden being a bitch, because—”

You smacked his arm, laughing. 

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Eddie giggled. He giggled. Your heart leapt. “What, though? What did I say that was so profound?”

He was being sarcastic, you could tell, but you didn’t care. 

“The whole—having to sacrifice part of yourself to fit in. It’s true. I’d never thought of it like that.”

He hummed, eyes holding yours a moment, before his grin broke the moment. 

“Maybe I should be the one tutoring, huh?”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. 

“Turn to page 225.”

- - - -

Thomas found you again the next day, this time before school as you were at your locker. 

“Hey there,” he smiled, sliding up next to you, effectively boxing you in between him and the locker. You jumped, moving as close to the locker as you could. “How are you today?”

“Leave me alone,” you ground out, trying to slip past him, but his hand in a hard grip on your arm stopped you. 

“Aw, but we could have so much fun, teacher’s pet.”

“Let me go—”

“Where’s your little skirt?” he asked, grip tightening on your arm as you scrambled to get away. 

You silently cursed whoever in the administration office had placed your locker on one of the most abandoned hallways in the school. 

“Your legs looked so good—”

His palm came to squeeze the meat of your ass and your stomach churned. Without thinking, you spat in his face, palm coming to connect with his cheek. 

“You cunt—”

“The hell is going on here?” 

Eddie walked briskly up to you as you stepped back from Thomas. He moved to stand between you two, face hard. It was the mask he put on every day in front of the rest of the school, the ones who thought he was mean and scary. Only now, you weren’t sure how much of it was a mask. 

“Nothing, man.” Thomas waved him off, wiping his face. He glared at you in a way that made your feet stick to the spot. 

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“I said it's nothing.”

“And I said—”

“It’s fine,” you mumbled. 

“Hey wait—”

Eddie moved to grab Thomas as he walked away from the two of you. 

“I said it’s fine,” you said louder this time, and reached out to grab Eddie’s shoulder and pull him back toward you. 

“Bullshit!” He spun and turned toward you, clearly pissed off. “What the hell was that?”

“I said it was fine, Eddie!” You burst at him, voice cracking. You took a deep breath. 

“Honey, are you—” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you interrupted Eddie’s suddenly soft voice. You wiped a stray but of moisture from under your eyelid. “Let’s just go to class.”

“But–”

“Eddie, drop it,” you all but snapped, before adding lamely, “please.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Lead the way. Taylor’s gonna be pissed if I’m late again.”

You could practically hear him simmering as he walked a half-step behind you to class, but you didn’t care to acknowledge it. You’d made it abundantly clear you didn’t want to talk about it. If he pushed you, you might just snap. 

As the two of you made your way down the halls, you felt eyes following you. They were all wondering: what was the quiet nerd doing with the freak? You didn’t care to acknowledge that either. 

Let them wonder, you thought. I’m done caring about their rumor mill.

- - - -

“Jesus, Eddie.” You gasped and looked around. 

There was no one in the janitor’s closet with you, but still: with that much weed on him, Eddie would be expelled and arrested. You had no idea how he’d gotten it in the two days since your conversation. 

“What?” He asked, out of breath. He’d pulled you in here between third and fourth period, scarring you half to death in the process. “I told you I’d get the stuff.”

“Yeah, but I didn't know you meant so much,” you scoffed. Now, looking down at the green, wooly buds you were going to smoke, you felt your stomach flood with anxiety. You weren’t so sure about it anymore. “Where did you even get it?”

“I know a guy.”

“Fine, don’t tell me,” you rolled your eyes frustratedly. “What did you drag me here for, anyway?”

Eddie furrowed his eyebrows, looking genuinely confused at your hostile tone. 

“To…let you know I got the stuff.” He drawled, before narrowing his eyes at you. “You okay, sweetheart? You look like you’re gonna be sick.”

Your stomach was churning. Between the stuff with Thomas that morning and now this, it was too much. 

You pressed a hand to your abdomen as the faint smell of weed permeated from the open baggie between Eddie’s fingers.

God, he had pretty fingers, you thought somewhere in the back of your mind. It was something you'd revisit when you weren’t about to have a panic attack.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Eddie rushed toward you as you doubled over, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath and calm the nausea. His hands found your shoulders, and another wave of the sharp smell of marijuana made you retreat further into your mind. 

All of a sudden, you weren’t there; you were back at Starcourt with Billy Hargrove’s hands around your neck, the smell of the weed he’d smoked earlier still on his clothes. 

Your breathing shallowed and you gasped, trying to breathe, but in vain. 

“Hey, hey, breathe for me,” you faintly heard Eddie over your own heartbeat. “You gotta breathe, honey. C’mon, breathe for me. Deep breaths, like this.”

He pressed your palm to his chest as he inhaled deeply.

You looked up at him, at his wide, panicked eyes and did as he said, slowly inhaling a shaky breath. 

“That’s it,” he took another deep breath, eyes not leaving yours. “Just like that. Okay. Another one, now.”

You took a deep breath, much easier this time, eyes never leaving his.

- - - -

“So…” Eddie began, eyes finally meeting yours. “You wanna tell me what the hell that was?”

You sighed, tilting your head back to lean against the wall where you were sitting. You looked up at the fluorescents in the janitor’s closet. 

“That was a panic attack, Eddie,” you said monotonously.

“Don’t be a smart ass. What happened?”

You sighed again. 

It had taken five minutes for Eddie to talk you down from your… episode. After, he’d let you catch your breath. You’d thought that you’d be able to just go about your day from there. You were stupid to think he’d let this go. 

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Jesus, sweetheart, I don't care about that. I just wanna know what the hell caused it. Did I–”

“No,” you said immediately. “You didn’t—”

“Did it have something to do with this morning?” Eddie’s voice was low, and as serious as you’d ever heard it. 

You remained quiet, eyes trained on the light above you. Eddie took that as confirmation. His eyes flashed dangerously as you finally looked at him. 

“I’ll kill him.”

Eddie moved to his feet with purpose, moving to open the closet door. 

“No!” you grabbed his ankle, scrambling. “No, Eddie. It’s not worth it.”

“Bullshit, it’s not worth it—”

“Please, let’s just get out of here. Let’s go smoke. We’ve practically missed all of fourth period anyway.”

“Honey, he can’t just–”

“I know, Eddie,” you stood up level with him. “But right now, I really wanna leave, and that’s more important than whatever revenge plot you have.”

He looked at the door obstinately for another moment before turning back to you. 

“Fine.” he said, not fully convinced. 

“Thank you,” you took a calming breath. “Good. Besides, it’ll be like killing two birds with one stone, right? Two items off the bucket list at once.”

- - - -

Eddie’s car was smoky; a hotbox is what he called it. 

As you took a long drag of the joint he passed to you, the deep, leafy aroma filled your lungs. As you breathed out, all worries or stress you had about school or Thomas or even the Upside Down diminished to an afterthought. 

So this is why people smoke, you thought to yourself, giggling a little bit. 

“What is it?” Eddie turned his head to you, unruly curls brushing your cheek. 

The two of you were sprawled out on the floor of his van, shoulder to shoulder and head to head, about twenty minutes into the session. You’d learned this so far: that Eddie smelled good, like cigarettes and cologne and something musky, and that his eyes got even more glassy when he smoked. All that to say: you wanted to kiss him. Bad. 

You passed him the joint, your fingers brushing his in the process.

“It’s just that I finally get why people do this so much,” you laughed. 

“It’s been twenty minutes,” Eddie laughed with you. 

“And I feel better already!”

Eddie went quiet, taking two puffs from the joint. You turned to look at him, eyes immediately darting to his lips. He was looking pensively at the corner of the van. 

“Not fair,” you grabbed the joint from him. “Don’t hog.”

“I get them too, you know.” He said all of a sudden, somber. 

You stopped, looking at him still. Eddie turned his head to face you, nose only an inch from yours. 

“Not so much anymore, but when I was younger. When I first came to live with Wayne.”

“Wayne?”

“My uncle,” he swallowed, turning his head away from yours. “I live with him. Have since I was twelve. My dad, he was… not a great guy.”

You were quiet for a moment, passing the joint back to him. 

“My dad left.” You said. “Sometimes I’m not even sure I remember what he looks like.”

Eddie grabbed your hand, squeezing. 

Instead of the flutter of anxious butterflies, you felt a calm wash over you at his hand in yours. 

“Do you, uh…” Eddie trailed off, taking a deep huff, “wanna talk about what I saw this morning?”

You sighed, not feeling anxious, but feeling tired. 

“You remember the skirt I wore the other day?”

Eddie swallowed visibly, eyes darting to your legs before your face again. 

“Yeah.”

“Robin helped me pick it out in June,” you fiddled with your sweater. “She convinced me to wear it the other day, finally, while the weather is still at least a little nice. Anyway, Thomas noticed my skirt. He hasn’t left me alone since. And today, he…”

Eddie took a long drag. 

“He grabbed me, grabbed my ass. Fucking pig.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m not even, like, scarred by that. You know how ridiculous that is? That I’m not even phased by it anymore?”

Eddie just shook his head, glaring at the ceiling. 

“Eddie?”

He wordlessly handed you the joint. 

“Toke up, sweetheart.”

You chuckled. 

“Jesus, what an asshole.” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, taking a long drag. 

“Someone should—”

“Someone should, but someone won’t.” You looked at him. “They never do.”

“Hmm,” Eddie hummed, biting his lip in concentration. 

“Wanna skip the rest of the day?”

“God, yes.”

Th next day, Thomas Reed had a busted lip and a black eye. 

[kanmom51]

JM live 1 September 2023 20:54 or 8:54 pm KST

And a little bit about JK's same day live as well.

Part 1

Cr./The creators of the media used in this post.

So we got a live from JK at the start of the day. 12:55 am or 00:55 KST, and from JM in the evening, at 20:55 or 8:54 pm KST.

One opening the days birthday celebrations (or was he?) and the other closing them (in a sense).

Do we have numbers working for the two?

Let's see.

JK's live:

Super easy. Add the 1+2+5+5=13. Then add 0+0+5+5=10.

What?

13/10.

So we get JK's special day with JM's special day. How sweet.

JM's live: Add the 2+0+5+4=11. Then add the 8+5+4=17 and down to a single digit: 1+7=8.

Guess what we get.

8/11

And if you want just a little bit more utilize the date:

1/9/23

1+9+2+3=15

and Ta-dah...

8/11/15

Oh, and if it's numbers we are talking about, and if anyone has any kind of doubt that numbers mean so so much to JM and JK, well here's another little doozy.

JM's watch. Yes, the tens of thousands of dollars worth watch he was wearing during the live.

*Screenshot taken at 3:20 min. mark.

It's a little hard to see, but the time on his watch looks to be around the 3:27 mark.

I want to remind you that JM started his live at 8:54 pm KST. JM has been in SK for months and you would think his watch would be set to KST, no?

Screen shot at 8:24 min.

Screenshot of watch at 32:56 min. mark.

Deduct the live time stamp at every one of those given moments from the time on the watch and you will go back to 3:23/4.

Why, you may ask, am I making such a big deal about this?

Well, my dear friends, this is why:

JK's time of birth tattoo, just to remind you.

JK's time of birth being 3:23-24.

Did JM set his watch to start the live at 3:23-24? JK's birth time?

Wait, but that's not the end of it.

Because JM's watch is also of significance.

Launched in 1997.

What in the effing hell?

Like, if you have another explanation please do explain!!!

Watch not working? Nope, it is, time counting as the live goes on, all from the 3:23 mark.

Coincidence? Again? That his watch happens to be set at JK's birth time, and it also, by chance, being one launched same year JK was born? JK, who's birthday happens to be on that specific day? The person who JM tells us to wish happy birthday and that it's a "wonderful day"?

Please don't continue to say this is all a coincidence. Setting your watch to a time that happens to be JK's birth time, something we have been told in the past, something that JK tattooed on his own body, hence being of significance to him, and most obviously of significance to JM as well.

JM and JK might not be saying the words out loud, but shit, they sure are being as loud as hell about what they are to each other!!!

Ok, so I mentioned in passing JK's live. His almost 9 minute live. His totally out of character shorter than short live, even more so when we are talking about a birthday live. No cake. No candles. No playlist (he told us this was just the music that he left on when he left earlier and it's still playing). No patience, lol. He came, he said hi, he told us he was out with friends he was practicing with (wonder if the reason he came live is to explain who with and why he was out and about...), said he's suffering from insomnia and he has to sleep. Did a card trick...MAGIC... Lol, and ducked. Like even his goodbye was super super short. Now, you could say he had a tight schedule, which he does, and that he has to sleep, which he does. But JK was definitley not on his way to bed when he was doing that live, nor shortly after. He was happy and super hyped, and in NO WAY shape or form about to go to bed at that point.

We need to remember that when they say they have a schedule, it's not a 9 to 5 job. Many a times their days start at noon and later and they keep on working into the early hours of the morning. That is the nature of their work. So having a tight schedule doesn't necessarily mean he has to be up at 7 or 8 am and off to the company or wherever he needs to be in the morning.

You could claim he was excited because it was his birthday, and perhaps you would be right. But if it was the end of his night, then excited what for? Bed? Where he struggles to fall asleep? Nah, I don't think so.

So yeah, I think you know where I'm going with this.

Only that this time we didn't get a photo because there was no one around to buffer.

2019 JM flies back to Seoul to celebrate JK's birthday with him. 2020 JM was with JK on his birthday eve. 2021 we don't know, they didn't tell us, we got a selfie the next day in the safety of the company - not the two together alone at JK's or JM's. 2022 JM was also with JK on his birthday eve. We got to see and hear about it just after JK's birthday, and we had Jhope there as a buffer. Why buffer? So that god forbid they aren't spending his birthday eve alone at his place, especially if it's happening year after year after year, cause you know, people would say it means nothing but at the same time it means everything.

I'm going to say it out loud, and shoot me (not literally) if you wish, but this is a hill I am willing to die on. JK wrote his birthday message and very possibly was not planning to go live that night. Perhaps he did come live because of the photos that came out of him with the fans and the info about him being out and about that night. But for whatever reason JK did go live that night it was always going to be short and sweet. And I do believe that is because he had something else planned which is not going to sleep.

I do believe whatever he had planned was with JM. Period. That's what JK was anticipating, that's what he was excited and happy for, that's why he came for a couple of secs and jolted off.

And for those that are already running to the comments screaming "but JM said he only spoke with JK the day before his birthday to wish him happy birthday" I say: hold your horses, I will most definitley get to it and explain to y'all exactly how JM did not say that by no means. Take a breath, be patient, read on, you'll see why JM said no such thing.

The two of the men having the live the same day.

It kind of felt weird that of all days JM goes live on JK's birthday. Well, maybe weird isn't the right word, but curious is more fitting.

JM wanted to come live for some time now. He says that. But then why, of all days, choose this one?

JM himself tells us he wasn't planning to go live from home that day (while on his way to fetch the mood lamp to show us).

Both lives feel unplanned, rushed and unprepared. There. I said it.

Did either of them even plan to do these lives? Or, perhaps they were a consequence of circumstances? JK wanting to clarify his outing (knowing how this fandom rolls). And JM... why JM? Well, maybe there was actually a birthday live planned? Could that be? One at the company? Us finally getting a Jikook live? Or even just a proper JK live at the company with a cake and all? But JK's schedule ran later than expected maybe? Hence one boyfie coming to the rescue and going live in his stead?

All of the above is questions, queries, possible explanations as to why JM decided to go live from home on JK's birthday, even though he himself tells us this was not the plan. I don't have the answer to these questions, but it definitley does have me wondering.

Will continue this discussion with regards to JM later on in my post.

Let's get to talking about JM's live. Starting by his opening pic.

I have to tell you that first thought I had when seeing the photo was "is that JK?". The frame wasn't right, but the outfit most definitely was, lol.

And guess what?

He's wearing pants for the boys new favourite brand. I guess JM's the one wearing the pants in the house, lol. But then, are they his? They do seem a little on the bigger size.

So, first 17 minutes or so to the live JM talks a bit about not coming live for a while and how he wanted and yet didn't because he's been going through a bit of a personal journey. Not doing well enough in his March promotions, in his mind, had him frustrated and unhappy with himself. Him wanting to restart rather than fix what he feels might be lacking. Kind of resetting himself per say as an artist? In any case he's been doing a lot of introspection. I guess I've mentioned that already, lol. The feeling I got from what he was telling us is that he himself didn't know how to explain what he wanted to tell us. His words not thoroughly thought out, perhaps another sign as to him going live unprepared and before properly thinking out what he wanted to tell us.

JM talks about being at the Dior event. Being nervous and awkward. Also wanting to thank fans that came to see him.

JM is asked multiple times about his hands. Oh my, those hands.

And when I say multiple times, I mean MULTIPLE times, lol. And JM keeps reading those comments and keeps answering again and again and again that it's a scrape from him working out, doesn't hurt, not to worry. At one point, after he is talking about JK's birthday, telling us it's a wonderful day, lovely smile on his face, and asked yet again, he 'bites back' (if you can call if bite back, lol), telling the commenter to look for it later (as in go watch the live from the start when it's over and they will find out).

Is this the right time to discuss JM talking about JK's birthday?

I think it is.

At around the 18 minute stamp time this goes down:

He says Jungkookie, btw.

From the moment he said JK is very busy (he looks at the camera) and up to this point, when he talks about JK's health, not once does JM look at the camera. His eyes were all over the place. And that includes not looking at the camera when he said "I talked to him on the telephone yesterday too".

Remember this?

@dgtn brought this to my attention. JM's eye movement in this part of the live reminds of his eye movement while thinking just before he goes for the kill with JK and the "did you answer them".

Here's JM talking about Jungkookie's birthday. Look at his eyes.

(But that smile at the end...)

JM was definitely deep in thought as to what to say, how to word what he wanted to say for JK's birthday.

Several things to note.

Where to start?

I guess I'll start from the obvious.

People jumping on the wagon: "JM didn't see JK on his birthday. He said so. He said he talked to him yesterday...(to wish him happy birthday?)".

Me, I'm calling the bull.

And I will explain it to you too (foreshadowing).

JM, as usual, is very precise how he words what he wants to say.

His words in this instance:

He mentions JK's birthday today, tells us he's very busy and then says "I talked to him on the phone yesterday too..." and back to "he's really busy..."

"I talked to him on the phone yesterday too..."

Let's take this apart, why don't we?

JM spoke with JK on the phone.

The conversation happened yesterday.

What did they talk about? He doesn't tell us. But mentioning JK being busy before he talks about the phone call and after he talks about the phone call. It feels like this is what he is telling us they spoke about.

So far so good, right?

And then we have two words/things said/or not said that are EVERYTHING here.

One word that he says, the other something that is not said and, at least to me, is super loud and super important and was omitted purposefully.

First word is "too".

I talked to him yesterday too...

TOO.

Leaving the context of the sentence open to interpretation.

Could be any of these:

I talked to him yesterday too just like I speak to him every day?

I talked to him yesterday too because I spoke to him today as well?

I talked to him yesterday too because I was also seeing him later on as well to celebrate his birthday with him?

As for what was missing, well to me it was quite obvious.

JM does not tell us that he wished JK happy birthday.

There was no "I talked to him yesterday too and wished him happy birthday".

JM makes sure to tell us he spoke with JK yesterday (which is not on JK's birthday). Makes sure to add the TOO, but forgets to say that's also when he wished him happy birthday? I think not.

JM is super measured. He is so very careful in what he says and how he says it, especially when it comes to JK. This man not saying it means the words were added or omitted on purpose. And not telling us he wished JK happy birthday in that phone call, well, makes it clear that the phone call in question was definitley not the end of it. Because there is no way in hell that JM would not wish JK happy birthday personally (not via an IG post that JK wouldn't see anyway not being on IG).

Since when would JM not wish JK happy birthday? The man is telling us to wish JK happy birthday, telling us it's a wonderful day, setting his watch to JK's birth time. The man that flew back from Paris to be with JK on his birthday. And also let us know he did it. He wouldn't have wished JK happy birthday himself? And this man wouldn't tell us so either?

Nah. This is JM telling us he spoke with JK, something he does all the time, and that the conversation he's talking about has nothing to do with JK's birthday.

And yeah, by omitting that he's also letting us know that he had another opportunity, one he isn't letting us in on, in which he got to wish JK happy birthday.

PERIOD!

JM talking about JK looking after his health. The way those two worry about each other.

Did I mention the pause as JM finishes talking about JK? It being a wonderful day? The smile on his face?

Oh, and JK mentions JK's birthday once more at the end of the live as well when summing up the live.

Thank you JM for reminding us once more it's JK's birthday and that it was one of those things in your live worth mentioning in your own recap of the live.

Now, I know that there are idiots that are dragging Mingyu for saying he met JK yesterday (on his birthday) and ate with him.

Well, dragging Mingyu on the one hand for what? Saying he met up with his friend on his birthday? That by doing so he was dissing JM? And others, on the other hand, using this, very stupidly, to prove that a busy JK would rather meet up with Mingyu than with JM.

Are we forgetting what JM told us? Well, JK too? That JK is super busy? Most likely in the Hybe building. You know, where Mingyu also comes to work, being in Seventeen, another Hybe band. Could they have met up at Hybe? Of course they could have. Could they even maybe have met up for a meal break at Hybe? Of course they could have. Mingyu was doing the live in a company car, probably on his way home from work looking super tired. So yeah. Chances are that they met at Hybe.

And as for JM, well, you already know where I stand on that one.

JM and JK most definitely saw each other on JK's birthday. Most likely right after JK's live.

Ok, this one is getting a little too long. So I think I'll leave you all here at the moment, let it all sink in, and come back with a part 2 that will include our little house tour and a few more interesting points - well for me at least, lol.

To be continued...

[wisedelusionalmarshmallow]

@jegulus-microfic, June 21st - Fool, G, Word Count - 1057

Third and Final Part to Devour (pt.2), Welcome (pt.1)

For the month that Regulus had been living at the Potter's, he and James have been... well, Regulus doesn't exactly know what's been going on.

All he knows is that he's constantly looking at the other boy, only to find him already looking back. He's never laughed harder in his life than when he was around James and that their touches last a little longer than they should.

That was all perfectly normal though. James was probably just making sure that Regulus was safe, or he was still getting used to the new addition in his house. That’s why he was always looking. It was just the change of scenery that was making him laugh. The touch thing... um, well, maybe James was more of a hugger than Regulus thought.

One thing was for sure though. James has made Regulus feel like a fool. He made him feel like he was seeing things that weren't really there.

Well, Sirius hasn't said anything about the two of them and Regulus knows he would be disgusted if there was something going on between his two "brothers". So that means he's making things up. Right?

He made his way downstairs and sat at the dining room table. The seat that Sirius led him to the first day, the one across from James. Turns out him and Effie have pretty similar sleep schedules. Which is to say, terrible insomnia. The first night was just the first of many nights that Regulus would find himself at the dining table with his new guardian.

"You should tell him you know," she mentions, taking another sip of her hibiscus tea. Regulus noticed that she always has a different drink with her.

"Excuse me?" Regulus asks, looking at her over his mug of earl gray.

"James. You should tell him you like him."

Regulus nearly spits out his drink, but swallows before that can happen. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not daft Regulus, I've seen how you two look at each other," She explains, placing her purple mug down in front of her.

“At each other? You think he likes me?" Regulus asks, sounding a little more vulnerable than he would like to.

Effie laughs. "Of course dear. And if I know my James, he’s just waiting for you to say something.”

Regulus continues drinking his tea. “You're certain?" She nods. "Alright."

That’s what led Regulus to the second floor, standing outside James’ door at 7:30am.

He learned that James woke up at 7 and Sirius woke up at 8, meaning Regulus should have plenty of time to say what he needs to then leave, and hopefully not have to hide in his room all day.

Regulus knocks on the door. Five knocks exactly. He doesn't have to wait long before James answers. "Come in!"

Regulus hesitates. He never hesitates. He feels so nervous, like he can't walk into the room. He's looked the Dark Lord in the eyes before why was this so hard?

He reaches forward and slowly twists the doorknob. The door creaks when he opens it.

“James, can I speak with you?” He asks with a soft voice, walking further into James’ room. He shuts the door behind him.

James is sitting on his bed, a book open in front of him. He looks up to Regulus and immediately notices something’s up. He shuts the book and moves closer to the edge of his bed. “Yeah what’s up?”

Regulus doesn't know what to say or how to start it off. So he starts with what he does know, whatever comes to his mind first, in an attempt to be honest. "I'm not usually nervous."

“I know,” James responds, catching onto how uncomfortable Regulus is.

“So this is hard,” he continues.

James nods. “I can see that.”

"James," Regulus starts, taking a deep breath. "What is this?"

The older boy lets out a nervous smile. "What is what—"

"You know what." Regulus has more power in his tone than when he first entered the room. Tired with the two of them tiptoeing around each other.

James is speechless. Caught in between telling the truth or keeping things the exact same.

Seeing his reaction, Regulus continues. "At least give me something. Whether it's a yes or a no, I just... I can't continue like this."

"Reg... I-" James clears his throat, clearly unsettled by Regulus' outburst. "I'm sorry."

"About which part?" Regulus snaps.

He gets up off his bed and slowly starts making his way over to where Regulus was standing. "The whole situation mainly, I mean, your brother is my best friend and y'know, you just got here. I didn't want to push either of you away. It was selfish, but..." James trails off.

"I know," the youngest Black whispers.

They both look at each other. They're standing less than 3 feet apart and Regulus can feel his throat dry up. This time though, he doesn't blame it on nerves, he doesn't blame it on embarrassment or unfamiliarity. He blames it on James.

James and his stupid shirtless sleeping habits. James and how every touch seems to set Regulus on fire. James and how his words send shivers down Regulus' spine. James and how much Regulus just wants to kiss him.

Regulus voices that last part, what he knows, keeping his voice soft as if admitting a fault. "I want to kiss you."

James smiles softly and leans down towards the other boy, placing his hands around Regulus' waist as if asking him for permission.

Regulus takes a step closer and stares up to James before tilting his head so that their lips brush. That little touch, however, seemed to ignite a flame in the both of them that had James pulling Regulus in for a deeper kiss. Something to break the tension between the two of them over the past month.

Regulus could die happy right now. He wasn't even aware how much he needed the other boy until this exact moment. Feeling their lips on each other's, breathing into each other's mouths and feeling James' grasp on his waist.

When the two of them break apart some time later, Regulus looks up towards James and finds the older boy with a massive grin on his face.

Regulus can't help but smile back. He's okay with being a fool, if only for James.

[pisscrossiant]

Part two of my dragon age: origins headcanons because It's my current hyperfixation 😋

I'm honestly just writing these down here when I think of em

Oghren will stop doing whatever he's doing if he sees the Warden just to wave at them like a goof, he could be in the middle of fighting for his life and he stops to wave to them.

Morrigan can go MONTHS without bathing and look exactly the same as she did the last time she took a bath. She doesn't smell either she smells like roses 24/7 and no one knows how she doesn't smell after not bathing for like three months.

Leliana puts ribbons around her boots to make them prettier

Zevran tends to linger behind the party when walking somewhere just so he can stare at their asses without it being obvious.

Alistair keeps cheese in his pockets at all times, he has like three big ass cheese wheels in his tent at camp so he will take little pieces of cheese off the wheels and put them in his pocket so he has a snack later.

Wynne cooks the most out of everyone, she always takes requests from the party members so she can make them their favorite dishes for dinner so they can enjoy something during the blight.

Leliana often has auditory hallucinations and the most common one she has is of a woman screaming bloody murder, she'll jump a bit and if no one reacts to it she just carries on with what she's doing while waiting for it to stop.

Alistair has insomnia most of the time when he's "sleeping" he just lays in his bed roll and waits for sun rise, sometimes he'll talk to Zevran or Leliana if they get up before everyone else.

Zevran has Paranoia and has visual hallucinations, though they don't happen all that often, they still freak him out. He mostly see's shadow people which freaks him out alot because he thinks they could be assassins, watching him.

Oghren will pass out sometimes from his drunkenness, thankfully this doesn't happen during fights.

After Zevran got mad at the warden saying "there are other things to do besides me, go do those." The Warden gets upset and goes to sit by their tent and shale see's this and tries comforting them by saying "Would you like me to crush the painted elf" which actually does make the warden feel better.

Zevran and Leliana are polyamorous and wouldn't mind being in a poly relationship.

Leliana has a FAT crush on Morrigan, even if the warden romances her she can't help but fall for the tall lesbian.

Zevran has a crush on Sten, not in a romantic sense but more so he's attracted to him because Zev loves tall people.

Alistair is a bisexual in denial, he thinks he's straight but when he sees men without shirts on he gets all flustered.

Wynne reads 24/7 and she reads smut. Like hardcore smut. She reads it with a straight face.

Once Alistair asked what she was reading and she handed him the book to read the synopsis outloud and he became so embarrassed about it, Zevran and Morrigan made fun of him for it for weeks, he still can't see Wynne the same way again.

Elfroot is like weed, that's why it's called Elfroot because ancient elves would smoke it.

Leliana will wash and style Zevran's hair for him, during his time with the crows he didn't get to have his hair all nice and clean and styled properly so he doesn't really know how to take care of it all to well, so Leliana does it for him.

Zevran gets jealous easily believe it or not, if he sees another person flirting with the warden he gets mad and will go up to the Warden and interrupt their conversation. At first when he doesn't realize he's fallen for the Warden he keeps thinking he's stupid for it and tries to ignore it.

Leliana doesn't have a tendency to get jealous but if someone is getting too touchy with the Warden she'll just stand behind the warden glaring at them to get them to back off.

Morrigan can be very possessive of the Warden even if the warden hasn't romanced her she still will be very possessive especially if the warden is around someone she doesn't like (like Alistair)

Alistair gets jealous but doesn't show it or anything he's more tame and doesn't act on it or anything.

Morrigan is a raging lesbian she has no romantic interest for men, the only time she'd even sleep with a man would be for her to have a child. But she doesn't try to pursue any romantic relationship with women due to her pushing the people she loves away.

Oghren misses Branka before she left him but is glad to be a part from her at the same time.

Shale pets your Mabari 24/7 she loves animals especially dogs

Zevran is very weary around dogs, there were stray dogs all around Antivia City and they'd attack a lot unprovoked, he's been attacked by them numerous times so he was of course nervous when joining the warden's party seeing they had not just a dog but a wardog. Over time though he grew to actually like the dog alot however.

Leliana is a cat person, she's fine with dogs but she loves cats. But if she did have to choose between a Nug and a Cat she'd ofc choose a Nug.

Alistair is a major dog person, when he was living with the Arl he would usually hang around the kennels rather then being around people. When he says "I was raised by dogs" he wasn't actually that far off.

Morrigan doesn't like Dogs or cats, she's a bird person. She only tolerates the wardens Mabari because she knows the warden loves him.

Oghren is actually fond of dogs believe it or not, he hates cats though he says "they're stuck up"

Sten doesn't have a preference between cats or dogs however he respects dogs alot more then he respects cats.

Wynne is a cat lady, like if the tower let her she'd have like 20 cats.

Alistair has elf ears but not like how full blooded elves have, half elves have small points to their ears, they look like human ears but have a point to them instead of being rounded fully.

Leliana has a tattoo of a sun on her right shoulder.

Zevran has tattoos all over similar to the ones on his face, but he also has a tramp stamp that says " amor ''

Morrigan at first meeting her has no tattoos, I mean where would she get them living in the wilds. Once she leaves though she does get a tattoo of a raven on her left arm.

Alistair got drunk and got a tattoo of a dragon on his back, he thought it was cool at first but now that he's having to fight dragons and the arch demon he hates it.

The circle doesn't let mage's have tattoos so Wynne doesn't have any.

Sten does not have any tattoos because the Qun does not allow it, he does put markings on his body with face paint however.

Oghren has a tattoo of two beer mugs clanking together in between his shoulder blades.

That's all for now I'm most likely gonna do another part because I actually like writing these it's just nice to do when I'm not doing anything. Also the first part did pretty well and got a decent amount of attraction so definitely gonna do more 🤭

Plus I love fueling the dragon age fandom I wish there was a lot more stuff ab it 😭

[apprenticestanheight]

THE FIVE DAYS OF SMUTMAS QUEUE: DAY THREE

Somno - Peter Strahm x gn! reader

Allllllll right, we are on to day three of this event and despite the fact that I never really write this many fics in less than a week unless motivation has come around and hyped me to a point where I'm capable of doing it across two days, I am still chuggin on and to be honest, the concept for this fic is largely what's kept me from going down the demotivated slope.

I have had a very not great last two months of the year and so body worship with peter strahm and a touch of angst with hurt/comfort it is, because I needed to write this idea out and figured this event would be a good opportunity lol.

Last note before this fic begins, this fic is meant for audiences of 18+! Minors, do not interact.

Fic type- this is smut and hurt/comfort

Warnings- somnophilia, oral (afab recieving), there is one mention of trauma/anxiety induced insomnia, and the reader is gn for all intents and purposes, but I went with an AFAB reader as that's the anatomy I know best, and this is edited but barely bc I wanted to post oops.

Peter is all too aware of how rough the last few months have been for you.

Granted, you've not said a word of it because you'd sooner see hell than let anyone know when you're going through a rough spot, but since your relationship has begun, Peter has learned to look for the subtle tells you display whenever you feel like your life is about to start falling apart.

Peter is something of a chronic insomniac because of how the on-call schedule of his work with the Jigsaw case has impacted his sleeping capabilities, and so he's used to staying awake for hours on end in case he gets a phone call from someone at the Jersey precinct.

You, however, work a decent and consistent job as a cleaner that pays more than well. You have a set of routines—you wake up at six thirty every morning, make a steaming mug of chai from the K-Cups you adore, eat an easy breakfast and a cliff bar on your way out of the house.

You're at work from seven-thirty in the morning to six thirty most nights, come home and do whatever needs doing around the apartment that you and Peter share, and you watch TV or read until Peter comes home and the two of you order dinner.

You always go to bed sooner than Peter does, typically going to bed somewhere around eleven or midnight where the earliest Peter goes to sleep is one, and then you wake up the next morning and your cycle repeats.

However, since September, whenever Peter has come to bed, you've still been awake, even if it's three or four in the morning. The chai you made with the K-Cups you adore has turned into a steaming cup of coffee that you have to sweeten with brown sugar, honey, and sometimes maple syrup to be able to tolerate.

You're at work from seven am to nine or ten most nights now, and by the time you're home, the housework has been looked after because Peters hired a cleaning lady to come by the house and make sure the house stays clean once every four or five days.

You come home and Peter tries to get you to smile but nothing really does the trick. Peter finds that he misses you, wants to try to goad you into talking it out with him but knows from too many attempts to do so that it absolutely will not work.

But, when he comes home on the 22nd at 7:30, a rarely early time for him get home as the stuff with Jigsaw has progressed, he's completely and utterly shocked to see you sitting on the couch in your living room.

When he closes the door, your gaze snaps to his.

"I owe you an apology," you say. "I've been very terrible at being a spouse the past few months. I shouldn't've subjected you to that. I know I need to be better at communicating and I just feel awful because I've pretty much shut you out and I just—it's just not—it's not fair to you, Peter."

"It's all right, Y/N," he says. "I thought that something had happened, yeah? I figured you wanted space and I was going to give it to you until you decided you wanted closeness again. I know I get angry really quick and am frankly a little surprised I haven't snapped about it but I have worked on not snapping a lot since we started dating."

You've been married something like a decade. It took a lot of storming for Peter to reach the level of evenness, the level of calm, where he stood.

"Yeah, but I've been terrible," you laugh. Peter approaches, sits next to you on your couch. "I've not—it's not been fair, Pete. I haven't talked, I've worked myself almost to the bone, I don't eat breakfast like I used to—all of my routines have been thrown off by this, and I can't imagine how yours have been."

He wishes he could say that he was fine, completely unaffected by it, but to say that would be to lie right to your face, which is something he promised never to do in his wedding vows. He worried about you all the time, desperately wanted to ask you if you were okay and try to goad you into talking to him even though that had never, ever worked in his favor.

Peter grins at you. "I'm just glad you're okay, Y/N," he says. "Had me worried for a stretch, if I'm honest."

"I'm sorry to have worried you," you say. "I've just—work has been driving me mental. I took more hours to get a bit of a Christmas bonus on top of the bonus I get tomorrow to try to ease the mental stuff I've been dealing with and yeah, the cushy paycheck is great but fuck if I don't hate dealing with people during the holiday season. I have been yelled at about how spotless houses need to be more times than I can count."

Peter laughs. "You're the one who decided to go into the cleaning business," he says. You laugh a bit yourself, press your forehead against his shoulder.

"I know," you mumble sadly, a laugh trailing through your words. "But when I started, I'd really hoped I would spend less time talking to people, more time deep cleaning carpets while I had decent music playing through a Walkman. I do get to listen to music but the people are becoming more and more of an issue lately."

Peter presses a kiss to the top of your head. "You're gonna take a bit of time off, mm? You definitely seem like you could use it."

"I booked it last night," you nod. "Tomorrow through til valentines day. I need the time to settle back into routines and I've been drinking coffee religiously—it's more than the one I drink here. I drink at least three cups a day just in the name of keeping myself upright and that needs to stop. I am beyond caffeine overdose. I can drink 600 miligrams a day and not feel a thing."

"That is definitely cause for concern," Peter laughs. "But I'm glad you're okay and that you're trying to get better. I've booked up until the New Year off so that I could catch up on sleep, too, but if we're both home, it means a lot of us time after Christmas. Still goin' up to New York?"

"My mother will put us to death if we don't," you laugh. Peter laughs.

For a solid few minutes, things really do feel like they'll be okay.

-

For what is probably the first time since before he was so much as a cop, Peter Strahm is asleep, you also asleep next to him in the bed that you share, at nine o'clock. He wakes up at six thirty from an unfortunately kinky dream and all he wants to do is part your legs and eat you out until he can't breathe.

Granted—you've spoken extensively about it before, and you've given him the okay to do it several times just as he has you, but still. The part of Peter that's turned on by the idea is equally matched by the part that kind of feels gross about it.

But then, approximately five minutes into unbearably loud thoughts about pulling down the sweatpants you'd stolen from him and parting your legs and devouring you, and five minutes away from just running to the bathroom and rubbing one out to the idea, he watches you press your face against the pillow and moan loud enough for him to hear it.

"Peter," you moan. "Fuck, feels so good."

Peters eyes nearly roll to the back of his head and he bites down on his tongue to keep himself from floating.

He tries to shake out his hands, tries to think of anything else while your quiet, desperate moans fill the air.

He thrums through the Jigsaw victims that've popped up in recent weeks, tries to think about something like the weather or the baseball scores or something to focus on anything but the fact that you're in the midst of a sex dream, one involving him, and the fact that you're moaning your way through it in a way that makes Peter want to lose his mind.

And then, you moan Peters name in a way that you know in your lucid moments drives him crazy, and Peter can't stop himself.

You've discussed it before, and Peters done it before, and every single time he's woken you up with his tongue rubbing wildly against your clit, you've moaned out and started rutting against his face and made a comment about how much you liked waking up to Peter bringing you to orgasm.

Peter is careful to remove the sweatpants you've taken from his drawer, lifting up the shirt you also stole and exposing some of your waist.

He licks a stripe through your folds, not at all surprised to find you're wet if the way that you're moaning from the dream is of any indication, and almost moans against your cunt right then and there.

He starts off slowly, licking stripes against your folds and drinking your wetness down his throat like it's water. Every single time you moan something within him flutters, and he knows it's been too long since he's taken his time with eating you out.

And then, as his tongue attaches to your clit, he feels one of your hands move to his hair.

"Best way to wake up ever," you whisper. "Oh, Peter. Thank you."

You sound half-asleep, but Peter moans against you and you tug on his hair encouragingly, so he keeps going.

He runs his tongue in circles over your clit, sliding a digit into your wet hole without a thought in the world, fighting a smirk when you moan and tug on his hair again.

He starts thrusting, sets a pace that has you writhing within minutes, and takes his fingers out in the last split second before you release, replacing his fingers with his tongue and lapping up your cum without thought, care, or merit. You thrust against his face in the aftershocks, moan as he gets up from his position.

He pulls you in for a kiss while you use one arm to amble through your nightstand for a condom, feeling Marks half-hard, clothed-but-only-by-flannel-pajama-pants length against your bare thigh.

You pull away only so that he can take his pants off, and you slide the condom on with care for how hard his cock is. He peppers your neck and jawline with kisses as he slowly thrusts into your sensitive folds, moaning as he bottoms out.

"I love you," he says to fill the silence while he waits for you to adjust.

"Thank you for dealing with me when I'm at my worst," you press a kiss to his cheekbone. "And for waking me up in the best way ever. Love it when you eat me out, Pete. You're so fucking good at it."

Your legs are wrapped around his waist and you squeeze his hips to tell him to start moving, and when he does, he sets a slow pace. Despite his fervency when it came to oral, he did intend to actually make it known that he did love you and wasn't always in it just to get you or himself to orgasm as quickly as possible.

His pace is slow indeed, but not slow enough that you're pretty much begging him to pick it up a little, and his thrusts are languid in a way that's perfect.

Both of you start moaning after a bit, and Peter, the guy who never moans and usually just likes hearing how you sound when you do, is moaning lewdly and loudly into the nape of your neck while you moan quietly near his ear.

"Peter," you moan. "Peter, fuck. You're so fucking good at this, yeah? You're treating me so well, baby. You're amazing."

Peter moans, clearly enjoying the praise, and you rut your hips against him.

"Fuck," he moans, picking up the pace just a little. "Fuck, Y/N. I love getting you so slick. You were dreaming about me, yeah?"

"Yeah," you nod. "Yeah. We were fucking at the precinct, in one of the storage closets."

Peter moves a hand to rub your clit, loving the moan that it brings out of you.

Minutes pass by of the same, and your release triggers Peters. You moan each others names as you come, and while you go pee to make sure you don't end up with a UTI, Peter pulls the condom off and trashes it, gets a bath going for the two of you.

In the bath, you talk of plans for the day, which will consist entirely of going to the shops together, reading books and doing last-minute christmas shopping.

All in all, you're happy that Peter woke you up with oral and Peter is happy that you're feeling okay enough to want to be woken up that way again.

[kale-smoothies]

Besides the electro-shock therapy, I think they also would’ve tried some sort of hypnosis on Scourge the further they went with his rehab, because the more I think about what Flynn said about reforming into being like Sonic? Just how much would that be of his own will to change? Look how this fucker was already affected psychologically from the beatdowns.

Zobotnik would’ve done so if Scourge would’ve stayed a defiant little beast.

Listen, I said this before, and I’ll say it again. Whatever Scourge went through in his prison arc was borderline abuse. DON’T SCOFF AND TURN AWAY HEAR ME OUT!! I have points, let me discuss them.

A) Trimmed Quills

When I first read this, a few months back, I bust out laughing. The fact that Scourge was STRONGLY objecting to getting his quills trimmed and the FACT that he was STRAPPED DOWN was all the better.

I did some research after a while, surprisingly there was little to no Information about pruning/trimming hedgehog quills. I still found some stuff.

“Cutting off the tips of his quills likely stress him out, cutting their quills, which are hollow by the way, leaves them open to getting infections. the hedgehog should go through a quilling and lose all the quills that she damaged and grow in new, spiky ones.”

“…hedgehog quills do not contain any nerves and trimming them wouldn’t hurt the animal, but that doesn’t mean that this is recommended. This is your pet’s only defense mechanism and losing it would only make them feel like they were in even more danger.”

These two were the only quotes I could find about trimming quills. So, this could be an emotional/psychological abuse tactict from Zobotnik. He had made it clear that he wanted to BREAK Scourge’s spirit. What a better way to do that than to remove the only natural defense he has left? I’m not sure if this was the writer’s intent, or that I was reading too much into it. I’d die if one of the writers came over and said. “Yeah, no, we just wanted him to have an equivalent to a buzzcut!” Too bad! The implications are THERE

B) Cell block and sleeping habits

Yeah, no. There was no way he’d be sleeping comfortably 24/7

I THINK Zobotnik paired Scourge with Smalls deliberately. Smalls was probably fucked over by Scourge so he has a grudge against him. He stole his MATTRESS for god’s sake. Scourge is sleeping on SPRINGS! SPRINGS!! He’s practically squashed from the topbunk, and he’d be more comfortable sleeping on the floor. There are probably countless sleepless nights from this ALONE. Insomnia could be a plausible thing! I didn’t even mention the chronic paranoia and anxiety that he probably suffers from.

C) prison Piñata

You know, I would’ve added more of Scourge being tossed around but it would’ve been a tad bit too much. Just know his ego is SHATTERED, this is the same guy that beat Shadow, Sonic, Silver, and everyone else WITHOUT a super form (or with I can’t recall) Either way, this is just sad. Pathetic even, but sad.

HOW CAN I FORGET! THE GUARDS!

Okay, so the guards don’t give two shits about Scourge. This is because Zobotnik want’s to break his spirit SO it was implied after this that the warden deliberately let Scourge be beat around.

Also, did you catch what Al § Cal said?

“And the day is saved!” — “Until the guards start to beat him, but hooray all the same!”

ARE THEY IMPLYING THAT SCOURGE GETS BEAT UP FROM OFFICERS TOO?! Ignoring is under-stable but holy shit, do they beat him too??

Also, reminder that those guards only broke up the “fight” was because Zobotnik requested for Scourge, they would’ve let him get shit on until the inmates grew bored.

D) Lesser food

Look at Scourge’s tray. It has possibly three mouthfuls of porridge?? Now, look at the variant of Wave’s tray. Steak, fries, rice and mashed potatoes with gravy. She’s eating alot and Scourge did not even GET to eat his food.

You know what’s sad? It’s that when Scourge sat down with his food, he didn’t eat it. He played around with it with a somewhat sad expression. Does food not appease him anymore? Is it because Smalls dunks his face into it all the damn time? Is that why he doesn’t eat as much? Or is this just Zobotnik lessening his food just as another rehab technique, as it was heavily implied that it was.

There’s SO MUCH material here. E) Fear of dying,

First photo is just.. honestly, to me, it’s sad. He’s obviously so afraid of death, of dying as a joke, dying as someone so forgettable. Would he have broke down, right then if Jeffery didn’t interrupt? He’s filled to the brim of anxiety and paranoia. He yelled at Fiona for helping him because he was supposed to just be a good boy and take it, if he didn’t, he’d die.

AND HE WAS ABOUT TO. Maxx, ignored Scourge’s denial, and ordered for his gang to TEAR HIM APART to the point where his murder would be BARELY RECOGNISABLE. He practically threw him to the wolves. Scourge would’ve died RIGHT THEN if it wasn’t for the Destructix’s intervention.

Okay, i think I yapped too much. Can you guess I really really enjoy analysing prison scourge?

[atths--twice]

Never Too Late

I absolutely loved this one. Hope you do too. 💓

Fictober day 7. Prompt- It's not too late, let's go.

Scully yawned beside him for the third time in ten minutes, which of course triggered his own yawn though he fought it. 

“I’m so tired,” she said, her voice scratchy with sleep. Or lack thereof. 

They had been out of town for nearly a week, sleep becoming a luxury by the second night, the case demanding more from them. 

But they were home now and had the next two days off to finish paperwork and get some much needed rest. 

“I can’t stop yawning,” she said, her hand covering her mouth. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said just as a large yawn overtook him and she gave him a look. “Promise. It’s just because you yawned.”

“I’m sorry,” she said as she yawned. “God, I can’t seem to stop.” 

“Well, we’re almost to your place and you can get some sleep.”

“I’m going to eat something first. I’m so hungry. And I have to take a shower. I feel so disgusting.” 

“Okay, then after all that,” he said with a laugh. “I promise I won’t even call you tomorrow to bother you about anything.”

“I’ll believe that when it happens.” She smiled at him and then frowned. “Oh no. I just remembered that I don’t have anything to eat at my apartment. Ohhh, I can’t believe this.”

“Do you want to stop and get something?”

“No. It’s late and you still have to drive to your place. I don’t want to do that to you.” 

“Come on, Scully. I know we haven’t known each other too long, but I thought by now you’d know I’m a bit of a night owl. It’s not too late, let’s go get something. We could do drive-thru and you could take it home. I really don’t mind.”

“Pancakes sound really good. And hot chocolate. There’s that coffee shop on third street that’s open all night. I’ll buy.” She looked at him, tilting her head as she smiled. He nodded and made a right at the next light. 

And thus a tradition was born, though they did not know it at the time. 

All they knew was that they were hungry and pancakes at nearly one in the morning hit differently than they do any other time. And hot chocolate, even when it is muggy and hot out, does something to make the world seem like a completely different place. 

Those times when they ate at that coffee shop, sometimes so punch drunk that Scully got the giggles, meant more than they could have foreseen. 

___________

He gave her a key to his apartment there, on a rainy Saturday morning, her eyes asking him silent questions. 

“Considering the cases we investigate, the risks involved, I thought…” He shrugged and she nodded, turning it over in her fingers. 

“It’s a good idea,” she agreed. 

“And if you ever can’t sleep and need someone to join you in your insomnia, feel free to stop by,” he teased and she smiled as she added his key to her key ring. 

________

She told him about her father, coming back from a case nearly two months after he had died. 

“He was tough to get along with at times, especially as I got older and my interests changed. We… we fought sometimes and he didn’t always understand my reasoning for what I wanted to do with my life.” 

“I think that’s most parents,” he offered, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. 

“Yeah,” she whispered, with a nod as she tore up a napkin into small pieces. “I just wish I could talk to him, ask him if… if he’s proud of me.” She whimpered and tried to hide her tears. 

“How could he not be proud of you, Scully?” he asked, handing her his extra napkin. She nodded as she kept her head bowed and dried her eyes. 

_________

“Can you meet me?” she asked, calling him late at night. 

“I’ll be there.” 

She was already in a booth when he arrived. A plate of food and a cup of coffee sat on the table, but both appeared untouched. 

“You okay?” he asked as he sat down. 

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered, her head bowed. “I keep seeing him. Feeling him on me. Hearing him…” 

Donnie Pfaster. 

Mulder clenched his jaw and fists simultaneously as he thought about him. 

“I can’t sleep,” she said again, her chin quivering. 

“What can I do to help?” 

“Sit here with me?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with tears when she looked at him. 

“As long as you want,” he said softly and she nodded as she attempted to hold back her tears, breathing deeply and wiping her eyes. 

___________

On a Sunday, he waited for her to join him after Mass. To his surprise, her mother came along, smiling as she sat down, inquiring as to how he was doing. 

He looked at Scully, wondering if she had told her mother about the recent case with John Lee Roche. She held his gaze and shook her head slightly, their thoughts once again similar. He exhaled a breath of relief and smiled at Mrs. Scully. 

“I’m doing alright. How are you?” 

And for fifteen minutes, she spoke of Bill Junior and Tara who were expecting their first child, her friends at church, and where Charlie was currently stationed. 

He nodded and added words when needed, but mostly he sat and listened. Scully’s hand found his under the table and she gave it a gentle squeeze before she asked questions, carrying the conversation and giving him the space to decide how to proceed. 

________

He brought her pancakes from the coffee shop after she came home from the hospital, her cancer in remission. He did not expect her to eat much, but the gesture was what mattered most. 

“Orange juice too,” she said, smiling tiredly as he took everything out of the bag. “And bacon.” 

“Didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for, but I wanted you to have something.” 

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it, I do, but I’m not hungry right now. I just want to sleep.” 

“Understandable,” he said, nodding his head and putting the containers into the refrigerator. 

“I’ll have a little of the orange juice, but everything else can wait.” 

He handed the to-go cup to her and she took three small sips before handing it back to him. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, touching his arm and walking to her bedroom. 

__________

“So, everyone is at your mom’s?” he asked, shaking salt onto his eggs. “Even Charlie, the elusive Scully?” 

“He says he will be,” she said, smiling as she looked at the new watch Mulder had given her for Christmas. “I’ve got three and a half hours.” 

“See? It’s never too late to be here. You’ve got plenty of time,” he said with a grin, offering her the syrup which she declined. 

“If I head over after we eat, I can sleep for a bit.” 

“And no one will be the wiser that you spent Christmas Eve in a haunted house.” 

“Especially as I won’t be offering any information about such a thing,” she said, stealing his cup of fruit and adding it to her plate. 

“You don’t think Bill would approve?” 

She tossed her straw wrapper at him and he laughed. 

__________

“Well, it’s a few days later than you probably would have liked and it’s definitely past sunset,” he said as they entered the coffee shop. “But knowing Richie and Henry are alright is worth the later hour.” 

“Yeah,” she agreed, sitting down in what they have long since considered to be their booth. 

“And while it’s not a five star place, it’s…” 

“I’ve always felt that five star places are overrated,” she said, and he smiled. 

“I agree,” he said with a nod. 

“Besides, it’s the company that’s important.” 

“In agreement once again,” he said. 

He laid his hand on the table and she looked over her shoulder quickly, before placing her hand on top of it. Holding it, he gently ran his thumb across her knuckles as they both drew in a deep breath and smiled. 

___________

It was her turn to bring food from the coffee shop. 

She woke him with a kiss, her fingers gently running along his cheeks and jaw. Jet lagged from his two days in England, it took him a few seconds to open his eyes. 

“Hey,” she whispered, kissing him again. “I have to get home to change for work, but I brought some breakfast.” 

“Mmm. No work, come back to bed instead,” he said, putting his arms around her and pulling her on top of him. 

She laughed, laying her head on his chest, as he closed his eyes and began to comb his fingers through her hair. 

“There’s coffee, orange juice, egg white omelets-” He groaned and she laughed. “Plus some pancakes.” He hummed his approval, kissing the top of her head. “But I do have to leave soon, so if you want to join me, you need to get your ass out of bed.” 

“You’re hindering me, what with your body draped across mine.” 

“And whose fault is that?” she asked, beginning to rise off of him and he groaned his protest once again. “Come on, get up.” 

He ate bare chested, clad in only his pajama bottoms, and his hair sleep tousled. But she could not seem to keep her eyes off of him, watching him and not eating much of her own food. 

When he walked her to the door, she turned around and stared up at him. 

“I was unsure what I wanted, where this…” She gestured between them and sighed. “I wasn’t sure where it was going and what it all meant. But being apart from you these past couple of days… I know now.” 

“What do you know?” he asked, stepping closer, but not touching her. 

“I love you,” she said softly, but firmly. “I have in many ways for a long time, but this…” She gestured again and smiled. “I know what this is and I know what I want.”

“Good,” he said, just as softly. She nodded and scrunched her chin, smiling again. “It’s me, right? You want me?” 

“Mulder,” she laughed, shaking her head as he pulled her to him with a smile.

“It’s you, Scully,” he whispered into her hair. “My one in five billion. My one constant in this crazy world.” He pulled back and held her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. “I love you too.” 

____________

“You know what sounds really good?” she asked, her feet in his lap. He looked up, watching her rub her pregnant belly, and he smiled. 

“What’s that?” he asked, rubbing a particularly tender spot on her foot if the groan she let out was any indication. 

“French toast, hot chocolate, and tomato slices.” She hummed as she rubbed her belly again. 

He grimaced at the combination of items she listed, but after watching her recently eat peanut butter on cucumbers, he had learned to keep his mouth shut. 

“I could make you something,” he offered, but she sighed sadly as she shook her head. 

“I don’t have any tomatoes.” 

“Well, let’s go get you those tomatoes,” he said, moving her feet and standing up. 

“Mulder, no. It's late,” she protested, but would not hear it. 

“It’s not too late. Let’s go.” 

“I’m not dressed,” she whined as he helped her to her feet. 

“You look beautiful. You’re glowing,” he said, and she gave him a look. “I promise, you look great. I’ll get your shoes.” Kissing her quickly, he hurried to her bedroom to grab what she would need. 

When she took a bite of the tomatoes, her eyes closing as she hummed in satisfaction, he grinned. 

“Worth it?” he asked and she nodded, humming again. 

_____________

He saw her in their booth, though it had been many years since they had been to the coffee shop. Looking at something on her phone, she did not see him until he was standing beside the table. 

“Hey,” he said softly, sitting down across from her. “Place looks different, but the same.” 

“Yeah,” she agreed, putting her phone face down and sighing as she looked around. “When I drove past it the other day, I was surprised to see it was still here. So many other places have changed. But I suppose that’s life… you can’t stop it from going on around you.” 

“Yeah,” he agreed, thinking of all they had been through over the years. 

How many memories did this booth hold? How many meals had they eaten and how many discussions were had? 

“Things are different,” she said, looking at him. “But still the same.” He nodded, knowing what she meant. “I’d like to… come here again. To…” She ran her fingers across the tabletop and then looked at him again. “To come back to what we knew. To… try again?” 

He smiled, nodding slowly.

“I’d like that.” 

“It’s not too late, right?” she asked, reaching her hand out to him, tears in her eyes. 

“Never,” he said, taking her hand and running his thumb across her knuckles. “It’s never too late.” 

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

Happy Jmart-iversary!!! Have some S1 annoyances-to-lovers (or, well, annoyances-to-mutual pining) Jmart to celebrate their day!

Martin usually has more shame than this.

Despite what certain Archivists might think, he isn’t oblivious. He knows Jon doesn’t like him, and while Jon seems to think that Martin has made it his mission in life to bother him whenever possible, Martin usually does his best to avoid Jon as much as civility and his job will allow.

But the thing is, Martin is lonely.

Worse than that, he’s 1 AM Lonely.

Martin has become something of an expert in loneliness, over the years, and he can confidently assert that 1 AM loneliness is the absolute worst. 7 AM loneliness is rough. 8 PM loneliness can be dire. But 1 AM loneliness is utterly, entirely hopeless. If he felt this way while the sun was still up, he might be able to find an excuse to call Tim and Sasha that wasn’t just, “I wanted to hear your voice.” If nothing else, he could walk to a library, or a coffee shop, and remember that there were other people in the world. But at 1 AM, he has nothing to do but sit with the yawning, aching emptiness in his chest, and feel like he is the last person left on the face of the earth.

Except for Jonathan Sims. 

He’d always sort of suspected that Jon had a deeply unhealthy work schedule, but he was still surprised at how often he wandered out of Document Storage after midnight, expecting to have the Archives to himself, only to run into Jon in the breakroom. He’s always more irritable at night – which Martin wouldn’t have thought possible, a month ago – but an irritable Jon is better than nothing, which is how Martin has found himself standing outside Jon’s office in his pajamas, socked feet barely keeping out the chill of the scuffed linoleum floor.

There’s still time to change his mind. He could still turn around, go back to the cot in Document Storage, and sit in his insomnia with some semblance of dignity intact.

He knocks. 

There’s no response, but Martin’s used to that, so he lets himself in. When the door opens, Jon lifts his head from his work to stare daggers at him.

“Yes?” he snaps. “What do you want?”

“Just– J-Just checking in. Do you need anything?”

“No,” Jon says with a finality that borders on rudeness.

“Right.” Martin can take a hint, so he starts backing out of the door. “I’ll, uh… I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Jon purses his lips like he wants to say, See to it that you do, but is aware that that would be rude even for him, and says nothing. Martin winces as he pulls the door shut behind him.

Well. He did achieve what he was setting out to. He no longer feels like he’s completely alone in the world – there’s at least one asshole here with him.

Somehow, that thought comforts him enough that he is finally able to sleep.

*

The next few days, Martin manages to sleep a bit better. The Archives are remarkably empty on the weekend – not even Jon is working Saturdays, this week – so he has to contend with 3 PM loneliness (and 4 PM loneliness, and 5 PM loneliness…) but by 1 AM he is sound asleep. When the work week starts again on Monday, Martin is feeling almost well-rested.

Jon, it seems, isn’t.

He hasn’t stayed late at the office for the past few days, but whatever he was doing away from work, Martin feels confident that it wasn’t sleeping. He’s in an even worse mood than usual, and chews Martin out for a full 5 minutes about a simple formatting error that Martin has seen Tim and Sasha make before. 

(Tim used to work in publishing, he thinks but does not point out, he built his career on finding formatting problems, so if even he screws this up occasionally, I’m pretty sure it’s not a huge deal. But of course, when Tim makes a mistake, he gets a note on his report asking him to revise it, not a 10-minute lecture in which it’s implied that he doesn’t take seriously the historic institution for which he works, and that he may as well be spitting on the grave of Jonah Magnus with each misused semicolon.)

Which makes it all the more embarrassing when 1 AM rolls around and Martin once again hesitates outside the door to Jon’s office. He’s got tea this time, which is a pretty feeble excuse to barge in at 1 in the morning, but it’s a better one than he had last time. He has to shift both mugs to one hand to get the door open.

“Tea?” he asks in lieu of a hello. “I was making some for myself and figured you might want some.” (It’s a bald-faced lie, but Jon doesn’t need to know that.) When Jon doesn’t respond, Martin trips over himself to fill the silence. “It’s, uh. I-It’s herbal. I hope that’s alright. Thought caffeine was probably a bad idea, this time of night.”

“Hm,” is all Jon says in response, but he still takes a sip.

Martin settles into the seat opposite the desk. Jon eyes him suspiciously, but once again says nothing. He turns his attention back to his laptop, and they drink their tea in silence. 

It’s almost pleasant, somehow. The tea is delicious, in Martin’s completely unbiased opinion, and Jon relaxes enough to become a reassuring presence. He doesn’t speak, but he’s a living, breathing human in the same room as Martin, and that’s all Martin needs right now. Jon sighs and coughs and taps his foot, and whenever he notices a mistake in whatever it is he’s reading, he gives an irritable click of his tongue and starts typing furiously. At one point he even laughs. It’s not much – a quiet little bark of a laugh, barely any louder than his sighs – but it still comes as a surprise.

“What?” Martin asks, and Jon startles as though he forgot Martin was there.

Jon looks vaguely mortified to have done something so human and unprofessional as to laugh, but he explains, “Tim’s report on the Ramao case. His methods for obtaining Ramao’s marriage license were… very Tim.”

“Ah.” Martin has a few guesses at what that could mean. “B&E, bribery, or flirting?”

“Flirting,” Jon confirms. “Honestly, I’d prefer a good B&E. At least then I wouldn’t have to explain to Elias why dinner for two at Frescobaldi counts as a business expense.”

“Always happy to do my part,” Martin grins, but his smile droops as he adds, “Though my last break-in didn’t quite go to plan.”

Jon’s face grows serious as well. “Right. How, uh, h-how are you… adjusting?”

“Fine,” Martin says, and it’s not the biggest lie he’s told in his life, but it’s close.

“Right,” Jon says again. He doesn’t ask any follow-up questions, and Martin can’t help but be relieved to let the subject drop, even if the rest of the conversation drops with it. They go back to drinking their tea in silence, and soon enough it’s time for Martin to collect their empty mugs and slink back out of the office.

This time, at least, Jon says good-bye.

“Good night, Martin.”

Martin’s lips twitch upward, just a hair. “Good night, Jon.”

He sets the mugs in the sink and heads back to Document Storage, and he’s asleep within minutes.

*

Tuesday night he manages to fall asleep at a shockingly reasonable hour. Which is wonderful, right up until it isn’t.

He wakes up in a cold sweat from a nightmare that is already fading from his memory. His dad was in it, which is rare. He tries to recall what his face had looked like, but it’s gone. Maybe he hadn’t even had a face – dreams are like that sometimes – but he can still feel it at the edges of his memory, slipping away with each passing second.

He does his best to remember what the dream had been about. He was back in the apartment he used to share with his mother, the tiny, dingy place that forever smelled like mildew and cigarettes even though neither of them smoked, and his father was there. Then he left, again, and his mother was furious. She didn’t need to say that she blamed Martin, he could read it in her face, but she told him anyway. And then the apartment was a hospital room, and there were nurses yelling at him, too – how could he upset his mother at a time like this? Didn’t he know how ill she was? And then the hospital was his new apartment, and the mildew smell wasn’t mildew at all but worms, worms and rot, and he hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks, and no one had thought to check on him, and the only one in the world who cared whether he lived or died was the woman trying to break down his door and fill him with worms.

So not the best dream he’s ever had.

He checks his phone. 12:22. Great. Too late to talk to anyone, too early to just get out of bed and start the day.

He stares out at the dark room. Document Storage has no windows, and with the hallway light off, there isn’t even any light spilling in under the doorway, so his eyes have nothing to catch on. He can do nothing but sit in the dark as the afterimage of his bright phone screen gets swallowed up by the gloom.

It’s not as though the dream was real. He’s safe for now; the worms can’t get to him here. And he’s not alone in the world. He’s not. His coworkers didn’t just abandon him to die – he’s seen the texts, he knows they had every reason to think he was safe.

Still, if Tim had been out for two full weeks with a stomach bug, Martin would have been on his doorstep with soup and ginger chews and an offer to drive him to the doctor any time he needed. He would have checked up on him. So would Sasha. So would Jon, probably – as much as he likes to present himself as aloof and coldly professional, Martin knows he cares about Tim and Sasha a whole lot more than he lets on. There’s only one person in the Archives who could disappear without being missed.

It isn’t that his friends don’t care about him. He knows they do. But he also knows, with bone-deep certainty, that they don’t care about him as much as he cares about them, and that’s a very lonely feeling.

Martin pushes himself out of bed. He doesn’t know what to do, exactly, but he’s had enough nightmares in his life to know that getting out of bed and away from the room he woke up in is a good place to start.

There’s a light on in Jon’s office. This time, Martin can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed when he steps inside.

Jon is sitting behind his desk, like always, scribbling furiously in the margins of some document Martin doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t even glance up when Martin enters the room this time.

“Yes?”

“Do you–” Martin’s voice is hoarse and rough – he hadn’t thought to get anything to drink when woke up, and now his throat is painfully dry – but he clears his throat and pushes through. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Right.”

Martin takes a seat in the chair beside the desk. He doesn’t try to make conversation. He doubts Jon wants to hear it, and he isn’t feeling up for it, anyway. He just sits and listens to the scratching of Jon’s pen.

He’d be more than happy to sit in silence all night, but Jon keeps pausing his work to shoot suspicious glances Martin’s way, and Martin knows he ought to say something, so he clears his throat again and asks, “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

He sounds more than a little irritated. Martin should definitely take that as a sign to leave, but he isn’t ready to go back to sitting in the dark in Document Storage just yet.

“I could make tea?” he offers. “It’s no trouble, really.”

“I don’t need tea,” Jon snaps. “And I don’t need help, and I certainly don’t need a nosy coworker barging into my office every five minutes to try and guilt me into leaving work.”

“What?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Jon insists. “And it’s none of your business how late I work–”

“I don’t care how late you work! I mean, I think you could stand to get some sleep once in a while, but that’s not–”

“Then why are you always hovering around any time I work late?”

Martin is too tired to think better of it before he snaps, “Because I’m lonely, Jon! Because it’s one in the bloody morning and I can’t sleep and everyone else I know is already in bed. Believe me, if there was a single other person I could be talking to right now, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh.”

That’s all Jon says. Martin isn’t sure what he’s going to say if he stays in this room any longer, so he stands up.

“I’m going to make tea. Do you want any?”

Jon nods.

When Martin comes back with two perfectly-brewed cups of camomile-and-vanilla, Jon has set aside his pen and his notes and is fidgeting at his desk. Anxiety and shame flicker across his face when he accepts the mug that Martin offers him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking. I thought you just wanted me out of the Archives.”

“Yeah, well. Not everything’s about you.”

And Jon laughs at that – the same soft, barking laugh he’d given to Tim’s report – and Martin feels a strange sort of affection flood through him at the sound. Pretty inconvenient, given that he was just getting used to being irritated with Jon.

“I suppose I deserve that.” Jon smiles, and it’s somehow worse than the laugh. There are a few more minutes of silence before he speaks up again. “Have you, um. Have you ever tried lavender?”

“What?”

“Whenever I tell people I have insomnia, they always recommend lavender – lavender essential oil, lavender tea, lavender eye masks…”

“Have you tried it? Does it help?”

“Not in the least,” Jon says. “Not for me. But maybe it would help you.”

“Maybe,” Martin agrees, more out of politeness than any real hope. “Never hurts to try.”

Jon nods. He looks for a moment like he’s debating with himself whether to say anything else, then he clears his throat with an awkward little grimace and says, “If– i-if you ever need to talk… I can’t promise I’ll be very good conversation, but I can promise I won’t yell at you next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

*

Martin’s insomnia doesn’t get any better. Breathing exercises don’t help, and neither does the white noise app he downloads. A box of lavender tea mysteriously appears in the break room, and it doesn’t make him tired, but it does leave him with a warm, fuzzy feeling that can’t be entirely explained by having drunk a hot beverage.

Jon starts staying late more often. Some nights, just knowing that he’s there is comforting enough to stave off the worst of Martin’s loneliness, but some nights he finds himself once again sitting in the chair in Jon’s office while Jon sits across from him with his nose buried in a statement. Jon never asks for an explanation anymore, just nods at Martin when he comes in and then gets back to work.

They don’t talk much on nights like this, but they do talk. Mostly it’s just chatter – how was your day? Did you see what Tim was wearing today? How long until they fix the aircon in this building? – but some nights the conversation opens up to the kind of vulnerability that only 2 AM can bring.

“I wish I was as close with Tim and Sasha as you are.”

It’s not a complete non sequitur – they were just talking about their coworkers – but Martin can still feel the tone shift between them.

Jon just blinks. “What do you mean? I’m certain they like you more than they like me – The three are always going out to lunch–”

“And we always invite you!” Martin reminds him, “You just never come! And anyway, you three go way back, you all know each other so well… They don’t even know me well enough to know if it’s me texting them or some evil worm woman.” He’s gotten to know Jon well enough over the past few weeks to know that, supportive or not, Jon’s never very quick with words of comfort, so he goes on. “I can’t complain – I mean, they’re nice! They’re really nice! It’s just… it’s not fun, feeling like the odd one out.”

Jon flashes him a grimace that Martin thinks is supposed to be commiserative but mostly just looks awkward. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “I also wish I was closer with Tim and Sasha. Things haven’t been the same since we transferred from Research. And it doesn’t help that they both know Sasha should have been promoted over me.”

Martin wants to reassure him, tell him that Elias must have promoted him for a reason, but he’s the last person who can argue that Elias always hires the most qualified person for the job.

“Anyway,” Jon says, “I know for a fact they like you. Have you just told them how you feel?”

“Have you?”

Jon smiles. “Alright, fair enough.”

The conversation moves on to lighter topics from there, and Martin almost forgets about it. But the next time 1 AM loneliness hits, it’s a relief to know that he isn’t the only one in the Archives who’s lonely.

*

Jon stays late every night the next week. 

Martin knows Jon doesn’t want anyone chiding him, but he worries. He looks more and more worn out by the day, and Martin’s pretty sure he’s getting less work done for all the time he’s spending in the Archives.

When Martin wakes up from another nightmare (just a Prentiss nightmare this time, not a Prentiss-and-his-mother double feature) he doesn’t have to question if Jon’s around. When he checks his phone and sees that it’s well past 2 AM, some small, optimistic part of him thinks Jon might have gone home by now, but he isn’t at all surprised when he sees light spilling in from under the door in Jon’s office.

Jon doesn’t look up when Martin enters the room. 

He looks rough. His head is resting in his hands, shoulders slumped, fingers wearily massaging his temples. When he hears the door click closed behind Martin, he finally looks up, and Martin can see that the dark circles under his eyes have gotten worse.

“Go home, Jon,” he says, and Jon shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

“You need sleep.”

“I doubt I could get any sleep tonight regardless,” Jon says. “Insomnia, remember?”

“Well, try,” Martin says, patience waning. “Go home.”

“I can’t.” Jon’s voice is small and hoarse, and he sounds more vulnerable than he ever has in all their late-night chats.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

 “You were alone for two weeks, Martin,” he says, voice hushed as though he’s confessing something. “I can’t leave you alone like that again.”

Oh. Martin puts some pieces together. His boss has been running himself ragged, staying at work past 2 in the morning most days, because he’s convinced Martin can’t handle being alone at night. He thinks that Martin is a child in need of a security blanket, and has decided that the best course of action is to simply never leave work. It is, unfortunately, very sweet, but it’s also utterly humiliating.

“I can handle being alone!” he sputters, mortified beyond belief. “Believe me, I’ve had plenty of practice. I don’t need you to always be around. I-I know I said I get lonely sometimes, but, God, I’m not that pathetic.”

Jon frowns. “I don’t think you’re pathetic,” he whispers. “Believe me, Martin, that’s the last thing I think. I know I haven’t always been… fair to you. Or kind. Or even civil. If I had been fair to you, you wouldn’t be living in this basement.” He drops his gaze and addresses his next words to his hands. “It’s my fault you have to stay here,” he murmurs. “The very least I can do is ensure that you don’t have to stay here alone.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that. His brain cycles through several options and discards them all as insufficient. In the end, he decides to forgo words altogether. He stands up, reaches over, and pulls Jon out of his seat and into a hug.

Jon startles, and for a moment Martin thinks he’s made a horrible miscalculation, but then wraps his scrawny arms around his middle and squeezes tight.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I forgive you,” Martin says. “Now go home.”

*

That Friday, the four of them go out for drinks after work. It’s Martin’s idea, and he insists that they invite Jon. Tim and Sasha tell him it’s a lost cause – Jon’s never agreed to get lunch with them, he certainly won’t agree to drinks – but lo and behold, Jon agrees.

It’s awkward. Martin hasn’t left the Archives much since Prentiss, and he’s on high alert for worms, but he can’t deny that having his coworkers with him is a comfort. Sat around a sticky high-top table in a pub that smells like stale beer and fresh sweat, the conversation simply flows. Every now and then, the other three will laugh at some inside joke from their research days, but Jon always makes a point of bringing Martin up to speed.

Afterwards, Jon walks him back to the Archives. Martin is floating in a warm, hazy middle ground between ‘tipsy’ and ‘drunk,’ and Jon seems to be feeling much the same.

“I could stay, if you’d like,” Jon says.

“I’ll be fine,” Martin says.

When he makes it to the cot in Document Storage, he’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

*

It would be nice, Martin thinks, if getting closer to people were the straightforward antidote to loneliness – if making friends were enough to stop him feeling so utterly friendless. But loneliness is never a simple thing, and some nights he still finds himself lying awake at night feeling like the last man on earth.

He checks the time. 1 AM. Naturally.

For the second time in a week, Jon doesn’t look up to see Martin when he enters the room. This time, he’s slumped over the desk, dead asleep.

He looks smaller, somehow, when he’s sleeping. His face is slack, the perpetual furrow in his brow is gone, and his hair is falling across his face in a way that leaves Martin itching to reach over and tuck it behind his ear. He looks cute, if Martin’s being entirely honest, but Jon’s only started being mostly-nice to Martin in the past two weeks or so, so Martin isn’t ready to be that honest with himself quite yet.

He reaches out a hand and gently shakes Jon’s shoulder.

“Jon.”

Jon stirs but doesn’t wake, so Martin shakes harder. 

“Jon,” he repeats. No luck.

He sighs. He’s still wide awake, and he doubts that’s going to change any time soon. At least one of them should get some use out of the cot.

It’s surprisingly easy to pick Jon up. Jon stirs slightly as Martin scoops him into his arms, and for one terrifying second he thinks he’s going to wake up in Martin’s arms, but he doesn’t. Opening the doors to first the office and then Document Storage is more than a little tricky with his hands full, but he manages.

He sets Jon down on the bed as gently as he can, but Jon finally rouses as Martin tucks a blanket over his shoulders.

“Martin?” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

“Go back to sleep, Jon.”

It doesn’t seem like Jon needs any encouragement. His eyes are already slipping closed again, but he manages to ask, “Will you be alright on your own?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, “I’ll be alright.” 

And he means it.

(View this story on AO3)

[trophyposting]

TROPHY HEADCANONS bc i am spinning him around in my mind 24/7

•he LOVES studio ghibli movies bc of the art. he saw some of the residents watching ponyo in the lobby and he did that thing where he just stood in one place not sitting down to watch it bc he didnt wanna seem like he liked it. but he does. his favorite scenes art-wise are the big zoomed out landscapes and that one scene in ponyo where the town is underwater

•he cries like super easily (see waffling about and this post) and he doesnt even have to be very upset either it just kind of happens. crybaby ass

•he is an (probably undiagnosed) adhd-haver. i dont really have any evidence for this i just feel it in my bones

•he has NPD. i do have evidence for this one actually but that would be a whole post on its own honestly

•eventually his interest in photography extends to an interest in things he likes to photograph (eg. plants/flowers and butterflies)

•when clover comes to the island trophy ends up photographing (and by extension hanging out with) her a lot because she's, like, supernaturally photogenic and trophy loves how photos of her turn out. they become friends :-)

•he actually does genuinely dominate at dodgeball bc it involves two of his favorite things: 1. violence and 2. targeting the most autistic people he can find. cheesy just happened to throw him off with that joke about balls (also one of his favorite things)

•there's gotta be like some actual psychological warfare shit going on between trophy and tissues bc not only are they both petty bitches (more accurately tissues is a petty bitch and trophy is quick to anger and holds grudges which creates a self-perpetuating cycle of bitchiness) and they also spent like,., months in a closet together which is of course a recipe for disaster. in the case of limegold they're like that post about having sex by standing on opposite sides of the room fully-clothed trying to explode each other with their minds

•if trophy and cabby met i think they would actually hit it off bc he loves talking about himself and cabby loves knowing things about people. i even think he would be understanding of her memory issues bc his adhd ass would be like "? you forget things sometimes? hey me too dw abt it" bc like. even if her memory problems are more severe than his he still, like, understands yk (i do NAWT CARE if this is ooc they mean everything. 2 me)

•if trophy and silver spoon met silver spoon would dislike him for being "uncivilized and uncouth" and trophy would dislike him for being a snob. i love the aesthetic of those two as a duo but sadly i can't imagine them befriending each other

•he's probably from some totally obscure and random state in the midwest. like, iowa or nebraska or something. minnesota perhaps

•he kind of knows, at least on some level, that his decision-making skills aren't. great. that knowledge has not and never will stop him from continuing to make questionable decisions

•he loves relaxing and being alone, probably more than anyone would expect. he does have a workout regimen as fan said but working out is really more of a meditative and stress-relieving activity for him even if he isn't really fully aware of it. this is also (at least part of the reason) why he loves photography

•he kind of hates sleeping in his room bc of tissues' sneezing so he's developed insomnia and kind of just. wanders around at night. when he does get tired he just falls asleep in random places, usually on the couch in the lobby but sometimes he just. passes out on the floor

•that is. it :-)

[anneangel]

A note about Holmes and his Cocaine and Morphine use.

In "A Study in Scarlet" Watson sees Sherlock Holmes lying down and staring into nothing, and then Watson KNOWS that Holmes is on some NARCOTICS use. He just doesn't say anything because it goes beyond the limits of 19th century decorum to ask someone he's known for a week: 'Are you a drug user and addict?'.

As seen in this excerpt:

"Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on end he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night. On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic (...)" — A Study in Scarlet, chapter 2.

But later, in "The Sign of the Four", Watson tells us that Holmes is a Cocaine user too.

P.s: 'Cocaine' IS NOT a narcotic.

Narcotics produce a side effect of lethargy, dulls the senses, basically deaden the senses. Ex: marijuana/ Cannabis or Morphine.

BUT, Cocaine is a central nervous system stimulant. Cocaine would make Holmes stay awake for HOURS, without sleeping for a long time and have insomnia, It would make him lose his appetite, become hyperactive, it would cause euphoria and talkativeness, it would improve his alertness, his movements, it would speed up his thoughts, with accelerated speech, and give him a feeling of power, vigor and energy. (Note: don't think it's a 'holy medicine', it causes a lot of damage to health in the long time).

But basically, Cocaine would make Sherlock Holmes look and act EXACTLY like he does in the cases.

Now, do you know what the effects of Cocaine abstinence are? Irritability, apathy, extreme fatigue, drowsiness, lethargy, depression, and others, basically cause the OPPOSITE of the effects of using the drug. (That's because I didn't count all the damage to health!!!)

The fact that Holmes has sudden changes in mood, as Watson tells us, when he is having an case and when he is without it, could just be symptoms of use and after abstinence of Cocaine, and also the adverse effects of use and abstinence of Morphine. It has already been proven that both drugs cause behavioral changes. So part of Holmes' "eccentric" behavior wasn't actually his personality, but his substance use.

Notice in "The Sign of the Four". Regardless of the 7% solution, Sherlock Holmes deliberately uses the drug. He is addict. and barely bothers to use it in the common area of Baker Street and even offer to Watson.

"(...)With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. (...) Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction. Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance (...).

"Which is it today," I asked, "morphine or cocaine?"

"It is cocaine," he said, "a seven-per-cent solution. Would you care to try it?" (...) – The Sign of the Four, chapter 1.

Note that Holmes uses the drug at the beginning of the book before he has a client, he does not use it during the case, but he uses it again at the end of the book with the end of the case (ranging between cocaine and morphine).

Could this be the usual Holmes' routine?

Watson try not to give us the impression that Holmes is a severe drugs addict in others text. But he stated in The Sign of the Four that "Holmes used it 3 times a day" and that saw it for "months".

I assume that Watson was more worried about using Cocaine because it was more recurrent than using Morphine (after all, Holmes wouldn't risk being doped and losing a client and a good case, right?).

And if Holmes used drugs outside of a case, and paused the use during a case, this explains the several cases where Holmes is in 'crisis' after a 'difficult case' and where he is recommended to rest and Watson even takes him to away from Baker Strett for 'better air' (I can check and bring up the names of cases in the comments maybe?).

Even though Holmes's mind remains active during cases without needing to use, his body must suffer the loss of drugs, because both have a high risk of chemical-physical dependence.

But Watson was extremely obvious in The Sign of the Four, but later, he not to expose Holmes more. Possibly the doctor realized that he went too far and has not spoken so much about Holmes's addiction so openly about this since. Watson became much MORE reticent. That's what it looks like.

Holmes' substance use was possibly more dramatic and serious than Watson mentions in his texts to us. It just shows how Watson is prone to omitting facts and situations that could expose their private lives too much. This propensity increases more about their intimate life things, with anything who that could intimidate, ridicule, defame or expose them to physical or moral embarrassment, or anything that may puts them in a situation of threat, imposition, coercion, intimidation, oppression, repression or violence to their lives, or from their customers, family, friends and countries.

In fact, Watson omits much more than tells.