#its not that big of a deal but just lingering anxiety sometimes

[gallaghersgal]

hey there! tonight, i’m thinking about carmy boy who hates being in his blank, cold, lonely apartment :’(

since the first time you invited him over, he has been unable to deal with his own place. every time he gets the opportunity or finds an excuse, he ends up at your place because he just feels safer there. you have little trinkets, pictures of your friends, your family and eventually, even him. the apartment feels like it’s actually lived in, alive with its own energy—a home.

he realizes soon enough that he always sleep more soundly in your bed, covered in you, your smell, your favorite blankets and cushions. often, he’ll come over after a long shift or when it’s been too long since he had a good night of sleep. you cuddle with him and make sure to not make noise in the morning to let him sleep in. he told you once, half asleep and mumbling so you barely understood him, that he felt safe at your place.

you give him a spare too. so when you’re out of town for some reason or you’re still at work, he can find some solace in your apartment. it’s not exactly the same when it’s empty but he still finds comfort just being surrounded by what makes you, you—your perfume lingers in the air, your favorite cup is drying on the kitchen counter, your comforter is on the couch and he can take a nap, wrapped up in it.

your apartment is probably smaller, overall less good and farther from the restaurant than his but he prefers the detour he has to take and all those “downsides”. because nothing has ever felt like home before the way your place does to him.

but your workplace is also closer to his place so you ask to stay there sometimes. and slowly, his apartment becomes a little bit yours too. your makeup is in the bathroom. you buy frames and print out pictures of you and him, of your loved ones and gift them to him. you bring some of your vinyls to play on his record player. you leave some of your clothes in his drawer.

and his apartment becomes more bearable the more it becomes yours too. because it was never so much about the place, but about the person. you’re carmy’s home <3

i feel like i forgot some stuff i wanted to say but i’m sooo tired so i’ll come back if i remember lol

big smooches on your forehead

-🧸

HELLO MY LOVELY 🧸‼️

this is just. so so sweet. i feel like he really needs someone to take him out of his head, and sometimes that means taking him out of his physical space as well. there can be a lot of anxiety stored in there, it's easier to be afraid when you're alone :((

there's something so sweet in the way your apartment is further, and smaller, but it's filled with warmth. it's enough to where carmen, whose daily mantra is every second counts, can look past those lost minutes. because every minute spent at peace is worth so much more <33

the more his apartment becomes a shared space, the more he finally feels like his home is a home :((( ugh i just love him sm

[magniloquent-raven]

(pt1 here)

billy grew up afraid of finding his soulmate.

when he was eight his father caught him trying to wash nail polish off with soap and a hand towel.

he’d heard girls at school saying it was what you did when your soulmate was a boy. you were supposed to paint yourself up all pretty and find the person who matched. and it was easy enough to sneak into the vanity and steal a bottle of his mother’s nail polish. but once the paint dried he realized it would be impossible to hide from his father, and he panicked.

his mother showed him the bottle of nail polish remover after neil left. dabbed some on a cotton ball to rub at the thick layer of paint. she was silent, kneeling on the floor in front of him cradling his sprained wrist while he sat on the edge of the tub and cried.

they both had questions, but neither of them got answers.

it took billy months to work up the courage to try again.

he wasn’t sure why he was bothering, at first. he knew he couldn’t look for his soulmate the traditional way. and he was constantly terrified that his father would find the supplies he’d started hoarding. it seemed like more risk than reward, and yet. he couldn’t stop himself.

every time he was allowed to wander off in a store alone he’d slip something into his pocket. a tube of lip gloss. a compact full of shiny powders. he wasn’t even sure what some of it was, he just liked the colours. liked the pictures they hung alongside the displays. he wanted to look like that. beautiful.

and in his heart of hearts, he wanted the boy who was out there waiting for him to know he existed. whether they’d be able to find each other or not.

he’s more careful with this than he was with the nail polish. his father works saturday nights, and his mother always visits their neighbour while he’s at work. despite having the house to himself he locks his bedroom door.

the first thing he tries is the watermelon lip gloss. it’s sticky, and the wand doesn’t fit in his hand comfortably, but once he’s smeared it on he feels...good. he likes the way it catches the light. likes the way it smells. he looks at himself in the mirror and likes seeing something different.

the high doesn’t last long, it inevitably gives way to paranoia, anxiety that has him glancing at the locked door every thirty seconds, heart pounding, wondering if just maybe his father will get home from work early, and he jumps at every sound, hearing boots thudding on the porch and car doors slamming and anything that could be neil coming through the door.

cleaning himself up is hard. panic makes his hands shake, his eyes well up. he drops everything on the floor when he tries to tuck the bag away. and he has to spend twenty minutes with his back to his bedroom door getting his breathing under control when he’s finished.

but he does it again the following saturday. and the one after that.

for five months he does this. locks himself away with his stolen treasures and lets himself live a little. it gets easier as time goes on. and his mind wanders sometimes. to a future where he gets to share this with someone. the boy out there who’s supposed to love him one day.

it’s a small bubble of a dream. one he doesn’t spend too much time dwelling on. not when there’s neil’s voice in his head, telling him that no one could love a fucking freak, ‘cause fags don’t get real soulmates anyways.

he wants and he wishes, but the more he thinks about it the more he doubts. he’s never gotten a mark from his soulmate, and even if he did some day, what if his father’s right, and his “soulmate” doesn’t want him or makes him miserable or...worse.

so he does his makeup for himself.

until, like all good things in his life, his father ruins it.

he never found out what set neil off initially, something going wrong at work maybe, or the martial strife of the week getting to him. whatever it was that started it, neil eventually decided billy should bear the brunt of the fallout.

so he went through his things. said billy’d been acting cagey lately, and he was going to find out why.

and then found the makeup bag stuffed into an old sweater in his closet.

it was ugly. the things neil said that day would play on repeat in billy’s head for years afterwards. the scars his belt left on billy’s back were nothing in comparison.

the next saturday came and went. billy spent the evening curled up under a blanket not bothering to wipe away the tears dripping down his face.

by morning he’s resolved to forget the whole thing. to put it behind him. because it was stupid, and risky and childish and maybe his father was right. he’s almost convinced himself. and then he notices ink on his arm, as he reaches up to rub his eyes. messy scrawl, i bet you looked pretty crookedly written up his forearm.

he didn’t think he was able to cry any more, but he manages it.

for the first time his soulmate isn’t just a concept, or a what-if, he’s...a person. he’s a real person out there somewhere. someone who doesn’t even know billy and still wanted to reach out, to offer comfort. it’s more than he’s gotten from anyone else. even his mother. who he knows loves him, and she does her best to protect him, but when she found out about his makeup stash she just looked sad, and she’s said nothing to him about it.

but his soulmate…

can never, ever meet neil.

the thought hits him right in the chest.

whoever he is, he cares, he’s good. and neil breaks good things.

billy falls asleep that night tracing the empty space where his soulmate’s message used to be, wrapped up in worries and dreams, and terrified for someone he’s never met.

the doodles that come and go over the years are terrifying and exhilarating and billy manages to hide every single one from his father. they only ever show up during the day, and they don’t linger. something billy is both grateful for and resentful of.

sometimes he’ll watch other boys’ hands in class. check them for drawings. he thinks he’s being careful, but a girl in his chem class, becca, catches him. she says it’s only because she knew what to look for. they share a cigarette under the bleachers and she tells him about a girl who likes green eyeshadow and writes homework reminders on her wrists using stars instead of bullet points.

it takes billy six months and a couple shots of tequila to tell her about watermelon lip gloss and bet you’re pretty and they both cry when he starts to wonder if his soulmate will be disappointed that he isn’t a girl.

on a rainy april afternoon she asks him to go to a gay bar with her. he tells his father he’s going on a date. she tells her’s that she had to reschedule a tutoring session and it’ll run pretty late.

they wait til it’s dark and get ready in a dingy gas station bathroom. when she’s smearing on her eyeliner she catches sight of his face in the cloudy mirror. he wasn’t going to ask her for anything. he wouldn’t have brought it up. the twinge in his heart and a hollow feeling of longing aren’t anything new, he can deal.

he feels and empty kind of rage every time old, well-meaning relatives give max girly lip gloss kits and eyeshadow pallets and shit normal preteen girls who care about finding their soulmates actually appreciate. she always rolls her eyes and throws them away. susan will fish them out of the trash sometimes, and leave them under the bathroom sink, like if max just sees them there she’ll suddenly give a shit and start using them. like them being there does anything but taunt billy with what he can’t have.

neil watches him like a fucking hawk every time that shit comes into the house. and max doesn’t fucking care. doesn’t notice.

but becca offers.

and.

he’s not about to say no.

he should’ve said no.

it feels good at first, like it used to, it feels like freedom and he likes what he sees when he looks in the mirror, and he kisses a boy for the first time and it isn’t fireworks but it’s something, and he thinks maybe it’s going to be a good night, but then…

neil is waiting on the curb outside becca’s house. they were heading there first, because her parents wouldn’t notice, she said it would be fine, she has makeup remover he can use, he can clean up and head home and everything was supposed to be okay, except. it wasn’t.

it’s the last time he sees becca. neil tells her parents what was actually going on, and she isn’t allowed to visit him in the hospital.

and then six months of rehab, one rushed wedding and a big ugly sold sign later, neil carts them off to hawkins, indi-fucking-ana. as a “family.”

billy was certain this town would be nothing but a prison. it’d be somewhere he’d never find a place to be himself, neil would make sure of that. there wasn’t a single thing to like about this place and its bullshit small town sensibilities. for all the open space it might as well have been stone walls and steel bars.

except.

except...here was a boy with soft eyes and nimble fingers, who gets a little wrinkle between his brows when he concentrates, and is always moving, fidgeting, fiddling with zippers and touching his elbows and looking at him makes billy itch. to touch, to soothe, to take, and…

things get complicated when aimless blue waves scrawl up billy’s arm. when steve follows him out into the parking lot. calls him pretty to his face. and suddenly billy’s eight years old and realizing this shit is real. terrified of what that could mean. spinning fragile dreams like spider’s silk, hard to shake but easy to destroy.

even entertaining the idea of putting on makeup while he’s still in hawkins is stupid and dangerous, but goddamn if he hasn’t risked more for less.

he’s sure he’ll regret it. like he’s regretted every other desperate bid for freedom. but when faced with steve harrington’s smile, he can’t find it in himself to say no.

(edit: pt3 here)

[brywrites]

Gifted

Spencer Reid x Reader. Summary: All his life Spencer Reid has been told he’s gifted. And all his life he’s wondered what the point was of those gifts that felt like curses. Until her.

--------

Though he holds so many memories in his mind, Spencer Reid isn’t quite sure who the first person to call him “gifted” was. It was probably his mother, he thinks. Certainly not his father, who thought he was strange. Perhaps a teacher, or maybe even his Aunt Ethel. All he’s certain of is that he’s lost track of the number of times people have praised the so-called gifts he possesses. His eidetic memory, his autodidactism, his absurdly high IQ. His mind, they say, is a gift. But it’s felt more like a curse for most of his life.

Those same things that helped him skip grades and earn the praise of adults brought him years of bullying taunts and miserable adolescent trauma. They isolated him from his peers. His companions were library books and stories and mathematic proofs – nothing with a beating heart. They plagued his nightmares, for his mother had been brilliant too and what had that done for her? And those gifts came with a tremendous burden of pressure, they demanded use in a powerful way. Reid was always terrified he’d fail to live up to that impossible potential, proving himself unworthy of such great and terrible gifts.

By the time he’s thirty-six, he wonders why he was ever given such gifts in the first place. Clearly he’s squandered them, spent them on chasing monsters he thought might be human. They turned out to be hydras – for each one they catch, two more take its place. He’s let his mind waste away on drugs, on grief. In shacks and in prison and in grudges he just can’t let go of. He’s saved lives, he knows, but his team do that same thing without the gifts he’s been cursed with. What’s the point of him? Of any of the talents or tricks he possesses?

And it’s that question on his mind as he walks into a Virginia library to interview a witness to the latest in a string of serial arsons. Her name tag says Y/N. She’s clearly nervous, a little shaken, but she manages a smile when a child runs up to interrupt and ask her how to find The Magic Tree House books. And when she turns back to look at Reid, that smile still lingers – her eyes so bright it catches him off guard. She takes him back to the area of the library that was burned to talk about the crime scene, and she off-handedly asks if he has a favorite.

And when he says, “Oh I could never choose just one favorite. I love books too much for that,” that smile returns, unexpectedly bright.

“A man after my own heart,” she says. “Tell me a few then.” 

So he rattles off a handful, hoping at least one of them will keep that light in her eyes. They do. “Bradbury is one of my favorites, too. I just love Dandelion Wine. Sorry, I probably should focus on the fire. I try to distract myself when I feel stressed, and well, remembering what happened that night doesn’t exactly help with my anxiety.”

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “I tend to ramble when I’m nervous. Or excited. Really, I think I just talk a lot.” Another smile, one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. Over the course of the investigation, the BAU has to ask her to come to the station twice. By chance, Reid finds himself interviewing her both times, and both times he finds himself rambling a little more than he means to – because he finds himself inexplicably a little nervous and a little excited in her presence. It’s that smile, the one that lingers long in his mind after she leaves each time.

There’s something about her, about the light she seems to carry, that draws him in. That compels him to say yes when he shows up at the library to inform her they’ve caught the unsub and she asks, “Could I buy you a cup of coffee to show my appreciation? If that’s not too much, of course.”

“I think that would be perfect,” he says. And as they sit at the café across the street with lattes in oversized mugs, he’s never been so grateful for his vast knowledge of literature. Each title is a start into a new conversation with her, and they swap stories about stories – the ones they have lived and the ones they have loved. When she disappointedly announces her break is over, she adds, “But maybe we could do this again sometime?”

“Yes,” he says. “Please.”

“How should I get in touch with you if you’re not showing up at the library to interrogate me, Dr. Reid?” she teases.

He hastily withdraws his cell phone from his pocket and offers it to her. She begins to type in her number. “You, um, you can call me Spencer,” he tells her.

She grins at him and something in his chest shifts at the sight. “I’ll definitely call you soon, Spencer.” He’s never liked the sound of his own name more. And he thanks that eidetic memory of his for allowing him to replay it again and again in his mind until he can see her next.

.

They get coffee again the first chance he gets. And then again. When she asks how he has time to read so much and he tells her about how his mind works – about his memory and speed-reading and quantified intelligence, all the things that have been called gifts – she thinks for a moment before saying, “That must be lonely.”

The relief he feels at her understanding is immense. “It is sometimes,” he admits. “But it’s felt less so lately.” They go to a park together. Then out to dinner. By the time he realizes he’s falling, he’s forgotten what it feels like to be on solid ground. Fortunately, he isn’t the only one at the mercy of gravity. She feels it too. And when she laughs at his joke as he walks her home from dinner, he just can’t help himself. He leans in and cups her cheek to pull her to him, pressing his lips to her still-smiling lips. The taste of wine still on her tongue. And though he doesn’t drink anymore, the sensation of her is enough to make him feel utterly intoxicated.

Slowly, his life fills up with her. His sabbatical arrives with the perfect timing to allow him evenings and weekends with her. He picks her up after work. She meets him for breakfast. He takes her to the planetarium. She falls asleep on his couch. He tells her it won’t always be this way and she assures him that’s okay. But it gives him the chance to build the foundation their relationship needs. It’s in that time that he begins to catalogue her smiles in his memory. The dazzling ones she sends his way when she spots him at a coffee shop. The soft, shaky ones she wears after a long kiss. The coy ones that twist the corner of her mouth when she’s teasing him. The nervous one that slowly grows when she meets his team for the first time – not as a witness, but as his girlfriend. A title she declares like a badge of honor. He holds each smile in his mind, picture perfect thanks to that eidetic memory. When a case has been particularly tough or he’s away for longer than he’d like, he flips through them in his mind, trying to remember the cause of each one, trying to hold on to that light until he can hold her in his arms again.

.

He surprises her with flowers on her birthday. “You remembered?” she gasps, her eyes wide. “And these – these are my favorite. How did you know?”

“I could never forget,” he laughs, but she stares down at the bouquet and clutches them to her chest.

“I don’t make a big deal about my birthday, so people don’t usually remember,” she says quietly. “And nobody’s ever gotten me flowers before. Thank you, Spencer.” A pause, and then, “I love you.”

He grins from ear to ear. Forget the sound of his name, those three words are the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. “I love you, too.” It’s a first for both of them. And one week later comes another first – witnessing her panic attacks for the first time. She’s shaking too hard to tell him what she needs, so he tries to do what would help him. He sits down next to her on his living room rug and wraps her in his arms. He rests his head on her shoulder and murmurs the words to her favorite poem. She seems to breathe a little easier and so he recites another one she loves, and another until her breathing finally steadies and she unclenches her fists to wrap her arms around his neck, burying her face in his sweater.

Suddenly it doesn’t feel like such a curse to remember everything he reads when it means he can give her the words she loves when she needs them most.

The first time they sleep together is only the second time he’s been intimate with someone and he feels more awkward than he wishes he was. But he commits himself to studying, to remembering what she likes and what she doesn’t, and the next time he proves to be the quickest of learners when he succeeds at making her come within a matter of minutes. He discovers a new smile of hers, one of dreamy bliss and kiss-swollen lips. He loves it. He loves her, adores every single part of her she’s shared with him and every piece yet to be found. And to his continued surprise and delight, she loves him just as much.

He tries every day to be worthy of that love. He makes time for her. He goes to meet her friends and he shakes their hands even though he hates touching people, even though she insists, “You don’t have to. They won’t mind.” He does it because she’s the only person in the world whose touch he actually craves.

When she swoons over a dress Penelope has shown her on Instagram, he makes a note of it. She’s utterly enamored by it by her smile falls upon checking the price tag. It’s far out of her budget. So the next week when he’s out on a case in Atlantic City, he swings by one of the few casinos that doesn’t have his picture framed on the wall of their security office. He wins more than the cost of the dress in an hour and leaves before anyone can get suspicious. The dress arrives at his apartment the same day he gets home, and he invites her over to surprise her with it. When she opens the box, her eyes go wide.

“Spencer, this is… this can’t be. It’s… do you know how expensive this is?” Y/N asks.

Bashfully, he replies, “Now might be a good time to mention I’m banned from casinos in almost every state for my card counting abilities.” It’s well worth the little effort he expended to see the way her face lights up at the sight of it. And though he’s never been a gambling man, when he sees her wearing it for the first time he considers trying his luck a little more often.

At times he worries he’s doing too much, but how could it ever be when the way she loves him has been so much more than enough? For the first time in his life, he feels like maybe he’s enough. When she says, “I love you,” he believes it. When she says, “I’ll be back,” he trusts her. He’s given another person more of his heart than he ever has before, and for once he’s not afraid of it breaking. She doesn’t mind the strange hours he works or heaviness he sometimes carries with him. When he wakes up from a nightmare, she holds him close and keeps him grounded. He sends postcards from each city he visits and she makes his favorite food when he comes home and home is suddenly a place they share. She moves into his apartment and it feels like it was never complete without her there.

.

Not long after, there is a case in Boston. Their terrifyingly intelligent unsub taunts Reid as he leaves the interrogation room. “Judge me all you want, Dr. Reid. But I’ve used my mind to change the world. You’ve done nothing with yours.” The words haunt him on the flight home. He sits on the back of the plane lost in thought. What has he done? Sure he’s saved lives, but could he have done more? Could someone else have used those gifts he’s been burdened with in a way that was better? Why does he have any of these talents? Why has he acquired any of these skills?

His phone chimes. A text from her. Brought home a new book from the library I think you’ll love! Can’t wait to see you, dearest. And it hits him.

It’s her. All along it’s been her.

The answer echoes in his head as he races home to her. Everything in his life has led him to her, has let him be the person she needs. He can memorize all her favorite songs and poems to recite for her when her anxiety gets the best of her. He can remember every date that matters to her and everything she adores. He can read her favorite books overnight to talk about them with her in the morning. He can profile from her body language and her microexpressions when she’s having a bad day and needs him to be there for her, even when she’s too afraid to ask for what she needs. When she asks absurd questions out of the blue, he can give her actual answers with the useless encyclopedia of knowledge he’s obtained over the years. When she needs a distraction his rambling finally proves useful. It’s all for her.

She’s the reason his mind doesn’t feel like a curse anymore. How could he ever think of it with disdain when it’s the reason he can picture every smile she’s ever let him see? When he can catalogue every wonderful word from her lips, every inch of her skin, every action that drives her wild.

Reid can’t seem to open the door to their apartment fast enough. When he finally steps inside, she’s sitting on the couch. She turns away from the book in her lap to smile at him. “Welcome back,” she says. Then, tilting her head, “Is everything okay?”

An unshakeable grin spreads across his face and he knows he must look like a madman right now as he crosses the living to sit beside her. “Everything’s perfect. I just… I had this epiphany. All the things I hate about myself, you love. And all the things I can do let me love you better. It just feels like everything – everything has led me to you. Even the bad things, I mean, being in prison forced me to take sabbaticals and if I hadn’t we wouldn’t have had that time together early on and maybe we wouldn’t have worked and I don’t believe in fate,” he says, taking a breath. “But I can’t help but feel like for the first time, I’m right where I’m supposed to be. With you. Like that’s where I was meant to be all along. And I… I just thought you should know.”

His long-winded rambling is rewarded with one of his favorite smiles from her – one that makes her eyes soft and puts sunsets to shame. The kind she wears when she is incandescently happy. Her fingers lace through his and they are a perfect fit in his big hands. “There is nowhere else I’d rather be,” she says, leaning in to kiss him.

All his life, Spencer Reid has been told he is gifted. But this time, he thinks it might actually be true. He holds the greatest gift the universe has ever granted him in his arms and knows that no part of him is a curse if he is loved by her.

[restapesta]

8 for the sentence starters? 🥺

"You're angry."

Ian looks up from where he's staring daggers into his phone. They're sitting at their kitchen table, across from one another, and there's a crease between his eyebrows followed by a slight downturn of his lips.

And even though this may just be concentration in some people's eyes, to Mickey they're the telltale signs when it comes to understating his husband.

Mickey's taken his sweet time studying Ian Gallagher and all his moods. After ten years of sharing their lives together, being in each other's space, and the silent observing of his partner, he's learned to know all of Ian's expressions and what they entail. These days, there was rarely a mood swing that went by and didn't get caught on Mickey's radar, big or small.

If it were a profession, Mickey would have been an Ian Gallagher expert.

Which is why Mickey knows, for a fact, Ian is angry.

"What are you talking about?" Ian snaps out of his thoughts and asks. It doesn't even matter that his question is rebutted by the constant glancing towards his phone.

Mickey makes a face, one Ian will know how to fucking read. It's the are you kidding me? face. Ian gets those a lot. "You're literally glaring at that poor phone. What's up?"

Ian rolls his eyes.

"I'm not glaring," He says while attempting—that's the key word here—to pocket the said phone into his hoodie, biting at his lower lip.

The hand that's holding the device is gripped tightly around it, and Ian's eyes keep drifting towards the thing as if he's waiting for it to light up and reveal the answer to his biggest worry.

He isn't just angry, Mickey can tell now—he's anxious too.

And as much as angry Ian makes Mickey's chest swell with pride and other things when it's directed at other people that just happened to do something so infuriating they elicited Ian Gallagher's hefty rage; frustrates him to no end when it's aimed at his poor ass—there's just something so worrying to Mickey about this. Fucking anxiety.

Why would Ian be anxious? Why does he keep staring at where his phone is, keeping his fingers wrapped around the screen, even though it's stuffed deep inside his pocket?

Mickey thumbs at his nose. "You get a weird text or something?" He asks nonchalantly.

Well, at least he tries to.

Ian raises an eyebrow at him. Fuck, Mickey should've figured Ian knows all his signs too, goddamn it. The word WORRIED is probably painted across his forehead in bold letters.

He breathes out deeply through his nose and decides to be fucking level. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Let me see your phone."

"Why would you need to see my phone?" Ian shoots back, slightly shifting away in his seat.

"Why won't you let me see your phone?"

"Are we that couple now, Mickey? With no privacy?"

He's the one to talk.

"You took a shit while I was in the shower this morning, Ian. You have no concept of what privacy is."

"Hey, shut up, you got used to it in prison."

"I hated it."

"Well, I hated yours, too," Ian mumbles lowly.

"Don't try to distract me. Phone."

"Uh, no?"

"Ian."

"It's not a big deal, okay?"

Mickey knows for a fact that's not true if this resistance is anything to show for it.

"Look man," He says. "I don't even know what it is you're angry or worried about but I can already fucking tell you, it is a big fucking deal."

Ian scoffs, but his eyes are still not meeting Mickey's. "How? I'm literally fine."

"Ian," He grips his husband's chin, forcing him to look him dead in the eye. "I know you better than you know yourself. It's obviously a big fucking deal."

Ian stares at him slightly wide-eyed before redness overcomes his cheeks. He leans out of Mickey's grip, and with a flicker of gaze towards Mickey, he casts it down to the floor, pulling his hand with the phone tentatively out of the pocket so it sits on the table between them.

"It's," He sighs, looking everywhere besides at Mickey. "It's not that big of a deal, really. I just—"

Mickey picks up the phone as he lets Ian find the right words for it. He turns the screen on and types in the passcode—Mickey's fucking birthday, like the sap he is—before his eyes meet the headline of a goddamn news article.

--

PRIDE MONTH, YOUTH CENTERS, GAY JESUS + MORE

Head of the LGBTQIA+ Youth Center, Trevor H., speaks up about pride in Chicago, Gay Jesus movement, future plans, and more in the article below.

--

Gay Jesus? Mickey looks up at Ian.

This former Gay Jesus in front of him?

"What the fuck is this?" He asks, confused. Who's Trevor H. and why is he talking about Gay Jesus? Why is he talking about Ian, years after the whole disaster even occurred?

What the fuck?

"A former groupie of mine sent me the link to this article," Ian runs a hand through his hair. "Turns out my ex did an interview for this article. There's a whole section about me, apparently."

Mickey looks down at the article. Ignores the ex part. Looks back up again. "What does it say?"

"I don't know. Haven't read it."

"Why?"

Ian shrugs. "Don't feel like it." He fiddles with the skin around his thumb.

Well.

If Ian won't, Mickey will.

He scrolls through the article until Gay Jesus popes up, somewhere around question 12.

Ian's pseudonym only appears after a long discussion about how June of 2021 was a turning point for many young people in Illinois, now that social media was playing a greater role in LGBTQ+ exposure.

Mickey was kind of surprised to find his eyes linger on certain passages, reading through them, then hurriedly skimming others once he remembered that Ian was waiting for him expectantly.

There it is, Gay Jesus, halfway through the article.

Mickey clears his throat to read it aloud, but Ian stops him by snatching the phone out of his hand and placing it back onto the table. He scoots over with his chair so both he and Mickey can read it simultaneously.

There's silence as their eyes scan over the words.

--

12. What's your opinion on the Gay Jesus movement that occurred a few years back?

- The Gay Jesus movement was, in my opinion, a good goal with a poorly conceived plan. Its founder was unmedicated at the time, but his intentions were pure, as long as I'm concerned. Conversion therapy is still a large problem in our city, and [Gay Jesus] bit off more than he could chew with it. Ian Gallagher did his time for the incident, and I know that he is probably making a better life for himself now. , the Gay Jesus movement will evolve into something better, with a lot more love, and a lot less violence, which always has been the goal.

Have you spoken with him recently? Any new protests coming up after the years long hiatus?

- Thankfully, no. [chuckles] But I have heard through the grapevine that he's doing well. Out and proud, married, and I hope happy. I believe that's all of the support from Gay Jesus we need—simply the knowledge that sometimes we need to help ourselves first before we try to help others.

--

Ian exhales the second he's finished reading Trevor's answers and slumps back in his chair.

Relief is evident in his features.

"You know," Mickey says after a few seconds of silence. "he just said the truth."

Ian nods, releasing a shaky breath. "Yeah, I honestly expected it to be worse."

"Worse? Ian, what you did was just as wrong as it wasn't. There's nothing bad about wanting to help people."

"I know."

"Then why are you still sad?"

Ian looks up at him suddenly. "How do you know if I'm fucking sad or not?"

"Dumbass, I know you."

Ian groans. "It's creepy."

"That I know you?"

"That you can read me so fucking well."

Mickey smiles up at him, then stands up and comfortably settles himself down onto Ian's lap. Ian's hands go around Mickey's waist almost immediately. The position is gay as fuck, but it feels fucking right.

"This is not something to be angry or sad about, you know?"

Ian sighs. "I guess you're right."

Mickey palms his cheeks and presses a kiss to his lips. "If you read between the lines, that ex of yours is basically saying he supports Gay Jesus."

Ian snorts. "Sure."

"You're really popular, being in a news article and shit."

Ian bites his lip to stop from smiling. Mickey grins himself and pushes on.

"You're sort of a celebrity."

His husband cracks up at that and the two of them laugh about the whole thing as the phone lays discarded at the table.

It wasn't the bad thing Ian thought it would be.

Mickey may not have been there during the Gay Jesus thing, but he's here now, and he still knows Ian better than he knows himself.

And, if he trusts all the knowledge of Ian Gallagher he's gained throughout the years, then he knows Ian's happy right now.

Mickey intends to keep it that way.

[tcsauaskblog]

I'm not sure if you already explained this in the same story, but I'm curious, what exactly happened to Donald the day of the barn incident? (I mean what broke him mentally, I know exactly what happened, but what was the cause)

Funny enough, this was one of the few times where there wasnt a catalyst that brought the event on.

Sometimes, the bad brain juice just starts pumping for no reason, and that day, there wasn't anything to smooth out the creases in Donald's anxiety filled mind.

You could probably make the excuse that it was a bunch of little things that piled up in Donald's head, that caused him to have the meltdown he did.

The bad dream of his parents car accident the night before. The rip in his good shirt. The failed English test at school. The rainy weather. There could have been any number of reasons that added up to a mental load that Donald could no longer carry.

But sometimes, the self hate and heavy thoughts are just an arm length away, always there, without Donald having to reach far for it. And sometimes you just wake up on the wrong side of the bed, and those mean little voices that Donald tries so hard to ignore and push down every day seem a little bit more resilient than usual, and Donalds tired, so he doesn't fight them as hard as he should. So they linger, and protrude and poke and point out every flaw they can throughout the day.

Like how he isnt good enough. How he'll never be good enough. He can't live up to his parents expectations. He can't Lookout for his sister and cousins the way he should. Hes not useful or needed or wanted and hes just a big burden thats in the way.

And oh God, how hes just so, so angry, all the time. No normal person can ever be this angry right? Any what does he even have to be angry about anyway? Hes got a roof over his head, food on the table, a shirt on his back and probably the best family and friends someone like him could ever ask for so why... why does his heart race like this? Why does his hands shake, and his vision go red and his chest hurt like he'll never be able to breathe normally again?

Most the time, he can ignore it. Most the time, he can distract himself with Della's antics and Gladstone's prodding and Fethry's endless knock-knock jokes and most the time he can just let himself be buoyed along with their shenanigans and joy. Let himself be distracted from the rage thats always half cooked in the boiling pot that is his chest and ignore the mean voices in his head and forget that self hating little conga line thats on constant repeat in his heart.

But Della had stayed after school to work on a history project with a friend, and Gladstone said that he had a date to get to, and Fethry said that one of the barn cats gave birth the other day, so he wanted to hang around the kittens and take care of the mama a bit before the storm hit, and suddenly all the mean thoughts felt louder when he was left alone.

Felt louder when he actually had the time and quiet to be able to hear them.

And sometimes the rage is mind numbing, Donald often finding gaps in his memory after certain fits reach a point that his sanity can no longer account for his he just... he blanks. He blacks out and usually comes to with someone cooing soft words of reassurance to him, to relax him, to pull him back from that dark curtain blanketed over his rationality.

But sometimes... sometimes Donald is present. He's fully aware of the red blurring into his vision, of the dark cloud forming over his head. And he has to make the conscious decision that whatever it is thats about to happen, he has to be somewhere where his cousins won't easily walk in on him and somehow get caught in the crossfire.

He thinks, if he had to explain it, that it works like how a panic attack comes on. Most of the time, its just something random, something you wouldn't even think of as triggering at first, that sets it off. But once it starts, you have about a minute to compartmentalize that

1) you're having a panic attack.

2) its probably gonna be bad, so sit down in a place that you can be safe for awhile while you break down

3) if you can, let people that you trust know that you're having a panic attack and go from there

Donald can feel the anger come on like a curtain slowly falling. Hes too tired to fight it, too tired to try and ignore the pain it cause and just how right those little mean voices are sounding. So he makes the conscious effort to move, get out of the house now. Go to the empty barn, the one Fethry isn't in.

He doesn't bother shutting the barn door, he can't think that far ahead. All he manage to focus on is putting one foot in front of the other and matching a gulping breath with each step. His hands are already shaking and his eyes are going blurry with fear leaden tears by the time he reaches one of the old broken down bailers.

His heart his pounding hard enough to leave bruising when he takes an involuntary swing with his fist. His knuckles connect with something metal and sharp and red is suddenly everywhere. He sucks in a sharp inhale when an explosion of pain blooms across his hand but one of those loud voices in his head says he probably deserves it. And it sounds so convincing that Donald doesn't think twice about disagreeing before he takes another, angry swing.

And another one.

And another one.

He loses track now, but he's present for all of it. Theres a rational voice somewhere thrown in the mix that he should probably stop. That this was dangerous. That his family would be worried about the state he was in if they saw him. But its drowned out. Barely audible above all the other thoughts circling in his head.

What did it matter anyway? He was already so pathetic. This wasn't new for Donald, the kid who couldn't do anything right. A couple of punches to get some small micro aggressions out were nothing in the long run. As long as Donald didn't hurt anyone, didn't hurt or scare his family, then it was fine. He could smack around the broken farm equipment for a few minutes or an hour or two, and the few scraps and cuts and bloodstained fists along the way were nothing to worry about.

He'd wait the anger out. Let it have its way with him. Let the storm pass over and deal with the consequences of his actions later. It would be fine.

If he was the only one who got hurt, then it would all be fine.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Gift Giving.

Commissioned by the lovely @strawberry-cake-and-earlgrey​.

Word Count: 3.0k

Pairing: Yandere!Sugawara/Reader/Yandere!Oikawa

Synopsis: Your boyfriends rarely agree on anything. Oikawa’s always been the jealous type, and while Sugawara isn’t as competitive, he never tries to hide his preference for one partner over the other. But, they can put their petty squabbles aside every so often, especially if it means taking on their favorite burden - proving how much they both love you.

TW: Graphic Violence, Blood, Lacerations, Knife-Based Violence, Non-Consensual Touching, Toxic Relationships, Mentions of Stalking, Implied Emotional Abuse, and Delusional Mindsets.

Sometimes, you wondered why Oikawa ever agreed to share.

He’d always struck you as the possessive type, the kind of guy who was too petty to let you split your attention between him and anything else, let alone another living, breathing person. Even if he still found a way to monopolize your time, dragging you away from your clubs and convincing your friends you had a good reason to isolate yourself so severely, he still had to deal with Sugawara. He could meet you at Karasuno’s gates every day, but he couldn’t go to class with you. He could brag about you to his team, insist on bringing you to every one of his games, but he’d always have to check with Sugawara, he'd always have to get permission, first. He could invite himself into your personal space, wait until you’re alone and helpless and vulnerable before he pinned you down and dug his teeth in, but he’d have to know Sugawara would already be there, smiling and laughing and smothering you more thoroughly than Oikawa would ever be able to. It had to eat away at him. It had to, at least a little. At least more than he let on.

It shined through, sometimes, if you looked closely enough. In the way he kept an arm around your waist whenever the two of you were together, or how he always found an excuse to remind you that he was the preferable option, the better option, even if he failed to denounce Sugawara’s love so blatantly. You could see it now, too, with his nails biting into your shoulder as he pulled you against his side, a tense grin pulling at the corners of his lips whenever you glanced in his direction. You hadn’t been surprised when he turned up on the gym’s doorstep, a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder and his timing purposefully engineered to avoid the rest of the team, but that didn’t mean you were happy about his sudden appearance. Not when you knew him and Sugawara so well.

You’d known something was wrong from the moment Sugawara caught your wrist and went on about how nice it would be if you stayed to watch him practice, from the second he volunteered to lock up and let everyone else silently assume you wouldn’t walk home without your responsible, hard-working boyfriend at your side. He was planning something. You knew he was planning something, but there was nothing you could do that wouldn’t attract attention, that wouldn’t frame you as the temperamental partner who couldn’t be asked to wait without throwing a temper tantrum. Especially now that Oikawa was here, the gentle guiding hand, the nudge towards a peaceful solution, the calm voice that’d coo and hush and offer agreeable explanations until he and Sugawara were deemed innocent and you relegated to the role of a bratty, ill-tempered child who should be more grateful of their ceaseless efforts. It amazed you, how willing he was to drop his poorly-masked hostility as soon as he and Sugawara were pointed towards a common enemy. It used to amaze you.

Now, it just made you feel sick.

By the time you reached the boy’s locker room, the lights flickering and the door creaking on its hinges as he pushed it open, there was a firm knot in the back of your throat, a blend of guilt and anxiety that left you biting the inside of your cheek as you stepped into the sterile space, freshly cleaned and just big enough to make you feel small, in comparison. Oikawa let you go, locking the door behind him, but you didn’t try to run. You didn’t have anywhere to go, anywhere to hide, anyone who’d believe you or any safe-haven to run Oikawa turned his back. It wasn’t like you would’ve gotten very far, even if you did.

Sugawara was already sitting in front of you, straddling the wooden bench in the center of the room and smiling, his expression so careless, you could almost believe it wasn’t malicious.

Almost.

“What’s going on?” You asked, the question followed by a small, forced laugh. It was a weak attempt, but you tried to stay light-hearted, hoping they’d be kind enough to return the favor. “If I forgot about a date or something, you could’ve just told me. I don’t need an intervention.”

“You’re close, angel.” Oikawa opened his mouth, but Sugawara was faster, tapping the bench in front of him as he spoke. You moved to comply willingly, but Oikawa still felt the need to push you down to Sugawara’s height as soon as you were close enough, keeping a hand on your shoulder as you positioned yourself to face the more mild-mannered threat. Oikawa didn’t seem to mind, though. He didn’t waste time, slotting himself against your back, stringing his arms around your waist despite your attempts to shift into the comfortable space left between you and Sugawara. All it took was a change in his posture to make you go still, accompanied by a quick peck to the side of your neck. It was more of a warning than a reward, but you had to expect that, with Oikawa.

“I don’t blame you, honestly. It took you so long to come around, I don’t even know if we can count the first few weeks of our relationship as…” There was a light chuckle, a glance towards the floor, and you noticed he was toying with something in his right hand. If he felt a need to show it off, you couldn’t tell. “As a relationship, I guess. I almost felt like a stalker, back then.”

“He was a stalker,” Oikawa corrected. “Stealing stuff from your bag, leaving all those gushy notes, following you home…” There was a sigh from Oikawa, too dramatic to be taken seriously, and Sugawara groaned in return. “Don’t worry, though, I was way more polite. Whenever I followed you home, I made sure you didn’t notice. I know how touchy you get about your privacy, sweetheart.”

You didn’t have to be told. Not after that. Not as Sugawara barely hesitated before reaching towards the collar of your uniform, nimble fingers beginning to undo the buttons with all the impatience he’d managed to hold back, earlier. “Our anniversary.”

There was a harsh tug on the hem of your sleeve from Oikawa, a cheery smile from Sugawara. Wrinkled, white fabric pooled around your waist, and abruptly, you realized just how cold the gym could be, despite the two pairs of eyes burning holes into your skin. “And I was going to spoil the surprise,” Sugawara lamented. “I wanted to wait until we were somewhere a little more scenic, but you know how restless Tooru can be, don’t you? He thought you’d catch on, if we waited any longer.”

“To be fair, I wasn’t against taking you home,” Oikawa added, almost absent-mindedly. “But, this is more private. I didn’t want anyone interrupting us while we give you your present.”

You stiffened, at that, fighting the temptation to push Sugawara away as he wrapped an arm around your waist over Oikawa’s, pulling you closer until you were crushed against his chest. Grudgingly, Oikawa let you go, but not without a disappointed huff. “I-I really don’t--” You tried to speak, but your voice was shaking, trembling despite your best attempts to keep it even, to stay composed. “I mean, I didn’t get you anything, so a gift really isn’t--”

There was a small, almost inaudible click, the scratch of metal on metal. You felt something pierce your skin, just above the curve of your shoulder blade, and a second later, it started to burn.

It was a shallow cut, the blade thin enough to make the cut as painless as possible, but it was still a blade, it was still a cut, and it still hurt. You jerked back reflexively, but that only helped Sugawara carve the first line, stark and solid and agonizing as he dragged his knife through your flesh, only made worse by the way he sliced at the wound, barely bothering to draw back before forcing it under your skin again, never pausing for more than a moment. You whimpered, trying to wrench yourself out of Sugawara’s hold, but he only brought his unoccupied hand up, tangling his fingers in your hair and encouraging you to lean into him, to ball his shirt in your hands and try to ignore the searing pain in your back, the thick, hot blood dripping down your back, undoubtably staining the uniform they’d been kind enough to hastily shove out of the way.

There was a slight tap to Sugawara’s wrist, and after one more jagged line, he pulled away just enough for Oikawa to swipe two fingers over the open wound. You cringed, shrinking into Sugawara, but Oikawa didn’t seem to notice, he didn’t seem to care. Not enough to stifle the sound of his fingers sliding past his lips, at least, or to swallow the throaty moan he let out as he tasted your blood, sending a cold spike of fear down your spine. Sugawara remained unaffected, only letting out a quiet chuckle before continuing his work. “You’re so gross.”

“And you’re messy,” Oikawa retorted, drawing back, taking up your hips, instead. “I would’ve done both, if I knew you’d be so bad at this.”

It was a stupid thing to linger on. You were being flayed, you were being tortured, but some stubborn, shallow part of your mind refused to move beyond the idea that the scar might be ugly, that Sugawara’s hack job might not fade into something abstract and meaningless in a few weeks. If either of your partners caught your futile attempts to glance over your shoulder, neither felt the need to comfort you. There was a small hush from Sugawara as you whimpered, a tightened hold on your hips from Oikawa as you writhed, but somehow, their touching acts of concern did little to soothe your worries.

“It’s not like I had a chance to practice,” Sugawara muttered, his focus now renewed. There was a swirl, a series of jagged lines, and you had to bury your face in the crook of his neck to muffle your cracked sobbing. You hadn’t realized you were crying before you heard yourself, before you felt the tears streaming down your cheeks. It made sense, but you still tried to will yourself to stop. Tried and failed, obviously. “And look, you keep embarrassing them. How am I supposed to work if you keep making the poor thing squirm?”

“Is that true, cutie?” You didn’t answer, clenching your eyes shut as Sugawara twirled the tip of his knife in a tight, slow circle, but Oikawa didn’t seem to mind. This time, when he leaned into you, kissing the top of your head, he didn’t pull away, even after Sugawara finished and your breathing steadied to a constant, wobbling pattern. “This is just for us. ‘s just for Koshi and I to enjoy, and even if his present is…” There was a deliberate pause, a kick to Oikawa’s calf. “Even if his is unique, you’re still gonna be our pretty little angel. As long as our gifts do their jobs, you’re always gonna be our angel, too.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach as Oikawa held out his hand, Sugawara only hesitating for a moment before dropping a small, blood strained pocket-knife into his palm. You tried to stand, tried to get away, but Oikawa only had to snake an arm around your waist to keep you in place, pressing your body flush against his chest. “We only need a few more minutes,” Sugawara promised, his fixed smile sweet enough to make you think it might’ve been genuine. To make you think he actually might’ve cared, if you’d been brave enough to tell him to stop. “Bear with us, alright? Oikawa’s good at this kind of thing, it won’t take long.”

If nothing else, Oikawa worked quickly. Sugawara tried to be delicate, trading brief brutality for drawn-out precision, but Oikawa didn’t seem to follow the same statagy. He chose somewhere noticeable, somewhere sensitive, the dip of your collarbone, where you could see the hilt of his knife moving along the edge of your vision. Whereas Sugawara’s burnt, like a branding-iron being forced under your skin, whatever Oikawa was doing only resulted in a numb pressure, an awareness that something was splitting apart and you desperately, desperately wished it wasn’t. You tried to glance down, tried to see what he was doing, but Sugawara didn’t seem to care for that idea. Without hesitation, he caught your chin, tilting your head back and slotting his lips against yours. You might’ve been thankful for it, too, if he hadn’t taken his turn first.

The kiss was gentle, just as tender and considerate and synthetic as you’d come to expect from him. He wanted to distract you, clearly, to take your mind off of Oikawa’s knife and the thin incisions, but if anything, the softness of it only made the sensation more vivid, more unignorable. It only made everything hurt more, but you might’ve been giving him too much credit. By the time Sugawara’s touch began to wonder, his fingers dipping down to trace over the marks he’d so carefully engraved in your skin, you were tempted to say the distraction was more for his sake than yours. 

You never leaned into it, you couldn’t bring yourself to. It was all you could do to let out a scratchy, pained shreik as Oikawa finished, ending his carving with a long, winding dash that ran to the center of your chest, one that sent a fresh acidic wash across your skin every time you took a deep breath. You almost glanced down when Sugawara drew back, almost spoiled the surprise, but Oikawa was quick to press the flat of his blade against the bottom of your chin, forcing you to keep your head up as he pressed his mouth against yours, the kiss half as long as Sugawa’s but twice as forceful, as if he felt the need to get back every second he might lost. 

By the time it was over, you were gasping, the adrenaline fading and a new wave of tears building up in the corners of your eyes. Thankfully, your boyfriends allowed you a small moment of reprieve, but it was a fleeting sense of tranquility. Before you could calm down, before you could do so much as start to recover, Oikawa was already pushing you away, trusting you to steady yourself as he fished his phone out of his pocket. You stumbled, nearly falling forward, but Sugawara caught you, chuckling as you dug your nails into his sleeves. The sound was so calm, so cheery, you could almost bring yourself to ignore the shudder of Oikawa’s camera, the satisfied scoff he allowed himself as he looked over his work. You were confused, for a second, almost offended, but it didn’t take you long to remember the reason for his sudden distance.

Oikawa wanted to show off your gift.

Sugawara must’ve arrived at a similar conclusion. “Maybe we should wait,” He suggested with a noncommittal shrug. “It might be a little too much, today. We could wash off the excess, wait for it to scar… it’s not like I won’t be able to make sure (Y/n) doesn’t peek, in the meantime.”

But, Oikawa was already leaning forward, stringing his arms over your shoulders as he held his phone in front of you, already open to the picture he’d just taken. You didn’t mean to look. You didn’t want to look, but once you caught a glimpse, once you got a hint at the full image, you couldn’t tear your eyes away. It took you longer than it should’ve to recognize the sloppy scrawl, the lopsided text that’d been gouged into your back. You could still feel it, if you tried to. It wasn’t unbearable, but every cut seemed to ignite with a new fire as you looked over the uneven, jagged shapes. Letters, you realized, then a name. Koushi.

Koushi.

You felt like you were in a trance, like some unseen force was compelling you to lift your hand and drag your fingertips across the wound on your collarbone, one indented symbol at a time despite the fresh row of needles you pushed into your flesh at every point of feather-light contact. Neither of them made the effort to take another picture, but Oikawa cupped his hand over yours, keeping your hand on your chest, on the name that’d be etched into your skin for the next few months, if you were lucky. For the rest of your life, if you weren’t.

Koushi and Tooru. Sugawara and Oikawa.

Your loving, caring, devoted boyfriends. Your partners who couldn’t bear to see your attention stray.

The blood loss might’ve been a mercy. At least your mind was too clouded-over to really take in what this meant.

“It’s pretty, right?” It was Oikawa’s voice, but you could hardly hear him over the ringing in your ears, over the all-consuming, all-devouring dread that was beginning to swallow you whole. “We’ll be spending a lot of time together from now on, just to make sure it heals. We wouldn’t want you doing anything to ruin our gift so soon, would we?”

It was almost a relief when Sugawara spoke, urging you on with a whispered ‘tell him how much you like it’, his expression sympathetic but his eyes bright. He was remorseful, but he didn’t regret hurting you. He didn’t agree with Oikawa, but he genuinely thought he loved you, that he’d done something you might be grateful for. That was more than you could say for Oikawa. Possessive, jealous Oikawa. Petty, sadistic Oikawa.

Oikawa, who’d let another man carve his name into your skin just to punish you for catching his eye in the first place. Who’d sit back and watch you bleed, just because he couldn’t be the only person who got to say when you deserved to.

Your tongue felt heavy, when you opened your mouth. Your voice came out unsteady, your tone impassive, but you knew neither of them would care. Sugawara wouldn’t look any further than the words themselves, he wouldn’t want to, and Oikawa…

Oikawa just liked to watch you suffer.

“It’s beautiful.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Nat and the House: Jameson

CW: Pet whump survivor, collar mentions, references to past pet whump, referenced ptsd flashbacks

Jake Gets Stabbed: First Second Third Fourth

“Okay, well. Here we are.” Nat opens the door for him, swinging back the heavy wood and stepping inside. The sun is warm on his back, but it drops away into a chill as he steps inside. His eyes shift back and forth, trying to bury his curiosity under a tight jaw and narrowed eyes.

The house is big, although not as big as Jake Stanton’s. It’s old, and creaky, and feels alive in a way that newer houses don’t. It’s a place that has seen so many lives move through its halls, felt so many hands on doorknobs and walls, that it’s taken in some of each person who has slept here. They’ve left something behind, and it’s the breath inside the house.

It’s the whisper of air against the back of his neck, slightly chilled, that tells him that a hundred voices have bounced off these walls, with their own pain and fear, long before his added to the chorus. 

Jameson swallows, lingering in the doorway and staring ahead at a carpeted staircase that winds up and disappears around a 90-degree turn, at the coat closet just beside it. There’s a built-in shelf on the landing he can see the bottom half of, lined with photographs in small cheap dollar-store frames. 

Off to one side of the entryway, there’s a big double-door-sized opening into a gigantic living room - to the other side, a dining room with a large table covered in boxes, paperwork, books, and some flannels hung from an empty china cabinet, looking still damp, drying. Beyond that, a small kitchen, he can just see the corner of the oven.

This is a house with breath. This is a house with a voice.

The house tastes like a crackling fire, the mix of heated air and chilled, melted marshmallows inside s’mores, the crunch of graham cracker and chocolate bar underneath. 

This is a good house.

“Sorry,” Natalie Yoder says over one shoulder, moving ahead of him to flick a light switch. Jameson flinches, just a little, when a warm yellow bulb inside a false chandelier lights above his head. Her braid thumps against her back, a deep chocolate brown with strips of silvery white running through it. “I haven’t had anyone here in a long time, so the house is a mess. Just me these days.”

He nods, even though she can’t see him. Natalie Yoder has a good voice, too, it’s full and warm, it tastes like hot chocolate, the kind that goes light on the sugar and is just a little bitter and spiced with cinnamon. Her voice feels smooth on his tongue. He can trust people who taste like this, he thinks, and he takes another step inside.

“H-How… how long?” His voice croaks a little, it rasps. Long-term damage to his vocal chords, they said, from screaming so often for so long. 

She stops and looks back at him, and there’s a gentleness in her tempered by the steel he’s already seen. She gives him a slight smile. “Long enough to speak to Dr. Berger, get you on your meds, and give them time to settle in your system. Could be a month or two to figure out exactly what’s going to work for you. Then see what happens with a couple of controlled interactions.”

He nods again. She speaks like an expert - she is the expert, he guesses, because she’s seen a hundred people like him in her life and Jameson has only ever known himself. 

Not that he’s even sure he knows himself that well, most days.

He has his collar on, buckled tightly around his neck, a comfortable constriction. A reminder that he isn’t in control, someone else is, and what happens from here isn’t his fault. It’s not his responsibility, because a pet can’t be responsible for anything.

He left Jake Stanton lying on a couch’s pull-out bed because he can’t go up the stairs, pale and unconscious, and he left Allyn crying in their shared room, curled up in the closet, running their fingers over the names that Jameson carved into the wall there.

He lost control, for just a minute, of where he was and who was with him, and now…

He’s safer with the collar on.

He’s safer, controlled.

They were right - he can’t do this on his own, and he never could. 

“You can choose whichever room you like, except that I keep Chris’s room for when he stays over just the same, so not that one. But there’s another three bedrooms you can use.” Nat smiles at him, moving to the stairs and gesturing for him to follow.

They creak under his feet, and the house is speaking to him, whispering here, you’re here, you’re here now in bursts of smoke on his tongue and sweet just after. He licks at his lips, looking down at ancient brown carpeting there, almost long enough to be shag.

For just a second, he sees a flicker of a bright red shag carpet in a large shared loft bedroom, a face very like his own but older, laughing as they threw balled up pieces of paper at each other. Sparkling brown eyes-

Gone-

Jameson shivers and the moment is lost, and he lets it go happily. Whatever happened to him, he has too many other problems right now to dwell on something he’s already chosen to leave behind. 

“I’ll take, uh, whichever-... whichever room is closest to the bathroom,” He says, seeing an open door with the telltale tile floor and pale painted walls. She nods, gesturing to a closed door on her left. He pushes open the bathroom door and just stares, for a few long beats. “You have-... dinosaur shower curtains?”

“Oh, Chris loved that,” Nat says, looking over his shoulder briefly. She’s as short as he is, more or less, and somehow her leaning over behind him doesn’t feel quite as unsettling as when Jake Stanton does it, or anyone else.

Shit, maybe they’re all right. Maybe he’ll be safe here… and everyone else will be safe from him.

“I just kept them after he moved out. We can get new ones if they bother you, it’s not a big deal.”

“Uh, no, they’re… they’re fine. I’m going to-... put my stuff down now.” Jameson backs up and she moves away to give him space. The floor creaks softly underfoot as he moves along the hardwood in the hallway, to the closed door of the room he’s chosen sight-unseen.

When he opens it, it’s plain. Just pale walls and two twin beds on opposite sides of the room, side tables with lamps, blankets and pillows. A single framed portrait of a bird on one wall. 

He looks out the window to the branches of a tree outside.

“I’m going to go downstairs and make some coffee. Want me to call for you when it’s ready?” She speaks from the doorway, calm and quiet. He loves her hot chocolate voice.

“Sure. I could… I could use some fucking coffee,” He whispers, without looking back.

“No doubt. We’ll figure this out, Jameson, I promise.” 

Before she can close the door, he asks, all at once in a rush, “What if I do it again?”

She’s quiet, for a minute. Quiet for long enough his heart starts to pound, he starts to wonder if she’ll lock him in the room, or even kick him back out and tell him to start walking and figure it out on his own. He can’t go back - the last time he was on the streets, he got picked up by Robert, the time before that by Brute. His pulse beats against his collar, and he’s safe with the collar, but only if he’s kept by someone who takes care of him, who won’t hurt him worse. “To Jake?”

“Or… or Allyn. Or you, or-... fuck, anybody. What if they-... made me so I’ll do it again?”

More quiet. He hates the quiet. He wants her hot chocolate voice back. He turns, finally, to see her looking him over with a calm that goes so far beyond his own anxiety and fear, a steady surety that makes her seem more like she’s part of the house than someone who simply lives here.

She’s seen a hundred hands, too, learning not to hurt or be hurt. She’s heard a hundred voices learning to speak up, remembering how to do something other than beg for it to stop. Maybe she is the safehouse, and the building is just… an extension.

He can kind of see why the big guy likes her so fucking much.

“We’re going to do everything in our power to give you the tools you need to keep yourself and everyone around you safe.” She smiles at him, a little, lifting the corner of her mouth just the slightest bit on one side. “It won’t be easy. And it won’t be simple, or immediate. But you aren’t irredeemable, Jameson. Even if you fucked up. Does it help if I tell you I’ve had others hit me, or grab at me, when they’re in a panic and forget where they are?”

He breathes, shallow but slow. “R-Really?”

“Yeah. A half-dozen or so. I caught Chris lost in a nightmare once and he cracked me across the face with his forehead so hard I had a bruise for a week. I’ve been kicked, I’ve been hit.” She exhales, not quite a sigh, and steps inside the bedroom, moving over to one of the beds and sitting down, crossing her legs at the ankles and leaning back, resting her weight on her hands. “I ended up in the ER with a concussion once, early on. One of the ones I lost.” She looks away from him, and he sees the wrinkles in her face suddenly settle deeper, as if the weight of that old grief ages her even now. “He didn’t mean to, the poor guy. He was so scared, but I couldn’t-... I couldn’t keep him. He was so scared of himself he went back to his captor. Never saw him again.”

Jameson takes one step towards her, and then another. It’s unconscious, and he tells himself not to, but he can’t help it. “I’m-... I’m sorry for him.”

“Yeah, me too. I hope he’s doing all right, but… I suspect not. It’s… it’s hard, Jameson, to do this, and sometimes the hard feels like it’s never going to end. Sometimes, they think there’s no choice, no other way.” She looks up at him, and he sees the faintest glimmer of tears that don’t show in her voice, don’t fall down her face. “You’re thinking that, too. That maybe you were better off kept.”

The echo of his own thoughts in her low husky voice sends him reeling, and he can’t find his voice to speak at first. Finally, he manages, “Y-yeah.”

“It’s a lie. I understand why it feels like-... it’s inevitable. But I want you to know... I’ve seen this before. And you’re still better off healing than being sent back to shatter. We’re going to help you, and Kauri-... Kauri’s right, I think. You’ll be safer here for a while, and then you’ll go back and be safe there, too.”

“What if I’m not? Safer there?”

Nat Yoder’s smile softens, and she holds out her hands. She must expect him to sit next to her, because she jumps in surprise when he drops to his knees instead, and lays his head on her thighs, across her lap, feeling the rough denim of her blue jeans against his cheek.

Her hands hover, and then slowly she lowers one, and rests it, gently, over his hair. 

“Then you’ll be safe here,” She says, and her voice pours over him, honeyed, deep, the hint of cinnamon and the texture of the thick liquid of his grandmother’s hot chocolate, made always with whole milk and a touch of cream.

Jameson doesn’t question the knowledge of how his grandmother made hot chocolate, and he doesn’t push it away. He just lets it exist, there and then gone a moment later. 

 “For how long?” Her fingers press just slightly against his temple. Her fingertips are slightly roughened, calloused from hard work. “How l-long am I safe here?”

“The same amount of time I give everyone, Jameson,” She says. “As long as you need.”

“But you said-... you don’t take in anyone anymore-”

“I’m making an exception, and I don’t do anything halfway.” She leans over, and he feels her shadow fall over him. He turns his face to press against her leg, feeling the tears start to well, clenching his eyes shut only to have them fall without his consent, to dampen her jeans.

He shudders. “I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt him-... I thought he was Brute, coming b-back, I didn’t know-”

“I know. I know you didn’t. It’s okay.”

“I know I sh-shouldn’t fucking cry-... I’m the ass-asshole who stabbed him, I shouldn’t c-cry about it, I shouldn’t-” He hitches back a sob, feels his collar catch on his Adam’s apple. It’s not enough to keep him safe. It was never enough to keep him safe. 

Her voice washes warm over him, and she runs her hand through his short hair, over the filled-in bald spots shorter than the rest. “You should, if you need to. Go ahead.”

Somehow, once she says he can, he can’t stop himself at all. 

Jameson kneels on the floor in a house that has seen a hundred or more people exactly like him, his body wracked with guilt and horror at what he did, what they made him, and his terror that he can’t ever take it back, that he can’t become anything other than what he was made to be.

And through the tears, she keeps one hand on his head, and when he starts to talk to her, she listens. 

Outside a bird sings, a mourning dove, calling hoo-hoo, hoo, hoo.

-

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @newandfiguringitout @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whumpiary @endless-whump @burtlederp

[aressss1]

Through Fire and Ice Chapter 9

(Technoblade x Reader)

Chapter 9

< Prev Chapter | Next Chapter >

~~~~~~

You were sitting on the porch staring off into space, your chin resting in your hand. You were thoroughly bored. You couldn’t even read your old books. You didn’t have any chance to grab any of your things, you were thankful you hadn’t gotten a dog or a cat after you had moved into your house. Though you wished you could go back and get some of your belongings. Dream had offered up to help you get through the snow, to get some of the things that you missed. You shook your head when he said that.

 You had no idea what the surface looked like up there, but people had come back with stories about how the snow was as tall as they were. You shuddered at the thought. You loved feeling the sun shine down on you, on days that you would read outside… It was weird to think that you wouldn’t feel that ever again. Depressing thoughts crept up on you, and as you tried pushing those thoughts away, you felt your mood plummet. Just as you let out a sigh, a familiar sight of a red cloak entered your vision, and you felt yourself perk up.

“Techno!” You waved at him. He seemed to be focused on something. Maybe he hadn’t heard you. You shrugged it off as that anyway. Not wanting to sit and sulk any longer, you push yourself to your feet. Your pace quickened the closer you got to Techno. But you didn’t know the area as well as you should have, you tripped on a small piece of stone that jutted up from the ground. You gave a little yelp and watched as the ground came closer and closer. You closed your eyes waiting for impact.

 “What are you doing?” His voice rang through your ears. The impact never came. Opening your eyes, you were mere inches away from the stone ground. His arm had snaked around you, mid fall, saving you once again. “I can’t leave you anywhere without you getting into trouble.” Though the words were meant to tease you, you could hear the grumpiness in his voice. You liked that you were starting to pick up on things you didn’t normally pick up on when he was still new to you.

 “Why are you so grumpy today?” Your eyes narrowed at him, as he set you upright with a huff. “More importantly where were you yesterday? I waited as long as I could for you.” You saw something flash in his eyes, but he quickly looked away.

 “I was mining,” he muttered, “lost track of time.” He kept walking leaving you where you stood. You huff in annoyance.

 “Can I come with you this time?” You asked. Only receiving nothing but a grunt from him. “You know, to make up for lost time?” This felt similar to your past partner, who you begged to be with for any amount of time, only for them to tell you that you were needy and that you couldn’t do anything on your own… You didn’t like that feeling. You knew Techno wasn’t like that. So… Why did it hurt so much?

 He stopped dead in his tracks. His golden eyes turning to study your face. He didn’t say anything, just jerked his head in the direction he was walking in. You took that as permission, and you fell into stride with him as he slowed himself down. You two fell into silence, your stomach twisted and turned with anxiety. You didn’t want to lose Techno as a friend, so why did it feel as if you were losing him?

 “What did I do?” You tried so hard to keep your composure, but Techno heard that crack in your voice… And it pained him.

 “Nothing,” His voice came out with a sigh, “I’ve been thinking,” Oh god… your chest tightened. Those were the words that came before disaster in your life. Your ex used those words on you before leaving you, telling you how useless you really were. Grinding your teeth, you listened to him speak. “No one around here wants me around.” His voice was even, and you were still panicking. “I think I should just pack up and leave, in a few days when Phil doesn’t need me, when the mine is done.”

 “W-why?” Your squeak, making him look you fully in the face from behind his mask.

 “I’m sure you’ve noticed the looks I get around The Burrow.” His hand absentmindedly rested on the handle of the pickaxe hanging off his belt. “I think it would be better for yours and Phil’s image if I just leave.” Your chest was tense, and your anxiety eased a tiny bit but… You didn’t want him to leave…

 “Our image?” You raised your eyebrows. “Techno who the fuck cares about images?” You heard him chuckle.

 “Well, a lot of people do,” you could hear a smile come through his words, “I’m the big scary Blood God, here to kill all of you.” He motions wildly with his arms dramatically leering at you. He makes you laugh. His heart soars at your laughter.

 “You’re not scary,” you catch his hand in the air. Noticing the air shift around you, you look around and you were now in front of a small strip mine sort of hidden away in The Burrow. Your eyes flick back to his hand. “I know you’re not exactly human, but that’s not a bad thing.” Your fingers on your left-hand lace through his, and your right hand was left caressing his arm making its way up behind his skull mask. You lightly touch his down pointed ears, running your fingers over the golden earrings he wore, causing a shudder from him. You giggle. “You have both parts human and… They’re called piglins right?” He nodded his eyes fully entranced by you.

 “I’ve never been to the nether,” you confess. “And while I have never seen a piglin… Never seen how they are… You have shown me nothing but kindness, saved me many times in many ways.” Your hand runs to the back of his neck feeling past scars, lingering there for just a second. “Human’s never showed me any of that.” Your hand drops to his chest where you could feel his heart thrumming below your fingers. “Your heart beats like a human’s, and I bet you don’t love like a human.” He cocks his head at your statement. “I’ve seen your devotion, to Phil. I bet when you find someone or something to love it’s stronger than what a human can handle.” You give him a smile. “If you can love Phil that deeply, like a brother, I-I want to meet him.”

 “You want to meet Phil?” He seemed baffled. Remembering how you requested that he bring Phil and Kristin their rations because you were still scared of Phil. You nodded keeping your eyes down.

 “I don’t care about image, Techno,” You didn’t allow him to derail the topic at hand. “I’m not going to stop you if it’s truly what you want, but… please don’t leave…” There you were begging someone not to leave your life again. You felt pathetic. You felt his hand tip your chin up as tears welled up in your eyes.

 “For you,” he leveled with you, “I’ll stay.” What he really meant was… ‘I’ll follow you to the deepest depths of the earth.’ His hand still intertwined with yours he pulled you to his chest and he gave you a tight hug, his whole body enveloped you and you held on tightly to him. You didn’t feel so alone with him there, and your heart thudded in your chest. You were starting to develop feelings for this hybrid… The realization hit you like a ton of bricks, while he let his jaw rest on the top of your head.

 “You’ve never seen the nether?” He questioned you, and you nodded into his chest, just relishing the feel of his hands rubbing your back.  “I promise I’ll take you there,” You pulled back from him, excitement rising in your chest.

 “Really?” You bounced on your heels, gripping his shirt. He couldn’t help but chuckle at your reaction.

 “Just give me some time to get a set of armor prepared for you.” He stepped away from your excited form.

 “Deal!” You nodded to him. He held the iron door open for you as you both entered the mineshaft, unknowing that certain eyes were watching from a far.

 ~~

 You were in that strip mine almost all day with Techno, and as much as you loved mining and talking with him. You were tired, well… That is… until Techno broke through into a cave of sorts. You had found a second wind.

 “Huh…” He cleared out the stone in front of him. “We found ourselves a mineshaft.” He ducked below low hanging stone and walked through onto wood. “Have you seen one of these?”

 “Can’t say I have…” You shook your head following him into the mineshaft. “I always bought the things I needed; I never really went exploring for things.” You lingered close to him. The two of you walk through the halls of the mineshaft. He had to duck his head to not hit his head on the wood of the support beams keeping the walls and ceiling supported.

 “You know where these places came from?” He craned his neck to look down at you through his mask. When you shook your head, he continued. You felt yourself lean closer into him as you listened to him. The interest on your face, brought a blush to Technoblade’s cheeks not that you could see it from behind the mask.

 “They say in the times of old before any of us walked this earth, the inhabitants of this land, ruled over everything peacefully. This world used to have more people, who were probably just like us. Some say that they had better technology, others would say that their lands were barren and the world, as we knew it, wasn’t like this. Savannahs, deserts, swamps, you name it… They weren’t a thing back then… Or so they say. The only thing that was constant was grass and cobblestone. Some even say there weren’t even any trees in the beginning.” You bite your lip trying to process what he was saying. It was hard to imagine. You heard his chuckle.

 “Things rapidly changed, and the people of this world thrived. Building these mineshafts, desert temples, ocean monuments, and jungle temples. People formed villages, and as time would go on, the land would change so much so that the villagers sometimes would be stuck in their homes buried under dirt, with no way to get out, until someone with the capabilities to help did.” Techno took a second to breathe and to see if you were still listening, and you were wholeheartedly listening to every single word, you practically hung on his arm. “The ocean floor used to be nothing but gravel, and the oceans housed very little fish.”

 “What happened to that world?” You eagerly asked your hand tightening on his arm. You could see a devilish grin spread upon his face.

 “Well, you see…” He turns and slowly backs you up to the stone wall, his eyes flooding black and his irises turning silver, the sight making you shudder. “There’s a legend, that a mighty being named Herobrine walked these lands, wreaking havoc on any who crossed his path. Many saw a face with shining white eyes staring back at them, in mineshafts… Much like this one.” His face was inches away from yours “Hiding around the corners that ended up being dead ends with no place for him to go.” You felt goosebumps rise on your arms at his words. “Making tunnels that weren’t there previously before, using Redstone torches to lead you to your demise.”

 You felt his hot breath on your skin. His closeness was almost too much for you to handle. You were having trouble listening to his words, and to top it off his hand rested on the wall next to your head. You tried not showing how flustered you were.

 “People theorize that he was the one changing the world to his liking. They also theorized that he was the one to wipe everyone out.” Techno’s eyes flash almost in a predatory manner. “Who knows… Maybe he’s… watching us right now.” Before you could react, he lets out a playful roar and picks you up as he spins you in the air and you let out a scream in surprise. His laughter calms you down almost immediately and you give him a playful glare.

 “How dare you Techno.” You grumble out, still in his arms.

 “You make it too easy.” He was still laughing as he set you down onto the ground. Letting you regain your composure.

 “Do you think that’s what really happened?” You ask after a second of thinking over his words.

 “No… I don’t, but I don’t think the people were killed when they disappeared…” He shrugs “People have their stories, but… I found a book, an incredibly old book, and it has more than one author.” You look at him questioningly. “As I told you, the world was barren, and it was mentioned in this book. But as the book fell into different hands, pages were added, and they recorded the changes of the world. The book would find someone else, and it would be passed down. It found me in my travels and once I am at my end in this world, I will leave it for someone else to add more pages.” After a few moments getting back on track he continues.

 “The book described people disappearing and people appearing almost out of thin air, and they claimed they had been in other worlds. I honestly think that whatever happened… People were just moved to a different world. Scattering everyone to different places, and this world was mostly abandoned by the old inhabitants.” He looked down in thought. “But that book also spoke of another possibility. Have you heard the music disk titled ‘11’?”

 “That creepy recording?” You had a copy of it in your old home, you had kept it because it was one of the rarer music disks. It was something that you had found just randomly on the ground one day in your old village. He nodded.

 “That’s the one…” He sighed. “I don’t think that that disk was a fake recording meant to just scare people…” He let his words sink in and you shuddered. “Whatever was chasing the person recording, could very well be the cause of everyone disappearing from this world.” You were having a hard time wrapping your head around it all. “I think that’s where the legend of Herobrine was started.”

 He gave you the time you needed to think about everything, you watch as he mined the nearby materials. The both of you rounded a corner and there sitting in a minecart was a chest. You heard Techno chuckle feeling his hand on the small of your back, he pushes you toward the box.

 “It’s all yours, darlin’,” He felt his breath catch in his throat, and you felt butterflies take flight in your stomach just by hearing the nickname. He definitely didn’t mean to call you that, and it was just a slip of a tongue, and he wasn’t sure if he had offended you with the nickname. Though judging by your red face, maybe you had liked the name. He didn’t know he was just thankful for the mask obscuring his own blush. Clearing his throat, he looks away as if nothing happened. He nudged you toward the chest.

 When you open the chest, your eyes widen. Inside, were a few seeds which were going to come in handy, some bones, and some rails sitting at the bottom of the chest. But what really caught your attention, was an enchanted book, a name tag and a golden apple. You grabbed everything you could and flipped through the enchanted books pages. It was in a language you didn’t know how to speak or write. Looking up at Techno, he takes the book from your hands.

 “Fire Protection III,” He chuckled reading it out for you. “This will help a lot when I make the armor for you, for when I show you the nether.” He beamed handing the book back to you. You gave him a smile at the thought of another adventure with Techno. It was funny, the world was so screwed up, but this hybrid had managed to show you more of it than you ever had seen in your entire life in just a short amount of time. You were excited to see the other things he had in store for you.

 You had even found your first set of diamonds in this mineshaft, Techno insisted that you keep these too as well as the other treasure the two of you had found. By the time you two had found the entrance to the mineshaft you were spent, and you were so happy to be on the way back to Niki’s.

 “I still can’t wait for you to meet Phil,” Techno grinned, and you gave a happy sigh, loving his smile. “There’s a reason he’s the leader of The Burrow, and that’s because he’s like the resident dad. There’s a lot of people who respect him.”

 “Well…” You couldn’t believe you were about to say this. “We could go visit him, now if you want?” There was a small part of you that wanted him to say no, but you knew that wasn’t a possibility with the way he genuinely smiled at you.

 “If that is what you’re comfortable with.” His eyes searched for any doubt in your eyes. Your hand gently reached for his when you nodded.

 “I’m ready.”

 --

 “Schlatt, I need a favor.” Dream sat across from Schlatt in Schlatt’s newly formed office. The sight he saw in front of that mineshaft making his blood boil. He wasn’t worried though he had a plan, and that’s why when he saw you hug Techno, he came straight to Schlatt.

  The construction loud outside the room. Schlatt had many workers working on his arena, and it was impossible to drown the sounds out. Schlatt’s desk sat in front of an angled thick window that gave him the perfect view of the huge arena. The office was the only thing that had been finished out of the whole arena, and it was impressive looking complete with fancy looking potted plants.

 “What can I do for ya bud?” Dream had no idea where Schlatt had come across a cigar or if he was saving them but Schlatt let the lit cigar hang from his mouth, taking drags off of it when he saw fit.

 “I want to fight Technoblade.” The words hung the air, and they brought a smile to Schlatt’s face. The plans already working through the gears in his mind.

 “I see.” Schlatt chewed on the end of the cigar. “What are we thinking? You want it to be a fair fight?” Puff of smoke emitted from his lips as he spoke. He laced his hands together setting his elbows on his desk so he could rest his chin on his interlaced fingers.

 “Whatever gives the best show.” Dream smiled from behind his mask. “The details can be worked out in the wash. I just need you… To get Technoblade to agree to a fight with me.”

 “I’ll see what I can do.”

 --

 You waited outside Phil’s house apprehensively. Your jaw started to hurt; it was then when you noticed that you were clenching your teeth. You rubbed your jaw hoping to find relief for the pain. Techno had gone in to explain the situation to Phil. You let your eyes wander; this was the area of the residential district you wanted to have your house in. In fact, the wall you had looked at before with Dream, had been across the way on the other side of the cavern.

 When you looked over at the wall once again… You could see Dream and his friend, Sapnap working, they were mining out the area you had wanted to claim. When you remembered Dream wanted to help you build your house, the thought made you smile. Dream was always so nice to you. You weren’t sure if they had seen you, but you leaned over the railing, opening your mouth to say hi to Dream. But you were quickly interrupted by the door opening behind you.

 Well… At least Dream was able to distract you from the anxiety that now pooled in your stomach for at least a little bit. You stepped away from the railing and turn back to Phil’s door. Techno’s eyes searched your face.

 “Ready?” He held his hand out for you to take. “You can leave at any time. Phil knows not to push you.” You swallowed down your courage and nodded, slipping your hand into his. He led you into the house. The house was normal, nicely built and decorated. It was weird associating this sort of house with someone who had almost killed you. But Phil wasn’t a bad guy, or so everyone told you. Techno led you through the main room into the kitchen which led into a dining room.

 There sitting at the head of the table was Phil. He was just a normal guy, but that still hadn’t helped your anxiety. You still had nightmares about his blade piercing your flesh. You needed to get over this, for yourself… Not for anyone else, not for Techno… You.

 “Hello.” Phil drew out the word, looking up from below a green and white bucket hat sitting on his head. He stood his eyes locked on you, and you felt your grip tighten on Techno. Techno rubbed circles over your hand in a comforting manner. Phil waited for you with patient and kind eyes, he noted the way you clung to Techno, and how Techno responded. He couldn’t help the warm smile emerging on his lips.

 “I-I uh…” You sputtered out, your cheeks reddening. Why was this so hard to do? The words were in your mind, but your mouth turned them into jelly. You took a second letting out a calming breath. “Techno says nothing but nice things about you.” You started off. Phil motioned for all of you to sit, and you do tentatively.

 “I can say the same about you.” He was careful with his words. “First off… I just want to say, I’m sorry for everything.” His eyes lower to the table, his hat obscuring his face. “If there is one thing that is important to me it’s my family.” He started, his eyes rising to meet yours. “I have Kristin, my boys and Techno.” He motioned to Techno, who had been watching your reactions. “And when I found you in Techno’s house… I thought the worst. I thought you had taken a part of my family. And when we spoke… I- well… I wasn’t going to let you take me away from Kristin and my boys. I was overzealous, and I am willing to do anything in my power to make it up to you.”

 You let a shaky breath out. Processing this information. You couldn’t blame him, but that still didn’t take the trauma away from you. Feeling Techno squeeze your hand as if to encourage you, you looked up into his eyes. Yeah… Just in the few weeks that you had known Techno you could say you would kill for him. You thought back on what he did to Phil when he had found the both of you in his house. You were pretty sure, if it wasn’t Phil Techno would have already killed him.

 “I’m sorry too.” Your voice was barely just above a whisper, “I forgive you Philza,” and you did. All of that could have been avoided, had you two just sat and talked it out, though that could be said for a lot of situations like that. You didn’t have any family in your life, and you couldn’t blame someone for protecting their own family. For your own peace of mind, you forgave him.

 “How’s the shoulder? Any pain?” He leaned forward his eyes scanning over your shoulder, worry lining his features. You shook your head.

 “I have some good nurses.” Squeezing Techno’s hand, you chuckled.

 “Techno does know a lot about keeping someone alive.” Phil added in, memories that were mysteries to you flashing behind his eyes. “I’d love to have you over for dinner with the family sometime so you can get acquainted with my little family. I know they have been curious about you too.” Feeling a smile pull at your lips you nodded.

 “I’d like that.”

[solarwonux]

Minghao x f!reader drabble

w.c: 2.8k

warnings: angst, slight mention of not eating, minghao be an asshole sometimes

note: I’ve had this one collecting dust in the docs so I decided to upload it today, it was meant to be part of a bigger fic but I decided to not continue though who knows it might be referenced later on in a different fic. Enjoy and let me know your thoughts.xx

Also I’m changing my schedule around a little. So instead of me posting Mon, Weds, Fri, I will be posting Mon, Thurs, Fri. You can find more info on Navi

drabble game || masterlist

There were sides of Minghao  that unfortunately weren’t reserved for you, except for one. The one you hated the most and the one you wished you could stray as far away from. The side that received you with a frown and a bitter cold glare. The side that spoke to you in short sentences, a sour tone that would weave its way through his voice like vines whenever he spoke to you. It sent shivers down your spine and not the good kind. It was the side that you couldn’t break through to get to the side that was reserved for the people he loved and cared about most in the world. And you weren’t one of those people.

Maybe this was the way the universe decided to punish you. A punishment you wholeheartedly thought you didn’t deserve because you were tied at your feet with no way out. When you had been matched with Minghao  by the System it was either you marry or die. And of course, selfishly you choose to live. You knew he resented you for it, but in the year and a half that you two were officially married, you had secretly seen the warmth that oozed out of his pores. You saw the wide smile that would light up the room whenever darkness poured in. His laugh sounded like a sweet melody that you would never get tired of listening and just his presence made you feel like home.

Minghao was a gift, the purest form of art, a being so powerful you swore he would restore the peace in the world. He could resent you, hate you all he wanted, look at you with an overwhelming amount of venom in his eyes. And you’d let him, you could never let yourself regret your final decision because he deserved to live.

Sighing deeply, you pushed yourself off the elevator walls watching as the hallway to your apartment came into view. This was the part you hated most about your day. It wasn’t the part where you woke up alone, it wasn’t the part where you had to go to work and it wasn’t the hour and a half walk home. It was the short walk from the elevator to your apartment. It never failed to stretch out miles as your heart caught itself in your throat because behind that closed door you weren’t sure what you’d encounter.

Sometimes it would be a quiet Minghao , sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table with his headphones on. His studio set up scattered all over, a notebook and his unlocked phone next to him. Sometimes it was him quietly sitting at the coffee table eating take out, sometimes it was him on his phone arguing with his mother as he shot piercing glares at you, probably wishing you weren’t alive. And other times it was a dark and cold apartment, nothing out of place. The silence creeping underneath the floorboards, reigning, occupying its throne in between the walls as it desperately tried to push the two of you out.

For some reason that was the apartment you always found yourself hoping for whenever you stopped in front of your door. Your hand gripping the doorknob tightly every night that it had started getting loose.

This was a routine by now. You’d put the key in the key lock, turn it until you heard it unlock. Then you’d close your eyes, slowly count ten Mississippi’s, proceed to give yourself a pep talk and then finally biting the bullet and opening the door. Anxiety rushed through you quickly when you saw what was waiting for you behind the door, Minghao  on the couch typing quickly on his phone, while the TV beamed with life in front of him. Lighting up the dark living room with undertones of blue.

“I’m home.” You spoke, a shake in your voice making you wish you were stronger. The door clicked behind you, signaling there would be no way out until tomorrow morning so you might as well bite your tongue and deal with anything you’d encounter tonight.

“Welcome, I ordered food but wasn’t sure if you wanted any.” He shrugged, locking his phone and setting it by his side. He crossed his arms in front of him and turned his attention to the TV.

“It’s fine I’m not hungry anyway.” You took off your shoes by Minghao’s worn out ones. The hunger swirled inside of you, but you pushed it aside, telling yourself that you’d find something to eat once he was asleep in the guest bedroom that by now had become his room. “Mhm, you are eating right?” He said a hint of concern in the back of his throat, but that could’ve been your mind playing games on you. Though the question had caught you off guard and you weren’t sure how to answer without lying because in truth for a while now your appetite had severely gone down.

“I am, had a big lunch with one of my coworkers.” Minghao  nodded at your answer, finally turning to face you, furrowing his eyebrows. You tried to ignore his gaze, relax your body as much as you could and placed your bag down on one of the highchairs in front of the kitchen island. “My family’s coming over tomorrow, my mom wants to cook dinner…you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.” He blurted out the last part, hollowing out the part of your heart that was reserved for him. You loved Minghao ’s family as much as you loved him, but unlike him they had been very welcoming of you. Embraced you with open arms and you found comfort knowing that at least a part of him loved you.

“I’ll be there.” You whispered, shrugging off your coat and placing it on the back of the chair. “I have a day off tomorrow so I can clean up around here before they come over…I mean if that’s fine with you and all, I don’t want to make things uncomfortable.”

“Do whatever you want.” He spat out leaning back on the couch. His tone returning to the one you were used to hearing and you knew you had overstayed your welcome in the living room. “Right, I’m going to bed then.” You nodded walking past him and straight to your room, closing the door behind you quickly and resting your back against it. You breathed out a sad sigh of relief feeling the tears build up behind your eyelids, the hunger gnawing its way through your stomach ripping it to shreds. As well as your need for some sort of comfort, as you came to your first realization of the night. Just like it washed over you every single night and for once you wished you didn’t feel so alone, when the person that was supposed to love you stood on the other side not caring.

Oddly there was a side of you that loved Minghao  and maybe it was the side that kept holding onto the hope you first felt when you were given the news. Or maybe it was the image of him that you created in your head from all the fragments of light he let out whenever he thought you weren’t looking. But you loved him, that was something you were confident in because you saw him for who he was, flaws and all when the two of you weren’t alone.

“Fuck.” You pushed yourself off your door throwing yourself on your unmade made and grabbing the turtle stuffed animal you slept with every night. It brought you a small sense of comfort and any comfort you could get you would grab and indulge in it blissfully. It was small and useless in the long run.

You buried your head into the head of the stuffed animal, finally letting the dam loose and the sobs came in full throttle. Thankfully the TV in the living room was loud enough to muffle your sounds. It wouldn’t matter if he could hear you anyway because you knew he wouldn’t be running into your room like a knight in shining armor and save you from yourself. He just didn’t care and that was the second realization you would have every night. Each time you did, it sent a jab through your body, cracking the little wall that kept the small sliver of light you held onto dearly. Each night though you felt it flicker slowly losing its innocent glow. Sometimes you’d wonder when the light would finally die out, when the numbness would finally overtake your body and you could go on with life without feeling like you were worthless. Without feeling anything.

“Can I come in?” You sat up on your bed at lightning speed. Minghao ’s soft voice sounding from the other side of your door. A knock following in between syllables. Your breathing sped up and you brought your hands up to your cheeks slapping your tears away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of him seeing you in this state. “U-Um yeah.” You spoke moving to rest against the headboard of your bed, grabbing your laptop on your bedside table and opening it to make it seem like you were doing something other than crying.

“I brought you chicken as I couldn’t finish it all.” He walked in, a styrofoam container in his left hand. His aura took over the air in your room and you felt as if you were suffocating. You watched as he slowly took in your room and your face heating up as you remembered the untidy state of your room. His eyes lingering on the wall of polaroid’s behind your even messier desk.

The girl in those pictures, the one whose smile reached her eyes and laughed still lingered in the small cracks on the walls of your room was someone that was unknown to you now. On days when you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of bed you looked at her as a sign of motivation. Telling yourself that that person was still within you and that she would come back you just had to fight through whatever you were going through. At the end of the day she always came back.

“Oh, I’m not hungry.” You closed your laptop and set it aside, the forgotten google tab opened waiting to be used. “I can have it for lunch tomorrow though.” You brought your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them. To avoid his curious gaze, you looked out the window, the moonlight shining down at the skyline. You wondered if they were at peace unlike you.

“Why do you cry every night?” Minghao  blurted out. He had placed the container on your desk and sat down on the foot of your bed. His back turned to you. The question had caught you off guard as you searched through the files in your brain in order to come up with an excuse. Yet, you came out unsuccessful and decided to just finally confess to him. You had nothing left to lose. “I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you?” You choked out biting your lip to keep the sob that threatened to spill locked away in the back of your throat.

“You can’t love…you barely know me.” He turned to face you and for the first time in a long time you couldn’t read the emotion that was playing against his features.

“Maybe I don’t love the person I’m faced with everyday, but I do love the person I see whenever you let your guard down around your friends and family.”

“But aren’t you tired of all of this? He raised an eyebrow, lifting his palm up and signaling all around the room as if the extra gesture would help prove his point.

“Exhausted.” You breathed out your shoulders falling as you felt yourself fall apart little by little in front of him. “Then why not hate me?” Minghao  brought his legs up to your bed and crossed them underneath him. This was the longest the two of you had spoken or been in each other’s presence and although it was suffocating there was a small ring of light that lingered between the two of you.

“Because as much as I want to sometimes, I can’t bring myself to hate someone that’s hurting inside as well.”

The deafening silence that the two of you had grown accustomed to entangling itself in the warmth that was lingering above the two of you now. Somehow bringing the two of you a sense of comfort in the midst of this confusing situation you found yourselves in. Although you could feel like you could breathe again, the question that still kept you up at night stayed put in the back of your throat waiting to finally be let out into the world. For months you had pushed it back, deciding you already knew the answer to it. But as you sat in front of Minghao , his soft eyes dancing between your puffy ones you weren’t sure anymore. So, you put your preconceived notions aside as well as your pride and opened your mouth, letting the question run out to freedom. Your heart raced as you anticipated his answer.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you, truthfully I don’t think I could ever hate you.”

“Then why can’t you love me back?” You whispered, shutting your eyes. Your hold on your legs getting tighter.

“Because I can’t bring myself to do so no matter how hard I want to sometimes, especially when I listen to you cry every night. I wish…I want to set everything aside and hold you. I want to make you feel less alone…but I can’t.” Minghao  let out a frustrated sign running his hands through his hair and tugging at his roots in desperation. The sight made your heart wrench. You wanted to reach over and hug him, give him the comfort you craved.

“W-Why?”

“I feel guilty.” He nodded resting his forearms against his knees, finally breaking his eye contact with you. Searching your room rapidly for another point of focus and finally settling on the humidifier on your bedside table. “I feel guilty because before I met you, I had chosen to live, not knowing that I would be the reason why your light would start to fade as the days went by.”

Without a second thought you let go of your legs, maneuvering yourself around your bed and wrapped your arms around him tightly. Finally breaking the barrier that silently lingered between the two of you.

You buried your face into his neck letting your tears run freely for the second time that night. Though this time instead of feeling the loneliness you had felt earlier, you felt a sense of relief wash over you.

Minghao  felt himself hesitate for a moment feeling overwhelmed as he felt your touch for the first time, not knowing he missed it. A thought he couldn’t explain because how was he missing something he had never had the pleasure of feeling. But he pushed it aside and hugged you back, letting the tears he had kept in for far too long out in the open. He wasn’t happy but he felt like he could be happy if this was what it felt like to finally have you in his arms. He held you tightly, gripping onto you and burying his nose in your hair taking in your scent, one he decided right then and there he would never grow tired of. The two of you basking in each other’s arms, your hearts racing against one another and it overwhelmed the two of you greatly.

“I know we have a lot of things to get through but I’m willing to start over if you are.” You whispered, removing your arms from his body and sitting back on your knees. You wiped your tears with the back of your hand, letting out a small laugh and shook your head in disbelief before holding your hand out for him to shake.

Minghao  smiled widely, chuckling before taking your hand in his. The feeling was enough to send shivers up his spine. The good kind.

For the first time that night he had a realization. A secret that he would carry out to his grave, unless you prodded it out of him and with how things were going, he was sure that you would succeed at it too. But for now, he would keep it to himself and enjoy the way your touch felt against his skin and the way your smile was enough to have his heart beating out of time.

“I’m Minghao, your husband.”

[keilemlucent]

lavender latte x (no longer canon)

NOTE: Chapters X and XI are not longer considered canon in Lavender Latte. 

...

(M (for now!) 

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

||  series masterlist  ||

word count: ~4.4k

beta’ed: @hawnks​ (thank u!!! 💗)

the softness after the storm

warnings: reference to the panic attacks/dissociation of the last few chapters, fragile reader, mostly fluff. so much fluff. nesting too.

 ...

hello <3 ll is alive and well to the point where... i made another mega chapter that i had to split, so here’s the first chunk! just lots of softness, hurt/comfort and fluff. both of u need it. we all need it right now. find some comfort if u can loves 💗

(psst-- thank you all for sticking around for this series, i adore you all with my whole heart!!!!!!) 

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After all of the noise and pain of the morning, Keigo and you stayed twisted in each other for a long time.

You both needed it, the softness and heat of the other.

You clung onto him, taking in big gulps of his smell and presence as he tethered you to earth purely by breathing and living.

 You were precious to Keigo, more than anything.

As tender as the time together was, he couldn’t forget that what preceded it was not only traumatic but induced by trauma. 

It worried him, to his core. 

That protective flare quieted, somewhat, but never truly went away. Keeping you in his arms, whispering new ‘I love you’s and being able to comfort you certainly helped, but he knew he’d need to examine that part of himself more thoroughly. 

It was new, strong, and ran deep.

His mental musings dissolved when you trembled particularly hard in his arms, his gut twisting.

He placed a few slow, kind kisses where he could reach, rubbing his fingers into the tension in the fat above your hips, “You’re okay, (Y/N), we’re safe.”

“A-are you sure?” You asked softly, again, trying to tug Keigo closer.

He nodded, nuzzling into your hair, “I promise.”

It worried him, how much reassurance you were asking for. He gave it freely, of course, as it was not only the truth, but feeling some of the tension drain from your body with his words felt good.

He knew you just needed to feel grounded. 

“I love you,” You barely looked up at him, eyes shining.

His heart ached as he gently pulled you closer, pressing his lips to yours.

It wasn’t a chaste kiss, something deeper, like those you had been sharing all day as you both unwound. 

You grabbed at his face, stuttering breaths into his mouth as he gathered you up by your waist.

“I love you too, dove. So much,” Keigo spoke between kisses, hands dipping just below your waistband, only to massage at any tension he could find. “I’ve gotcha’.”

You stifle something like a sob, cuddling back into him, your light trembling somewhat dulled.

 It felt good to say ‘love you’s to Keigo.

But, physically?

You felt like shit

Your hand and leg ached. The adrenaline lingered in your system, making your body shake out of your control and sleep impossible to reach, as exhausted as you were. That wasn’t even to mention the headache you had from crying for so long and the lack of food and caffeine in your body. 

Keigo smoothed a hand over your back, setting it at the base of your skull, “How are you feeling?”

“Gross,” You mumbled, keeping your eyes shut and mentally blessing the darkness Keigo provided. “Sort of awful.” 

“I can imagine,” Keigo squeezed your sides. “Do you want some water?”

“S-sure.”

Keigo immediately helped you sit up against your headboard, a fresh bottle of water pressed into your hand. You appreciated that it wasn’t glass, just an old plastic one you’d had hidden away in a cupboard.

You sipped greedily, the water feeling far too cold in your stomach. You frowned.

“I think I need to eat, even if I don’t feel like I need to,” You said quietly, folding your hands in your lap. 

“Would you like me to help with that?” Keigo asked softly.

You nodded.

Keigo hummed again, something low and sweet that made your eyes go half-lidded as you leaned against him.

“How about this?” He tapped the top of the water bottle. “I’m still stuck in my hero uniform, so I can run home and grab a change of clothes, sleepover stuff, some food, and whatever else you need and then we camp out for the rest of the day?”

The thought of being able to nest with Keigo for the rest of the day was heavenly. 

“You want to stay the night?” You asked, confirming, flickering your gaze up nervously.

Despite the dulling of it all, it was obvious you were still frayed.

It broke Keigo’s heart.

“Of course,” Keigo beamed you the best smile he could, pressing his lips to your forehead. “I’ll hold you all night, keep you safe, dove, the whole bit.”

You didn’t reply, not verbally. All you could do was sag in his arms, nodding and pressing small kisses to his covered collar bones.

“Can you stay a little longer now?” You sniffled, curling around him. “Just a little.”

His chest ached with how fragile you sounded. 

“However long you need, dove, promise,” Keigo pulled you close, into his lap and wrapped what he could of his wings and feathers around your shoulders. 

...

Keigo departed an hour or so later, sometime near noon. He helped you into the living room, draping a blanket over your shoulders and putting the plushie into your arms.

He knelt in front of you, squeezing your hands, “I won’t be long, promise.”

You bit your lip, nodding.

“Can I ask something?”

“Anything, dove.”

“Can I have one of your feathers, while you’re gone?”

Keigo’s heart panged so hard in his chest, it felt like a bell toll vibrating to the tips of his fingers. 

A few of his plumes fell into and around your lap, softened and rippling. 

“Of course, dove, bare minimum,” He pressed a few kisses to your knuckles. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

You were already sinking into the cushions of the couch, eyes tired and wide, “Thank you, Keigo. I love you.

“I love you too, angel.”

He kissed your forehead before taking off from your balcony.

...

You were so tired. 

Quickly, you fell onto the couch, eyes half-lidded, but your body was still too restless for sleep.

You felt like human vibration, sticky and wrong. As much as the anxiety of the earlier day had died down, you still shook with the physical and mental aftershocks of it all.

It made you that much more thankful that Keigo was staying.

You were self-aware enough to be coming to terms with that you needed a fucking therapist. 

Not that that was a bad thing, but you felt a little dumb for not thinking about it sooner. As soothing as Keigo’s kindness was, you knew it wasn’t a cure. All the aches ran too deeply and personally for that. 

The thought was shoved off, the lingers of the trauma-spiral making your brain spin again.

You winced, curling around the plushie and Keigo’s lingering feathers. 

Still raw.

You shuddered, cursing that you still hadn’t stopped shaking, hadn’t stopped flinching— 

It’s not that easy, you reminded yourself.

You made a mental note to thank Keigo profusely for dealing with you in such a fragile state.

 Keigo had flown back to his penthouse, shucking off his uniform in favor of a pair of joggers and a loose, cropped sweater. His wings stretched up and out from the specially-made slits, still sparse from the day prior. Notably, taking a day off was probably a good thing for himself. He could still feel the aches of his own exhaustion, worse than its normal perpetual throb, from his recent healing.

 As he gathered his things around the penthouse, he was acutely aware of you and your physical state from the feathers he left behind. Considering he was practically on the other side of the city, the sensations were fairly dull, but undeniably there. 

The flutter of your heart and the shaking of your body were unmistakable and unavoidable. 

Keigo remained on edge, jaw set. There was a constant flood of newly unsuppressed feelings around you that he genuinely didn’t know what to fucking do with.

Mainly, the big, lurking need to protect you.

It wasn’t like his instinct to fix up the world and save civilians with a smile on his face. All of that was different, ultimately rooted in his primary goal of allowing himself rest— 

No, around you, it was the deep, carnal need to keep you safe.

Hence why the shuddering of your limbs against the faraway feathers was so hard to ignore. 

Despite how much Keigo wanted to call you, check-in despite the fact he’d been gone for maybe twenty, he took a moment to collect himself.

Carefully, Keigo took some pointed breaths, wings and shoulders sagging.

He could only do so much.

He knew enough about hurt and pain to understand that he couldn’t stitch you up, no, that was a terrible idea. Sometimes you just had to hurt before you could feel better.

Keigo made a mental point to stay with you through it all, to try and support and comfort you where he could, like he had been. 

It satisfied enough of that instinct that he could’ve purred.

He grabbed his phone, sending off a text before flying from his balcony once more.

 [birdboy <3]: hey angel ;^) i’m gonna pick u up some surprises

[birdboy <3]: good stuff

[birdboy <3]: i’ll be back very soon

[birdboy <3]: love u!! <3!!

 You smiled at the texts, taking a shaking breath and burrowing deeper. You sent off your own I love you, antsy with your lack of him. Ultimately, you wanted Keigo to be back soon, but being alone for a little while was probably good.

It allowed you some precious moments of self-soothing.

You were fine, you reminded yourself. Nothing in your apartment was harmful. You were safe, despite the adrenaline and remnants of fear.

Now was the time for rest.

You pushed off the couch, grabbing your crutches and started to make a plan. 

It wasn’t a difficult one, mainly scrutinizing the layout of your bedroom in conjunction to the size of your TV. 

Making your way to the kitchen was difficult, some fear still boiling in you as you approached.

You sighed in relief when you noticed the spotless sink and counters. 

Keigo must’ve cleaned up.

You reminded yourself aloud to thank him later.

Shuffling to a nook in the counter, you grabbed a small metal tin, two mugs, and two tea strainers. The tea blend you’d grabbed was one you’d been reaching for often enough that you’d started to just keep it at an arm's reach.

You popped the lid, sucking down the floral fragrance with a sigh.

Shaky as you were, you could do this much.

You gave yourself a little smile and got to work. 

 Keigo was busy as well, dashing around town to gather what he could.

He didn’t tend to... shop. Most of those needs were met with delivery services and online ordering as it tended to be so much easier than being the number two pro hero out in public and trying to be ‘casual’ with two massive pairs of red wings.

It was slightly better, consider how they were still plucked from the day prior. 

He flew from store to store, trying his best to be quick at dodging his fans, repeating that he was having a ‘self-care day’ in the wake of getting so beat up. 

It wasn’t really a lie.

His final stop, feathers towing a few bags behind him, was picking up one of your comfort foods, a smile growing on his face.

Keigo knew that all he was doing wouldn’t make you feel better in the way that a few fragments of him wanted it to. Part of him wanted to save you— 

But that’s not how people work.

And he knew that.

Instead, he’d just be there.

That felt far better than agonizing about wounds too deep for even you, their bearer, to fully perceive. 

Keigo shook his head as he neared your apartment once more, your sounds and movements becoming stronger against the feathers he’d left behind. 

 You jumped at the clear ‘thump’ echoing from your balcony, but were quickly soothed as the door slid open, revealing a soft-smiling Keigo.

He was on you in an instant.

Carefully, notably.

He was falling onto the couch next to you, a bundle of feathers resituating themselves to his wings as he tugged you into his arms.

Keigo winded his arms around your waist, pulling you as close as he could manage while peppering little kisses on your cheeks. 

As saturated and sticky as your mind was, his firm touch and the feather-light brushing of his lips made your body thrum in a pleasant way. His contact was soothing the fresh burns and you let it.

“I missed you.”

It was a mutual sentiment. 

He squeezed you, tight, a broad wing wrapping around you both.

“What did you end up doing?” You asked, voice soft and filled with a lingering weakness.

Keigo directed you with a glance to the several bags stacked by the door.

“I used a bit of my hero’s paycheck to treat you, a little extra comfort,” Keigo hummed, nosing into your hair. 

“You didn’t have to—” 

Keigo quieted you with a quick kiss, a hand dipping under your shirt to smooth up your spine. 

“Hush, let me spoil you,” His lips quirked up as he spoke. “You deserve it, you know. Not to mention, I’m more than able to.”

He wasn’t wrong. 

You’d subconsciously shoved down the thought, avoiding ogling at Keigo’s obvious wealth. He had to be loaded, money wouldn’t be an issue. 

You thought for a moment, turning over the idea as your anxiety stirred, the ambient quaking of your body picking up. 

“Today has sucked.”

Part of you felt guilt, overwhelmingly. 

Keigo had done so much for you already, physically and emotionally. 

It was a short-lived feeling as you met his gaze.

It made you feel so damn precious.

You’d seen Keigo smile for photos and on billboards, but it was nothing like the ones he gave you. His expression was all that warmth and honey that you loved about him, delivered through the melted-cores of his eyes.

And it clicked.

You said nothing, knowing that the conversation and implication of it all made your heart swell so much, it ached.

“Okay, just this once, okay? And you gotta let me treat you to some tea,” You managed a little smile, something small and sacred that made Keigo’s heart swell.

 Keigo followed you into the kitchen, shuffling to meet your slow pace. Each of your movements was clearly labored, but you didn’t seem as perturbed as he would've thought.

You hit a button on the electric kettle, fiddling with the stem of the pre-prepared mugs. They already had small, metal balls made of mesh, filled with what leaves and flowers. Set nearby was a carton of oat milk and a jar of honey with a homemade label.

Keigo blinked.

“Did... you put this all together while I was gone?”

“I did,” You nodded easily, eyes drifting to the bubbling of the kettle. “It’s the least I could do, you know?”

Keigo’s gut went into knots, a mix of things that were hard to parse through. Mostly, it was that chest tightening mix of worry and syrupy adoration that he wanted to drown in. 

Carefully, yet firmly as he could, he tugged your close by the waist, burying his nose in your hair, “You’re too good.”

“Says you,” You reminded him. “You’re the one who’s been doing the heavy lifting today, birdboy.”

Keigo gently scoffed against your crown, “‘Heavy lifting’? Bare minimum, as far as I know. I like being here and helping you, you know.”

You paused.

“You... do?”

Your words were punctuated by the click of the kettle turning off, the bubble of boiling water slowly dying off. 

“Of course,” Keigo replied after a moment of quiet, keeping himself soft. “Is that a... bad thing?”

 You reminded yourself that he was new to all of this 

“N-no, not at all,” You pressed into him, tighter, closer, ignoring the idle kettle in favor of giving Keigo some much-needed comfort. “It feels nice.”

Some of the tension drained from Keigo as his wings shifted behind him. 

“Good,” He dropped yet another kiss into your hair. “It... feels nice. Knowing you’re safe.”

“S-Same,” You stuttered, frowning into Keigo’s chest. “Are you alright, Keigo?”

 Your words startled him into silence for a moment. 

“I’m not bad if that’s what you’re asking— “

“Deflecting again, are we?” 

You managed him a cheeky smile, pulling back to nudge your nose into the stubble at his chin.

“I’m... really grateful you were here today, and are gonna be here,” You squeezed him tighter, hands resting at the base of his wings. “But, you’ve had a pretty tough last twenty-four hours too, you know?”

You weren’t wrong.

“It’s a part of the job, I’ll be alright,” Keigo tried to shush you, but you weren’t having any of it.

You cupped his cheeks in your palms, giving him a little frown, “Keigo, I love you.”

The new words got his heart stuttering in his chest. 

“I’m kind of fucked up right now, but I’m still here, okay? For whatever you need.” You reminded him, gracing him with a chaste kiss as punctuation. 

Part of Keigo wanted to tug you closer, slip his hands under your shirt and express how much he loved you, but he knew better.

There needed to be a moment of reprieve.

“Thank you, dove,” Keigo wasn’t sure how to fully accept your kindness, but with the smell of earthy flowers wafting and your small smile shining all for him, he was excited to try. 

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 The rest of the day was a testament to softness.

Keigo had some avian instincts, sure, but the Commission taught him long ago how to suppress the more bothersome traits. One that he had never been able to shake too well was the need to stay bundled up and warm— 

Nesting, as it was labeled.

And you were all for it.

 Keigo adjusted the TV on top of your cleared-off desk, tilting it so it was perfectly viewable from the bed. 

You were half-on your knees, booted foot extended while digging through the bags of softness Keigo had brought.

“These are so fucking good, Keigo!” You held one of the fluffy blankets to your chest before unfurling it. “Absolutely wonderful choices, I have to admit.”

“Happy to please, angel. I grabbed the comfiest ones I could find,” Keigo chuckled, mostly to himself.

He wasn’t the most adept at finding comfort, but he knew a fair amount about surrounding yourself with softness (something he’d been indulging more thoroughly in his private time, after meeting you, of course.) 

Something stirred in his chest as he watched you prop up pillows and arrange blankets over your mattress. With it up against the wall, you were able to create a little... nest of sorts.

Keigo’s’ dick twitched.

Calm down, it’s only a little bit cute— 

You clamored to the edge of your bed, outstretching a hand with a warm smile, “Come on, tailfeathers, I need your body heat.”

“That all?” Keigo’s chest filled with molten heat as he let you tug him down into the softness you’d made. “Just need me for warmth?”

You hummed, pulling at his forearm to topple him over your lap, “Nah, plenty more. Want me to tell you about it?”

His dick twitched again. 

Keigo mused on it, only for a moment. 

“As much as I’d love to hear your reasons,” Keigo braced his arms on either side of your head, ducking to whisper in your ear. “I think you need to rest, hm?”

It was your bloodshot eyes, shaking hands, and tired smile that gave you away. Though it was obvious you were in better spirits, exhausted radiated off of you, even if you managed to banter.

You didn’t put up any fight, only nuzzling into his cheek and trailing your lips near his own, “Maybe you’re right.”

“Just ‘maybe’?” Keigo teased, bearing more of his body weight down onto you. 

You didn’t reply verbally, just tugged him down by the waistband of his joggers. 

“It’s okay,” Keigo said softly, maybe the softest he’d ever spoken, “we’ll just rest.”

“Can you put on something for background noise?” 

“Of course, dove,” Keigo smothered you with kisses, littering your forehead and nose with affections wherever he could reach. 

As you situated yourself, Keigo now the one repositioning the fluffing and blankets around your bed, his mind wandered.

 The amount of vulnerability he showed you was scary, it had been since the beginning. All those subtle glances and remarks that went from weightless flirting to all-out love were new and terrifying.

Yet, Keigo craved it to the point of aching.

As you sipped your tea, nestled between his legs with your back against his chest, that ambient pain was dulled.

 Keigo rested his head against your shoulder, nosing below your ear, “How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy, now, less shaky,” You replied following a heavy, audible gulp. 

It was true, your body had mostly stilled its ambient trembling. 

He couldn’t imagine how tired you were.

He also was having trouble acknowledging how tired he was.

Keigo reached to take a sip of his own tea, the smoothness of the honey, oat milk and lavender washing down the back of his throat. The softness of the drink itself was pushing him closer to acknowledging his own exhaustion.

(That was, of course, part of the reason you prepared such a tea, but you kept yourself smitten with your solely known knowledge.) 

“Can we try napping again?” You asked, pulling him from your thoughts. The heat of your pressed back into him as you nuzzled the side of his face. 

“Of course.”

And so, you nested.

The mugs were set aside, the steam tapering off but still filling the room with aromatics. The lights twinkled dimly, the curtains drawn to keep the afternoon light extinguished. The TV glowed in the corner, moved from your living room to on top of your desk, something ambient and meaningless running to fill the quiet air.

And you held Keigo with all you had.

It took a bit of maneuvering, pillows and plushies being pushed and shoved. Maybe, on a different day, you would’ve been a little self-conscious about all of the softness you were shamelessly surrounding yourself with. 

But, that day? You couldn’t care.

As the shakes subsided, your body craved only rest. Keigo offered it up without and second thought, and you drank it in, him in, greedily.

You faced each other, held in the arms of the other, Keigo’s feathers having spread themselves across the ‘nest’ and floor to allow him to accommodate the space a bit better.

Your face was buried in his chest, your hands already snaked under his cropped crew neck and resting below his wings. Every so often, your touch would brush close enough to the base to make him shudder.

You loved how it felt, how he felt next to you.

That was the only real thought you could conjure up in the perfect mess of blankets and softness. 

Sleep took you easily after that.

 Keigo managed to stay awake a bit longer, thoughts restless but slowing. 

He felt a new sort of sated, now that he was curled up with you.

The two of you had cuddled plenty in weeks prior, but nothing that was quite this cozy. With his feathers scattered about the room and nest, blankets pulled up to your chin, for the first time in a long while, he felt truly at peace.

Mostly.

As tired as he was, his mind wandered as he idly stroked along the bare skin of your neck and collar.

He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about your state just hours ago, eyes uncomfortably full, yet vacant in the same moment.

Keigo knew how you felt. 

He knew how these sorts of things worked. The way the mind functioned in vulnerable states (and how to exploit them) was something branded into his mind. In the silence of his penthouse, Keigo was smart enough to put together that this was the reason he’d been able to be there for you in the way that he had been.

It was disturbing, thinking about the origin of his ability to comfort you. His roots being in his need to manipulate rather than comfort. 

Part of him felt sick with the thought, feathers ruffling and puffing up around the room. 

The things he’d been taught and the way they’d been etched into the marble tablet of psyche weren’t good. Even if he valued the skills he’d gained, he had garnered enough agency at some point to put together how the corruption of the Commission infected him. 

The thought made him feel dirty, which was why he pushed it back and away so often.

But, now, thinking about the way you shuddered and wailed in his arms, he couldn’t avoid it, an odd poison spreading through his chest. 

 “Hey,” Your voice slurred with sleep as your hands twitched at his sides. “You’re thinkin’ too hard.”

“And how do you know that?” 

“Your heart, silly,” The sound of it was loud in your ears, the thrum far too quick to be calm. “Sounds fast.”

“Caught me,” Keigo gave a weak laugh, smothered into your hair with kisses. “I’m alright. Get some sleep, I’ll be right here.”

“Nuh-uh,” You forced yourself to full wakefulness with a few unpleasant blinks.

You cupped his jaw and searched his face.

...

Keigo was far too good at hiding how he felt. 

From his painfully cleansed expression, it was hard to tell what exactly he was really feeling, only that he wasn’t expressing whatever it was.

“Keigo,” You breathed his name. “You deserve to rest. All you gotta do is be here, right now, okay? 

Your tired mind was one of its most honest iterations. 

 Weren’t you right?

 “I’m here, always, Keigo.”

“I know,” Keigo sighed with relief, softening against you. 

There was so much he couldn’t tell you, especially not yet. Too much knotted up and tied with himself that was too fragile, secret, or buried to be even acknowledged by himself, let alone you.

Not to mention, the Commission and the public had no idea you were a part of his life, and you intended to keep it that way, at least for a while. 

Keigo opened his mouth to let loose one last quip, but quickly silenced himself.

You’d already fallen back asleep, maybe even more relaxed, clinging to him with everything you had.

 He had always believed he would never let sentiment get his way. 

Even the word ‘sentiment’ felt dirty rolling around in his mind.

You weren’t just ‘sentiment’, you were love.

And he loves you. 

Keigo drifted off with his warmth and comfort knotted up with your own, relaxing, truly for the first time in a long time.

+++++

💗ko-fi 💗

++++

taglist: 

taglist (please send me an ask if you’d like to be added!): @thepandapopo @hawksexual @sinclairsamess @darcia22 @inhalingsoysauce   @yee-fxcking-haw @aproperthottie @seasalttrioforever @mia--merc @call-me-rhee @peach-buns-unicorns @amethyst-rose-17 @mega-bastard @an-untamed-rose @ravioliplease @keigosangel @gobestupidsomewhereelse @themusingsofmany @mariiloei @hecatve @assassinslittlesister  @thepuckishrogue​

[dabilove27]

Bright

Pairing: Kirishima x Fem!Reader 

Rating: T

Warnings: Idiots who don’t realize they are in love, some language, a tiny bit of angst but it has a happy ending! I think that’s all  

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: So this is the first thing I've ever written and posted on here.  It might be 5.2 words of crap but I put a lot of work into it.  I just want to thank my amazing friends for hyping me up to finally post this and the never ending support.  I love y’all so much! Y’all’s encouragement has meant so much to me!

At the start of this journey, you never would have guessed this is where the two of you would end up. Swaying slowly, in a large ballroom with the lights turned low, in the most expensive white dress you would ever own. Your arms wrap around the muscular neck of the love of your life, and everything feels complete. Marrying Eijirou Kirishima was a dream. Grinning, you look up at his glowing face as you finish your first dance as husband and wife. Being in his arms, you felt safe and secure as he wrapped them around your waist. In moments like this, it was hard to think of a time when you weren't the center of each other's lives.

You met Kirishima the same day you began your hero journey at UA.  

Scurrying down the massive hallways, you make it to your homeroom of 1-A. Many students already occupy the classroom and are engaged in conversations. Maneuvering around the groups of students, you find your assigned seat and begin to settle in. As you scan the room, your eyes land on a boy with spiky hair and vivid red eyes. His smile beams, and as you continue to glance at him, a small grin grows on your face. As if feeling the weight of your gaze on him, he turns towards you, and his eyes meet yours. Oh crap, he noticed me staring, you hastily turn your face down to your desk as you feel the warmth of embarrassment in your face.

You hear shuffling from a chair scraping across the floor, and then a cheerful voice exclaims, "Hi, I'm Eijirou Kirishima! Nice to meet you..." he pauses, waiting for you to introduce yourself. You move your gaze from your desk to his face, and that's when you see his smile. From far away, his smile was bright, but up close, it appeared to be blinding. Positivity radiates from him.

Swallowing down your previous embarrassment, you introduce yourself and tell him it's nice to meet him too.  Without you realizing a small grin comes to your face.

Kirishima stands there, grinning at you as he dives into a conversation with you as if the two of you had known each other for years. Kirishima's heart seems to stop dead in its tracks as he watches the small grin you have blossom into a full smile.  He wasn't sure if he believed in love at first sight, but something was happening as he continues to stare into your eyes.  Fumbling, he continues to try and carry on a conversation, and he swears he feels his heart stop again when you laugh.  

You and Kirishima become fast friends after that initial meeting. His passion and upbeat personality are hard to overlook.  He becomes a bright part of your daily life. You spend your day's training, studying, and eating lunch with him frequently.  Something you didn't notice was Kirishima's lingering glances or how his smile would beam when he would make you laugh.  Eventually, both of you became part of the Bakusquad, and even with a new friend group, you always seem to gravitate to each other.

Your first year at UA could be summed up like a whirlwind. From the USJ incident, the sports festival, and later the training camp. It was no surprise that tensions were high when you and your classmates moved into the dorms.  Through all the ups and downs, you and Kirishima would find each other for support.  

Sometime later, a few of your classmates were given the task of infiltrating a Yakuza hideout with the Pro Heros. Heart pounding, you wished Kirishima good luck on his mission without realizing how dangerous it would be.  He cherished the tight hug you gave him before he had to leave.  He pulled that memory to cope with the physical pain while being taken to the hospital.  With that in his mind, he felt more at ease, knowing he would see you soon.

News had spread that the fight with the Yakuza group wasn't a pretty one, but you had no idea how Kirishima had faired.  Anxiety pulsed through your body as you walked to the hospital where Kirishima was.  

Making your way through the sterile hospital hallways, your heartbeat was racing as you approach his door.   Knocking gently, a muffled "come in" came through the other side.   Slowly, you open the door, and your eyes find Kirishima's red ones. Kirishima was sitting up in his hospital bed, with white bandages almost wholly covering him. The only things you could see were his eyes with dark bags below them, a few tufts of hair, and his mouth that was curving into a small grin when your eyes met.

Kirishima's heart begins to beat a little bit faster the moment his eyes meet yours.  It felt like a lifetime since that hug before the mission.  There was a moment during his fight with Rappa he wasn't sure if he ever would see you again.  The feeling of joy at seeing your face overcame him.  At that moment, the only thing that mattered to him was you and seeing your precious face light up.  It was like he couldn't feel the physical pain from the fight anymore.

Your giggle brought him back to the moment.  A longing goes through his chest as he watches you cover your mouth with your hand. You are trying to smother your giggles at his mummy-like state. "Hey! Come on, don't laugh!" Kirishima exclaims, his smirk spreads wider as more giggles continued to leak out of you.

"Sorry, you're right; it's not funny that you got hurt, but at least you have a Halloween costume idea," you respond playfully and send him a quick wink as your giggles finally died down. Moving towards the chair near his hospital bed, you pull out the small lunch you packed for him. "I'm glad you're okay, Eijirou," you mutter in a more somber voice, thinking about the horrible what-if scenarios that could have happened. You lift your hand to your eyes to rub any away any tears that threaten to fall.  The last thing you want is to make this about you after what Kirishima had to experience.  

Kirishima swallows, his eyes focusing on your face as you sink into the chair with a sad smile. His chest clenches as the smile continues to shrink. He clears his throat and tries to pick up the mood; it kills him to see you sad. "Yeah! I'm just fine! Now let me eat whatever smells so delicious in there," he declares in an upbeat tone as he maneuvers in his bed to scootch closer to you.    

Your sad smile morphs into a happier one after hearing his encouragement, and you move your eyes to meet his. Kirishima never ceases to amaze you with his positive outlook. He's sitting there beaming and lively as ever, not letting his injuries get him down. Little did you know, despite the physical pain Kirishima felt, he was putting on a happy face for you. He would do anything to keep a smile on your face.   

It dawns on you that both of his arms are in slings, and there is no way he can feed himself. Letting out a soft sigh and shaking your head, you pull out the chopsticks you brought. "Well, it looks like you can't move your arms like that," you gesture with your hands, "so I guess I will have to feed you” you say with a wink. You move to pick up a piece of chicken and begin to bring it towards his mouth.   

Kirishima was thankful you couldn't see his entire face right then. He didn't want you to see the blush growing across his cheeks. "No, I-um. It's okay, I've-" he stammers to find something to say as thoughts fly through his mind.  Should I stop her? I can feed myself, right? Fuck, she's so cute. 

Kirishima's heart is pounding as his eyes dart between your face and the hand that continues to move to his mouth. This moment allows you to pop the chicken piece in his slightly gaping mouth.  Kirishima sits there in bewilderment, still with his mouth agape.  Gently placing your hand below his bandaged chin, you push upward to close it. "Now chew, Eijirou," you say with a soft grin as you pull your hand away. It takes him a moment before his brain begins to work again, and he chews and swallows the piece of food.

After that, Kirishima lets you serve him the rest of the meal. He wasn't sure if the blush left his face or his heart ever stopped racing. One thing he was sure of is that he wants this moment to never end.  With the warmth of having you so close and smelling your familiar smell, he could swear this was paradise.  That was the moment Kirishima knew he wanted something more profound than friendship with you.  He knew he wanted to live a life where being this close to each other was normal and not just because he went on a terrible mission.

Years go by, and your friendship with Kirishima is steady as you enter your third year at UA. Almost all your classmates watch as his feelings grow into something more profound while you remain oblivious.  Almost everyone could see that Kirishima would take any chance to be closer to you.  

They could see it in the way he would try to switch partners during training exercises. "Hey, Oijiro! Did you get paired with Y/N for training? My quirk would work better with hers for this exercise. Let's go ahead and switch."

In the way he would pull Bakugou over to the side and talk with him when Bakugou yells at you. "Bakubro, hey man, can you tone it down a bit? She didn't mean to insult your cooking."  

On movie nights with the class, he would try to save the love seat that perfectly fit the two of you. "Denki! I know you and Y/N both hate horror movies, but she'll end up digging her nails into your skin during the worst parts. Let me save your arm, and I'll sit with her."  

You didn't notice all the little things like your classmates did.  Kirishima was your best friend. It didn't matter that he would want to train with you; he knew your quirk the best and vice versa. It wasn't a big deal when he would get on Bakugou for yelling at you; friends stick up for each other. You thought he was sweet when he would want to sit next to you during movie night.

The only thing Kirishima hadn't done yet was confess his feelings to you. The fear of destroying your friendship kept him from putting his feelings into words. So he would sit by and enjoy the feeling of you being close to him during training. Or bury his face into your hair whenever the two of you cuddle up together on the movie nights. He would put his feelings aside to relish in the smiles you would send his way when he would crack jokes. Because he would never want to lose these things if you didn't like him back.

And deep down, there was something there for you too. But you wouldn't say anything either. Because both of you would rather keep it safe than risk rejection from your best friend. It was easier this way.  

"You're an idiot, Shittyhair. Fucking say something already," Bakugou complains to the red-haired male as they walk to class one cold morning.

"Hush, man, someone could hear!" Kirishima glances around to make sure none of your classmates are close enough to overhear the conversation. The last thing he needs is someone like Denki or Sero finding out and spilling it to you. "Besides, your talking nonsense. We are just friends." Kirishima laughs nervously and moves his hand to rub the back of his neck under his scarf. A small pang of sadness goes through his heart at saying it out loud.  

"Yeah, whatever idiot," Bakugou responds with a shake of his head and chooses not to push it.  While you and Kirishima are idiots ignoring mutual feelings, Bakugou is much more observant. He hopes Kirishima makes his move soon because he can see someone else trying to come into the picture.

Your final few months of high school is when things change for the two of you.

"I like you. Would you please go on a date with me?" Words flow smoothly from the man in front of you.

Sure, you had gotten closer to Todoroki after being in the same class with him for over three years. You worked with him on a couple of projects, trained together, and even studied together sometimes. But having him confess feelings was not something you were expecting.

Standing there, feelings of excitement and confusion radiate through you and leave you speechless. You want this moment, but with someone else. Kirishima's soft crimson eyes and spiky hair come to your mind, and a familiar ache begins in your heart. An ache that you have tried to battle away these last few years. But we're only friends. If he had wanted more, he would have said something by now. You are so caught up in your thoughts you almost forget that Todoroki is still waiting for your answer.

Letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, you push down those feelings. Lifting your eyes, you meet the blue and grey ones staring back at you, awaiting your answer.  Even if you hold feelings for Kirishima, there was a possibility he didn't feel the same, and so you chose to give this a chance.  

A small smile comes to your face as you respond. "Sure, Todoroki, I would love to go on a date with you."  

Gossip spreads like wildfire among your class.  It's not really a surprise considering some of the classmates you have. As the day progresses, almost everyone is aware that Shouto Todoroki asked you on a date.  And eventually, Kirishima would find out too.  

Walking through the kitchen in your dorms, he happens to overhear the end of a conversation between Mina and Ochacho.  Mina was musing aloud about your upcoming date with Shouto without realizing he had walked in. "Oh, I wonder where Todoroki is going to take her! I bet it will be fancy, and the food will be amazing!" Mina gushes.

"Whoa! Todoroki confessed to someone? Who's the lucky person? I bet it's Yaoyorozu. They'd be pe- why are you looking at me like that?" Kirishima stops his animated monologue and gives Mina a confused expression. Mina's animated face falls to a more melancholy expression as she turns towards him.

"Oh Eijirou, um well, you see, Todoroki asked Y/N on a date." Mina's words stumble out carefully, knowing this news would hurt him.  "She said yes." Mina finishes as she breaks eye contact with Kirishima.  Kirishima's face falls as he continues to stare at Mina as his world crumbles around him. His chest was aching at the surreal probability that he had lost his chance with you.  

How could he ever compete with Todoroki? He was one of the strongest in the class and could own up to his feelings.   He feels tears begin to sting behind his eyes as his thoughts weigh heavily on him. Kirishima has never had to deal with this before. No one else had ever approached you with confessions. They all saw you with Kirishima and knew how he felt. But what could he do now? He couldn't confess now. That could ruin any happiness you might have with Todoroki, as well as your friendship with him. It would be selfish of him to try and ruin that for you, no matter how bad it hurt him. Turning away from Mina and Ochako, Kirishima swallows his feelings. He treks toward his room, ignoring Mina's desperate calling to him. Closing his door, he sinks down immediately and covers his face with his hands. The tears he held back in the hallway begin streaming down his face as he thinks about the woman he loved being with someone else.

Like most new relationships, things were awkward with Todoroki at first. His stoic personality is a stark contrast to Kirishima's bright and upbeat one.  It's not like you were trying to compare the two, but Kirishima had been your focus for three years now.  Accepting the date with Todoroki was something you did to try and have your own happiness. Expecting him to share your feeling was unrealistic.  You had to move on from him.  

Months pass, and your relationship with Todoroki grows. At the same time, your friendship with Kirishima seems to stretch further apart. The time you spend with Kirishima is replaced by the time you spend with Todoroki. He no longer always tried to be the one with you in training.   He stopped making excuses to sit next to you on movie nights. It was Todoroki's job to take care of you now. While Kirishima's heart ached, he wanted you to be happy. It hurt to see you intertwine your fingers with Todoroki. His heart felt like it was shattering him to see you lean into Todoroki on hard days instead of him. It killed him when your beautiful laughter filled the halls at something Shouto had said and not him. Despite all this pain, Kirishima did not want to ruin your happiness, so he stays quiet.  

Your final year at UA is coming to an end, and graduation is right around the corner. The absence of Kirishima leaves a hole in your heart. Things don't feel as bright as they once had. You miss spending time with him and being close. He was, or had been, your best friend before all of this.

Todoroki is a wonderful boyfriend. He's kind and goes out of his way to make sure you are happy, but he's also able to see that you aren't as comfortable as you had been. Trying hard, you still spend time investing in your relationship with Shouto. But deep down, your heart is longing for someone else.

"We should talk," Todoroki murmurs, sitting down with you on the floor against your bed in your dorm room. You know what that phrase means. "I know I'm not always the best with picking up certain things, but I can tell when something isn't right with you," he says as he turns towards you and slides his hand to intertwine his fingers with yours. The warmth that radiates from his left side seeps into your palm gently.

You try to blink back some tears threatening to fall as you rub your thumb gently back and forth over Todoroki's knuckles. The thought of making eye contact with him feels overwhelming. Facing the pain of a possible breakup and the pain of the person you really love not being in your life was too much to handle. "I'm sorry, Shouto, I want this to work, but…" your voice trails off as more tears begin to slide down your face.

"But I'm not him." Todoroki lifts his free hand to wipe away a few of the tears with his thumb.  You relish a little in the cool sensation against your warm cheeks. "I didn't realize until after I confessed how much he cared for you. I finally noticed how he looks at you after we started dating." He pauses for a moment and looks down at your linked hands. "And how you look at him." He squeezes your hand softly a moment before silence overtakes the room.  

"I'm sorry, Shouto." You let out a whisper and give his hand a gentle squeeze back

Todoroki lifts your chin gently with the hand that isn't holding yours and moves your gaze to his. Smiling, he says, "I think you should tell him. I like you a lot, but Kirishima has your heart.  I think we both want you to be happy, and I know he will make you happier than I can." With that, he pulls you into an embrace and places a small kiss on the top of your head.  

You feel your chest tighten as his lops gently leave your head, and he begins to pull away. You aren't sure if you should reach out to him or try to save this. Even though you know he's right, your heart still aches. No one said breakups were comfortable, even if it was best for both of you. Tears continue to drip down your cheeks as Todoroki quietly makes his way out your door and closes it with a little click. Pulling your knees up to your chest, you bury your face into your arms and let the silent tears fall.

As fate would have it, Kirishima is making his way down the hallway as Todoroki is leaving. "She needs you right now," Todoroki says as he continues to walk by Kirishima. Without any explanation, Kirishima knew it was you. He felt his palms begin to become clammy with sweat as a thousand scenarios flashed through his mind.

Kirishima stops walking and gives Todoroki's retreating figure a skeptical look. "What do you mean?" The words rushed out of his mouth as his pulse begins to pick up. You had Todoroki now; why would you need him? The thought flashes through his mind. Todoroki doesn't respond, just continuing to walk towards the elevators to go to his own floor. Kirishima begins to move again faster than he was before to your room. Standing outside the door, he doesn't bother knocking and barges into your room.  

Seeing you curled up on the ground and the shine of shed tears on your cheeks causes Kirsihima's heart to lurch.  Time feels like it is moving slowly as he stumbles over to you.  He needs to hold you, had to let you know that everything would be okay.  

As he sinks down to sit next to you, Kirishima envelops your shoulders in his muscular arms.  Instantly, you lean into him like nothing had ever changed.  Taking in a breath with a little shudder, you inhale his familiar cologne.  It's a smell you never realized how much you'd miss.  And his embrace is precisely what you needed right now.   Kirishima buries his face to the top of your head and intensifies his hold on you.   He gently rubs his fingertips up and down your arm in a way that he knows brings you comfort.  

Hey, what happened?" Kirishima softly whispers into your hair. He isn't a confrontational man, but it took every bit of restraint in him not to go confront Todoroki and demand why he left you here in this state.  

A little sniffle from you as you wipe away more tears brings him back to this moment. Todoroki didn't matter anymore, only you, only making sure that you were okay. "We broke up, Eijirou," you softly say with a little tremble of your bottom lip as more tears threaten to fall.  

At those words, it was like he had been dunked in cold water. How could Todoroki be so stupid to let you go? And before he can even stop himself, he is saying things that he has held on to for so long, "He's an idiot. If I had you, I would never let you go." Panic courses through his veins as his thoughts begin to race. Crap! That's not what she needed to hear, and she doesn't like you like that idiot! Kirishima stiffens as he feels you reposition yourself so that you are looking at him directly. "Ah, sorry, that was uncalled for," Kirishima laughs nervously while redirecting his gaze to the ceiling, hoping that you don't catch the blush rising on his face.  

"Eijirou, I actually want to talk to you about that," you sniffle again and take one of his large hands in your own. "Please look at me," you plead softly as Kirishima returns his gaze to meet yours. "I like you a lot Eijirou, and that's why Shouto and I didn't work out. You don't have to return my feelings, but-" you try to finish, but Kirishima cuts you off.

"I like you too! I've liked you for a long time!" The words rush from Kirishima's mouth; he moves quickly and clasps your smaller hands in his grip. This feels right. He feels right. "I know this might not be the best time, but I'm not letting my chance escape again. When you are ready, please go out with me."  

Looking at Kirishima with his bright crimson eyes and a smile that shines like the sun, you can't stop the grin forming on your face. He's still able to bring a smile to your face even when feeling so down. This is everything you've ever wanted. "Yes, I'll go out with you, Eijirou," letting out a little giggle as his smile grows to the largest you think you've ever seen. The joy is beaming from his smile.  

Graduation passes, and your relationship with Kirishima seems to integrate seamlessly into both of your lives. Your friendship morphs into becoming partners. There was a neverending slew of dates with Kirishima wanting to try everything with you.  From dinner dates to going to the beach, each new adventure added another incredible memory of your relationship together.  It was like the two of you were meant to be, and every memory solidified that.  

A few years later, on a day in early December, Kirishima tells you he is taking you on a surprise date. He refuses to let you know where you are going or what the date would involve.  The only thing he will tell you is to dress warm because the date involved you going outside.

As the two of you drive out of the city to a rural area, you can see Kisishima practically bursting at the seams.  There are small signs you have picked up all these years together that you know means he's nervous.  The leg he isn't using to drive is bouncing up and down, and he reaches out to grasp your hand and squeezes gently from time to time.  You make a choice not to question him because you can see how hard he is trying to keep this a surprise, and it's cute; you don't want to ruin that for him.  

He pulls the car up to a gated expanse of land and quickly inputs a code into a keypad. The gate slowly creaks open, and Kirishima continues to drive onto the property. Excitement and questions bubble up inside of you as you gaze out the window. You can't see much, though, because everything is pitch black, except for the vast amount of starts that are typically dulled by the city lights. He drives the car a little bit more down the path before he stops and puts it into park.

"Okay, we're here!" He exclaims while clamoring out of the vehicle to come to open your door for you.    

Stepping out of the car, you grasp for Kirishima's forearm. Your hand meets his toned bicep, and you cuddle into his warm side. Both for the heat and balance because you can hardly see in the dark.

Fuck, she's so cute.  Kirishima gets lost in his thoughts as he feels your body cuddle into his.  Sometimes it feels surreal to him that he's able to call you his, that you are here with him, that you picked him. He watches you as you tilt your head up to look at all the stars. At that moment, it was like all his nervousness melted away; seeing your beautiful face gazing up at the sky made his heart stop.      

"Babe, it's so gorgeous," you say in awe. Moving your gaze from the sky, you look over to Kirishima's face. The only thing you can make out in the dark is the small smile on his face.  

"Come on sweet girl, walk with me." Kirishima extends his hand, and you reach out to place your hand in his. Both of you stumble along through darkness together for a few steps in silence.  He gradually comes to a stop between two trees that are intertwined above you.  "Stand right here,"  he speaks quietly while letting go of your hand as you quirk a confused brow at him.  You couldn't see what he was doing, but you were able to hear him exhale a big breath and shuffle around.  

As you wait for Kirishima to finish whatever he is doing, you glance to the sky again to see the stars scattered across the night sky.  All of a sudden, the trees explode with tiny twinkle lights of various vibrant colors. Strands of lights wrap through the branches and down the tree's base.  Your breath hitches as you stand in awe for the second time that evening.

Your mind drifts back to Kirishima as your heart fills with warmth.  This is one of the reasons you love him so much.  He knows how much you love the holiday lights this time of year, always dragging him through the city to see them all.  Little gestures like this were what made him perfect.

Adjusting your gaze to the spot where Kirishima was, you see him down on one knee. It's a scene that's played over in your mind many times. But that doesn't stop the immediate shock that goes through you as tears begin to form.

Moving your gaze, you see him holding a small black bock that he begins to open.  Your name escapes his lips before he begins, "I love you so much. You are my best friend and my everything. I've loved you since our first year at UA.  From that moment you came to see me at the hospital. I want us to be together forever. I want to be able to call you my wife. Will you marry me?" Kirishima finishes with a shaky breath and smiles up at you.  He hopes you can't hear the pounding of his heart as he waits for your answer.

Your heart flutters as you look at his smiling face. That smile is more brilliant than the stars and lights together, and just like the first time you met, you can't help but smile back. "Yes, Eijirou, yes, I will marry you!" A few tears escape from your eyes as he slips the engagement ring on your finger.

Kirishima stands and pulls you into a crushing embrace that lifts you off the ground.  You could stay in his gentle but firm hold forever.  As he sets you down, he brings his lips to yours.  The familiarity of his slightly chapped lips lets you get lost in him.  He's your everything, and this is all you could have ever asked for.  You couldn't wait to spend the rest of your life with your best friend, the love of your life, Eijirou Kirishima.

And all those moments bring you to the best night of your life so far—the day where you marry your best friend.  Held safely in his strong arms, you wouldn't trade this for anything—your bright and shining Eijirou Kirishima.

Alright! If you have taken the time to read this, thank you!! This will probably be one of the softer things on my blog. So I'm not sure if I'll write something like this again. But again, thank you for taking the time to read!  

Taglist: @haikyuuwaifu​ @isseisbbg​

[5lazarus]

The Old Gods of Serault

Wanderingly aimlessly through life after death, Felassan is offered a series of bad choices. Imshael guides his way through. A @black-emporium-exchange gift for RosellaWrites. Read the other works in the AO3 Collection here! Read the story on Archive of Our Own here.

Death, Fen’Harel has always said, is but the next adventure, which is the wonderful sort of thing immortals say but do not truly mean. Felassan, being dead, is mostly bored. There is not much to do when you are sundered from your body. Felassan drifts across Thedas and wonders: why the fuck did the Forbidden Ones lose a whole war for this. He sorely misses his physical form.

In the Crossroads he attempts to get Briala’s attention from his place stuck between Fade and Waking Plain, but alas! The People are sundered from their own senses since Fen’Harel raised the Veil. She does not notice him. He amuses himself for about a week, following her around. Then she picks up a new lover, this time thank Mythal not a human, and he decides it’s time to leave her alone.

In the Dales he runs into Mihris. She spits on him and shoots him with lightning, which hurts, and laughs when he screams. He can taste the ozone in the air as she readies another thunderbolt, which would surely shatter the last remnants of his spirit-consciousness. For all that he misses his body, he likes being around to watch things happening.

Felassan thinks fast, and then moans loudly. “Oh!” he cries. “Do that again.”

Mihris lowers her staff. “By the Dread Wolf, you like that?”

Felassan moans to hide the laugh building in his throat. “I just want to feel alive again!” It comes out more plaintive than pleading, but it does its job. In disgust Mihris leaves him, and prays that the Dread Wolf takes him.

“Been there, done that,” Felassan says to her back. “Nothing to write home about.” That is, of course, a lie, but a dead man has his pride. Besides, having no flesh, he is no longer concerned with the demands of the flesh. He sighs, considering what joys he has lost, and moves on.

In Serault he has more fun. The Veil is thin there, so it is easier to interfere with daily life, and Felassan has always enjoyed being a public menace. He whispers revolution in the very exciting dreams of the Well-Read Pig-Farmer. He makes the shadows dance in the Serault glass the Scornful Sorceress attempts to unlock. She has the taint of Mythal in her, he notices: poor soul. However much she plays at making eluvians, she will never have control over where they take her.

In the workshop, Felassan remarks, “Don’t worry, da’len. The Dread Wolf will set you free, and you’ll live to complain about it.” She does not even look up. Mortals are so very dull sometimes. The interest lies, of course, in how they grow and change, over countless generations. Felassan hadn’t been as interested in the petty wars of the dwarves and men as Fen’Harel had been, and it is funny in a deadly sort of way that this is the hill he chose to die on. He looks at the Scornful Sorceress and murmurs, “Come on. Be a little more fun.”

She gets herself banished from Serault but runs off with the glassworks anyway, and Felassan laughs the whole while, following her trail into the Applewood. The Tirashan has always been weird. The apples guarding the outskirts are new, and not nearly as intoxicating as the ones Sylaise’s people cultivated, but still Felassan trails a hand through the leaves and the giddy red fruit. He can almost taste them. He cannot, of course, so he sits down next to Mythal’s odd daughter and watches her chomp down on apple after apple with vicarious enjoyment.

“Oh, you’re going to make yourself so sick,” he says, amused. “Too much knowledge, da’len. You can’t binge it like that.”

The Fade-memories of the Applewood take her at once, and she shrieks as she begins to hallucinate through all the different hunts. Felassan watches for a bit. The memories leave her sensible enough to drink and shit, and once she begins to recover, he wanders deeper into the woods. Fade-touched fruit has always been used for initiates; the Scornful Sorceress seems to be tripping over rituals that will always overwhelm her. It is a shame that the preparation has been lost. It means the knowledge is gone, too.

Deeper in the woods the Veil thins, and Felassan begins to feel skin again. The leaf litter of the forest is springy under his feet. He draws in an impossible breath. The air tastes hungry, sucking greedily at his lungs. He flickers, aching, and then shakes his hands out. There is another person’s will at work here, threatening his thoughtform.

“Hey,” he calls into the deepening woods. “Who’s there?”

Imshael comes sauntering out of the twilight. He wears the body of the Seneschal of Serault: hair close-shaven, face unremarkably middle-aged, the frame fleshy but not in the way. Felassan groans. He likes Imshael, he really does, he’s always enjoyed partying with the Forbidden Ones—but it’s better when sacrifice is codified. This age ignores all their laws, and Imshael is happy to exploit those loopholes.

Imshael cocks the body’s eyebrow and says, “Dread Wolf got your tongue?”

Felassan says gloomily, “A fucking lightning strike.” He does not tell him that Fen’Harel is still too weak to banish and disintegrate spirits in the Fade. He likes Imshael, he really does. He’s always enjoyed how the disembodied spirit manages to claw his way through history, better than the rest of them from Arlathan, really. He respects the impulse for chaos—but the wanton destruction, the entrain-arrangement, and general lack of empathy? If Fen’Harel deems it necessary to disintegrate the will that is Imshael, Felassan will not complain.

Imshael says, “Tut, tut. Serves you right for believing the Old Wolf’s lies. This age is so much meaner than when we were young.” He stretches the body’s grin a little too wide for its face, pulling the edges of its mouth back as if he had stuck fishhooks in the corners. “I love it. People are so much more desperate than they were under Mythal’s justice. And there are so many new ways to entice them—not just the old ‘power, riches, virgins’ trick, I can offer them ‘lost knowledge.’ Like crop rotation.”

Felassan says, “You know about crop rotation?”

Imshael shrugs.

Felassan begins to laugh. Of course Imshael doesn’t know about crop rotation. Felassan doesn’t know anything about crop rotation. They’re spirits now, why the fuck would they know about crop rotation? He says, admiringly, “By the Dread Wolf, you are such a dick.”

Imshael says, “I don’t even need to try anymore. With your old master breaking out of the Fade, I just get to kick back, relax, and let the choosers come to me.” He forces the left eyelid of the corpse he inhabits to twitch a wink; the muscles pull at the distorted smile. Imshael lets the face relax. “Bodies—so many choices, so many little muscles to twitch! How did you handle it, having one all the time?”

Felassan says truthfully, “I didn’t think about it much.” He misses the choices he could make, to stretch his legs by the fire in the heady woods at night, to stick his fingers into loamy soil and smell the hungry earth, to edge his teeth along another person’s bottom lip. He places a finger where his lips once were, but of course he has no fingers anymore, just his own thoughtform.

“Careful,” Imshael says, dead eyes glinting. “Too much thought and you’ll break.”

Anxiety laces through him, because thought is all he has and thought keeps him whole, and in the worry he feels himself disintegrating in the old wood of the Tirashan. The scent of apples grows stronger, alcoholic, sick fermentation in blood that he no longer has—and then he remembers: Imshael is fucking with me. He wants to strike a deal. All that I have are my choices; Imshael shall not take those away. Flurrying into himself, Felassan stretches out his edges and feels the forest shift around him. The Tirashan is older than he is. The wood whispers: mine.

Felassan says, “Is that why you stuck yourself in that body? To keep the Tirashan from taking you? I quite like the Applewood, actually. Feels a bit like home.”

Imshael says, “Home that eats us alive, yes. Some of the old gods still linger, my friend.” There is a smile in his voice but he leaves the body alone. “Fen’Harel isn’t the only big thing coming. You can feel it, can’t you. That’s what drew you to the Applewood. What was once lost is no longer Forgotten.”

Felassan really has had enough of egregious poeticisms. He says, a bit testily, “What do you want, Imshael? Why are you here? Are you saying I was drawn here? Nothing compells me.”

Lacing roots ground him and the woods expand with one earthy exhale, and even Imshael’s body react electrically as the leaf litter wraps around its ankles. The Horned Knight eases out of the old tree.

Felassan breathes, “Daern’thal.”

The Horned Knight inclines his head and says, “One aspect.” The Forgotten Ones were driven to the edges of the map long before Fen’Harel raised the Veil and threw the world into catastrophe. This aspect of the old god, Daern’thal, has found refuge in the Applewood. Felassan is afraid. He would have been afraid even if he had a body, even if the Veil had not been raised. He never met the gods without Fen’Harel to protect him. Imshael is an interesting substitute.

Daern’thal has chosen the shape of a wooden man, echoing the humans who have driven his worshippers into the shadows of the glens. Halla horn bursts from his forehead. Rather than deal with the issue of mortal mucosity, the Forgotten One has placed eyes of fish scale and snakeskin into the indentation of his sockets. Thin bands of fungal mycelium bind his limbs together. Lust stirs in Felassan’s heart. He can make himself a body like that, if only he could learn how.

Imshael smiles.

One does not refuse an invitation from a god, even a Forgotten One. Felassan pushes against Imshael’s receptical’s shoulders, testing the electric nervous system of the dead flesh, but Imshael pushes against him.

“Only room for one,” he says flatly. “Unless?”

“Nah,” Felassan says. “I’m good here, thanks.” He follows the shambling corpse to the hall of the Horned Knight, a round tower in a narrow glen, dark and wet with green.

“Heartwood Court,” the Knight says, and bids them enter. The upper floors have partially collapsed into each other like dominos after they have been flicked, and Felassan stares nervously at stars glimmering between the leaves of the flowering roof. Of course, these mortal worries are beyond him. Wood and stone can do him no harm. At the center, indeed of the heart of the hall, grows a great tree, whose autumn-colored canopy provides some cover. Felassan sees a star twinkle, and then burn out: not enough.

The grass shines, dusted with shards of an old mirror. The Horned Knight has laid blankets of moss over toppled pillars, a facsimile of a great table. His servants gather, enthralled to his Will. Moss grows within their eyes and flowers bloom from their skin, patterned in the same tattooed ropes of the vallaslin.

Felassan touches the plush moss and is surprised when the moss pushes back. The Veil is thin here. He sits, suddenly ravenous. Daern’thal has hacked his way from the Void and back into the Waking World and made himself a body of earth and scale. If he can learn, he can stretch again. He can taste. He can bite. Imshael settles next to him, monstrously smug.

Felassan says, “You did this on purpose.”

“You’re welcome,” Imshael says. “Consider it a thank-you gift, for making sure I didn’t waste my time tormenting little Mihris. Here, it’s so much more fun. Subtler choices to make, with a much longer reach.” Their arms brush. Felassan starts at the touch.

He says, desire in his voice, “The Veil is very thin here.”

At the center of the great table the Horned Knight arranges himself, in a throne hewn of apple-wood. Glorious smells intoxicate the air: meat fresh-roasted over a well-loved fired, basted in its own blood. Saliva comes to Felassan’s mouth, and he swallows and licks his lips. Silent servants shuffle woodenly by the table, bearing a grotesque boar with its death scream still echoing in its mouth. Imshael reaches for the apple in its mouth and plucks it out. He offers it to Felassan.

Felassan says, “No. Not yet. No.”

Imshael smiles. “Not yet. But soon.” He lays it between Felassan’s hands, slowly gaining solidity. Felassan clenches his fists. Imshael is looking at him up from through his eyelashes. It would have a more charming effect if the body he occupies weren’t clearly dead.

There are rules of hospitality that must be followed. One does not eat before one’s host. Imshael wants him to; Imshael enjoys violation, the breaching of taboo. Felassan likes the bend and breach too, but it is easier to navigate in the Fade, where everything is up for debate. He watches his host. The Horned Knight burns with the old fire of the Forgotten Gods. The Veil warps around him, and the discordance of the waking and the dreaming syncopates into the beat of a living, muscled heart. Daern’thal figured it out. He lives, without a body, a thing of muscles and spells. He does not need to will every pump of blood. Imshael and Felassan gaze upon him with mutual lust.

“My guests,” he says. “Old countrymen from a country that exists only in our worst dream-rambles. Imshael Choice-Bringer I know has poached in my wood these two season. Small prey I grant him.”

Felassan sneaks a glance at Imshael. The corpse looks sour.

“Small prey,” Imshael rumbles. “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

If Felassan had a consistent face, he would grin at that. He does like Imshael, after all. Who else would think to take on a remnant of a Forgotten One, in his own hall? What is he going to do, offer him a choice?

“And you, Slow Arrow, dropped from the Dread Wolf’s quiver, broken but undecayed. Piecemeal but awaiting restoration. Unbodied the both of you. Living not-death, I welcome you the same.”

Talk why do you do like that, Felassan thinks. Not even Solas got that bad. A flash of anger runs through him, and he is surprised to see his hands clench, and then they are gone. The moss lays undisturbed on the ruined pillar that is the table. He smells the dinner, he does not smell it. One does not need sensation for an appetite. He hungers. Imshael smiles.

Out of the corpse’s mouth Imshael says, “You’ve guarded the Tirashan well against the Evanuris and their lapdog. A shame this hall’s in ruins. What happened? Don’t you miss your temples?”

“The People worship us enough,” the Horned Knight says calmly. He carves a slice from the spit and places it on a golden plate. “Those the Evanuris would have seen erased have writ themselves large on the landscape. I am, in eternity, lord of these woods.” He has started speaking subject-verb-object again, Felassan notes. He is irritated. The Forgotten Ones were always easy to wind up. Then he realizes—

“What meat is that?” Felassan asks faintly. “Boar?” He hopes it is not halla; even the most degraded of their descendants still hold their kin sacred.

The Horned Knight’s fish scale eyes gleam in their own dark fire. He repeats, “The People worship us enough. They understand sacrifice, how to wear and tear ’til blood seeps into the Dreaming and yanks it awake.”

The Horned Knight passes the plate to Imshael, who passes it stiffly to Felassan. He catches it, flesh rapidly outlined, and places it onto the moss-tablecloth. A servant across the room smiles vacantly; the same moss that adorns the table covers her eyes. Onion flowers dot down her face in the slash of an X. Her skin is coated in red ochre. She does not taste of the Tirashan. She stinks, but not terribly, of Mythal. It is the Scornful Sorceress, Mythal’s troublesome little daughter. That means there is a limit to the Horned Knight’s reach; while he can eat and he can drink, he cannot smell. He does not know the presence of other gods.

Imshael and Felassan look at each other for a long moment. Wordlessly they agree, and let the girl be.

The Horned Knight cuts himself a prime slice and takes a bite. His teeth are the spiraling arms of living crinoids, tearing at the cooked flesh. His tongue is a flash of autumn leaf.

Imshael whispers, “Well? Aren’t you going to eat?”

Felassan whispers, “Aren’t you?”

“I don’t have a digestive system anymore.”

“Well, I’m dead. I don’t either.”

Imshael says, “Do you really think Daern’thal is living? Death eating death. How much of him is simply the Tirashan’s mycelium? Sacrifice won’t keep you whole for long.”

The dryad servants sway in time with the rustle of the leaf-wind. A woman with willow for hair pulls out a bone flute and begins to play. Richly the notes come like a sunset, winding around him like a drink. He is hungry for a body. Daern’thal has one. Perhaps he can share. It is about time he begins killing gods, rather than letting them kill him.

Imshael says, “Good choice.”

Felassan says fondly, “Get the fuck out of my thoughtform.”

The Forbidden One laughs, a rictus of death. The sacrifice steams on the plate over the altar. Neither of them eat. The servants are singing now, in the tree’s breath. First a rumble comes deep from their throats, then the rising chorus of sun and sugar, salt and carbon, bark and heart’s wood. They sway like young birches in the bite of winter’s breeze. He knows the steps and would dance it, if he had feet.

“Dead man’s shuffle?” Imshael offers.

Felassan says, “No.” He can do better than piggybacking off a decaying corpse, tricking mortals into giving up their form and discarding them as soon as they begin to rot. He watches the Horned Knight eat. It’s horrible, but it is living. He says, “I want that body.”

Imshael says, “Good choice.”

The Scornful Sorceress is not quite swaying in time with the others. The moss covering her eyes is thinner. A flower has fallen from the X-shaped vallaslin. Quick, Felassan thinks. Quick. Make your choice before it’s made for you. Don’t be like me.

The Horned Knight says, “My horn. Let us drink, and trade a story for a story, a boon for a boon.” The living wood comes forth bearing a lyrium-laced drinking horn in the shape of a silver halla, legs folded. Around the rim a scene is wrought, of a dying god clawing his way out of the Void to return to the Tirashan. The god becomes the wood, his body woven by the network of fungal decay that keeps the hivemind of the trees living and speaking. He says, “I was a spirit and I was a god and once I was a mere elf, running to the shelter of a Tirashan. The woods took me into their heart. Daern’thal made this horn, to safeguard against the Old Wolf’s tricks. I drank from it. We persist. What are your stories, my countrymen?”

Imshael says, “I refused to be limited by the boundaries of a body. A singular outline defers choice. I am Opportunity and I am Envy. Without a body, I can be both. The choice is yours.”

Felassan says, “Yes. I was the Dread Wolf’s Slow Arrow, the last-ditch plan he broke. I lost my body, but where there is thought, there is form. I am still living. I will persist. What do I need to do, to drink from that horn?”

Imshael smiles. The ochre woman is not even swaying at all.

The Horned Knight says, “You may drink of it only if you stay to the truth of your name. The Veil is breaking. Old magic returns, beyond what we have hidden in the Applewood. I grant you both this life if you stay true to it. Remain Imshael, the impossible choice. Stay the Slow Arrow, which flies the course.” The bark-cut mouth twists into a smile, fossil-teeth bared. “But know this. Once you drink of it, you are of it. The Tirashan has its due. You may remain distinct, but the mycelium persists. You are Felassan, but you will become the Tirashan too.”

Felassan pushes away the plate of flesh. He says, “Would I be able to leave the woods?

The Horned Knight smiles again. He says, “We know what is to come. What is to say that in the end, there will be anything but the woods?”

Fen’Harel is coming to break every chain. Fen’Harel is taking down the Veil and restoring Arlathan and its dark woods. The time of the quicklings is coming to an end. Slow magic, eating away at life, survives, neither flora or fauna.

Felassan says, “No,” and the ochre-servant snatches the horn from the Horned Knight’s wooden hands and sprints out of the hall, shifting into a massive bear. Imshael cackles with laughter. He says, “That’s no choice at all. Careful, there. You’ll put out Imshael out of a job.”

Imshael smiles. “And that’s no choice at all.”

[today-only-happens-once]

Thoughts on “Flirting with Social Anxiety”: Roman, Virgil, Bravery, and Self-Worth

I originally started by just keeping a running list of thoughts in my head as I watched the “Flirting with Social Anxiety” video for the second time through. But then it started getting long and involved, so I elected to just make a specific post for some of the reflections and analysis my thoughts started to follow down the rabbit hole.

Obligatory reminder that this is just my interpretation of the canon work. You may disagree or interpret things differently, and that’s totally valid. These are just some of my thoughts and where this video (deemed “essential viewing” for the canon story by Thomas) fits in the broader narrative with relation to character arcs (specifically Roman). 

Without further ado, here are some thoughts on the new Sanders Asides video. Apologies for the length. Turns out, I have a lot to say. 

I first found it interesting that the beginning of the video involves a series of scenarios in which Virgil and Roman repeatedly call out Thomas’s lying. First is the movie ticket (though Thomas rightfully defends that it’s not his fault), then the store alarm, and then several other examples--most of which we do not know the actual scenario involved. Given that Virgil has been at odds with Janus repeatedly and heatedly in the past, and the way things ended in “Putting Others First” between Roman and Janus (specifically Roman expressing concern that Thomas will not know where to draw the line between selfishness and taking care of yourself), it makes sense that they would be vigilant against Thomas lying. Perhaps it’s even directly a result of Janus becoming more accepted as a part of Thomas, though we don’t know that for sure. 

I think the first big hint we get regarding Roman’s lingering and worsening self-worth issues is a brief line during the food court scene. Roman is forcing Thomas up while Virgil is pulling him back down to sit. When Virgil snaps “Roman, you’re making a mistake!”, Roman immediately shoots back, “If I am, I’ll add it to the list!” and shoves Thomas forward. And honestly, it’s not an unfounded thing for Roman to say. 

He makes a mistake in the way he treats Virgil early on, he makes a mistake trying to convince Thomas to win back his ex during the Moving On arc, he makes a mistake with the lyrics in 12 Days, he makes a perceived mistake by causing Thomas to choose a cute boy over Joan’s play in Can Lying Be Good, he makes a perceived mistake wanting the callback, and then another mistake by forcing Thomas to attend the wedding instead... The list goes on. (Is it any wonder that he says “mistakes” when Thomas asks how he used to learn things in “Learning New Things About Ourselves”?) It might also be worth noting that nearly all of these mistakes are rooted in somethin Roman wants for Thomas. 

And it is the most recent mistakes (relating to the callback) that have the most narrative weight at the moment. Even though the plot surrounding the callback has moved on, the aftershocks of its ramifications still are impacting characters--perhaps Roman especially. And this video works specifically to make that apparent. Just take a look at the reactions and camera/POV choices during the mirror monologue. 

Thomas mentions a few times in the course of that monologue the idea that he isn’t sure what he wants anymore; the first being acknowledgement that the mall is the place you go when you’re not sure what you want, and again when Thomas says specifically that he doesn’t know what he wants. Both times Thomas speaks to that, the attention is on Roman. In fact, the second time where Thomas is speaking directly about himself and how he doesn’t know what he wants? Roman is looking at Thomas, which makes sense because Thomas is really speaking about Roman when he says that. Because all the times in recent canon that Roman has wanted something for Thomas, it has backfired and it has hurt parts of himself (i.e. other “Sides”, and sometimes Roman himself). 

Though it’s also worth noting, through the course of the mirror monologue, the moments the camera/POV focuses on Virgil. Thomas makes the comment that he doesn’t know anything, least of all himself (and the focus on Virgil in that moment brings to mind that the reveal that Virgil used to be one of the Others). He also says “I know that if I don’t act on these feelings right now, I’m going to regret it” and again, we see a focus on Virgil. Because in this video thus far, Virgil is the one that has been keeping Thomas from “acting on these feelings”. 

I’m not saying anything you all don’t already know. But this is sort of a “present the evidence before you state your case” kind of situation. Heh.

The vigilance and call-outs against lying that I mentioned earlier lends a certain credence to the confrontation that Roman and Virgil have with Thomas after he exits the bathroom. The fact that it is Virgil that initiates that confrontation I think is especially interesting. Furthermore, Virgil goes so far as to use the term “deceit” when he says “will deceit continue to be the answer to all of your problems?”. That term carries a very specific weight in this series. I don’t mean to suggest (necessarily) that Virgil is speaking directly about Janus. Time will tell when the script releases, but I don’t think Virgil means “Deceit”. But I also don’t think that it’s an accident that he uses that word (or that the team wrote the script having him use that word). Given that Virgil was absent in the last video, where Janus became a more accepted part of Thomas, this confrontation about Thomas’s pattern of behavior in this episode is a useful reminder for the character of Thomas and us as an audience that all Sides of Thomas need to be kept in check once in a while. 

But relatedly, Thomas’s conclusion that “he’s better off without me” is an interesting echo of his on-going canonical crisis about whether or not he’s a good person. In this confrontation scene, Roman and Virgil establish that starting a relationship with lies means that the relationship itself won’t be a good one. The blow that seems to cause (or rather, bring to the surface) on Thomas’s self-esteem is an interesting turn--precisely because Roman is no small part of that self-esteem and the issues it’s having. I think it’s a useful and telling glance into some of Roman’s psyche that, while he may be reluctant to admit it, is directly influencing Thomas. 

And that issue of self-worth that is first suggested by the aforementioned “he’s better off without me” gets echoed directly by Roman only a moment later. When he says “one more chance at happiness squandered”, the use of more suggests that he’s not just talking about talking to a cute boy at the mall. He’s talking about all the other chances at happiness that have been squandered--most recently, the callback. The fact that Roman follows it by saying “it’s probably for the best” is an indirect reflection of just a moment ago with Thomas’s “he’s better off without me”. They are, effectively, saying the same thing there. And it strengthens the notion that the comment from Thomas is really rooted in Roman’s self-worth issues.

Which is precisely why Virgil bein the one to shove Thomas forward to talk to the boy is such a big deal. Because Virgil--anxious, panicky (in this video) Virgil--essentially decides no. No, it’s not for the best. That chance of happiness matters, and is worth the perceived risk. What Roman wants matters. And Virgil backs that idea up with decisive, meaningful action more than just words. (I will never not be emotional about it). 

And also... it pays off. And that’s so important for Roman. Because when was the last time that what Roman wanted paid off? I listed his perceived mistakes earlier. None of those, as far as I think Roman would understand, have paid off for him. It’s been a long time since what Roman wanted paid off and was seen as good by others, y’know?

I think that’s why Roman describes Virgil’s shove as “bravery”. I think it’s more than just Roman saying “I know that was scary for you and thank you for doing it anyway” (though there’s an element to that). I think Roman was afraid. I think calling what Virgil did an act of “bravery” might also be Roman saying “you were braver than I, and I am grateful for that”. Because Roman could have been the one to shove Thomas forward. He didn’t. Virgil did. And for Roman, that’s maybe a sign that someone else still thinks that what he wants can be good and right and worth it. 

(Side tangent that it’s also an interesting reflection back to that first episode when Roman claimed “rejection” as something he fears, and again in Fitting In when he acknowledges that Virgil has “been a little too familiar with rejection nad has had his fill”. Just another layer added to the continuing thematic thread about bravery and fear and rejection). 

Right now, its impossible to know for sure exactly why this video was deemed as “essential viewing” for the broader narrative of Sanders Sides. Maybe Nico will be mentioned in videos going forward, or maybe not. But this video definitely seems to have significance for Roman’s character arc and his continuing development, particularly as it relates to his worsening self-esteem issues. I am beyond excited to see where exactly this leads us, and the broader narrative implications of this key moment for Roman (and Virgil too). 

[braindeacl]

Fate’s Humor | Solo ft. James

SETTING: Not White Crest. TIMING: Current. SUMMARY: Eilidh deals with the ramifications of what she’s done and in doing so finds a familiar face. WARNINGS: Self harm

There was a patch of snow on the ground. As there ought to be. As there should be. While the internet may announce the arrival of spring so confidently, nature was never so decisive. There was a give and take; a time where both winter and spring still debated over the land. Until the winter felt the call of hibernation, and spring was able to wake in full. Not like in White Crest. Where the spring had announced war and slaughtered the winter. Where from its death sprouted more. Such a giver of life as spring seemed to relish in its twin, in the death, at that town. Where it conspired with the giant on the horizon until all that were left were its disciples. 

The sight of winter’s hold, of the give and take she had come so well to know, brought a breath of relief on her lips. And yet, despite being surrounded by dripping icicles and plants whose only want to move came from the grace of wind, she felt out of place. Uprooted, even though the woods had always been her place of security. Something felt wrong. More wrong than when she was surrounded by that growing sickness. And when she looked down at her absent-minded sketch, an attempt to distract from those growing feelings of upheaval, she found the eyes staring back to be familiar. Metzli’s eyes. She growled—threw the sketch pad on the ground. But only a beat passed before she scurried over and retrieved it. Dusting the dirt away.

She went back inside, where the other three rested. James and Tulip were well-versed in that odd presence in the air. For it was always there, seeped into the walls. A reminder of what she did, what she knew what she was going to do from the beginning. But Gòrach was still new, never noticing that lingering presence until it became realized. Her pupils dilated; her tail swishing. So she was easily susceptible when, as James tried to make a light hearted comment, Eilidh barked by, “Place fucking sucked anyway!” 

Tulip may be familiar, but James was intimate. Knew all too well the sadness and the anger, as the old place refused to leave. A ghost traveling as much as he was. Stuck in Eilidh’s mind so strongly it haunted the very trailer, but there was a rarity in her mannerisms. She usually got quiet, unreadable. But her anguish was clear. The place was small, he noticed the tears. He usually gave her space, for she knew this situation the best of them all. She would be process in her own time. But the novelty made him bold; made him want to speak. “It wasn’t the place.” Despite the boldness, a spike of nerves electrified him with his next words. “You usually don’t get that close. Maybe it just scar-” 

“Fuck off!” Eilidh bristled—brought her lips to a curl and set eyes ablaze. Milo got a pass because he was young, and she couldn’t bring herself to yell at him. But James knew better. He’d seen firsthand what the world asks of them. The ones with too much time. 

James folded under the ferocity, both physically and emotionally. “I-I know what you’re going to say. I know! People are like water and all that jazz. But maybe, I don’t know, after that stuff with, um, Big One, gets resolved we can… go back? Sometimes people could be like... Water cycle?”

“It’s been claimed. Even the Gods agree.” She bit into her knuckle. It was claimed and yet people walked around like nothing. Could they not see? Surely at least Milo and Metzli had heeded her warning. She only had the hope—her phone still dead on a chair. 

“Well, that’s a little drastic, right?” He chuckled, before his face dropped. “Right?” The look in her eyes made him question. Made the anxiety in his chest broader, as big as the town it was for. “Shouldn’t we be doing something? We should definitely do something.”

“We!” She laughed. Sharp and bitter and cruel. “The hell you think I’ve been doing? Making fun with Big One? Tried nicety. Tried cruelty. Nothing.” A huff went out her lips. But it wasn’t cruel like the laugh. It was tired. “Go ‘head. Make friends with the damn fucker if you want. See if that works.” 

James flinched away, as if the words could cross the veil and strike him. But there was something missing in her remarks. Like a thing was holding back her tempers, and it wasn’t sudden enlightenment. “It’s weird seeing you so…” Defeated. But James got that unspoken word across by motioning towards her. As if it was obvious, which to him it was. She rarely faltered to an enemy so easily. No, this was beyond that. He settled in his resolve, for he knew her too well. “You’re using Big One as an excuse, you know?”

Eilidh bristled again. But not in confidence; not in irritation for his ignorance of the world. No, this was defensive. Caused by a bubbling doubt, a lingering worry. That he may be right. She didn’t like the contradiction—the commotion in her head. Finding some exhaust as she growled, but not enough. So she retreated back to the woods, where her thoughts were always clearer. 

As soon as the door slammed shut, she instantly felt the fog clearing. With each step forward, with each tree placed between her and that door, the fog lost its hold. She could hear the birds chirping, and the leaves dancing on themselves, and the faint drip of melted snow. Then, when the fog receded from her eyes, she was greeted by a splash of color. A butterfly. But in seeing so brought all those feelings back. Like the tide of a tsunami—sudden absence a warning for its return in full. It flowed through and out her; great wave crashing out in a scream, “You got something to say, too?!” The misdirected ferocity caused the thing to waver in the air, before escaping to the safety of a tree. Eilidh gasped; that vitriol melting into the truth of her feelings. That truth brought a tear to her eyes. She approached it slow and gentle—a great relief found when it let her near. “Sorry, mo leannan. Shouldn’t have yelled.” It accepted her apology. A single flap of the wings before settling into a resting position.

She too found her own rest: back pressed against the tree’s damp bark. Before she let herself fall. Down and down until she met the ground. The impact forced a sigh out of her. “Should’ve just… Left in the pause.” She nearly had. The roots had made it a necessity to rehome her trailer. But even when it’s new stead was beyond their creeping grasps, she still felt the need to move. Small increments: more of a push than a drive. But in their collection, she had become further and further away. Feeding into that constant need to leave, to start fresh. The only thing steadying that gas pedal was the Park, for the plants still wanted her. At least back then. But then Metzli reconnected with her. And then Milo too, even in a passing moment. And it made everything complicated. 

Were they still there? Were they still there? Were they still there? The question rang in her ears like any sound would. Milo had wanted to go down with the ship—let himself drown as if he were the captain. As if he owed that place that much. There was something about the town that pulled. From getting too close and falling prey to that hidden tug; from a string being tied to that place since birth, an unshakable destiny. She wasn’t sure which powered that thrall. And she trusted them to be smart, but what if it was too strong? She had gotten out, but it didn’t feel like a victory. Maybe she should go back. Grab all she can and ditch the place double. Tell that thrall to fuck itself by showing its weakness. Part of her wished she had just gripped them both and thrown them into the trailer without giving them a say. At least then she didn’t have to worry about their safety. Just the inevitability of their departure. Her hands jammed into her hair; nails digging into her scalp. Returning with bits of flesh stuck on the ends. 

But that was the thing she feared most, wasn’t it? It always was. The departure. A guarantee that was easier to handle when you controlled it. When you held the scissors and chose where and when to cut. And she knew it was selfish, knew it was cruel. But who else would look out for her, in this world of temporary? It was too late, anyway. She had done it. She had cut the strings and they lay tattered at her feet. And there was no way she could glue them back together. There should be some satisfaction; some joy in knowing she prevented the coming anguish. But all it did was make her want to tear out her knuckles. All it did was birth its own tears. 

Eilidh screamed again. Not to anything particular. Mostly to herself. 

Maybe she should stop trying.

She got up and continued that pathless trek. Further into the forest’s embrace—hoping if she kept walking it would bring usual comforts. But every tree and wild call and twinkle of light just brought a memory. Everything a echo of days past; days she was trying to leave but would not let go of her. So she kept walking.

Until she came across a sign of civilization. 

A grouping of structures across a lost road. The asphalt and foundation sporting matching cracks. The paint peeled down and the windows more like walls—the dirt stealing away most of the transparency. The novel sight quieted her spiraling thoughts, and in doing so brought her closer. Closer to those houses that were no longer homes. Well, at least to the humans who once lived there. A few critters scurried in and out of holes like polka dots in the walls. Old nests and the beginnings of ones new collected on a dented window sill, in the gutters. Finding use in a place long abandoned. “Still got love to give, eh?” She pressed a hand against one of those walls. Wondering how long it had been since someone had last.

Her thought answered by a clammering near. Metal against metal, then the shuffling of feet on dirt. And she knew they were feet—the sound was unmistakable. Hum of a growl filled her chest, hands grasping at nothing particular—waiting for the particular to fill them. She stalked over to the source of the shuffling, which caused more to fill the air. She followed the new like she had the old. Predator pursuing its prey. Just out of reach; that telling sound the only source the prey even existed. Then the shoe marks on the ground, still fresh. Then the end of an arm rushing into a room. And then finally, a face. A man revealed in full. Standing in a dimmed room, but she could still make him out. He wide-eyed and confused; she simply watching.

Eilidh would’ve just left him alone. He had shoved himself in a corner—trying to give as much distance between them. Showing he wasn’t a threat or at least trying to pretend so. Staring at her like he knew a secret but was too scared to say. Yet as she stared back, her feet refused to move. She found something familiar in the way his brows furrowed and his nose curved and his lips pressed against each other. And the familiarity wanted to make a killer out of her; made her want to destroy and enjoy doing so. She didn’t know why until the man finally found some resolve. His lips peeled back. Revealing fangs. 

Vampire.

She knew him from a picture. Grainy and blurred, but she had studied it in full. Devoting to memory even when the photo was long lost. She had dreamed of the day of finding him. Or perhaps more like a nightmare, for nothing pleasant was in store for him. Many of her nights had been spent in shitty bars. Watching for him to show himself. Waiting for this moment. 

Milo’s sire. 

This fucker was Milo’s sire.

A chuckle escaped her as she pulled out a dagger. Fate was so funny. 

[disgruntledspacedad]

in defense of Din’s subdued reaction to losing the kid...

gif by @quantam-widow

I know we were all thinking it. We got a 2 second reaction shot to the destruction of the Razor Crest (may she forever rest in peace), but then, Grogu gets taken, and... nothing?

What the fuck, Din? we all protest. That’s your baby on that ship! Don’t you care? Scream, curse, kick a rock, cry, make a fist, something!!

I will acknowledge that so far, the show has been excellent with giving us emotional payoff, am I right? I mean, just today we got Din laughing, twice. Twice in a row. I honestly never thought we’d see that. There have been so many excellent, precious soft!Din moments this season, and they all feel deliciously earned.

So, from a meta POV, I guess I’m saying that I have faith in the writers to get it right, and in Pedro to deliver. Duh.

In universe, though, I think it’s fair to point out the obvious - that Din is a pretty reserved guy. He’s much more of a thinker than a feeler. He’s used to keeping things bottled up, and I would even argue that his life often depends on his ability to dissociate from his emotions. Din’s entire journey so far has been about how one little baby yodito shakes his worldview to its very foundations. He’s getting there, but it’s a slow process. 

And also, consider this - we haven’t seen Din alone yet, not since Grogu was taken. For a guy who lives a guarded life literally encased in fucking armor, any display of emotion is going to be carefully protected until he’s in private.

But anyway, Din is detached, rational, a little emotionally constipated, and definitely comfortable in a stressful situation. A true ISTP if you ask me (yeah, I know you didn’t, but whatever). Often, it seems that these cool headed, logical types who have never ruffled a feather over anything in their lives are the least adept at handling genuine fear. In other words, when panic does strike, it strikes them hard. 

And guys, Din was definitely panicking during this episode. 

He’s clearly unsettled from the jump - that outburst of “dank farrik!” in the cockpit sells it, and his distress only becomes more obvious from there. Talking out loud, trying to convince himself that the best thing for Grogu is for him to be trained as a Jedi. Reminding himself of the creed. His overt caution as they approach the seeing stone. His impatience, “Are you seeing anything??”

Then there’s the effects of long term stress. Sure, a bounty hunter in the outer rim doesn’t exactly live an easy life, but Din is definitely used to the drama being on his terms. Compare Din’s body language in the opening scene of season one to when Boba confronts him in chapter fourteen. You can just feel the anxiety, the weariness, the frustration. Din has been on the run for months now, constantly looking over his shoulder, sleeping with one eye open. Notice how he even startles at Fennec’s voice? Season one Din would never have given that much away, regardless of the situation. Long term stress has clearly taken a toll on him.

So we have unsettled, stressed out Din in an emotionally charged situation. He’s exhausted, he’s scared, he’s desperate. This scenario is a recipe for even the most level-headed of adrenaline junkies to loose their cool, and that’s exactly what happens to Din. He panics, and he makes some pretty big fuckups because of it. Leaving Grogu unprotected, twice. Trying three different times to break through that “force field,” even when he knew he couldn’t. Dropping that jetpack and then just forgetting about it (I know we were all screaming about that one, or at least, I was).

So, fear is a positive feedback loop. Those neurotransmitters that do us good in a bad situation - raising heart rate, narrowing focus, shunting blood to the muscles - can also be detrimental if we get too high of a dose - tachypnea and tachycardia, inability to think critically and see the big picture, lack of blood and oxygen to the brain. Epinephrine, in particular, even inhibits the laying down of new memory pathways. In other words, stress leads to poor performance, and poor performance leads to more stress, which leads to... you get the idea.

Then, in the middle of all this chaos, they fucking blast the Razor Crest.

More epinephrine, more cortisol, more stress. 

By the end of it all, Din is a fucking shitstorm of stress hormones and pent up emotions. Notice how he seems to be on autopilot in the immediate aftermath, robotically scanning the ashes of the Crest for anything that might be left intact. Notice how empty his voice is when he says, “the child is gone.” This is a dead man walking. Din has nothing left. His whole life has just gone up in smoke, and he can do nothing about it. 

Guys, Din is holding onto his sanity by a fucking thread in this scene. “The child is gone,” he says, like he’s reminding himself, grounding himself in his shitty reality. He’s stunned. 

And helpless. There’s literally nothing he can do for Grogu. He has no ship, no credits, no resources, nothing to bargain with, nothing to offer. Din literally cannot allow himself the luxury of feelings right now. He’s just got to focus on surviving this very shitty day.

Then, Boba Fett upholds his end of the deal, and suddenly, Din has something to hold onto. An ally, a badass friend, some hope. I don’t think Boba shows Din that chain code in order to verify his claim on the armor - he’s already wearing it, for godssake. I think Boba shows him the code in order to catch Din’s attention - hey friend, I know you’re hurting, but I’m a man of my word. When I make a vow, I keep it. Let’s regroup and go find your kid.

And Din would totally latch onto that. A fighting chance? Din fucking leaps at it. There’s a job to do. A kid to save. All of those stress hormones are going to keep on stewing, because Din has never really come down from his adrenaline high. 

It’s like this in real life, too. There isn’t time to be afraid. There isn’t time to be sad, or second-guess, or say, oh how terrible, or wonder what if it doesn’t work? There’s just you and the job, and if you are the only thing standing between life and death, you will put everything else aside and do what you have to do, for as long as you have to do it.

And that’s where Din is at this moment. He’s running on the fumes of his adrenaline, all tempered focus, all strategy and no bullshit.

Emotional shock, my therapist buddy calls it. Apparently, it’s normal. Expected, even.

But guys, the fallout of this kind of crazy ass adrenaline high is insanely intense. I’m talking collapse to the floor, legs won't hold you, trembling, crying so hard you sling snot, shuddering breaths, stare dead-eyed and spent at the ceiling because you’re just too wiped out to even sleep kind of intense. 

And then, after the breakdown comes the angst. The detailed thinking. The oh god, what if this had happened, or, should I have done that instead? It seems like every emotion that gets put on the back burner in the moment comes back to bite you with twofold intensity when all is said and done. 

In other words, Din is definitely going to feels some things .A lot of very intense things. A reckoning is coming, my dudes. Trust me. It’s just not quite here yet.

That being said, here’s what I can expect from Din going forward:

Just like he’s is slow to acknowledge his growing parental feelings for Grogu, I think Din’s going to be slow at processing his grief at Grogu’s loss. In the next episode, he’s got plenty to distract him - getting together his hit team to take back the kid and coordinating an attack on the empire. 

However, I do think we’ll get a slow moment with Din, probably sometime at the beginning of next week’s episode if the pattern holds. I doubt it’s the full-blown breakdown that we’re all needing, but I’m willing to bet money that we’ll see Din grappling with the fact that his kid is gone. I also think that badass beskar murder machine Din from chapter three will resurface. Stress and desperation make us do irrational things, and anger is one of the stages of grief that Din will inevitably have to work through (I think he’s flickering between denial and bargaining for now).

But then, after Din gets Grogu back? I think that’s we’ll have our big, dearly earned emotional payoff. 

For one thing, Din won’t be able to deny his feelings anymore. He wants to keep this kid, it’s so very obvious. Losing him just forces it all to the forefront. 

And then the relief/joy/regret/guilt that Din is going to feel once he’s got Grogu back? Not to mention the physical exhaustion? All of the fear/terror/angst/grief that he ignored in favor of just going pedal to the metal, guns blazing, get the kid or die trying? That shit’s going to crash into him with all the subtly of a fucking tsunami. I guarantee you, we’re going to get some sort of confession, or adoption vow, or face revel, or other sort of profound softness from Dad!Din in the falling action of this season (At least, I hope we get it at the end this season but I wouldn’t put it past them to kick it into the premier of season three, just for pacing reasons, but then again, I obviously have trust issues).

Personally, I would love to see Din grappling with the long-term fallout of losing Grogu - night terrors, guilt, paranoia, etc. That’s probably the stuff of fanfiction - mandalorians don't have nightmares on screen, surely - but still, some lingering effects Grogu’s kidnapping would be realistic, and I would absolutely live for it.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “Your Choice.”

I am having a lot of fun with this arc.  Writing it has put me in a good mood, so I hope you like it as well :)

He walked the halls of the Oxystation with a  gun slung over his front hanging from a shortened tac sling around his neck and shoulder. He rested his arms and hands against the weapon as he walked down the hall. The gun was more of a redundancy than anything, if any unwanted alien was able to breach the hull of the station with the armored patrol outside than his gun was just a token sign of resistance. Of course, there was always the possibility that one of the patients would become violent and attack a staff member, but that possibility was quite low, even lower than it was in human mental health clinics. Only five percent of the mentally ill population was any sort of danger to anyone but themselves, and a large percentage of that would still, likely, never do anything bringing that number down somewhere closer to one percent.

With aliens it was even less likely, they weren’t naturally aggressive like humans, so when their mental health tanked, it tended to do it with extreme anxiety and something that looked sort of like depression, though the different species presented the illness differently. 

Working at the Oxyclinic had been good for him. It hadn’t been long until his enthusiasm for alien life had come trickling back in, and his fear had been discarded like a sock with a hole in it. He had even offered to help with the oxytheropy that the psychologists were offering. If anything was gong to get rid of his lingering fear of aliens, it was probably going to involve spooning one.

A weird way to deal with internalized fear but there you had it.

The oxystation wasn’t just for the oxytheropy. Human and alien psychologists were taking the time to learn about other species, and put together differing treatment plans for their patients. There was a high turnover rate, and not all the people who came to the clinic ended up staying, not all of them needed oxytheropy, and not all of them would do well having it considering that some of the fear the patients had often centered  their issues around humans. To his surprise, he found that a lot of it centered around the Drev war.

He looked down at his watch and took a sharp right turn down the nearest hallway entering the guard quarters just as his watch reached the hour.

“Morning LT.” Someone called and he waved a hand.

“Anything to report?”

“Nothing, all is quiet as usual.”

He ejected the magazine of his gun, and checked the chamber to make sure it wasn’t still loaded before racking it in the safebox as one of the other men stepped up to take his place on patrol.

The other group of men and women looked up at him from where they sat around a table playing cards, “Want us to deal you in.”

Adam shook his head walking over to his locker and pulling out a fresh pair of light blue scrubs, “No I promised the doc I would help today.”

The other humans shook their heads and rolled their eyes, “leave it up to you to want to spoon aliens.”

“Spooning aliens is a lucrative job. You should try it sometime, maybe you’d finally have enough money to buy the bag you’ve always wanted.”

“Bag?”

“YEah the nice one to cover your face.” he shut the locker and grinned at the car players to let them know it was all in good fun before turning towards the bathroom, where he changed and stepped back out. The scrubs were very breazy in comparison to his guard uniform and he shivered slightly returning to his locker.

It was important for people working on the ward to be completely unarmed, and for the humans to look as non threatening as possible. A strict list of instructions urged them not to smile with their teeth, and to keep their hands and feet covered at all times. He wasn’t entirely sure if the fuzzy socks and mittens were entirely necessary for that, but apparently some of the aliens interpreted human nails as claws, and some genius had thought that covering them up like this was very nonthreatening.

Looking in the mirror he had to admit it worked.

In his light blue scrubs and the fuzzy white mittens, he looked more like the easter bunny than he did a killer.

But then again, in real life he didn’t look much like a killer either.

He turned to walk out the door flipping off the people geering at him before remembering that he was wearing a mitten, which kind of negated the point of the gesture.

From there he wandered back up the hall and was buzzed into the ward after waving to the camera. He went through a few metal detectors which pinged on his leg, but they let him through anyway as he stepped into the hall and up to the staff room where the other workers and a few psychologists were having a break.

He took a seat in a chair and idly watched the TV.

HE looked around at the people who wore similar clothes as him and noted, not for the first time, that it took a special kind of person to do this job. All of these people were remarkably docile and relaxed people, and as far as he knew the vast majority of them had no shame. Despite humans being prone to cuddling pretty much anything and everything, its was pretty hard to spoon an alien and not feel awkward about it, but these people right here, they either enjoyed it or they were damn good at faking it.

Adam wasn’t good at faking anything so he was the former.

HE shifted slightly in his seat thinking about some of the aliens on the ward before his mind inevitably shifted to…. To him…. The alien that he dreaded seeing the most…. A big, tall hulking creature that wandered his nightmares and made his leg ache.

The Drev.

The Drev with eyes like the thing that had stolen his leg.

He put a hand to his head feeling a bit dizzy. He had only had one PTSD related panic attack since getting here, and that was only because he had been accidentally exposed to the Drev unexpectedly one day and without knowing that he was on the ward. It had been embarrassing for him as he tried not to let anyone know about his condition, but based on that incident he had been forced to come clean.

Ever since that incident  he had been quietly forcing himself to get closer and closer to the Drev despite the psychologists telling him that it was perfectly acceptable for him to step off the ward if the Drev was on.

But adam didn’t like that mentality much.

He had always felt, ever since returning from the Drev war, that people were too soft on him. They always sat there and told him that it was fine and whatever he needed to do was important, that he couldn’t blame himself if he couldn’t handle something. They were all very forgiving and very understanding, but that's not what he wanted. At some point, he felt that it was acceptable to get up in someone's face and tell them that: no you aren't doing good enough and that you behavior isn’t ok.

He wanted people to ask more of him, not less, and he wanted to get better not stay stagnant.

If other people wanted to spend their days medicated and avoiding the things that made them hurt than that was their decision, but he planned on healing all the way.

It was a thought that he espoused only for himself and did not apply it to others. 

Their mental health was their business.

Either way, he was going to make something out of this, and had slowly been approaching the Drev on the ward over time. He didn’t know if the Drev knew, and it didn’t matter to him so much, but he did have a bit of his own agenda.

The door creaked open, and one of the psychologists stuck her head into the room looking around for a quick moment before her eyes fell on Adam.

“Lieutenant, can I speak with you for a moment.”

For a second Adam’s heart stopped a little. Was he in trouble? Had he done something wrong?

He tried looking at her face to see any signs of displeasure, but  she was a difficult woman to read, so he stood slowly and followed her from the room and back into her office where he took a seat.

She sat across from him at her desk hands folded together. SHe looked him over with eyes that seemed to bore into his sole, “How are you doing, Adam.”

He shifted nervously in his seat, “Er… I thought I was a staff member not a patient.”

“Just humor me.”

“I’m good.”

“Any panic attacks recently.”

“No ma’am.”

“Are you being truthful.”

“You and I both know I’m shit at lying.”

She grunted and clasped her hands together looking at him with a stern expression.

HE shifted awkwardly in his seat, “What” “I have… a mission for you, though it is one I worry might jeopardize your mental health if it goes wrong, and the mental health of my patient as well. If it goes right however I think it would do BOTH of you a world of good. What I would be asking you to do is…. Of questionable ethicality.”

That made him nervous. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean by asking you to jeopardize your mental health, I could be in serious violation of a couple of major statutes in my field, however assuming you do it willingly it might not be so bad.”

Despite his apprehension, his curiosity won out, “Go on?”

“Kanan.”

“Cannon, WHat?”

“No, Kanan, the name of the Drev on the ward.”

Adam shifted in his seat, stomach churning, “Oh…. go on.”

“Have you noticed he has a limp.”

“I…. suppose I haven't looked closely enough.”

“Well he does, and you want to guess where he got that limp?”

He had a pretty good guess, “The war?”

“Exactly.”

“And…..  I suppose you think….” He trailed off 

“He lost everything during the war Adam, his mate, his honor, his home. He is injured and exiled, and at this moment there are very few people in the galaxy that can even partially understand what he has gone through.” She leaned back in her chair looking at him, “I think, that having someone like you to speak with about what happened would be,.... Beneficial to both of you.” She paused, “DId you know that human and Drev psychology is surprisingly similar….”

He shook his head, “Well it is, and I think the two of you would recover faster if you had something to work on together.”

“With all due respect ma’am, my papers say I’m recovered.”

“The UNSC isn’t exactly known for their in depth medical reviews Lieutenant. I know they overlooked some things. Either way, it’s your choice.”

***

Adam stood in front of the door. His hands were sweating leaving the inside of the mitten’s sticky and unpleasant. He felt nauseous, but swallowed to hold it down eyes wide as he stared at the door. What was he doing? What was he doing?

He took  a deep breath.

Not being a coward, that’s what he was doing. He reached a hand up and knocked on the door before he could chicken out. There was silence and the knock seemed to echo down the hall for eternity. He waited, and waited, and waited, and assumed at some point maybe he had caught the large alien sleeping, but then the door opened.

His human knee went weak, and it was only the prosthetic that kept him standing as he stared up at the huge, hulking figure.

Adam was, tall 6,2 to be precise, but this hulking behemoth had to have been around or over nine feet tall, with blood red armor, and four bulging arms. It stared at him with bright golden eyes that brought echoes of his past welling up into his ears. He felt as if he was about to fall over, but then the creature turned and trundled back into the room, snapping Adam out of his trance.

He was breathing hard, and he thought about turning back, but instead, he stepped softly into the room leaving the door open just as crack as he moved inside.

The room around him was dark, and the floor was scattered with crumbled pieces of paper.

A box of markers lay on the ground to one side. He looked down to see he was stepping on a discarded piece of paper, and stepped back to look down, realizing the drawing there was of a tree, with striped bark and spiraling branches. It looked like something out of a Dr Seus book though he recognized it as an Anum/ Anin coiltree.

He crouched down to pick the paper up.

He looked up to see the Drev had returned to the edge of his cot and was sitting down, a shapeless form in the dark.

“You mind if I turn the light on?” Adam asked.

At first the Drev didn’t answer, but then he took a long breath through those strange holes in his neck and managed a deep, rumbling, “THe colors are too bright.”

Adam paused then, “Well neither of us can see very well in the dark and, he held up the page, drawing in the dark can’t be easy.”

There was a grunt.

“I’m going to turn the lights on.”

The Drev didn’t stop him, and as he did the room lit up showing even more pages scattered over the floor, all drawings of Anin some of them sloppy, some of them, quite artistic for a species he hadn’t thought practiced art.

He knelt down to examine a few of them, “Not bad.”

He picked up one of the pictures to examine it.

“This looks like the valley between the volcanic belts.”

The Drev turned to look at him, and when his eyes fell on Adam, the page slipped from his hand floating back to the floor.

The uncanny deepness of it’s golden eyes unnerved him.

“You were in the war?”

Adam’s hands were shaking, but he clasped them together to hide that fact.”

There was a long silence between them, and then he reached down pulling up the leg of his scrubs to reveal the titanium construction underneath, “I was.”

The Drev seemed surprised and looked up at him.

“You were one of them.” he said it very flatly, and Adam suddenly grew very worried that the Drev would kill him in revenge for being part of the operation  that decimated his people.

“One of your number killed my father.”

Fuck 

He went to back away but the Drev just looked down.

He sighed very deeply, “You were a strong and worthy opponent. We never had a chance.”

His voice was not bitter, or hate filled. There was some measure of regret behind his words but not enough to constitute anger. And when Adam looked at the creature, he could do nothing but feel sorry for him.

He quietly walked over trying to avoid the pages on the floor and then, unsure, sat next to the large figure.

Adam was not used to feeling small, but sitting next to the huge figure of the drev, he felt very tiny indeed.

The inside of the gloves were absolutely soaking, and with some measure of annoyance he tossed them off and onto the floor.

He wiped his palm on his shirt, reached out, fingers trembling and rested a hand on the Drev’s arm.

“You want to tell me about it? I.. My people didn’t exactly take the time to understand yours….. Now that I think about it it hardly seems fair.”

The Drev snorted ,”My mother believed that war was supposed to be fair, but my father understood that there was always inherent unfairness in battle…. The two of them didn’t get along towards the end. I think I agree with my father, to assume that your species would abide by our rules of combat was…. Ignorant of us.” The Drev turned to look at him, “Your species is much more efficient at war than mine is.”

His hands weren’t shaking anymore.

And he realized that, when he looked at this Drev, He didn’t see much of an enemy at all. 

But he did see someone broken by the war…. Just like him.

He looked down at his feet, and when he did his eyes came across another drawing. This one of a drev, It really only had an outline since it’s carapace seemed to be white, and the way it had been rendered with such delicate care, made it pretty clear to Adam who it might have been.

He picked it up quietly.

“You…. want to tell me about her?”

The Drev turned to look his eyes resting on the picture. Adam didn’t think up to this point he could read Drev facial expressions, but the welling of sadness in the creature’s face was so poignant that Adam felt his own chest tighten,

Damn the human’s heightened sense of empathy.

For a moment he thought the Drrev was going to tell him to get out, but, instead, he took the image and stared down at it, “Nechal…. Named after the moon….. She was the most glorious fighter I had ever seen in battle, strong, and graceful and powerful. She was not afraid to die, but she didn’t let that lower her guard. On the battlefield she was a goddess of war, and off…. She was…. Kind in ways that aren’t common among our people. I may have been attracted to her because of her fighting prowess, but I loved her because of the kindness she showed. Especially towards my sister… someone who needed kindness more than anyone I know.”

He took a very deep breath and when he spoke again his words were thick.

Could Drev cry? “In our people it is…. Custom not to mourn the dead who are lost in battle because their return to the spiritual realm will be glorious. It is a great honor to lose a mate in battle….” He looked down at his four hands, “But I do not feel honored…. I feel alone…. I miss her, ever day and every night I miss her, and I wish she hadn’t died…” He looked up and when he did Adam was struck by the expression of pain and grief on his face.

As if he was feeling the Drev’s pain in real time, he felt his chest clench again, and tears welled in his eyes. How could he not?

Anyone who didn’t feel the same must have had no feelings? 

“I was exiled because…. I could not follow her into the afterlife…. With my injury I should have given my body over to the fire, and maybe then I'd be with her, but I just…. I couldn’t do it. I miss her every day and yet I don’t have the strength to go to her…. I am a fraud among my people, a coward and a fraud and….

“Hey! Hold on.”

The Drev went quiet and turned to look at Adam who was now gripping his arm tight in one hand.

“You think she’d want to hear you say that.”

That seemed to take the Drev off guard and he stared at Adam with some measure of confusion.

“You said she was kind wasn’t she….. Well then I doubt she'd appreciate you talking about yourself like that.”

He was quiet for some time.

“Look I…. I lost my leg during the war to…. To one of your soldiers and. It’s messed me up for a real long time. Hell you scare the daylights out of me, but I’m moving forward.”

THe Drev frowned at him, “Scared of… us… you won?”

Adam laughed, “We didn’t win anything. Nobody won, a lot of people died and a lot of people were crippled, and for what? I think about that a lot, for honor? Honor. Well maybe I don’t understand what honor means because to me, it would be something worth dying over.”

The Drev contemplated him for a long time.

“We may have won but we did it with scared soldiers like me, and broken soldiers like me. I’m probably never going to recover from the war. That’s the difference between you and me, you guys can make it through war in one piece but me…. Humans… we may be good at war but it destroys us.”

He sighed, “I guess what I am trying to say is, instead of feeling sorry for what you can’t change, why not move forward. Do something you think is worth it, do something Ne-” he stumbled over the Drev word, “Nechal would think was worth it.”

He didn’t know what he was saying, he didn’t know if what he was saying even made sense. Nerves had always made him ramble. He knew he was talking too much but he didn’t know what else to do.

The Drev looked down, and Adam. as was his training made a bit of a decision.

He shut up.

Which was a feat in itself.

Reached over and hugged the larger alien. His arms didn’t make it anywhere close to wrapping around him, but he hoped that maybe it would help?

He didn’t know.

He was kind of just a raging idiot most of the time, so his plans were usually half assed at best.

The Drev stiffened and then relaxed. Adam’s head was resting against the creature’s huge planted shoulder. It felt like hugging corded steel cables.

He would have to say that being hugged by something with four arms was a bit of an experience. Most aliens didn’t usually hug back, they were more the recipient of hugs, but it seemed that the Drev wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept, either that or he learned fast, and damn Adam felt even smaller encircled in the arms of the huge alien.

Kanan could have crushed him if he wanted, but let him go not long after to Adam’s surprise and relief.

The Drev looked at him.

He looked back

“You are strange creatures.”

He gave a weak smile, forgetting the rule about showing teeth, “So they say.”

It was a bit of a gamble but things had worked out better than the psychologist could have hoped. Drev are more receptive to self reflection than humans are. Humans like to internalize things, and their brains become obsessive. Drev have more control over their minds in many cases than humans do, so Adam’s encouragement for Kanan to do something his dead mate would think worthwhile showed results almost immediately.

To Adam’s grudging pleasure, the Drev seemed to be recovering faster than he was.

And was well on his way to recovering completely when the communication came for Adam one night while he sat lying  on his bed next to Waffles, thinking about his future.

The pink roused him from near sleep and he sat up on one elbow to look at the time.

i t was only nine earth time, so he rolled onto his side and sat up, patching the communication through.

A light blue screen of holographic image filled his vision, and on the other side he could see Colonel Kelly sitting in front of him….. At least Colonel until he realized the star on her uniform.

His eyes widened slightly. He went to speak but she shook her head at him.

“I trust you are doing well Lieutenant.”

“Yes ma’am. I have no complaints.”

She nodded, “Good, good, I am sorry to intrude, but I am afraid this rest period is over for you. You are requested to return to earth on the next outgoing transport.”

He frowned and rubbed the back of his head, “Uh of course ma’am but…. Why?”

She stared at him long and hard, ‘I have a very important decision for you to make. It is one that is not going to be popular or easy, but I urge you to accept my request.”

He frowned and shook his head, “You aren't making sense, What is this all about?”

“Tensions are rising between our delegates and the GA, if we don’t do something soon, I am worried that this will devolve into infighting and eventually war. I have to work fast in order to stop this outcome, and you are the lynchpin that holds my plan together.”

“Me.” He squeaked.

“Yes, you, now Adam, be honest with me. What is your opinion on the GA and our involvement with them?”

He rubbed the back of his neck though his thoughts were adamant, “Cooperation wherever and however possible. We need them, and I believe they could due with being our allies, ma’am.”

“And if I gave you a job to try and reach that goal, would you take it?”

“I would do whatever I had to do ma’am.”

He was being truthful. 

She nodded her head.

“Good then, it’s your choice at the end of the day, but if we act now, we can change everything.”