#open to counterarguments here

[lumsel]

I read about AGI again, and I got a little irritated, so here's a take a posted on a Discord a few weeks back, here for peer review.

There's a common notion in certain circles that at some point AI is going to go too far, we'll accidentally create a being so intelligent that we are akin to ants to it, and then it'll wipe us all out before we know what's happening. While it's a pretty scary idea, something always been... off about it to me. Predictions of the trajectory of future technology have very rarely been that accurate, and this one is an especially dramatic claim to make. Why should I take this one more seriously? But then again, is there a truth to it? I had a think about the notion, and here's what I came up with:

Imagine... fuckin..... chemistry went too far. Imagine some far future chemist created a material so unimaginably energetic that, upon exposure to oxygen, it created a chemical reaction so violent it destroyed the planet up, wiping out all life in an instant.

Obviously, the analogy to AI here is shaky, because this material can pretty trivially not exist in a way that an actual chemist could probably explain to me. You cannot create an arbitrarily energetic material, there are well-understood laws of physics that defy it.

My proposed question, though, is that why should we assume that intelligence functions differently to energy density? Why assume that an arbitrarily intelligent being can exist with no upper bound, in defiance of... basically every other property in the physical world? Intelligence is, much like all things, bound by laws of physics -- there is a theoretical minimum energy requirement of any given operation. And there is a theoretical minimum time taken for a given operation as well, because you only have so many arrangements of atoms and light only moves so fast. Any given intelligence has a minimum physical size and a minimum energy requirement to function. And then on top of that, you can't easily scale up size linearly, because information takes literal, actual time to cross distances, etc etc etc.

It is entirely possible, and -- hot take -- probable, that the human brain is operating at near-maximum efficiency for its size and energy requirements, and that intelligences greater than that would require both a greater physical size and ever-greater energy input, to a degree that physically limits the maximum intelligence of a being to the energy outputs of the system that produced it.

I say this, to make a proposal of my own: an intelligence that can make perfect predictions of the world around itself-- and act on those predictions in a way that perfectly attains its goals -- is not something that can be assumed to be possible. At the very least, you can't assume it can exist within an arbitrarily small and energy-light structure. It's a concept that makes sense if you think of intelligence as an abstract quantity, as something that exists outside of normal laws of physics, but I'm not convinced it'll be something that can function within the constraints of actual chemistry and physics.

This is not to say it's impossible to make something smarter than a human, but rather, the concept of an intelligence so much smarter than a human -- so smart that even the combined efforts of all humanity would not be sufficient to disrupt it and avert its plans -- isn't something we can take for granted could be made by accident in an AI research lab. I propose that it's possible, even probable, that to sustain an intelligence like that you'd need a silicon slab the size of a football field and three nuclear reactors running at 100% capacity. So to speak.

[cepheustarot]

Warning from the Universe for you

Attention! This reading is for entertainment purposes only. This tarot reading does not give a 100% guarantee that all the described situations will occur or being ultimate truth. You build your own life and destiny and only you know yourself best.

Paid readings

Pick a pile. Choose one or more pictures. Trust your intuition.

Pile 1: For those who work, you may have difficulties in terms of work. Some of you are waiting for a career promotion or an increase in your income in the near future but force majeure may occur and this will happen due to the fault of one of your colleagues, as there is a possibility that he may frame you and get your place. There may also be problems with competitors and if you were ahead before, now this will change and competitors will go ahead, because of this business may fail or a deal and profits may drop significantly, you may be cut at work. You can also make a deal with a not very honest person and, accordingly, you can be cheated for money so be careful!  As for those who study, your academic work can be stolen, plagiarized and passed off as their own. It will be very difficult to prove his guilt here, since the person will have competent counterarguments and it may turn out that you will end up guilty. In addition, there may have been mutual hostility between you and this person for a long time, you may hate each other for certain reasons.

Pile 2: Here you can have a strong relationship with someone, for example, with someone from your family, you can have a best friend with whom you have been communicating for a long time and trust each other 100%, you can have a loved one with whom you are in a strong and stable relationship. And here everything is fine between you for quite a long time but at some point a situation will suddenly arise when a person can bully you, speak rudely and you will quarrel because of this. You will have a very heated argument, you will both be angry for a long time and not admit your guilt because of this you will be visited by thoughts about ending your relationship, ending communication, you will want to distance yourself from this person as much as possible. But here the cards say that it is better to make a decision not under emotions, here it is necessary to find a way out of this situation, to make the best decision first of all for yourself. Third-party interference is also possible here so be careful! Make decisions based on your feelings, not the words of others.

Pile 3: Here the universe warns you that you may miss the best chance to realize your desires, your plans, as you may succumb to pressure from a person who is an authority figure for you, an example to follow. It can be either someone from your family, or your mentor and teacher, who has his own views on your work and you may not find support from him, you may be criticized. This may also apply to people who exhibit their work publicly, you may be criticized or negatively commented on, but this should not stop you from continuing to do what you like, what you sincerely want to do in life. The emphasis here is precisely that you must defend your opinion, position and do as you want, however you see fit — then other doors will open for you, you will have more opportunities for implementation, you will banally increase your self-confidence.

Thank you for reading! I will be glad of any feedback 🖤

[moviestarmartini]

everyone's a winner — jude bellingham x wag!reader x brahim díaz

summary: your boyfriends, both laliga winners and champions league finalists, demand a reward out of you for their two excellent performances in less than a week.

warnings: nsfw (18+ minors dni), prestablished!brahim x reader (they were dating before jude joined in), jealous!jude, mostly mean dom!jude, soft dom!brahim, oral (m & f receiving), voyeur-ish, unprotected sex (sounds fun but don't!!!), creampie, porn with a lil bit of plot.

wc: 2.1k

A/N: finally did something with these two GAHHHH sorry for any antis that are jude girlies, this is filled with luvvv for my club 😛

The last five days had been insane. 

Starting out on the first Saturday of the month, having to sit around with the entirety of Real Madrid and their families in the Bernabeu’s VIP seats to practice ‘hate watching’ was something you’d ever expected to do. But there you sat pretty next to your official boyfriend, the unofficial one— so to say, was talking to his mother. 

The moment the final whistle rang it felt like the match had been won by them, not Girona. Before you could even breathe out a sigh of happiness, Brahim was swiping you off your feet kissing you with fervor. A familiar tickle in the bottom of your tummy surfaced. 

You watched happily as the team celebrated, taking pictures of both the men who stole your heart. You took a couple pictures with Brahim at the empty stadium, on the grass. Everyone laughed off the way Jude sprinted to your side and held you tight as there were pictures of only the three of you taken. No one but him knew it was a move made out of jealousy. 

But that was it for that day, heading to the comfort of your shared home as rest had been set mandatory. 

On Tuesday morning you drove them both to Valdebebas, each getting a kiss on the forehead as a wife would give her soldier husband heading for war, since you knew you wouldn’t see them after the semi-final match was over. The next almost hundred minutes were cardiac arrest worthy. The VIP sections full of family, friends and special guests suffered through every second and emotion– the euphoria exploding when the two goals imminently arrived– waiting painfully for the final whistle to be blown. Then another considerable amount of time waiting patiently for the players to finish interviews and change into regular clothes. 

You stood marveling at the empty stadium, similar to Jude’s pre-match ritual. But he wasn’t the one who practically tackled you off your feet, hugging you from behind. 

“Brahim!” You giggled as he put you down, turning around to give him a giant squeeze. You didn’t notice the pair of jealous eyes observing you carefully from the tunnel as you took pictures before exiting, his hand on yours, one of the last couples to do so.  

“Where are we going, amor?” You laughed as you ran through the tunnels of the Bernabeu being practically dragged by him. He took a turn to the left, instead of the right to head out to the underground parking lots. He kissed you, and you knew you were stumbling into the empty locker room by the way your steps echoed. 

“Brahim…” You sighed as he leaned in to kiss your neck, taking slow steps towards his station, the light of the name cards above were the only thing guiding your steps. 

“No one’s going to catch us. Everyone’s going home.” He whispered against the skin, clutching you tight as your knees came in contact with the bench, forcing you to take a seat. 

“Exactly, what if we’re locked in here forever?” You tried counterarguing, only for the rational thoughts to turn to mush when his hand pulled your shirt out of the tuck of your bottoms and cupped your breasts. 

“You don’t think winners deserve a prize? First LaLiga title, now we’ve passed on to the final.” He removed the white top, throwing it somewhere in the room as his kisses descended down your torso. He placed open mouth kisses where the midi slip skirt started, slowly tugging it down. 

Your fingers sneaked on his hair, back arching. “That’s what I thought.” He knew the context clues of your body too well. “Déjame probarte, princesa. That’s the best prize anyone could ever get.” He breathed against the soaked piece of underwear, and you raised your hips to help him slide it down to rest at your ankles. He parted your knees, placing open mouth kisses as he made way to your sopping cunt, his tongue pressing flat. 

“Hm you taste so good,” He practically moaned against your core before fully indulging in it. In no time he was slipping two fingers past your entrance, working wonders with them and his tongue flicking the swollen nub. It was enough for both of you not to notice the lights turning on and staying that way before someone cleared their throat. 

“Having fun without me?” 

The voice made you both freeze. Your stomach tightened as you feared to look who did that voice belong to, but your eyes met a pair of brown eyes with a defiant look placed on them. 

“No, go ahead. I’ll just make myself welcome,” He incited, taking slow cautious steps towards you both. “You don’t want to keep our baby unsatisfied?” He cooed, petting Brahim’s hair, the hand on your jaw forcing you to look up at him before he crashed his lips into yours. You sighed in relief feeling Brahim resume his actions, they were quick, good enough for that tension to build on your lower stomach. 

Jude took your hand, parting away from your lips. “That show you two were putting on got me like this,” He puckered out his lips as your hand grazed his bulge. Your mouth watered as he kneeled on the bench, tugging teasingly at the drawstrings of his sweatpants before lowering them. “Where’s my prize, huh? I’m a winner too, remember?” 

Then, you easily understood the glances Jude often gave the two of you as you interacted in public, in front of the cameras. He burned with jealousy at the reality of being unable to show the world how he loved sharing you with his teammate, your only boyfriend at first. 

Brahim looked up at you, giving you a nod of approval. It was just a way to encourage you; you didn’t need permission to please Jude, not when he was part of the relationship. 

You cupped his boner over the black underwear, pulling down at it sweetly. Not wasting any time, you told a hold of his hard cock with your manicured fingers, tongue sticking out to lick the glossy drops that leaked from his tip. You watched as he threw his head back with a groan when you wrapped your lips around his tip. 

“That’s it baby, that’s it,” He praised, turning his head down to watch you take his length inside your mouth, the bit you couldn’t fit getting stroked by your hand once you started bobbing your head, searching to hear those groans loaded with both praise and degradation. 

“She’s getting wetter from giving you head, mate,” Brahim tore himself away from your cunt to give out the fact with a snicker, your juices rolling down the short stubble on his chin. The chuckle both men shared felt sinister, Jude’s hand settling in the back of your head to give support to your pace, similar to the way Brahim’s fingers hooked to hit that spongy spot over and over again. 

“Cum for us, amor, do it.” Brahim breathed out, knowing that the way your calves shivered and your fingers dug into his scalp only signified one thing. Your moans and cries were muffled by Jude’s cock still stuffed down your mouth, soon being torn away from it and being pulled into yet another kiss. 

Brahim sat next to you on the bench, following after Jude’s lead while you continued to stroke him. He broke the kiss, nudging you to kiss your boyfriend, and you did it without a hitch. The way you could taste yourself on him was intoxicating, and the way Jude pulled you in for another sloppy kiss hinted that he could agree, too. 

“You’re mine too, you hear me?” He whispered, the short hairs on his chin tickling the skin of your cheek. 

“Why do you give Judy a ride, princesa?” Brahim almost interrupted, coercing  you with a sweet voice to your ear, soft lips kissing at your jaw. 

“I think that’s not enough for a prize. Let’s not use a condom,” Jude whispered in your left ear, a teasing hand caressing your inner thigh. Your legs parted, eliciting a humiliating reaction out of the men, who snickered between themselves. Their voices felt like having an angel and a devil on each of your shoulders, inviting you to different decisions with a similar outcome. 

“Yeah, let’s do both,” You affirmed with a breathy voice, and without effort Jude took you off the bench to place you on his lap. He didn’t even have to ask you to help him, as you reached down to line him with your entrance, both sighing in relief once he was all the way in. 

“Don’t just sit there.” Jude reprimanded you as you finished getting used to the stretch, wrapping your hair in his fist and tugging you back ever so slightly. You yelped, taking the order and shifting your hips, starting to ride him. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” Brahim praised you with a coo, watching as you tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants. He helped you out, pulling them down before you started to stroke him. He didn’t even realize how pent up he was, a flush running up his neck and up his cheeks. 

You tried to match the movement of your legs to your hand, bouncing on Jude’s cock at the same pace you jerked Brahim off. 

“I think he’s going to need more than that, sweetheart,” Jude tutted, and you wondered if they communicated telephonically as Brahim stood up. You took his hard cock in your mouth without much complaint— actually melting as you sucked, eyes falling shut— while Jude’s grip on your hair controlled the pace. 

“Let me help you out,” Jude ran a soothing hand on your knee, propping himself up on his heels before he started thrusting upwards. “Fuuuck you’re squeezing me so tight, love.” A groan left the back of his throat, and he could tell you were close.

His hand reached around to toy with your clit, and that was more than enough to tip you over the edge, thighs shivering. Your moans were tucked away behind your tongue as it happened earlier. The squeeze your walls gave him seemed to be more than enough to tip him over the edge, ropes of white coating your insides. 

He pulled out, but the adjustment time was minimal, “I need to cum too, love.” Brahim explained with a soft voice as Jude tore you away from him, making your head rest on his shoulder. “Please, let me…” 

You knew very well what he was requesting, and with a hazy smile you nodded. He kissed your neck as he crouched down a little before pushing himself in, groaning at the initial resistance you presented to the penetration due to your recent orgasm. 

“Oh, baby,” You cried out, Jude’s grip in your hair turning into a soothing hand on your cheek. 

“You’ve been doing so good for us, darling. C’mon,” The British national praised softly, a nod from Brahim confirming his statement. 

You were still sitting on his lap, but sandwiched between his chest and Brahim’s. 

The pressure from being between them only furthered that state of haziness your mind found itself in, sweat rolling down your forehead as your boyfriend seemed to be edging on to yet another release. 

“Brahim, baby, I’m not going to last long.” You warned, and he kissed your cheek quickly.

“Me neither princesa, with the way you’re squeezing me…” He managed to breathe out, Jude reaching out to brush the sweaty hair off his forehead. 

“Your legs are shivering, you wanna cum?” Jude mocked you, his fingers yet again pressed on that swollen nub in a way that made your back arch. “Cum for your winners, baby. Do it.” He commanded, and it’s not like you’ve ever not obliged to his instructions. 

You panted out both their names as you chased your last high, good enough to make your toes curl and your eyes water. 

“Mierda, joder—“ Brahim cursed, holding onto your upper thighs and gripping them as his own orgasm caught up to him. He pulled out, collapsing next to the two of you on the bench. You threw your legs to rest on his lap as the three of you sat there, catching your breaths. 

“Dinner at ours?” You asked Jude, brushing his eyebrows into place. Brahim kissed your calf gently.

“You bet,” He kissed your cheek loudly. 

The video of him and Brahim with their windows rolled down, shouting with the fans while you drove the BMW became viral in a matter of hours. Thank god no one knew why you three were the last to leave the stadium, and why the two teammates were leaving together in the first place. 

It had happened too many times for it to be questioned, anyway.

[rizsu]

graduated delusional boys shoyo, kuroo, sunarin.

-> tokrev & jjk version

it's a simple night out with the hinata family. after another successful karasuno match, shoyo's mother suggested a restaurant dinner and well some shopping.

busy on his feet, shoyo walk-runs after his sister. she's certainly a little too fast on her feet—especially if you don't hold her hand or use a leash like their mom usually does. finally reaching her, he lifts her onto his hip before ending the mini race with a little scolding.

“natsu! don't speed off like that!”

“but the candies!!”

shaking his head, shoyo shuffles his way through the sea of people until he makes it back to his mother's position.

“sho', natsu, come here!” motioning to her kids, their mother takes hold of the five year old before pushing shoyo to walk in front of her, “stay in my vision, sho'. you're still young!”

well, shoyo would've done as she said without complaints but the last sentence made him turn his head back one hundred and eighty degrees. immediately warping his face into one that expresses confusion, shoyo raises a counterargument.

“but i'm already a third year! with a girlfriend too y'know.”

nodding her head to act as if she's paying attention to his words, shoyo's mother argues back, “yes, yes, but you still live with me so—wait.”

from the tone of her voice in the last word, shoyo tries to speed up his pace but a mother's hand is always faster.

“what do you mean by girlfriend, young man.”

“whoops..?”

turning around on his heel, he raises a hand behind his neck trying to think of a way to properly explain. it doesn't take long before he starts his own sign language while giving his mother the detailed lore of your relationship—which didn't last for long because natsu had other plans.

“sho's not a loser!” she juts in her opinion, looking at her older brother with an open mouth covered by her hand.

“NAT-SU,” feeling shocked, betrayed and offended, shoyo goes to press his palm over her hand to seal her mouth shut. as the color red diffuses to all of his ear, he feigns a limp as he takes baby steps away from his family.

kuroo is not kuroo if he doesn't bother kenma after twelve a.m during the weekend sleepover. if there's a sleeping kenma, there's a wide awake kuroo waiting for the right moment to strike.

“psst, kenma, wake up.”

“please shut up.”

“KENMA!”

“NO.”

covering both ears with his pillow, kenma turns around to block off kuroo and whatever he's got going on at 1:43 AM according to his watch. but oh no, don't get it twisted. kuroo is not one to forfeit that easily—persistent may as well be his middle name!

“i was going to show you my girl but i guess not!” changing his tone to a teasing one, kuroo backs off kenma's bed and goes to his futon.

as if it was an auto-response, kenma sits up straight, sharply turning his neck to kuroo, “pause.”

and with that, kuroo adds one point to himself on his imaginary scoreboard. snickering to himself, he turns his back to kenma, waving him off by repeating what he previously said, “you told me shut up.”

“wait i'm sorry,” kenma says. slouching off his bed, he uses his right foot to nudge at kuroo's “sleeping” figure. it takes about five nudges before he speaks again, “you know i love knowing people's business. please, kuroo.”

adding another point to himself on the scoreboard, kuroo turns on his back with a grin and a phone to his face. raising the phone to kenma's height, kuroo shows him a picture of a girl and kenma thinks kuroo's gone delusional. maybe he's just tired.

“whose daughter did you find on pinterest?”

“okay fuck you.”

snatching his phone back, kuroo actually feels quite offended. is kenma implying he's not attractive enough to pull a pretty girl!?

“I WAS NOT FINISHED LOOKING.”

“privileges REVOKED.”

shoving a middle finger in the air, kuroo pulls his blanket over his head to quietly sob in peace (this is an exaggeration).

kenma, tired of kuroo's antics, steals kuroo's phone to look at your picture and find proper evidence that you guys are indeed together.

“don't go through our chats by the way.”

“ew.”

three adults, three cushions and one bottle. in osamu's living room sits him, his brother and rintaro. how'd they get here? boredom. extreme boredom. when they were no longer entertained by the alcohol, atsumu brought up the idea of truth-or-dare with using a bottle.

spinning the bottle, osamu watches it land on rintaro and immediately asked him a question he's been dying to know, “rin, is it true you're seeing someone?”

throwing his head back, rintaro groans. he knew it'd come sooner or later but he still wants to be mysterious.

“nosy much?” and to that, both twins responded, “SAYS YOU!?”

dragging his palm over his face, rintaro laughs before confirming osamu's question. he's twenty-six with nothing to lose and he thinks he's sexy—so obviously he'd not be single..!

osamu's jaw drops. although he was the one who asked, he's still shocked. to his defense, rintaro's always seemed like the type to stay in the talking zone.

“oh, that poor woman. save her now before it's too late.” using a napkin, atsumu wipes his crocodile tears only to be kicked by no one other than suna rintaro. cackling at rintaro's reaction, atsumu defends himself, “'m just messing with ya!”

rintaro rolls his eyes. turning around to grab his phone, he proudly shows off his lockscreen that's a picture of you from your anniversary date, “isn't she pretty?” with a small smile on his face, he feels his pride emotion being activated.

“i dunno...i've seen better,” atsumu states his (unwanted) opinion. tapping a finger on his chin, he squints at the phone.

and as for rintaro? his heart dropped. looking directly at atsumu this time, he questions him, “such as..?”

“like myself duh.”

one.

two.

three.

and cue the fight scene with rintaro and atsumu while osamu tries to catch his breath from laughing.

“I AM SICK OF YOU.” stifling atsumu with his cushion, rintaro makes sure to smother his face with the fabric. he, atsumu, must feel the pain.

“hey—HEY. GO EASY ON THE HAIR.”

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Pretty like the wind

Previous chapter / Next chapter

a/n Part two! Writing was all I could think about today. Thank you for the love. It's been a hot minute since something brewed in my brain. 🤍✨

warnings: blood, violence, past trauma,

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Finding a way to focus had been hard the past couple of weeks. Azriel felt like a ghost who had pledged the sanctuary. He barely got out of his room, and if he did, he twirled around in the shadows. Watching. Hacking. It was an unsettling feeling at times. Feeling those golden eyes burning holes into your back. Listening in on your conversation. Yet every time you would turn towards where the phantom feeling of him lingered, you were met with nothing. A space where you had hoped to find him.

"Invite him to the communal. It sure must not feel nice to be left behind", Padme, the high priestess, casually said just the other night when you brought her all the paperwork you had sorted through. "He is free to come, P. He ain't a prisoner", you stated blankly. Focusing solely on the piles of papers as you arranged them. "You're being neglectful, my dear", those words made you look up as you frowned. "He is not my responsibility. I'm not assigned to him. I don't...", you stuttered on, crossing your arms around your chest defensively. "And yet... Our high lord had called for you specifically", she trialed off. A knowing, ancient smile painted her lips. You knitted your eyebrows as hard as you could, trying to look frustrated, but that only made the high priestess chuckle. You had wanted to find a strong enough counterargument for her statement, but your words failed you. So you bowed your head to her before walking away.

"Is he an ancient spirit?", Zofie, the young fea girl, asked as she looked up at you, making you crack a smile. Some of the kids have been more than observant. But then it was hard to miss a male of Azriel's size. And while grown women didn't spare him a second glance, the kids had grown curious. "That's an Illyrian soldier, Zo", Axel said, rolling his eyes at the younger girl. You questioned your choice the closer you got to the spymaster's room. He might very well not even be there. And even more so, he might have another outburst. And you had brought kids with you...

"Well, how would I know? I'm only little", Zofie stomped her little feet, making grabby hands at you. You shook your head at them. "Why don't you two ask him all of your questions yourself?", you suggested, right as the wooden door at the end of the hall came into view. You halted once more, but your lingering steps were outmatched by Axel, who had sprinted down the hall before you could even open your mouth.

Azriel had been trying to summon a bottle of whiskey for over an hour now. He was tired and frustrated with the lack of communication Rhys was willing to engage in. The only thing the high lord was willing to say was that Elain had gone with Lucien. She was in autumn. That had made the spymaster curse Rhys in all the languages he spoke. He was about to list all the reasons why that trip was not a good idea when Rhys shut him off completely.

Now he was sitting on the floor. Shoulders slumped. He looked ahead of himself. One of his shadows had flustered before moving towards the door, ripping at the handle. "I'm not going anywhere. So drop it", the spymaster had muttered. But the shadow didn't budge, nudging the metal tightly as a knock sounded, making Azriel look to the side. He was ready to ignore it. The last thing he needed was to deal with more nonsense, but then the thought struck him. What if it was you? What if this was his chance to get you to tell him how to get out of this place? If he caught you here, he would still have time to interrogate you spymaster style, and then...

Azriel grabbed the handle, spreading his wings behind him as he frowned. Yanking the door open. No one met his eyes. There was nothing there. Azriel was almost sure of it. Until a loud gasp filled his ears and something light hit the floor. "Axel", the sound made Azriel peer into the hallway. That's when he noticed you rushing towards him. That's when he noticed a tiny frame curled on the floor. Tiny leathery wings draped around the shaking body.

Azriel's wings sagged. He reached his hand out, but you were quick to stand in between them, your eyes wide as you stared at the spymaster. "Are you insane?", you said through gritted teeth, turning to look back at the trembling body. "Hey, Ax. It's all okay. No one will hurt you", Azriel watched as you carefully moved to brush your fingers through the boy's hair. A tiny, trembling hand reached out towards you. You took it without hesitation. The girl whom you had carried up to this point stood slightly to the side, her tiny palms pressed into her eyes. She was hiding. Scared because of... Azriel quickly shook his head. "I didn't mean...", you turned his way, his soft gaze replaced by a burning anger. "Who even opens a door like that?". Azriel was about to bite back when the boy looked up at him, muttering, "Wow..."

"Axel...", you questioned him, worry lacing your features as you watched him. "You're big... and your wings", the boy said, his eyes now fully on Azriel. You bit the inside of your cheek. Pulling Zofie closer to your embrace. The dark twirl swam towards the boy, and you were about to seize it with your magic until it ruffled Axel's hair softly, nuzzling against the boy's cheek, making him chuckle.

You swallowed thickly before turning back to Azriel and saying, "We came to invite you to the communal but...", to the sound of which both of the kids perked up. "We learned a new song", Axel said, "Zofie dances with the ribbons. Right, Zo?", He pulled at the girl's skirt, but she didn't lift her head from your shoulder. Something ached deep within Azriel. He craved fear. At this point, he was convinced that no one would ever learn to look at him any differently but watch kids shake at the sight of him... He had watched them for some time now. A part of why he had stuck to the shadows was because he didn't want to scare the younglings. He doubted seeing a big, bulky male—there were no other males here, as Azriel had noted—would make them feel safe.

"I'll come", Azriel said, thinking about reaching for the girl but choosing against it. She looked so small, clinging to you. He had made a child frightened. He had never... Azriel felt a small palm wrapping around his two fingers. "I'll show you the pool we have; well, it's not a pool, but... you'll see", Axel chirped, already dragging Azriel down the hall. You were about to protest. As it was, you had a long list of reasons why Azriel shouldn't come at all. He met your gaze. You watched him. Was he silently asking for your permission? You gave him a tight glare before nodding.

The kids were in their element, as always. Singing loudly as they danced together. Axel was up in the front lines, his eyes not leaving Azriel. Zofie had slipped off your lap midway through the third song and was happily twirling with her pink ribbon in hand. Azriel sat beside you. You could tell that he was uncomfortable. You doubted he watched the children much. You even doubted that he understood just how important it was for Axel that he was here. Azriel's eyes were scanning the place. Memorizing faces. You let out a sigh, and that seemed to have done the job because the spymaster lowered his gaze toward you.

"You know, you're an asshole", you said while plastering a smile on your face. Azriel huffed, "Says you", crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, I'm sorry, but out of the two of us...", you trailed off, shaking your head.

"You brought kids as backup", Azriel snarled once more. Now these words made you look right at him as you growled, "You wanted to break my neck". Azriel gave you a puzzled look. "Oh, don't look at me like ancient Mother Sun; you think I'm that stupid? You would have leaped at me once more", your words had come up more like an accusation than you would have liked. "For the record, I wasn't going to break your neck", Azriel muttered. Even more frustrated by your last statement now. "Oh, my apologies. Locking me up? Hanging me up from a ceiling? A bit more your style?", you rolled your eyes at him. Azriel gritted his teeth. You were getting on his nerves slowly, but then the fact that you thought he might break your neck... Oddly enough, he hated that. Azriel wanted to be far away from being a predator. He didn't want to inflict harm or fear. Slowly, he started to wonder about how much he still didn't know. Not just about this place, but himself. Another stab ripped past his chest, and Azriel let out a tight sigh. Clapping erupted around the room. Azriel joined in mindlessly, turning his head slightly your way and saying, "I'm so...", but he was met with an empty chair. Azriel's eyes darted around the room. He searched for the two kids as well but was met with a crowd of faces that didn't have any meaning to him. Azriel let out a frustrated growl, tightening his fists.

The candlelight was barely visible. Your eyes were burning from tiredness. You knew that you weren't going to get anything more done, but you refused to leave your study. It was the only place where you didn't feel him. And heaps of paperwork had managed to shove him out of your brain. It was bad enough that Axel talked about him until he eventually fell asleep. Padme, however, had given you a dissatisfied look. And you knew she was right, but you too had your reasons. You weren't a babysitter. There were no direct implications that it had to be you who monitored Azriel's behavior here. You knew that Rhys had eyes of his own here. He didn't need weekly reports. You blew out the last remaining candle. Not having enough energy to care about the scattered papers all over the table.

Rubbing your eyes, you moved towards the door. Opening them up with a spell. And you wished you hadn't the moment you did. A mortified scream left your lips. A hand clasped over your mouth. Flickers of your magic sparked, cracking the solid wall of darkness. "It's just me", you shoved your palms against Azriel's chest. "You're a sick bastard", you said, pointing an angry finger at the spymaster. To your surprise, he let out a low chuckle, making you huff. "How dare you laugh?", you moved to fix your dress. Trying to hide the tremble in your palms. "You're running away from me", Azriel stated calmly. You gave him a daring look and said, "I am not inclined to see you".

Azriel watched you. Even in the dim hallway, there was no way he could deny that there was something about you. The way you carried yourself You had proven your point that night in Azriel's room when you drew his consciousness away from him. He knew you had magic lurking deep within. But even that didn't seem like something that would call to him. "But you can answer some of my questions", he stated blankly. You shook your head in disbelief. "You did all of this so you could ask me a question? Under what rock have you been raised?", you stepped closer to him. Here. Here it was. That daring glare made something deep flick within Azriel.

"You'll have to forgive me. I was the one to wake up in a place I knew nothing of", he snarled back. Taking the last step towards you. Fully towering over your frame. Your head was now drawn up, so you could keep eye contact with him. "But I wasn't the one who went for a mated...", You cut yourself off. A bitter taste coating your mouth. The fire in your eyes died down. "Say it", Azriel muttered through gritted teeth. You watched him. You had no right to judge, and you didn't. "Everyone knows about it, don't they? You tried to make a fool out of me by dragging me to that circus today?", Now his words were drenched with venom. You had nudged a sleeping tiger. "That was not a circus. Communal is for children", your voice was small. Azriel let out a bitter laugh. "Is that what Rhys wanted? To humiliate me", there was pain so deep within him that even your bones ached.

"And you... you're here to orchestrate it", he snarled, stepping away from you. You suddenly felt so little. You had no intention of making Azriel feel like a fool. He shook his head one more time before he turned to step away. "Azriel...", you called out, stepping forward to grab his hand. Forgetting all boundaries. Losing control over your mental shields. The moment your hand touched his, all you managed was to take one more inhale before a ray of vision flashed right in front of you.

Azriel felt as if he was trapped in a never-ending nightmare. As flashes and flashes of what seemed to be memories glimmered through his mind, he saw the sanctuary. An elderly lady. Coldness and pain. Something that reminded him of the basement he had been locked in. Then there was Rhys. Illyrian camps. Angry males. A fire. Shouting females. Scattered wings. Blood. Shrieking children. He tried to move. He was unsure if it was real or just in his mind. But when he lifted his hands, bloody palms met him.

You yanked your hand back. Breathing heavily. Azriel was panting too. He blinked a couple of times. Eyes darting to your trembling frame. Your cheeks glisten with tears. Void grew deep within the spymaster's chest. Azriel moved to step closer, but you put out an arm in front of yourself. "I won't hurt you", his voice was the softest you had ever heard from him before. Yet you still shook your head, muttering a quiet, "I'm sorry".

[valdomarx]

"We can't keep doing this," Roy says, pinning Jamie up against the wall and running a line of biting kisses up his neck. 

"Yeah," Jamie says, voice hoarse, fingers scrabbling at Roy's back, "Okay."

"I'm your manager," Roy says, Jamie shivering under his hands, skin soft under his lips, "It's not right."

"Yes, coach," Jamie says, eyes vacant and dreamy, and that's the problem right there, isn't it?

-

"We ought to stop," Roy says, his fingers flexing in Jamie's hair, nails scratching at his scalp. "This could fuck both our careers."

"Mmmhmph," Jamie agrees, his mouth full.

-

Roy opens the door to find Jamie on his doorstep. He raises an eyebrow. “I thought you’d be out with the team.”

Jamie shrugs one shoulder. “We went out for one drink. It was nice and all.”

“So what are you doing here?”

Jamie grins. “Come on. A hat trick against Newcastle? That deserves a celebration.”

“That’s…” Roy fishes but fails to come up with a counterargument. Jamie truly had played one hell of a match.

Jamie moves closer, and Roy finds himself stepping back to let him in. The moment Jamie steps inside, his hands are fisted in Roy’s shirt and Roy is pushing him up against the back of the door.

It really had been one hell of a hat trick.

-

"This is the last time," Roy says, fingers scissoring, and Jamie’s eyes are rolling back in his head and he’s too out of it to summon a response.

“I mean it.” Roy withdraws his fingers and Jamie whines as he lines himself up. “Hey. I’m serious.”

Jamie’s eyes snap into focus, and he hooks one leg around Roy’s waist to pull him closer.

"Totally," Jamie nods, biting his lip. He looks up at Roy from under his lashes. "So we might as well make it count, yeah?"

-

Roy stretches out in Jamie's bed, morning sunlight pouring through the window, and steels himself to leave. Enough is enough, they've been playing with fire for too long, it's time to end this.

His mind is made up. He’s for real this time. 

He wraps a towel around himself and heads toward the sound of running water. Jamie is in the shower, one with enormous glass doors which leave nothing to the imagination, and Roy leans in the doorway. 

"I have to go."

Jamie glances over his shoulder, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Already?"

"Yeah. We agreed. This was the last time." Roy doesn't look at the torrent of water running down Jamie's thighs, the flexing muscles of his back, the soft curve of his arse. 

"We did." Jamie says, soaping up his shoulders. "But… morning after doesn't count, does it? It's basically still last night."

"That's not…" Roy can't tear his eyes away from a rivulet of water running between Jamie's shoulder blades, a cluster of soap bubbles sliding languorously down the plane of his back. Jamie shoots him a heated look: enough of a smile to be a tease, enough of a smirk to be a dare.

"Fuck it," Roy snaps, dropping his towel and stalking over to throw open the shower door. "One last time."

[sunderingstars]

☆━━━━━ ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ━━━━━━☆

✩ ‧₊˚ ⌞ INTRODUCTION ⌝

sampo analysis m.list

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— hello & welcome to my dark twisted mind (full of sampo theories)

— this is the first major analysis project i’ve taken on, so i’m very excited to lay out all the evidence i’ve found — i’m trying to keep it as open-ended & -minded as possible, even though i’m biased out of sheer interest towards the aha!sampo theory.

— i’m sure there are things in here that are common knowledge, but since i tracked down every single sampo reference and voice line (literally) on the wiki during an obsession-induced state for the better part of two months, i’m hoping there’s some information here that may be new or less-discussed as well!

— i’ll be uploading each sub-topic as a separate post (because i have a lot to say about so many things), but depending on your preferences you can always follow/block the ⌞ 🎭 ⌝ tag, which is going to be the tag i use for anything relating to this project.

— here’s a brief outline of the topics i’ll be covering:

visual cues + art (aha splash art, kit, body language & confidence, performance & performative emotion, eidolons, etc.)

vocal cues + voicelines (third person references, voicelines, worldview, self-awareness, gender, etc.)

scene analysis (intro scene, belobog, sampo & sparkle’s conversation, fourth wall breaking, mr. cold feet, dream bubbles, etc.)

specific topics (placement in the narrative, jokes & situational comedy, the astral express, etc.)

specific theories (“retirement,” playing the long game, risk vs. reward, man or muppet?, “committed to the bit,” aha is not exempt from The Rules, etc.)

extra info on the masked fools as an organization, aeonic consciousness, and sampo character details outside of elation!sampo theories

as well as counterarguments and a conclusion + anything i feel like adding along the way!

— the next few posts i’ll be uploading will be my masterlists (yes, plural, i am insane 😔💔) so i can get ahead of the curve, then it’s onto the real meat of things. this is a passion project for me, so i am very grateful for everyone’s support thus far (seriously, y'all are so sweet) !!

— as always, feel free to send me asks if you want elaboration on one thing or another, or just want to talk about your own thoughts/theories. hope you enjoy!

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© analysis by sunderingstars. do not copy, repost, translate, modify, or claim my work as your own.

[2btheanswertothequestion]

(part 6 of November Paramedic; part 5 is here and the AO3 version is here.)

"... and the biggest problem is that I like him. I really like him! I haven't liked anyone this much since fucking high school, and that's not comparable because I never got close to those guys. Just hopeless pining from afar."

Eddie takes a step back from the dresser. The clothes in the top drawer are in disarray, and after rummaging through them twice he must accept the shirt he seeks isn't among them.

"I admit, at first it was primarily physical," he says, slamming the drawer shut and yanking open the middle drawer to search it again. This time he pulls out the incorrect items and tosses them on the floor. "He's the guardian of my spank bank – of course I wanted to sleep with him. I would've been fine with that happening once and then never seeing him again. There's nothing wrong with that. Right?"

He turns to Gareth, who's lying in an uncomfortable-looking position on Eddie's unmade bed, spinning a pencil between his fingers like it's a drumstick. Though grimacing in disgust at the spank bank-mention, he nods. Eddie nods too, punctuating their mutual agreement.

"Right. But then I just had to go and get to know him, and he just had to be the perfect man, and I had to… ugh. Catch feelings."

The middle drawer is an equally lost cause. He moves on to the bottom drawer for the second time. He knows the shirt is there and he will find it.

"So, the good news is that I'm pretty sure I'm going to snag the guy. The worst news is that I have to tell him all my secrets, or else our relationship will be built on lies. And I- ah-hah!"

Rising from his ocean of fabric, he holds the shirt aloft in triumph before donning it. It's wrinkled from having been balled up in a corner, but that's okay. The creases add to the aesthetic.

Awesome. He's washed, brushed, dressed, and he's still got – he glances at the clock – five minutes before he's supposed to leave. Some of his nerves cool at the certainty of, if nothing else, at least he won't be late.

"Where was I?"

"You have to tell him all your secrets," Gareth says.

"Yeah. I have to tell the truth without it sounding like the creepiest thing ever. Emphasize the flattering angles. Be clever about it." Yeah. Yeah! He can totally do that. Sighing, he drags both hands down his face. "I'll need to strategize. I'm going to put distance between us while I plan my next move."

"Uh huh," Gareth says, dropping the pencil and sitting up. "But, Eddie-"

"No!" Eddie foresaw Gareth disliking the 'distance' part of it all. If he had his way, Steve and Eddie would be married already, just so Gareth could rub his essential matchmaking into Eddie's face during his best man speech. "I don't want to hear your counterarguments. It's what I'll do and I don't care what you think."

"Right, yeah, sure, that's not it," Gareth says. "It's just that curious minds would like to enquire why, if you're distancing yourself, you're 1. going to see him today, and 2. wearing your seduction shirt?"

Eddie's gaze dips to his chest, and the aforementioned shirt. It's just a normal shirt! A black and yellow Anthrax shirt, to be precise. Sure, he cut up the sides and the neck because it was too small, but that's irrelevant. It's not that revealing, just airier. His clavicles are visible but you can barely see any of his torso in it, unless he bends over and the front piece sags. But he's not going to bend over today, because his jeans are too tight for that to be safe. He glares at Gareth.

"This isn't my 'seduction shirt'."

"Yes, it is."

"I don't have a seduction shirt!"

"You do. It's that one. You only wear it when you want to show off to someone."

"You're creepy for noticing that," Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Gareth leans forward with a shark-like grin. "Oh, so you admit it?"

"No! It's not a seduction shirt!"

"All right, a 'manwhore shirt', then. Listen-"

"Oh, fuck you."

Eddie flounces out of the bedroom and through the living room, gathering keys and wallet on the way. Gareth follows.

"Listen. I'm not against you going out to see him-"

"I'm not seeing him, it's a group outing-"

"-pulling back now is stupid-"

"-that Max invited me to-"

"-and I think you should go all out and get your man. So I'm all for this. It's exactly what I would do."

Eddie pivots; Gareth almost crashes into him.

"Well," Eddie says, wearing a barbed smile. "I suppose that is how I know it's a bad idea."

Then he leaves for the hallway to put on his shoes. He tries simply shoving his feet into them, but the knot is too tight and he must untie them. Gareth leans on one shoulder against the hallway wall.

"Oh, ouch," he says. "You're grouchy today. Is it because I, while sloshed may I add, gave you an excellent opportunity to get your dick wet and you still returned home unfucked? You had Steve and his pouty lips and one size too small clothes on a silver platter. You were like a towel draped around him after a really intense workout, man. He looked willing to wipe the sweat off his junk with you and you still failed. That's sad."

Eddie, shoe dangling from his fingers by the laces and face schooled into new-sketchbook-bought-to-combat-art-block levels of blank, allows himself one raised but carefully unimpressed eyebrow.

"Are you finished?" he asks.

"Hm. Yeah, I think so."

"You're never beating the 'wanting to fuck Steve' allegations after this."

Gareth shrugs. "I mean, if he had a sister…"

"Jesus Christ."

Shoes mostly on, Eddie continues storming out of the apartment. He'd have slammed the door behind him if he didn't need to lock it after Gareth. He compromises by chucking the keys at Gareth and letting him lock the door (and slam it, if he so wishes).

Max is waiting for him on the front steps, skateboard by her feet and one earbud in; she pulls it out when Eddie passes her and pushes off the steps. She's dressy again today: dark jeans and a crimson shirt left unbuttoned and tied over a black camisole. And heeled boots! No more than an inch, but it's a big deal considering Eddie's never seen her in anything other than sneakers before. He's not under the delusion that it's his business to tell her what clothes to wear, but it's nice seeing her like this. Also, her being spruced up means his outfit won't be under as much scrutiny. He appreciates her for that.

Scrutinizing him, Max smirks as she says, "You're showing skin today. Nice."

Never mind, she is detestable.

"It's his seduction shirt," Gareth stage whispers, both hands circling his mouth.

Max scrunches her nose. "What's with him and seduction?"

"I think he just likes how the word sounds."

"It's not a fucking seduction shirt. Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Eddie stomps over to his car. "We're leaving now!"

Max jogs to catch up while Gareth laughingly waves them off and tells them to have fun on their dates.

He's wrong, though. There'll be nothing datelike about this outing, and Eddie's determined to make it so. However, in the end, it seems like he won't have to. Two minutes in and it's as unromantic as it'll ever be.

Why? Well.

"Okay," Robin says, flinging a lined notebook and a pen onto the diner table. "It's settled: Nancy, Jonathan, and El will all be home during July. And Argyle and the boys have their plane tickets?"

Because they're planning a mass reunion. The plat du jour may be delicious, but nothing beats the taste of vindication!

"Yeah," Steve says through a half-chewed bite of pulled pork. It should be gross, but it's not. Neither is his tongue darting out to lap the BBQ sauce from his bottom lip. Eddie takes a big enough gulp of his pop to drown himself; Steve rubs his back through the coughing fit. Having a mere thin layer of fabric between him and Steve's big hand doesn't really help, but Eddie will be the last person to admit that.

(Okay, so maybe Gareth had a minuscule point in this counteracting the 'distancing', but shhhhh… Eddie won't tell if you won't.)

"And Erica has permission to come over?" Robin asks after scribbling check marks next to most of the names.

"Uh huh," Lucas says. His mouth is also full, with fried chicken, but he has the decency to cover his mouth with a napkin as he speaks.

"Great. So, about the accommodations. You have space for the boys?"

Lucas nods. "My housemates will be home for the summer and they're fine with me having people over as long as we stay out of their rooms."

"Where will everyone sleep if the bedrooms are off-limits?" Steve asks, reaching for his glass. His arm, tee-shirt sleeve folded up and leaving the whoooooole bicep free to view, brushes against Eddie's and leaves a trail of fire in its wake. Thank God he wasn't drinking this time.

"There's a couch, Sammy has a futon we can borrow, and I've an air mattress," Lucas says, counting on his fingers. "We'll have a weeks-long sleepover in the living room."

"The boys are accounted for." Robin checks three of the names a second time. She points her pen at Max. "You will have El and Erica at your place?"

"Yeah," Max says, nibbling on an onion ring in an unusually ladylike manner. As if to counteract the daintiness, she's slumped in her seat, one foot on the upholstery and head resting against Lucas' arm. She narrows her icy blues at Eddie. "Remember that you'll have to be quiet. There'll be virgin ears on the other side of the wall."

"You're not a virgin?" Steve says over Eddie's indignant sputtering that he's not that loud, the walls aren't that thin, and exactly what has she been hearing anyway?!

Max ignores Eddie to roll her eyes at Steve. "I'm talking about Erica. Pretty sure she's still a virgin."

Steve's expression clouds over. "She better be."

Robin scoffs. "Seriously? She's sixteen."

"So?"

"So! You were slutting it up at sixteen!"

"Now, hold on." Steve shakes his finger at her. "I was with Nancy then, and we were monogamous."

"Oh, excuse me," Robin says in a phony voice. "You were slutting it up at fifteen."

"That's different!"

"Why? Because she's a girl?"

"Because it was a mistake, and I don't want her repeating it!"

They're both glaring, leaning so far toward each other over the table it looks like they're either about to kiss or duke it out. Eddie doesn't know which option is less appetizing. In their corner, Max and Lucas share a squirmy look that can only be interpreted as 'mom and dad are fighting.

Then Robin withdraws with a curt nod. Steve relaxes next to Eddie. Crisis averted, it seems. Still…

"I wish I'd been slutting it up at sixteen," Eddie says, mock-mournful, because nothing evaporates tension like a well-placed joke. It works, too; both Steve and Robin huff a chuckle.

"Tell me about it," Lucas says. Max straightens up to stare at him; he flounders. "Uh, tell me about it because I've never experienced the feeling and don't know what it's like."

Max shakes her head, but re-settles against him. And she doesn't shrug him off when his arm slips an inch closer to wrapping around her shoulders, so he's forgiven.

"Anyway," Robin says, tapping her lists. "That leaves Nancy, Jonathan, and Argyle. If we" – she waves the pen between her and Steve – "share a bed that leaves one bed and the sofa for the others, but it'll be cramped."

"That's why Eddie is here," Max says.

As if on command, everyone's head snaps to Eddie. He clicks his tongue.

"Exploited for lodging purposes. I should have known."

Robin frowns, contemplative. "Put someone with Eddie?"

"Yeah." Max smiles and, oh. He sees what she's doing now. "Like Steve. Then there are four in your apartment, and you two in Eddie's. You're good enough friends by now to make it work."

How nefarious. Is this a coincidence, or are she and Gareth in cahoots? Do they conspire behind his back? How dare they concoct plots to improve his life against his will!

"Max," Steve sighs, "volunteering Eddie's home like this is rude."

"He doesn't mind."

The worst thing is, it's true. He wouldn't mind. Not only would he give his skimpy shirt off his back for these people. Not only is he getting queasy green at the thought of Steve sharing close quarters with his badass and apparently Pulitzer-worthy ex, his equally badass friend whom he used to co-big brother with, and a guy who's a tall, dark California hunk with hair longer and silkier than Eddie could ever hope to achieve. Not only that, but also? Just sharing a living space with Steve 'November Paramedic' Harrington?

A dream come true.

Eddie's couch is fine to lounge on for a couple of hours, but not to sleep on a whole night. But they could share his bed. And they'd have breakfast together. Exist in each other's space. He'd find out what Steve does in his spare time. What his favorite song is, if he showers in the mornings or the evenings, how he dresses when he wants to be comfy.

It'd be amazing… and it'd completely fuck with his plan to distance himself. Honestly, he can imagine two scenarios: him falling even harder and proposing marriage and permanent cohabitation within a week, or Steve unearthing the calendar by accident, calling Eddie a stalker creep, and leaving forever. He'll have to reveal himself before that.

"Uh," he says. "We can figure it out. It's a while until they'll be here, right?"

Steve smiles softly at him; Eddie's heart gallops around his ribcage, thudding so fiercely he can feel it in his mouth, and, fuck, he's blushing down to his exposed collarbones. He might propose now. Do any of his rings fit Steve? Their hands aren't the same size.

"Yeah," Steve says. "We'll find a solution."

After lunch they drive to a nearby park, to aid their digestion with a promenade (Steve's suggestion, of course). Reminded by Robin, Eddie brings up D&D to Lucas – they discuss possible campaigns while Steve and Robin spectate. Max, her boots exchanged for Nikes, skates circles around them. Every so often she'll ride close enough to call them dorks, but mostly she keeps a wide berth, alternating between zigzags and jumps and waving like a queen when they whoop and holler at her.

And then it happens.

She's ahead of them, having reached a stone staircase. Leaping onto the railing, she slides along it like a pro. But halfway she loses her balance and falls. Slamming against the stone, she then tumbles the last steps.

They freeze, a collective breath rushing out of their lungs.

Steve reacts first, speedwalking toward Max, still on the ground. Robin is babbling that she's probably fine, that she eats shit all the time and takes it like a champ.

Max rises on wobbly legs. She stumbles, sinks back into a heap.

Steve sprints.

In an eyeblink he's reached her, skidding to a stop and dropping to his knees in front of her. By the time everyone's joined them, he's examining every inch of her by prodding and poking, even as she mutters that she's fine. She's not, though. Her clothes are dusty, her hair has come loose from her ponytail, there are scrapes on her jaw and hands, and the left knee of her jeans is torn open, bright red glistening where pale skin should be. Lucas sits behind Max, hands hovering over her shoulders. Wanting to soothe but not quite daring.

At last, after an eon has passed, Steve puffs in relief.

"No need for emergency care. Knee might be sprained," he gestures to the bloody, bruised thing, "but that should be the worst of it."

"Told you," Max mumbles, picking dirt from her palm.

Steve frowns.

"You know, this could've been prevented if you wore knee pads."

"Oh, really?" she says, mockingly exaggerated.

"Yes. And a helmet."

Max pushes out her bottom lip; it leaks more sarcasm than her leg does blood. "I thought my head was fine?"

"This time! But might not have been!" Steve exclaims.

"But it was!" she snaps, matching his volume.

"Guys, please…" Lucas says quietly; they ignore him.

"I just think you should know better by now," Steve says. "I mean, you've done this for how many years? How many times have you seen others get fucked up? How many times have I told you-"

"Oh. My. God. I get it. You think I'm irresponsible. You don't have to talk to me like I'm stupid, or a child. I'm not."

"Oh, yeah? Maybe you should back that up with your actions."

"Fuck you!"

They're both screaming now. Lucas is sitting with his head in his hands. Robin has wrapped her arms around herself and is swaying to and fro in discomfort. The tension in the air is thick enough to taste. Eddie doesn't know what to say or do.

"Come on!" Steve barks. "I need to wrap your knee"

He reaches for her; she finches away and kicks at him with her good leg.

"Don't touch me! I'll walk on my own."

"You'll exacerbate your injury. I'm carrying you to my car."

"Like hell you are!"

"Max…"

"I refuse care!" She bares her teeth at him like a rabid dog. "Leave me alone!"

Steve glowers at her. His chest is heaving and his body is drawn taut, rigid with cold fury. He shoots up and marches off without another word, leaving awkwardness in his wake.

Max gets to her feet slowly, winces slipping past her clenched teeth. Lucas touches her elbow to help, but she violently shrugs him off and limps away.

Sighing, Lucas pats Eddie's back.

"C'mon, man. She'll get more pissed if we try to match her pace."

So they walk ahead, sometimes glancing back at Max and Robin, the only one allowed near her, apparently. Even then she keeps a five-foot gap between her and the human firecracker.

Steve's already by the car, with a thunderous expression and a first aid kit in hand. When Max finally arrives, he yanks open the passenger seat door for her. She sits, he cleans her wounds, and not one word is uttered. Once finished, he slams the kit shut and storms off again, stopping by a fountain some 50 yards away, hands on his hips and back toward them.

Max, face somehow even sourer, curls up in the passager seat with her arms tightly crossed. Gliding down the BMW's polished side, Lucas takes a seat right beneath her.

Robin tugs at Eddie's wrist.

"Come," she whispers. "Let's give them space."

She brings them to a bench where everyone is within their view but out of their hearing. She collapses on the wooden seat like a potato sack.

"I hate when it gets like this," she says. "Don't you?"

"Yeah." He sits beside her. "Does it happen often?"

"Not anymore. But back when the kids were actual kids, sheesh. They were easier with us than with their parents, but still. Hormones and rebellious phases. Not that we were much better. We thought we were so adult." She rolls her eyes.

"Have you known them as long as Steve?"

"No, I joined the gang a year or two late. At first, I only hung out with Steve and the occasional child, when they deigned to stick around. I'm closest with Dustin, the MIT wunderkind, and Erica, Lucas' sister, the one still stuck at home. You'll love both of them – they're so savage."

Eddie nods, worrying his lower lip. At the car, Max’s hand has slipped down for Lucas to hold, but they still seem not to be speaking. Steve is stubbornly staring at the fountain like it'll reveal all of life's secrets if he's patient enough.

"You know after our gig?" Eddie asks. "When you raced ahead and we walked and talked? We talked a lot. Overshared, really."

Robin nods. "As you do."

"Steve told me about something important that happened at your old job? He wouldn't say what, because it's about you and it's private. But I'm curious, so… ?"

She sighs while grinning fondly. "He made it sound bigger than it is. All right. So we worked this shitty summer job at a mall ice cream parlor. The uniforms were hideous. We actually had to film a local commercial for it?"

"Oh my God."

"Yeah. I think it's still circulating – I'll ask around for it. Steve will never forgive me for showing it, but it has to be seen. Anyway, it was a summer job that continued into fall. That November, it all came to an end when the mall caught on fire."

"No!" he gasps, already invested.

"Yes!" she says, waving her hands, growing theatrical. "In the middle of the day! Rush hour! There was a stampede; we were trapped in the parlor for ages. By the time we got out of the shop, the fire had spread. Smoke everywhere! I inhaled so much I passed out. Steve carried me outside and gave me CPR."

He blinks at her, jaw slack. "Holy shit. Jesus Christ."

"Yeah. I'd have died if not for him."

She shrugs as if it's nothing, merely a fun little anecdote from yesteryear. Perhaps, to her, it is. Eddie shakes his head in disbelief.

"Why didn't he tell me this? He talked about his dad being a shithead, but not this?"

"Yeah… I don't know. When it's about him, he'll happily overshare. But when it's someone else it's all 'it's not my story to tell, I need permission'. Unless he hates them – he's sooo gossipy about people he doesn't like," she says, giggling a beat before sobering again. "Anyway, I'm telling you now that it was him saving my life and keeping me alive until the actual professionals showed up with the oxygen mask."

"Wow," Eddie breathes out. He gazes over at Steve's rugged form. "He's amazing."

Robin nudges him with her elbow. "He likes you, you know."

He likes him. He likes Eddie. He likes Eddie. Eddie kind of already figured. But hearing it from Steve's best friend is still…

"Yeah," he says, ducking his head and pulling ringlets of hair in front of his face. "Not sure I'm good enough for him."

"Oh come on. Isn't that for him to decide?"

"He doesn't know yet… what I'm capable of."

"Are you kidding me?" Grabbing him by the shoulder, she forcibly turns him to look at her. "Listen: I'm judgmental and I'm not afraid to admit it. When we first met, I took one look and thought I had you pinned down. 'Check out this guy. Leather and tattoos and black black black. So hardcore and gothic-'"

"I'm not goth-"

"'-he probably thinks he's soooo tortured'. And then you turned out to be a geeky-sweet bundle of sunshine. Well done, proving me wrong. And now you're doing this?" She gently smacks his chest. "Hitting me with all your self-loathing? Get over yourself! It's not like he's perfect either. Look at him!" She points at Steve. "He's sulking!"

A fit of giggles bubbles from Eddie's throat. It's true – he is sulking. No matter how impressive or resolute he's looking, that's what he's doing. It's so ridiculous and adorable.

"Whatever you're capable of," Robin says once the laughter abates, "you deserve to be happy. He deserves it."

She sends Steve a long look of pure love. It tells Eddie everything he'd ever need to know about her, he's sure.

"Also," she continues. "I'm getting seriously sick of the pining. I know, I should be kinder because Steve endured years of me desponding over various girls, but I can't stand this."

Eddie emits a triumphant noise. "I knew it. Only a lesbian dresses like that."

Robin's chin dips to her suspenders and tartan tie. She raises her brows at him.

"You wish you had my drip."

He would have replied if he hadn't caught movement in the corner of his eye.

Max is leaving the car. Eddie observes with bated breath as she slowly hobbles over to Steve. When reaching him, he spins to face her but makes no effort to step closer. She says something. He nods, sternness carved into his features.

For a moment, they're still.

Then she sways toward him; his arms envelop her, pulling her into a full-body hug. She tucks herself under his chin while he caresses her hair.

Eddie breathes out.

"They're fine."

"'Course they are," Robin says. "Don't you fight like this with your family?"

"Yeah." Eddie chuckles. By the fountain, Steve seems to be coaxing Max into letting him give her a piggyback ride. "Guess I do."

Tag list: @rougenancy, @raisedbylibrarians, @yourebuckingkiddingme, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @emma77645, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @eddielives1986, @stevesbipanic, @the-redthread, @fandemonium-takes-its-toll, @henderdads, @gay-little-bitch, @lenore1232, @zerokrox-blog, @eddiemunsonswife, @cherrycolas-things, @ediewentmissing, @princess-eddie, @atombombbibunny, @ajamlessbaby, @dogswithforks, @grimmfitzz, @cutiecusp, @cuips-not-cute, @manicallydepressedrobot, @messrs-weasley, @madaboutmunson, @mightbeasleep, @suikatto, @brassreign, @snapshotmaestro, @courtjestermunson, @csinnamon-fox, @spectrum-spectre, @spinmewriteround, @just-super-fucking-gay, @escapingthereality, @oneweirdcryptid, @deehellcat, @misticageri, @lovelyscot, @linkydinky06, @rynnytintin, @anything-thats-rock-and-roll, @theysherobinbuckley, @freddykicksasses, @winterbuckwild, @sideblogofthcentury, @subparbrainfunction, @pemsha

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

Part 7

[ymechi]

Who is the real Creator?

oh boy it's done! Sorry this chapter is mostly exposition and info-dumping nothing fun is really happening here. Thank you guys for the comments I loved reading them!

-TW: cult au, yandere, impostor au, mentions of being hunted down, mentions of trauma, self harm (nothing major)

-Gn reader and darling (please tell me if I mess this up message me and I will fix it)

part 1, part 2, this is part 3, part 4

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

Reader's stomach turned but they tried to take even breaths.

This was ridiculous there was no evidence or proof. The manhunt was the most solid counterargument. If they were the Creator they would not have been hunted. Reader folded their hands and looked challengingly at Nahida. Try to prove it.

Nahida must have understood so she continued to talk.

"I admit I was confused at first I had assumed it was Reader who got the blessing as they had previously been able to control the acolytes, yet I was wrong. Due to Darling always controlling the vessels most of the time and due to the current Creator's presence being so weak even I managed to mix it up and I apologize for that."

She looked over at Reader with sincerity it made Reader uncomfortable enough to shift on their seat, and then she did the unimaginable, she stood up and bowed.

"Please don't I am not some creator you don't have to bow!" Reader said and jumped out of their seat.

Nahida stopped and looked over at Reader with a sorrowful expression.

"Your grace it is only fair, this was long overdue."

"No! you are wrong it still makes no sense it made more sense when it was Darling!"

"You may deny it but the more I spent with you, the closer I was with you, the clearer I felt it, your powers yet small like a budding seed are still there."

Shit she even brought up an allegory, is she being serious. From their peripherals, they could see Darling's uncomfortable expression. Reader pinched the bridge of their nose and exhaled.

"I don't feel any different though and there is so much wrong with that. I am not some creator."

Reader wanted to get up and sleep their hands felt twitchy and there was something buzzing in their skin. They needed to get out.

"Reader y'know have you. . . checked your blood yet?"

It was the first time Darling spoke in a while.

"What do you even mean, it's been red my whole life? Heck, you have seen me bleed multiple times as kids."

"I know, I know but maybe things changed when you entered this world when you were. . . you know hunted down," she quieted down at the last part, "D-did. . . you bleed?"

"N-no," Reader wrung their hands together," not really I got help from the monster and hilichurls with running away,"

Nahida made a sound of protest at hearing Reader's statements and looked down in guilt. There was a tense silence lasting only for a few seconds Reader just knew what Darling was about to say.

"Well, it doesn't hurt to check hey!-"

Reader jumped up and strode towards the kitchen cabinets taking out a knife.

"Y-your grace please wait-"

It was the first time Reader had heard Nahida stutter usually the Archon was so well-spoken and eloquent. Was it another thing she had to learn trying to fit the mold of the Archon of Wisdom?

"I have cut myself plenty of times when I first learned to cook it won't hurt."

They bought a knife towards the thumb and sliced it.

Clank.

The knife fell-

With it, golden blood fell down the floor as well.

Shit.

"Shit," Darling said.

Nahida sucked in a sharp breath.

"Your grace, please give me your hand we can't leave that be."

The Archon hurried over and opened her palms, their body moving in auto-mode as they crouched down and took Nahida's hand. Feeling what Reader thought was a small burst of dendro energy their small cut healed instantly. Nahida looked even more relieved than Reader was when the cut was healed.

Reader for the most part stood dumbfounded on the kitchen floor while Nahida watched them worriedly.

"Reader, are you okay. . .?"

"Darling what the," they paused looking at Nahida's small form," Do I do?"

"I think you should sit down first," Darling replied with a worried look.

For the second time, all three sat on the kitchen table this time for different reasons.

The weight of the revelation was a heavy burden and Reader wondered what Darling felt wearing that title. They neither wanted nor needed such a burden. Reader scowled.

"Hey Reader I've been thinking," Darling paused and looked unsure, "Do you think. . . This happened because you created my account?"

"Huh? Wait what," They paused thinking for a second, "That might actually make sense. . ."

Reader looked at Darling as if she had just solved their entire life mystery. Nahida looked at the two with confusion.

Right.

"Well, this is going to be hard to explain."

"It is alright by me take your time your grace."

Reader tried not to grimace at being called "your grace", they swallowed and held their hands together. They tried to explain what a phone and computers were and then what video games were until they took a deep breath and admitted that Genshin Impact was a game as well. Nahida remained still and took it all in rather well, Reader wondered how someone would feel if they said that the reality you live in was just a video game. When they came to that part Nahida looked contemplative a finger was put against her mouth as she was thinking. Reader thought about what the Archon of Wisdom could possibly think of in a situation like this.

"So our world was a so-called 'video game' in your world."

"Yeah it's uhh, sorry it's kind of messed up," said Darling with a Grimace.

Reader agreed all they could do was play with their hands as they waited for Nahida's reply. Maybe she'd think they were lying or both had lost it. The whole thing sounded ridiculous when they said it out loud.

"I think I get the gist of it."

"R-really you believe us?"

Nahida looked at Reader and nodded.

"This is not the first time that stories or in your case a 'video game' was made by a dream from another universe."

"Wait what," Reader stared dumbly at Nahida.

"Dreams can sometimes garner insight into other realities while it is rare it can happen, I assume the ones who made the 'video game' called Genshin Impact simply dreamed of Teyvat."

Reader put a hand on their head and tried to understand what Nahida was saying, it still sounded unbelievable even after entering this world. nonetheless, Nahida continued

"Other people playing this 'video game' should not be able to have affected Teyvat except when it comes to your grace, the Creator. Later on, you made this account, as you called it, could count as authority being handed over to Darling or a form of blessing which made Darling be able to control acolytes. The device you used  in this case acted as a medium between two realities."

"O-Ohh. . . I am, I don't know what to say."

"This is mostly me guessing I can't say for sure if what I said is right, communicating between realities is extremely hard if not impossible but when it comes to your grace anything is possible," she said with a smile.

Seeing her smile Reader tried to relax a bit, stuff like this went over their head. Metaphysics was not their strong point. Reader rubbed their head.

"I don't get it but it also makes sense. . ." they paused, "also please just call me by my name I like to think we are friends now. . ."

Nahida looked at them with wide eyes but nodded with a happy smile.

"It is an honor and I like to think so too, Reader."

Reader smiled at hearing their name again from Nahida and the mood felt relaxing again. Reader suddenly felt exhausted the rain in the background lulling them. Nahida must have picked up their mood as they began to speak.

"This has been an exhausting day with many revelations, like a Snezhnayan doll we keep finding more dolls inside the ones we already opened."

"You know I am glad to hear you still speaking analogies."

"I am not sure why it does," she leans her head to the side," but if it makes you happy I am glad then."

Reader smiled at her.

"I think for now Darling should come back with me there is a guest room we could use, tomorrow will be a long day unfortunately I suggest we all try to get as much rest as we can."

Readed nodded and looked at Darling. Reader who hadn't talked to Darling in a long while before this day was a bit worried they knew Darling was usually not this quiet and well, demure. Where they were sitting they looked. . . Defeated.

Darling tried to look at them but they looked away, they knew what they would ask for. They did not want to or had no energy to entertain a sleepover with them. There was still much stuff unresolved on Readers part between them.

A cruel part of them was happy that they were hurting. Reader was hurt so Darling should hurt a bit too- they shut that part down. They did not want to indulge in cruel thoughts, They did not want to become someone cruel.

They had seen what cruel people were capable of.

Nahida bid farewell and took Darling with her. Reader said goodbye to the two and cleaned up the kitchen. Afterward, they headed to the bed.

They left the window open letting the breeze come in. A bird suddenly swooped in standing in the window sill looking at them curiously. Reader stared at the bird as well.

 

"Did you know?"

The bird did not answer.

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

Taglist: @resident-cryptid @probablynoposts @esthelily @mitsukashi @charming-mage @chaoticfivesworld @irisxiel @dulcedelechenginamo @yu-ulda @samohxt2-0 @pinkpainc

[keouil]

inside me, a family

“and for god’s sake,” kuroo yells in the direction of the entrance. “can someone please get tsukki off flyer distribution! he’s scaring more people off than inviting them!” 3k. karasuno/nekoma. fluff. also on ao3.

“Nekokara.”

“What are you,” Suga grimaces. “A fujoshi? Why does it matter which team name comes first in the banner?”

Kuroo’s stubborn expression doesn’t budge an inch, nor does his posture. “Nekokara.”

“Karaneko,” Daichi suddenly pipes up, surprising everyone in the room. Noya and Tanaka have somehow strategically slithered their way at each of his side, very much looking like his personal bodyguards as they set to agreeing very loudly and verbally all the while massaging their captain’s shoulders. Go, Daichi-san! Defend our honor!

“Oh god,” Suga breathes out, palming his forehead. “Don’t tell me you’re in on this too?”

Daichi just smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. It doesn’t escape Suga’s notice that doing so just forces his muscles to protrude from his already annoyingly jacked chest, making even Kuroo stand up straighter. 

"Karaneko,” Daichi repeats, pitching his voice lower and more demandingly. 

Kuroo’s eyes slant to a glare, nostrils flaring slightly. Tora has somehow also miraculously materialized by his side, clamping a hand on his shoulder as he—just like Noya and Tanaka—begins his own verbal back-up of his captain.

“Neko—”

“Good Lord this will never end,” Yaku suddenly cuts in, stepping in between both teams and glaring long and hard at each captain until some of their confidence withers just so. Daichi defers almost immediately, while Kuroo pathetically lasts about five pitiful seconds. “Karaneko, Nekokara, whatever. It doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t we get started on more important things like how we’re actually going to pull off a damn bake sale?”

Kuroo opens his mouth to counterargue, but is, once again, pathetically silenced by Yaku immediately sending a seething look his way. It’s purely out of self-preservation that he shrinks into himself and zips his mouth altogether.

Yaku uses the temporary shift in power dynamics to pass around scraps of paper, aided by Asahi and Kai who also just want to get it over with. 

“How the hell did we even get stuck with each other?” Tanaka whines, peering over the activity pamphlet for the coming week. “We’re not even from Tokyo. Coming here isn't cheap, you know.”

“Don’t you guys normally do this with Fukurodani?” Daichi says, squinting down at the roles Nekoma—meaning a vengeful Kuroo—had taken upon themselves to suggest under “recommendations”. Suga boldly rejects half of them on the spot. There is absolutely no way you’re letting my precious Tsukki be a garbage boy, Kuroo, the kid can’t even clean his own glasses. 

“I’m not doing it with those private school kids again,” Tora huffs, annoyed. “Did you know they bring an actual physical therapist every time? Bokuto-san keeps complaining his arms cramp up from mixing the batter bowl every 5 minutes. And Akaashi just lets him!”

“Are you…” Suga blinks, slowly turning his head his way after giving Kuroo a scolding of a lifetime. “Did you just call us poor?”

All the color drains out of Tora’s face. Tanaka is quick to roll his sleeves up, sensing his senpai’s growing dissent, and is already making his way over to maybe pound Tora’s hairless head into the underground all the good that senseless brain does him—

“Maa, maa,” Kuroo strolls in between them just in time, after remembering he was actually Nekoma’s captain and that actually meant something and damn these crows. “The bake sale tradition raises money for both teams and boosts community morale among schools. And I just thought, well, wouldn’t it be nice for us dumpster kids to stick together?”

Daichi squints at him, disbelieving.

Kuroo surrenders. “Alright fine,” he sighs. “Coach made us draw lots. I can count in one hand all the schools Tora doesn’t have a restricting order against for picking fights with, but it’s kinda slim pickings. We’re just glad we didn’t get Itachiyama.”

"Damn,” Noya whistles his approval. “I pity whoever they end up with.”

Kai winces. “Then you’d better send your regards to Inarizaki.”

“The Hyogo powerhouse?” Asahi widens his eyes. “But doesn’t their setter and the Itachiyama ace have beef?”

Suga chokes on the water he was chugging, “Since when do you know the word beef?!” At the same time Yaku makes an ominous sign of the cross, mumbling his prayers for Kita. “May the Inari Okami be with you, Kita-san.”

“Alright guys, that’s enough,” Daichi clasps his hands together, earning a flinch from Asahi. “We don’t have time to be worried about the other schools. Anyone else notice how quiet it’s been for the past hour?”

Kuroo glances around the empty classroom, sniffing and assessing. Suga is already preparing his thinly veiled threats at whatever mayhem they were bound to discover at leaving their first years unattended. Daichi is just about to ask where the hell is everyone when a decidedly loud, horror-movie-piercing scream rumbles its way outside the hall.

A beat of silence passes.

Daichi and Kuroo exchange wary looks. “Your kid or mine?”

Kuroo just about has his mouth open to reply, when Suga stomps his way past everyone in a decisive manner, cracking his knuckles as he comes face to face with the door.

“I don’t care whose kid it is,” Suga warns, giving them a look over his shoulder. “They’re dead.”

-

“A little to the right.”

…

“I said right, Tanaka-san,” Kuroo snaps, baring his teeth. “Or we could always have Yaku spot you instead if you prefer?”

Tanaka stiffens as he holds unto the welcome banner, trying not to move too much unless he disrupts the structural integrity of the ladder he was precariously balanced on. Kenma was somewhere at the bottom and, he’s not entirely sure, but he thinks he saw him whipping out his PSP instead of holding the ladder steady like he was instructed. Tanaka's life is literally on the line and no one cares.

“Oi Rapunzel,” Kuroo barks, again, impatient. “Are we boring you?”

These goddamn cats, Tanaka thinks. Leave it to Kuroo to let Kenma off the hook again.

“N-no, Kuroo-san,” Tanaka mumbles shakily, moving the banner inch by painstaking inch until he feels Kuroo’s glare at his back dwindle into something like mild approval. 

“Kenma,” he calls out suddenly, his tone softening. “Come here and check?”

Oh great yeah okay, Tanaka muses as he seethes with the wall, With Kenma it’s a question mark and gentle tone. With everyone else he’s an unrelenting dictator. 

He feels movement below him as Kenma lets go of the single (!!!) hand he was gripping the ladder with rather precariously, that Tanaka has to plant his palms for purchase with the wall just not to topple over completely. 

“What the hell—?” Tanaka turns, spotting Kenma’s mismatched head of hair, ready to swear down a number of profanities that’d make his own sister proud.

That is until he meets eyes with Kuroo and his single raised eyebrow. Almost protective, almost a challenge, almost a threat.

These goddamn cats.

-

“And for God’s sake,” Kuroo yells in the direction of the entrance. “Can someone please get Tsukki off flyer distribution! He’s scaring more people off than inviting them!”

Suga makes a face. Kuroo, native Tokyoite and just generally less introverted than everyone else, has since taken complete dictatorship of the planning committee for this supposed joint bake sale. He’s barked orders, threatened his own members, made Asahi cry once, got into multiple fights with Yaku, and repeatedly made clear to Bokuto that he absolutely cannot come and help because he will not come and help and Do you want all of our cupcakes gone before opening day? Cause Bokuto will 100% eat them all. Think of the children, Suga-san. 

Suga is convinced he’s a little loose on the head and could potentially be a little unhinged, but they were country bumpkins who didn’t know the first thing about holding an organized event in Japan’s capital, and so lets him be for the most part.

Daichi, however, has always rebelled where Kuroo is concerned. 

“Sorry,” Daichi says, straightening his back after carrying a box of measuring cups in. “But did I just hear you order around my first year?”

“There is no my and yours here anymore, Daichi-san,” Kuroo bats his eyes at him sweetly, smiling. “We’re a team now, remember?”

Daichi arches a brow, unconvinced and unyielding. “My first year, my demands.”

“Who trained him to be the middle blocker he is today?” Kuroo raises his chin.

Daichi is immune to 6-footer-intimidation-tactics. “Pretty sure his brother.”

That shuts Kuroo up straight away. Daichi’s shit eating grin that follows isn’t missed by anyone in the gym, and if possible, even a few members of Nekoma howl in pleasure. 

“If we’re staking claim on just anyone now because this bake sale is apparently a lawless land,” Suga suggests pointedly from behind the counter, assembling an array of pastry brushes. “I veto Lev out of marketing.”

“What the hell has he ever done to you?!” Yaku shrieks by his side, halting his own arrangement of rolling pins. Kuroo is quick to follow up with, “The kid has the emotional comprehension of a five year old. He can’t even hurt a cat. We’ve seen it ourselves.”

By the water coolers, Tora begins nodding so vigorously Tanaka has to grab his head in fear of whiplash. Even Kai, setting up chairs and tables with Asahi and Noya, looks the slightest bit defensive. 

“I have nothing against him,” Suga is quick to ammend. “But if he doesn’t stop offering 50% discounts, he’ll bleed us dry soon before we’ve even started.”

Kuroo gasps, affronted. "Lev did no such thing!"

Suga is just about to reply when they hear footsteps outside the door, making out a symphony of girlish laughs along with a decidedly male voice that sounded just like Lev accompanying them, singsongly promising: And that’s not all! First 30 customers also get a free picture with our captain! He's over 200cm, you know!

Kuroo’s shoulders slump. He blinks once, twice.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

-

"Kageyama, take off your shirt."

"Absolutely not," Daichi wheezes, stepping forward in front of Kageyama at the same time Suga seizes hold of the hem of his shirt, pinning it in place. "What the fuck, Kuroo."

Kuroo groans, pinching the bridge of his noise. "Look," he says, pointing at them. "The way I see it, someone needs to start showing some skin around here or we're going to lose."

Suga gives him an incredulous look, inching closer to Kageyama protectively, who still looked like a fish out of water munching on a test batch cookie Ennoshita and Narita asked him to try. "And you thought the minor was the way to go?"

"He's Oikawa's protege, isn't he?" Kuroo points out, matter-of-factly.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Daichi gestures wildly, exasperated.

Kuroo blinks. "Oh," he says. "You guys don't know."

Suga feels uneasy. "Know what."

Kuroo leans in, conspiratorially, like he's about to drop top-secret national-level information. "A classmate from econ class told me another bake sale was happening in the next building over. Another Miyagi and Tokyo collaboration."

"And?" Daichi furrows his brows. "There's hundreds of volleyball teams in Sendai."

Kuroo hushes him, not kindly. "Yeah, but no offense, up until a few months ago there really was only 2 schools other prefectures gave a fuck about." 

Suga's expression is a mix of confusion and annoyance. "You couldn't possibly mean—"

"Oh, but I very well do," Kuroo grins, a sliver of teeth peeking through at the corners. "Favorites Seijoh and Shiratorizawa are apparently causing quite the ruckus and have already made their goal twice over. Ask me how."

Now it was Daichi's time to groan.

Kuroo snaps at him again, impatient. "Just do it, Sawamura! Am I asking for the world!"

Daichi grits his teeth, before letting out a very painful, very slow and labored, "How."

Kuroo's grin turns absolutely maniacal as he looks Kageyama up and down. "They're holding an auction to date Oikawa or Ushijima for a day."

"Shut up," Suga gushes at him, slapping a hand on his shoulder. "They are not."

"Are too!" Kuroo squeals, growing more excited. "And didn't you hear me? They've met their goal. Twice. At this point they've probably funded at least another generation of those annoying preppy school athletes."

"It's not a competition," Daichi reminds him.

"Says the loser," Kuroo quips back.

Daichi holds his arms up in surrender, exasperated. "We are literally on the same team. Literally. You just said so like, five minutes ago. What I make, you make."

"Exactly," Kuroo zeroes in on him, sliding a hand over his shoulder and peering closer at him, eyes dilated and full of corporate greed. "And I want to secure a future for my kouhai," he continues, saying the next part in a deceptively enticing voice, "And you want that too, don't you?"

Suga feels his insides churn. "Daichi," he starts. "Wait. Don't—"

In the next second, Daichi's posture straightens into that of unyielding determination. The fine set of his shoulders and the arch of his jaw, so stubbornly straight and piercing. Suga blanches. Kageyama stiffens. They both recognize that look, know Daichi has gone to a point of no return and no amount of pleading will get through to him anymore. Suga is starting to seriously come to terms with the fact he might seriously have to end the day a cat murderer. 

Daichi turns to Kuroo. "What do you need us to do?"

Oh God, Suga thinks, Kageyama is going to need so much therapy after this.

-

“Mom and Dad are fighting.”

"What the fuck,” Tsukishima says at the same time Kageyama snaps his head in Hinata’s direction to tell him, “No, they’re not.”

Hinata’s scowl deepens, a prickle at the back of his neck telling him to go against anything Kageyama believes in out of sheer principle. “Yes, they are.”

“No,” Kageyama stomps over to him, completely ignoring the baking pans Daichi asked him to clean. He makes sure to stand up straighter and lord that extra head of height over him. “They are not. Shut up.”

"Are too," Hinata taunts. "I heard them saying your name over and over again, too! Suga-san said something about putting his foot down. You did something, didn't you?"

Kageyama's eyes flicker briefly down at his shirt, before rising to glare at Hinata again. "Shut up! Did not!

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

Tsukishima can’t believe what he’s seeing nor hearing. “You guys,” he tries to keep his voice level. “You guys seriously don’t call Daichi-san and Suga-san… Mom and Dad… right?” he laughs, an airy thing. “Right?”

They can’t even hear him, good lord. They’re in another one of those intensely and homoerotically charged eye contact competitions that not even Daichi can penetrate no matter how hard he tries. He gives it another few minutes before one of them—inevitably Hinata who has to strain his head just to even keep going—blinks because he needs to and cries out unjust treatment of the marginalized. 

Stop trying to make short people oppression a thing, Yamaguchi snaps at him when he's caught in the crossfire. It’s never going to be a thing.

Kageyama always walks away smirking in satisfaction, maybe even a little amusement. 

Tsukishima is sick of their back and forth and feels himself one more unwilling third wheel event before he locks them in a room and forces them to play 7 Minutes in Heaven or no volleyball forever again. And yes, he does mean forever: Daichi will simply have to find another setter and decoy.

“You guys are so fucking weird,” he mumbles instead, walking away to grab another stack of fliers to distribute around the block. Before he leaves he thinks he can hear Kuroo calling out for him, but when has Tsukki ever listened to his seniors? 

-

The first half hour into the bake sale, they are a well-oiled machine. 

Asahi, man of few words but will get triggered by potentially anything and everything, is highly encouraged—in Kuroo's words, with an underbite that absolutely threatened more than encouraged—to have the least amount of human interaction. Hence his current one-sided conversation with the wall as he diligently tied ribbons into cupcake boxes. Noya and Yaku, on the completely other end of the spectrum, the fastest of both teams and able to weasel their way into everything undetected much like subway rats: into the makeshift tables they go, cleaning up every drop of icing that so much as threatens to fall, and gone by the next second like wind. 

The merry band of freshmen six footers—Kageyama, Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, Lev, Inuoka—are designated waiters. If they're good for anything, which they are not, then let them be at least good looking coat hangers. 

Hinata and Suga man the cashiers, Kenma making a digital receipt of every order as they go so they can track their progress easily. Kuroo and Daichi are the welcome committee, ushering customers into seats and able to spontaneously go into a passionate elevator pitch about the highs and lows of highschool volleyball on the spot that has all the mothers ordering at least another box of cupcakes to take home.   

The rest of the team are slotted into respective roles that they attack with the same kind of devotion as they do in volleyball. Passionate, earnest, and all relishing in the integrity of a job well done. Karasuno and Nekoma, really and truly, at their core; work surprisingly well together. Maybe the best out of most teams in Miyagi and Tokyo.

And so all goes well for the first thirty minutes since the doors to the gym open and business is so far good. All goes well and everyone gets along and no cupcake is burnt and no first year is wreaking havoc unprompted.

All that is, until, well:

"Oh my god," one of the customers gush, pointing to Kageyama. "Isn't that Kageyama Tobio? Oikawa-san's kouhai?"

Kageyama stiffens, almost drops a plate full of piping hot egg tarts straight into Kai's lap. "I-I—"

Suga already clocked the customer from a mile away and was already heading over their way.

But Kuroo, longer limbs, gets there faster.

"Why, yes," he grins at them, pleased, beckoning Kageyama over. "That is, in fact, Kageyama Tobio in the flesh. Genius setter in the up and up."

Daichi squeezes the bottle of water he was holding onto, making murder eyes at Kuroo from across the room. Kuroo meets it with a glint of his own that could only say: Since you're not willing to pimp your freshmen out, let me. 

The girls gush at the confirmation. More people notice. Some of them take out their phones and start rapidly typing.

"Oh my gosh!" one of them shout. "I knew it! I recognized him from Oikawa-san's fan page!"

"Right, right?" her friend nods along enthusiastically. 

“Say,” one of them stands up, bravely coming just an inch closer into Kageyama’s space, peering up at him expectantly. “Are you guys also offering the boyfriend rental service?”

Kageyama looks like he’s being led to his own funeral. Kuroo only looks to be too happy to play judge, jury, and executioner. 

Until someone coughs to catch their attention. 

"Sorry," Hinata says, without a hint of remorse at all. "But he already has a boyfriend."

The room is blanketed in silence.

“What the fuck,” is all Kageyama is able to say, beet red in the face as realization sets in. 

“Thank fuck,” is all Tsukishima is only too happy to say, shoulders sagging in timely relief. “Now will you two just bone already?”

-

"All this could have been prevented," Daichi says amusedly as they put away chairs and tables. "If you had just sold yourself first instead of sacrificing my freshmen."

Kuroo glances his way apologetically. "I’m sorry,” he says. “I really am. If I’d known Kageyama and Hinata were—”

“Please,” Daichi raises a hand, stopping him. “Even Kageyama didn’t know. I bet he still doesn’t. They’re both oblivious fools, just Hinata less so.”

“Still,” Kuroo insists.

“Still,” Daichi agrees.

Then they both break off with a good-natured laugh, shaking their heads in amusement at the whirlwind of a day. Kuroo is just about to stack another chair when he says, “You know maybe I should have agreed to Lev’s suggestion earlier. The picture thing. But—ah.”

"But what?" Daichi gestures for him to keep going.

The tips of Kuroo's ears turn a shade of pink, and he can't quite meet his eyes. Outstanding conversationalist and top salesman in the making, Kuroo. This douses Daichi into full attention faster than a block of ice.

"Oh my god," Daichi snaps up straight, abandoning the chair. "What. What did you do."

"It's not me!" Kuroo has his hands out in surrender. "I just—" he starts, tries, fails. Daichi is itching to get his phone out to document this for future blackmail purposes. "...I just… have someone who'll be, um, n-not…—happy, I guess. If I look available."

Pretentious use of words, curses Daichi internally. But thank God he actually had comprehension skills.

"Dude," Daichi says, now just annoyed at Kuroo tiptoeing around him. Like he felt the need to. "So you're with someone too. Why not just say that in the first place?"

Kuroo shrugs, unsure. "We're still taking it slow?"

Daichi considers him for a moment, considering all he's observed today. "Weird," he notes. "That's not what Kenma looked like to me."

Kuroo's head snaps in his direction. "What the fuck," he says, breathless. "You knew?!"

"My brother in Christ," Daichi comes up to pat his shoulder, wincing a little. "We all knew from the beginning, you absolute baffoon of a pining idiot. If it makes you feel any better, Kenma is only slighter better at you than hiding it. You two make all of us sick."

Kuroo is barely processing his words, blinking rapidly at Daichi's slightly amused but mostly fond expression as he registers the genuineness that bleeds through. But alas, God didn't make Kuroo this fine of a specimen without sprinkling in some sinful traits every once in a while. Cats live nine lives, after all, he was good as immune.

"Oh yeah?" Kuroo combats, standing up straighter to look Daichi dead in the eye. "Like you and Sugawara are any better."

It takes less than a second for all of Daichi's face to heat up. And Kuroo, able to rise to his full height and forcibly hold Daichi's simmering head a good arm's length away from him, looks on at the rest of Karasuno and Nekoma walking and laughing and chatting idly about the gym as they pack up, the sun just shy of setting and Kenma smiling at him slightly from across the room: decides then that yeah, this life isn't so bad after all.

[demodraws0606]

Not gonna lie as someone who has kinda changed their opinion on culprit!Eden as I think she's the most likely to have commited atp from the fact that she could've gotten hold of two pieces of evidence (ball of clothes + tape).

There are a lot of arguments that I think about people who don't want Eden to die now, and honestly the only good argument i've found was "killing her would upset the balance of the cast".

Killing Eden would definitely lead to the main source of sunshine on the cast being murdered, however a slight counterargument to that would be that we don't know how Eden's death would change other contestants. The biggest exemple would be Levi, as I can see him trying to take on a role of support if Eden if she ever passed away (he clearly seems to want to be helpful to the cast).

I also think people overexagerrate the amount of characters that are actively antagonistic as most of chapter 2's goal was to show (most of) everyone's darker side. Character like Hu, Nico, Charles, J, Levi and Rose I feel like could be helpful in the future. I don't think we necessarely need Eden to have companionship or light in the cast.

It would definitely damper the mood 100 pourcent but depending on how her death would be executed, I feel like it would definitely leave an impact on the cast that would influence how they act.

Another argument that I find credible against culprit!Eden would be how it would cause regression in Teruko's character.

However I think that depends on how Eden's death is handled and how Teruko just handles it in general. The reason why Teruko snapped the way she did in trial 1 was because of a culmination of multiple things.

In fact maybe Teruko could find that if she trusted Eden or stayed at her side, maybe Eden wouldn't have gone to the road of killing Arei (but were talking about possibilities of a possibility here). If Eden did end up killing someone, it would be because she ended up being isolated.

One argument though I see often but I find is completely wrong though is "It would be like cutting Eden's arc short, every other character would be better for their arc"

That I heavily disagree with because I'd argue Eden kinda is the character with the least amount of developping to do.

She already has a (mostly) good mindset in terms of her positive thinking. In fact she's almost the paragon in the cast, the one with the most morals which makes her the least likely to really need positive developpement. It also wouldn't be fitting for her to have a regression arc afterwards.

The main two flaws Eden has, is her guilt and her not really accepting of her own "weakness" (negative emotions and all that). Both of which would be addressed by her being the culprit.

In comparison, killing another character would definitely cut their arc short.

Whit, he's the one we've seen the less of the uglier side of, we don't know why he acts the way he does and we don't know what is behind his jokester persona. His relationship to his mother and his past would also be left unadressed. We also don't know what his special intuition means despite it being highlighted constantly. Overall, I feel like despite Whit being my 2nd pick for the culprit, he'd definitely be lost potential.

I could do this with almost every character, like Nico with their relationship to Hu (who also really needs her own developpement) and how they deal with almost killing Ace.

J and her relationship with Arturo, as well as her own heavy belief against murder as another exemple just there is a lot

The thing is Eden seems to have been written as Teruko's companion, the one that would allow Teruko to be softer and open up to people. She does give big protagonist compainion vibes, however it could just as well be easily have been something to subvert our expectations

[delopsia]

Dancing Beneath The Moon | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 10,000  Cross Posted on AO3 Brief Summary: How is it that your heart only longs for the ghost of a cowboy? And why do you get the feeling that his heart utters the same for you? Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, Ghost!Rhett AU (with a twist! I won't tell you what kind but it's a twist!), friends to lovers, Trevor does not take rejection very well (please be advised that he does yell at the reader and scare them), unprotected sex, mentions of violence, and Rhett's 'murder.' Please refer to the user manual and wash your cowboy before sex.  

"I-I'm sorry, I need to leave."

"Trevor, wait!" Your feet patter across the floor, struggling to keep up as he lets himself out the door, "I can explain."

Only on the front porch does he stop, ostrich-skin boots clicking against the old wood with every step, "You don't need to," holding up one hand, as if to ward you off, "I just...forgot my Dad asked me to interview our new ranch hand today."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, gaping like a damn goldfish.

"I'll call you later," and that's all Trevor leaves you with, skittering off the porch and clambering up into that lifted F-150, with its perfect, custom black paint that glimmers a deep blue as he tears down your driveway.

Ugh.

"Rhett!" Your voice echoes throughout the house, punctuated by the slamming of the door behind you. So loud, and yet you can still hear the vicious banging of your beloved cast iron skillet banging on your kitchen tile. A shrill clatter of noise that has you fighting the urge to cover your ears as you storm into the kitchen.

And there he is. The translucent motherfucker, sitting cross-legged beneath your table, peeking out from beneath it. "What?" A big, shit-eating grin lacing his barely there features, so innocent and childlike that you almost don't believe he was the cause of this mayhem.

Almost.

The skillet in his hand provides a pretty damning counterargument.

"I'd kill you if you weren't already dead," fuming, yanking that dented skillet out of his hand; Rhett's grip is strong, but not enough to stop you from taking your cookware back.

"I was playin' with that," he huffs, a cold wind that tickles your ankles.

The skillet lands in the sink with a clatter. "And I was trying to have a date," you hiss, throwing your hands up, "but I'm unfortunate enough to share a house with a ghost who doesn't have any fucking manners!"

"I have manners!" Rhett's up in the air now, a buzzing collection of mist that floats up to the ceiling, no longer human, "I just ain't got 'em for big shots that wanna play cowboy for a day!"

"He is a cowboy," he's not. You know he's not. But god, you are not giving Rhett fucking Abbott the satisfaction of you agreeing with him. "You wouldn't know, being ancient and all that."

The temperature drops. Mist scattering. You can't tell where he is anymore. "I would know 'cause I am a fuckin' cowboy!" His disembodied, roaring voice comes from all directions. "No good-minded cowboy wears a goddamn rolex on a work day, 'cause they know that shits fixin' t'get scuffed!"

"Cowboy or not, you're going to have to get over it," as you reach for the tap, you think you can feel his presence behind you. Some invisible thing that sends your skin prickling, even with the knowledge of how harmless he truly is. "Trevor's coming back, and if you keep scaring him off, I'm phoning a priest."

"Fine!" Booming behind you.

"Fine!"

He's gone for the rest of the night.

The pizza guy scares the hell out of you when he knocks on the door. Not because you had forgotten about your order but because you were waiting on the curtains to peel themselves open. Expecting to hear a deep, half-hearted grumble about how "your date is here" as the fella clambers out of his beat-up sedan.

But it never comes.

Rhett doesn't even bug you about giving him a slice that he knows he can't eat, but you catch yourself putting a plate out for him. You wonder if he's in the room to see you rushing to put it back in the cupboard. Maybe he's out in the field because the television doesn't miraculously change to the Animal Channel like it usually does. You don't catch a glimpse of him lingering in the mirror whilst you brush your teeth.

You're glad.

You didn't want to see his ugly mug anyway.

Strange how such a big presence can vanish so easily, without a trace or hint of where he went, leaving this big farmhouse feeling like a husk of what it usually does. The temperature drops a degree or two when he's around, but without him, it feels like you've set up camp in the Arctic. How can a dead man bring so much life to a place?

But the covers are tucked around you in the morning.

You can't see him, but when you step into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and yawning, you can feel him wisping around you. That invisible presence seeking for anything to get back on your good side.

The toast lifts itself onto a plate before it can be burnt by that old, barely functioning toaster of yours. On the table, the weekly grocery ad flips open to a discount on new toasters, a lazily written note scrawled beneath it. 'They even have the color you were wanting! :)'

He pulls the chair out for you to sit, and when you defiantly head out onto the porch to eat, he pulls the patio chair out for you too. You hate giving him the satisfaction of helping, but it's hard to avoid him when he's free to roam this entire property.

But the one thing you've forgotten is just how hot Wabang can get, even this early in the morning. Birds tiredly chirp from their nests, unwilling to take flight beneath the sweltering sun; the old wind chime is silent, not even the slightest breeze appearing to help it sing its tune. You've been outside for a mere five minutes, and yet sweat already beads on your forehead.

A cold nothingness wisps past you. Round and round your little patio table, stirring up a breeze that doesn't reach the trees.

"You can come out, Rhett," fighting your laugh is futile because it slips out as you speak, dancing through the air in tune with the wind chime.

The opposite chair scoots out on its own, a pale blue mist collecting in the seat; it'll take him a moment to get settled back into form. "Did ya happen to find my headstone yesterday?"

Your head is shaking before he can get his sentence out. "Are you sure you were buried in Wabang?"

"I don't know where else I'd be," Rhett's face isn't fully there yet, but his scowl is, settled deep into his nonexistent features. "Wabang was the only place my folks ever knew."

Your heavy tongue can't be brought to tell him about the graves you did find. Royal and Cecelia buried together, their son Perry right next to them, and their granddaughter Amy buried in the row in front of them, next to a headstone simply titled 'Autumn.'

Rhett should know. He deserves to know where his family rests, but you can't bring yourself to tell Rhett that his killer was given the privilege of being buried next to his parents. Don't know how to tell him that the Amelia County Sherrif dug up an old newspaper declaring Perry Abbott as not guilty of Rhett's murder.

"C'n I bug you to put a cup of coffee out?" Rhett chirps, and that permanently scruffy face almost looks real. His eyes must have been as blue as the ocean deep when he was alive, for even now, they glow with their color. The only thing off about him is his slight transparency and the rays of sunlight that spear through his body.

"You didn't smell it enough this morning?" You ask, but you're getting up anyway; you'd rather not deny his request and risk him making a mess by trying to do it himself.

His boots click across the old wood, in perfect tune with your step, "wasn't here."

"Where did you go?" You're already grabbing his mug out of the cupboard, other hand reaching for the coffee pot.

He's quiet for a moment, and then, "barn." When you turn around, he's no longer there, a plume of mist once more, but you don't need to see him to know that his eyes are transfixed on the ground. "Didn't think y'wanted me in the house after last night."

Most people would love it if their ghosts would leave the residence; let them live in peace without being heckled by the souls who can't move on. You'd know; you were one of them, once upon a time.

"You don't have to leave every time we bicker, Rhett," it feels strange to say, but those words are spoken directly from the heart, "this is your house too."

He manifests again. Back to his favorite spot beneath the edge of the kitchen table, cross-legged, where he can peek out to see what you're doing. A little too big to fit, but he makes it work.

Like clockwork, his right-hand toys with the cracked edge of a linoleum tile, the one he's pulled up numerous times in the past.

"Please don't tear up my tile," you try to say it as gently as you can; you know why he's so drawn to it, but you really don't want to spend an afternoon fixing your beloved floor again. Wordless, he leaves his spot, content to settle down in a kitchen chair and smell his coffee. The closest he can get to enjoying its flavor.

You wind up back in bed early in the afternoon. Downed by a migraine that refuses to pass, settling deep into your skull, brought on by an unknown cause. You think it may be from the obnoxiously strong air freshener you plugged in; Rhett blames it on your cellphone.

"Care for some company?"

You're fortunate that Rhett Abbott is easy on the eyes because it's difficult to open them. There he is, standing near the edge of the bed, in the same spot you met him three years ago.

At least this time, the two of you aren't screaming, startled by each other's sudden presence.

"As long as you don't hog the sheets," comes your conclusion, and the bed is dipping as soon as the last word has left your mouth. A weight that isn't there settles across from you, a human-shaped indent that by all means shouldn't exist.

Rhett's hair falls into his face as his pretty head lands on the pillow, snuggling against it, and you know he's trying his best to remain as solid as he can. He says he's not touch-starved, but you're starting to think that he's lying.

Your hand wanders out on its own, carefully settling against that misty cheek, trying not to go through him. "You look a little more solid than usual."

"Only took a couple years of practice," the corner of his lip rises with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Oh, why does he have to look so sad when your hand inevitably passes through him?

You don't know if ghosts can cry, but his eyes seem to water as he feels your touch falter. They always do, but it never gets any easier to look at. It never gets easier, watching his smile wobble back into a frown, and his form grow a little more opaque.

Opening your arms to him probably isn't the best move to make. You've both discussed this; roommates is as far as this relationship can ever go because anything more asks for nothing but heartache. Heartache, such as the crushing feeling of feeling him squirm closer and not being able to feel him when you wrap your arms around his waist.

The only sign that he's real is the coldness you feel against your chest as his head settles against there. And, maybe, just maybe, you think you can feel wisps of his hair tickling your skin.

"What the hell is that?"

You haven't even taken it out of the box, and Rhett is already puffing up like a feral cat about it. "What does it look like, Rhett?"

The living room light flickers, his blue mist settling into the corner of the couch, as far as he can get from the box sitting on the floor. Refuses to take any more form than he already has, doesn't know how to react to this new thing that now sits in the same room as him.

"I don't have a clue," he says after a moment.

"It's a video game console," you want to take it out of the box and prove that it's not going to hurt him, but you don't want him getting any more surprised than he already is.

Against all odds, it seems you've got his attention because you can see his face now, head cocked to the side like a puppy. "A huh?"

"It connects to the television," nodding your head toward the flat screen next to you, "you can use it to play games on it."

He perks at that. "You can play checkers on the TV?"

Checkers wasn't what you had in mind, but you're sure it's on there.

There's a lot of fumbling involved. All the various cords and manuals only serve to confuse him more than he already is, and though he tries his best to help, he's not much assistance. There are less than five cords for the system, and he thinks they're all HDMI cables. But he's helpful when it comes to squeezing behind the television, at least.

"So that box...puts the game on the screen?" He asks as soon as you've settled onto the couch together, scooted as close as he can possibly get. "And you use that thing to play?"

For a cowboy who grew up in the days of black-and-white television, he catches on quickly. "For the most part, yes."

You'd won this thing in a raffle held down at the Bison Valley Bank of Wyoming, entered just for the hell out of it while you were down there a couple of months ago. How you won a new gaming console and why it came with a second controller, hot pink in color, you'll never know.

Rhett's simply poking at the joystick, unwilling to pick it up just yet, but you know he'll take to it like he did your television. Later, you'll wish you hadn't, but for now, you'll download one of his favorite board games.

"Monopoly?" He's fighting it, but there's still a twinge of excitement in his tone.

Now he's picking it up.

And within the hour, you regret even bringing the damn console into the house because you lose. Horribly. As soon as Rhett figured out the controls and the slight change in rules, you knew you didn't stand a chance. You can't even be upset about your crippling loss because he's kicking his legs back and forth and giggling.

"One more round?" He pleads, those opaque eyes sparkling with their childlike wonder, and you know he's never going to let this controller go.

"Let me get a drink, and then we'll play another," are you only agreeing because you enjoy the melody of laughter coming from your household ghost?

Absolutely not.

...okay, maybeyou are, but still.

At least he can't see your smile as you head for the kitchen, socked feet pattering across the cold hardwood without much of a sound. Already formulating a plan in your head, the next surprise move that might help you beat Rhett at one of his favorite games. If you can buy all four railroads before Rhett does...

The floor bends beneath your foot. Something crackles.

"Rhett, can you come here for a second?" Frozen in place, afraid to make another move. The lights are off; you can't see what's going on, but something feels wrong.

His presence is there before you can think any further, a chill ghosting over your body as he breezes around you. Circling like he's making an attempt at thwarting your fears before he flicks the light switch on.

And now you see it.

The kitchen floor is beginning to cave in, bowing inwards, right where your kitchen table sits. Beneath your foot, the tile has begun to crack, breaking into smaller pieces that cannot withstand any amount of weight on top of it.

"That floor's fixin' to collapse, doll," comes his voice, seemingly from all directions.

You're moving to step off of it and venture back out into the presumably safe hallway. But the floor crackles even louder. Tiles buckling beneath both of your feet. Sinking lower.

"I don't think I can," your body sways, fighting to remain upright.

Rhett's silently wrapping around you, formless blue mist shaping around you like a hug, tugging you away with a surprising amount of force. Practically takes your feet out from under you as he hauls you out of the kitchen.

"You're stronger than you look," you mutter in the hallway. Where the floor is solid and doesn't threaten to come out from under you.

"Only when I'm wantin' to be," he mutters directly into your ear, and you're suddenly glad that you've never asked how strong he is, as a ghost and all, "Now what kind of drink were you after?"

Rhett's your kitchen boy for the next three days until you can get someone to come and take a look at your floor. Balancing drinks and plastic cups that occasionally end in a tragic spill because he's not as good at balancing small objects. The first person never shows up; the second arrives bright and early in the morning, interrupting your morning conversation with Rhett on the porch.

"Now, like I said before, I don't have my equipment on me, so I can't guarantee you that this is the case," the guy begins, and you really, really hope he doesn't look up and see Rhett's dumbass sitting on the counter, "but my biggest guess is that your foundation has been exposed to too much moisture for too long."

"What's the worst-case scenario for this?" Your attention flickers between him and Rhett; what if it's something that you can't afford to fix?

He pauses to press his foot against the floor one more time, carefully surveying the way it shakes beneath the weight, tile crackling once more, "now it's highly unlikely, but worst case scenario, in my opinion, would be a sinkhole."

Your face drops.

"But that's highly unlikely," and he doesn't seem too concerned as he turns to face you, "I wouldn't worry until we get back out here and tear up the floor this coming Monday."

So Monday it is. That will be the day you find out if it's a simple fix or if you'll have no choice but to move out and leave your beloved house ghost all by his lonesome. Rhett seems to catch onto that thought, too. Remarkably quiet for the rest of the afternoon.

You can't blame him. For about forty-five years, this house was occupied by a family of religious folk who used some sort of herb to quite literally render Rhett into a state of unconsciousness. One too many surprise appearances in the mirror doomed him to sleep for all those years, only -reawakening after you moved in and scrubbed this old farmhouse from top to bottom.

He's never known what it's like to be alone. The closest he's come to it is the sporadic vacations you've taken over the past couple of years. None of which have lasted longer than a week, but all of which have ended in him waiting on the porch, tackling you the moment you stepped out of your car.

Unless he can attach himself to you, he'll never be able to wander further than the fields that surround your home.

Rhett doesn't take form again until Sunday night.

You don't know why you've drug these two lawn chairs out into the lawn, past the gravel that eats up the area around the house, but you have. Lounging, gazing up at the moon and stars hanging high above your heads, pointing out all the shapes you find amongst them.

The portable radio drones lowly in between you, stuck on the same old country station, ever since Rhett and his ghostly ways accidentally jammed it last summer.

"Do you wanna dance with me?"

And you don't know if...did you make that up in your head? Or was that just the radio?

"You know I'm not drunk this time, right?" Your head tilts, aiming to get a glimpse of him. He's already looking at you, smiles weakly as you meet his eye. Laying here, cloaked in the silvery light of the moon, he looks...real. If you reached out, you're sure you'd feel the scruff of his cheek scratch at your palm.

He hums, "I know." Pausing, just for a moment, to look up at the stars one more time. Your eyes follow, scanning the speckled sky, delighted to catch the tail end of a shooting star. You should make a wish...but you can't think of anything to wish for. "I just...wanted t' know what kinda dancer you are when you're sober."

"Alright," comes your answer; dry, nothing more to add to it.

And you don't know where it comes from, but Rhett reaches off to the side of his chair and plucks a translucent cowboy hat off the ground. Takes care to dust it off with his scarred palm, even though nothing can possibly dirty it, before carefully placing it atop his head.

He holds his hand out for you to take as if it's something that's become possible all of a sudden, and against better judgment, you do just that. Slipping your palm into the chilly illusion of his, deceiving yourself into believing that you feel his fingers curling around your hand. It's not, but as he leads you out further into the grass, it becomes easy to deceive yourself.

"Whoever taught you to dance, anyway?" You giggle as he spins you around; catches you by the waist when you come to face him once more.

He grins, big and wide, and you think you see his teeth glint in the moonlight. "You give amazin' lessons when you're drunk."

Oh, how easy it is.

Dancing beneath the moon, in nothing but your pajamas, held close by the ghost of a cowboy whose soul fits against your own like a puzzle piece. He doesn't know what he's doing, and if he were human, you're sure he'd be stepping on your feet, but he moves in such wonderous tune with your body that it feels like a daydream. His cold forehead rests against yours, ocean eyes peering deep into the deepest crevices of who you are.

You're drifting away from the grass and into the driveway, feet kicking up loose gravel with each and every step. Sweeping past your car, your shoulder narrowly avoids the passenger side mirror. You should be looking where you're going, you're going to drift too close to the porch and fall, but Rhett's gaze is so captivating that you can't bring yourself to look away.

How is it that your heart only longs for the ghost of a cowboy?

And why do you get the feeling that his heart utters the same for you?

"You're thinkin' awful hard," the hand that curls around your cheek feels so real, the vague callous of a thumb stroking beneath the corner of your eye.

"Just figuring out how I'm going to pack you up and take you with me," your words are a poorly collected lie; you both know it, but he doesn't call you out on it.

Oh, and he's pushing your noses together with all the boldness of a man who knows what he wants. Your fingers are trying to tangle in his hair, and it's of no use, but you do it anyway, uncaring of how your hands sink through that collection of mist.

"Take me with you, hm?" He's slowing to a stop, the arm around your waist drawing you closer to him. "What happens when y' find someone to settle down with? Y'gonna turn me into the ring bearer at the weddin'?"

"Fortunately," your gaze flickers down his face, and you're so, so sure he's real, "I've already found that someone."

Rhett has no need for oxygen, and yet he sucks in a breath of air anyway, a little reflex remaining even after all this time.

One of you should shut this down right here before it goes too far. But your arms are wrapping around those broad shoulders, precariously balanced upon the thick collection of mist that makes up Rhett Abbott's ghost. The hand on your cheek is dropping to cup your jaw, and the world spins even faster as both of you lean in. His cold breath fans out against your lips, your eyes meet one more time, and...

Kissing him is the only thing you have ever needed.

A heart-stopping boom tears through the silence. Glass shattering in hot pursuit. As your eyes flutter open, the kitchen light goes out.

"What was that?" Your feet are already moving, Rhett's form dissolving into a thin mist, following at your side.

"I don't know," his distant voice rings, "please be careful."

You can hardly heed his warning. Sweeping past the front door, not bothering to take your shoes off, as you head for the kitchen. It's too dark to see, forcing you to fumble for the dining room light that you never use. Your hands graze over the switch, flipping it on, and, and—

The kitchen floor is nearly gone.

Replaced by a deep, cavernous hole that seems to reach deep into the earth. Consumes over half of the floor where your table once sat, reaching from your cabinets to your teetering refrigerator, on the verge of falling in.

"I don't suppose you have any ideas on how to get your spirit to attach to a living person, do you?" You hope Rhett can't pick up on the shake in your tone; there's no way insurance will cover a damn sinkhole.

But your question is met with silence.

"Rhett?" You're turning, and...he's not there. The air is unusually warm, not a speck of mist to be found. "Rhett?" Trying again, louder this time, as you head for the door, because maybe he's outside, maybe he's...

He's not there either. Maybe he's upstairs. Yeah, when he panics, he usually hides out in his old bedroom. He's just upstairs.

The door slams shut.

A second crash follows suit; you don't want to know if that was your refrigerator or if the sinkhole expanded even further.

"Rhett, this isn't funny," shaking the door knob. Locked from the inside. "Rhett, open the door!"

He doesn't.

The windows are all locked down tight. Even the one you intentionally leave unlocked. You find your car keys sitting atop the roof of your car, the paint scratched from where they've been thrown from a distance.

Rhett's chilly presence doesn't visit you when you sleep in the car that night.

He's not there to spook the contractor when he and his crew arrive early in the morning. You don't find him sitting on the couch when they kick the door down, and he's not on your bed when you sneak up the stairs, even after you're warned against going to the second floor. He isn't even there when countless faces enter your home to check out just what is going on in your kitchen.

"I've never seen this before," one of them tells you, her brows furrowed as she looks at her clipboard once more, "but it's not a sinkhole at all."

You don't know if you heard her correctly. "It's not?"

"It's a fifteen-foot hole that must have been dug by a past owner," she pauses to flip through her phone, presenting you with a photo of...just a dirt hole. Nothing special about it in the slightest. "They never refilled it, either; it was only a matter of time before the foundation collapsed into it."

Your mind flickers to your seemingly non-existent ghost. Rhett's never told a lot about his murder, but you know for sure that it happened in the kitchen. "Did you find anything down there?"

That seems to give her pause, ink pen tapping idly against her lips as she rechecks her pages and pages of notes. "Aside from your refrigerator and debris from the collapse...," flicking through another page, "it was completely empty! Nothing to worry about."

Well, at least now you know Rhett's not buried beneath the kitchen floor.

Even worse, his spirit no longer lurks within the paper-thin walls of this century-old farmhouse. You call for him in the fields, disturbing the cattle your neighbor keeps, and you beg for him to be there when you crawl out of bed in the morning. But the house remains warm; the only mist you find is in the fog that settles over your home after it rains, and he doesn't come out to mess with the teen boys employed to carry in bags of dirt, to fill the hole with.

Doesn't even appear when Trevor's F-150, with its irritating color-shifting paint, pulls into the driveway one evening.

"And so there was just a hole under your floor this whole time?" He's sitting in Rhett's favorite spot, cheap beer balanced carelessly between his legs. Has already spilled it once, leaving a stain on your cushion, and you'd tell him off if you weren't hoping it would infuriate Rhett into showing his face.

"The going theory is that one of the past owners dug it," glancing toward the mirror as you speak; still no ghost.

"I bet you more than anything that it's related to that Abbott murder," Trevor says, picking his drink up once more.

Your heart lurches in your chest. "Murder?"

"Did the realtor not tell ya?" Why is he scratching his cheek with the edge of his beer can? "That uh...what's his name? Perry, that's right, got into it with his brother and beat 'em to death in the kitchen."

"They told me someone died, but they never really elaborated," you mutter as he scoots a little closer. "Do you know what the argument was about?"

Trevor's heavy arm slings over your shoulder, drawing you near, musky cologne rudely meeting your nose. This is the same man you've been pursuing for months, so why is it that all of a sudden, your stomach churns at his touch? "Think it was...mmm, I think it was over some broad that went missing a couple of months before. Perry's wife, fiance, or something like that."

The alcohol on his breath has your senses reeling, overwhelmed with a sudden onset of nausea. Rhett didn't have much of a scent, but the little he carried was nothing but leather and honeyed sweetness. Your memory of his touch is brief, can count on one hand the amount of times he wrapped an arm around you, but he never dragged you into his chest like Trevor does.

"I'm sorry," speaking gently, you slide out from under his arm, rising to your feet, "I can't do this."

Trevor's face falls; you already regret speaking up, "what do you mean?"

"I'm sorry, I thought I could, but I just..." shaking your head, eyes landing on the hot pink controller that Rhett once played with, "I can't."

"The fuck do you mean you can't?" He's shooting up from his seat, beer can hitting the floor, the golden liquid splashing across the hardwood.

Your mouth is opening, but you don't get a chance to speak.

"You sure could when you were begging me to stay in this freaky ass house of yours last week!" Roaring, face twinging with red as he tries to close the space between you. Your heart is pounding in your ears. Loud bangings that rattle you so hard the house seems to shake with it. "You put me through all this just to tell me no?"

"I didn't put you through a damn thing!" Your voice echoes through the house, tone fierce, yet your feet timidly take one step back for each one Trevor takes forward. The floor seems to tremble beneath you. An earthquake that only you can feel.

Trevor's quiet at that.

You'd rather if he just yelled.

Because now he's got you creeping backward, and there's only so much space you can back up into. Your voice is caught in your throat. Stifled by something invisible. Mouth opening, but nothing comes out. The light in the kitchen goes out. Glitters of gold flitter past your head like tiny sugar plum fairies.

All of a sudden, Trevor lurches toward you.

Your head smacks against the wall. Jumping away from him.

"You think that little of me," he laughs, incredulous, "you think that fucking little of me?"

"Trevor." Your voice bursts past your lips. Shaky. But there. "Stop."

"Or what, huh?" Spit hits your face. His hand slams next to your head. Breaking through the drywall. "You owe me! I didn't spend all this goddamn time just for you to up and change your little fucking mind!"

"They asked you to stop." That's not your voice.

And it's not Trevor's, either.

Heavy boots thump across the floor. Spurs jingling with every step. Next to your head, a dirt-covered hand takes hold of Trevor's wrist. Muscles flex as it tears Trevor's fist out of the wall. Shoves it into his chest.

Trevor's reddened face has gone stark white. Trips over his own boots as a hulking, dirt-coated figure steps in front of you. Broad shoulders, covered by a vaguely patterned flannel; plaid, it looks like. Dark brown curls rest at his nape, unruly hair flowing freely. Suspiciously similar to...

"Who the fuck is this?" Trevor's still backing up, and this vaguely familiar man eats up every inch of space that's put between them.

"The house ghost." And that's...that's...

Trevor runs for the door before you can finish your thought. Slams it shut behind himself, like it'll keep him from being followed. Truck already rumbling to life. Downright roaring as the vehicle tears out of the driveway, sending gravel clanking against your windows.

But that's not what you're paying attention to.

Truly, you should be concerned about your windows being broken. But all you can do is look towards your kitchen because the light flickers back on. Gives you a momentary glance at a bottomless hole that's returned once more. Leaving behind no trace of the dirt that once filled it. Thin wisps of gold dance through it like an aurora, seemingly alive as they move.

You blink, and it's halfway gone. The edges shrinking inward until the hole is no more. Leaving behind that same freshly packed dirt.

Leaving behind...

"Rhett?"

He jolts at the sound of his name. As if he's surprised you're even speaking to him. Has yet to speak; confirm it's really him, but you already know the answer to that. He turns. Slow. And you can't help but wonder if that really is dirt because it seems to be fading away.

Slow, your hand drifts out from your side, and when your fingers curl around his jaw, you don't know if it's you who sucks in a breath of air or him.

Scruffy. Unshaven face scratching at your soft palm, dirt sticking to your skin as your thumb soothes over a remaining patch stuck to his cheek. Warm. He's warm. And he's hesitantly pushing his head into your hand, and, and—

"Rhett." You say it once more. The only thing you know how to say.

Tears well in those eyes. They're as blue as you ever could have hoped they would be. So, so real, not a shred of translucence to their color. One spills over onto his cheek, rolling until it's caught and wiped away by your thumb.

His arms are moving, hesitant to wrap around you, and you know he's worried about getting dirt on you, but the only thing you care about is stepping into him. Wrapping your trembling arms around that big, warm body of his and feeling him squeeze you into his chest. Where his heart beats heavy, thunking against you with the strength of an ox.

"I don't know how..." he whispers, hot breath tickling your neck, where he's buried his face.

"You're still an ass for locking me out of my own house," you're trying to sound irritated, but it's difficult to feign annoyance when he squeezes you a little tighter.

"Didn't want you bein' sucked in like I was," it's so strange to hear his voice like this, no longer a disembodied sound, "I...it just...kept suckin' me in every time I got out."

You're leaning away, and God, you don't want to leave those strong, trembling arms, but you want to see that face of his even more. The wrinkles beneath his eyes, the wobble of thin, chapped lips as they rise into a meager smile.

The callouses of his fingers drag against the soft skin of your cheek as his big hand settles there. Not the misty, barely there touch you're used to, but just as gentle as it's always been. His nose bumps against yours. Don't know who's leaning in. You shouldn't. You shouldn't do this.

This time, you know for sure that it's you who closes the gap between your bodies. It's you who catches this cowboy's lips in your own, reveling in that surprised gasp of his.

If you thought that kissing his ghost was heaven, then this is something else entirely.

Molding together like you were made just for this, his hand on your cheek and yours delving into his messy hair. Feeling the strength of the arm that curls around your waist and breathing in those faint notes of leather and honey and something warm that you can't quite place.

He pauses for a moment, breaks into a big, dumb smile as you meet his eye once more. And then he leans in to kiss you once more, hands cradling your cheeks, like you're a delicate flower whose petals will fall if he doesn't hold you together. His body shudders with something torn between a giggle and a sob, tears rolling down his cheeks, but he's smiling so much that your teeth clack together.

Your name tumbles off of his lips. Then again and again, like he's trying to memorize the feel of it in his mouth. The way it rolls off his tongue and twists through the air, the sound seeming to kiss your ears when it meets them.

"Rhett," mirroring him, and oh, how he perks at that. Has he always reacted so beautifully to you calling his name?

"Say it again," his nose bumps against yours as he speaks, "Please. Wanna hear you say it again." So eager to hear you that he looks two steps away from a puppy, the tears in his eyes shimmering with wonder as you open your mouth once more.

"Rhett," you whisper, like it's a secret shared on the playground, and then, again, "Rhett."

This time, when your back hits the wall, it's because a bright-eyed cowboy is carefully backing you into it, one hand protecting the back of your head as he dresses his body against yours. Smiling too much to kiss you, can't seem to get over the feeling of your skin against his, the overwhelming reality of whatever this is.

"We probably shouldn't be..." Higher thinking rushes back to your head in a whirlwind, thoughts running wild in the darkest crevices of your mind. What if's and why's and wonderings of how this happened, if it's permanent or temporary. "What if we cross that line, and you go back to being a ghost?"

You don't think you'll ever adjust to the sound of Rhett breathing or the way his eyelashes flutter as he thinks for a moment. He's licking his lips, mouth opening, and, "What if we don't cross that line and spend our whole lives regrettin' it?" 

One too many kisses may leave you longing for him for the rest of your life, but one too few may leave you carrying eternal heartache. And that's only if he goes back to being a ghost. But he feels real. When you press your palm to his chest, his warm hand covers it, guiding it to rest over his beating heart. Little thumpings that shouldn't be there, full of life and love and all just for you. 

He could have come back to life for anyone. But he came back for you. 

To hell with it. 

Your bodies collide like galaxies. Blinded by a frantic kiss that promises bruises to your lips. Flecks of gold fall from his body as your hands roam, tugging at a flannel, at his hair, at his hands. Legs tangling because you're moving too quickly, and he's still adjusting to walking rather than floating. 

Only break apart long enough to tumble up the stairs; Rhett almost trips over every one of them. Struggling to keep his confidence but boosted along by the kisses you pepper to his reddened cheeks and the gentle tuggings of your hand in his. 

Your back hits the bed with all the grace of a newborn fawn, Rhett tumbling right along with you, chuckling into the crook of your neck. Under the dim lighting of your bedroom lamp, it's easy to catch onto the deep bruising that scatters beneath his right eye. 

"These are from Perry, aren't they," it's more of an observation than a question, your fingers soothing over the marks as if they can somehow heal them.

Rhett's pressing a kiss to your wrist as it roams past, "Don' wanna think 'bout that son 'f a bitch right now."

You can work with that. 

Especially when your bodies squirm further up the bed, his hips settling between your legs, forearms bracing themselves on either side of your head, heaving chests against one another. His lips solid against your own, hungry, urged on by the nails that dig into his shoulders for leverage. 

"You'll tell me if I'm goin' too far?" He's speaking into your kiss, unwilling to remove himself any further. 

Maybe there's a second ghost in this house because something possesses you to roll your hips up into his. Such a faint pressure, the rough bulge in his jeans rubbing against your soft pajama shorts, but it's so much compared to what used to be. "I will," you're interrupted by his mouth once more, "but I'm sure you'll be the one asking me to stop before the end of the night." 

Your hand has a mind of its own, wandering down his chest, flattening out to feel the muscles that ripple along his stomach, hidden from view by his shirt. They flex under your touch, a simple thing that makes your head spin. By some method of madness, that shirt is still tightly tucked into his jeans, the material hard to get ahold of. 

Rhett shifts above you, unintentionally moving when you feel for some slack in his shirt, something to get ahold of, and your hand wildly overshoots. Palm splaying out against the front of his jeans instead. 

"'m not so sure 'bout that, sweetheart," he groans, a deep, guttural noise escaping him as he reaches down, catches your fleeting hand, and guides you to press against him once more.  "I ain't had a dick for the better half of a fuckin' century." 

These old jeans are thick, but even so, you can still feel him twitch against your touch. This wasn't what you were aiming for in the slightest, but watching him shiver as you massage over the outline of his bulge is a hell of a sight. 

"Sensitive," you're only lightly teasing; any more words and you'll be fumbling with his belt buckle.

"You're one to talk," he mutters, head dropping to press his lips to the meet of your jaw, teeth tugging the skin there. 

You think your eyes may pop out of your head. "I thought you promised to stay out of my bedroom when I didn't invite you in." 

"Wasn't in the bedroom, baby," he's chuckling, breath tickling your ear as he works his way towards it, "When you're a ghost, you hear everythin'." 

Then he's leaning back, leaves you feeling cold as he fumbles with his jeans, boots hitting the floor with two solid thunks. An involuntary whine works its way out of you, reaching aimlessly for him. 

"Don't wanna get y'all dirty, sweetheart," he soothes, catching your hand and pressing kisses to your knuckles. Pops open his belt buckle with a pinch of his fingers, and soon those dirty jeans are sliding off, revealing milky white thighs, mottled with bright spots of red and deep purples,  a badly bruised knee to match.

...as well as a pair of boxers patterned with bright red hearts. 

"Y'ain't gonna believe me," Rhett's staring down at them too, teeth worrying his bottom lip, "but I have no fuckin' memory of wearin' these." The tips of his ears have gone bright red. Another quirk hidden until now. 

"We'll get them off soon enough, I'm sure," you say, leaning up to let him peel your shirt over your head. 

As soon as it's out of sight, Rhett's lips return to your neck, one wandering hand soothing up your side, not stopping until it reaches your breast. Does nothing more than feel you in his hand, sucking at a soft spot beneath your ear that has you fighting the urge to close your eyes. 

Your hands wander, one wrapping around a surprisingly muscled bicep while the other delves between your bodies once more. Feeling down his sturdy chest, past his stomach, and not stopping until you can take hold of him through his boxers. 

"Fuck," his body jolts, "'re you sure 'm not dreamin'?"

"I thought ghosts didn't sleep?" You're parroting something you so clearly recall him mentioning in the past, can't place the memory yet. Don't really care to, either. The only thing on your mind is the way your fingers wander past his waistband, wrapping around his cock that jumps at your touch. 

He's thicker than you imagined he'd be. 

Moans prettier, too, for that matter. A little bit breathy and so Rhett. 

"Hands of yours are so fuckin' small," he's muttering in between kisses as he works his way back to your lips. Can't kiss you because a jolted grunt interrupts him, a symphony of sounds as you slowly stroke him. Oversensitive, the first touch he's felt in decades.

His hair drops into his face, acts as a curtain when you look down to where your hand is working him. Can hardly see what you're doing, but you do catch a glimpse of precum beading at his flushed tip, hearing his gasp when your thumb swipes over it. 

"Y'need to stop that," he huffs, voice nothing but air, "gonna...fuck, 'm gonna cum if you keep..." And despite asking you to stop, he grumbles when you let go of him. 

Hands now free, you reach for your shorts, not sure why you feel so shy when he helps you tug them down your legs; it's not like he hasn't seen you naked before. From you forgetting he's there to him accidentally floating into the shower while you were using it. 

But these eyes are not the translucent ones you're used to, with their expression hidden by deviations in his mist. No, these eyes darken as they drink up the sight of you, every little thought in his head spoken through his gaze. But even as he kicks his boxers off, shirt going right along with it, you can't help but feel like hiding under the sheets. 

"'ve I ever told you that you're beautiful?" His voice breaks the silence, stroking the inside of your knee as he speaks. 

You don't have words for that. 

He doesn't need them. 

You really don't have words for when he takes hold of your wrist, guiding it up and taking two of your fingers into his mouth. Tongue carefully swirling around each of them, soaking them with a content hum. Your eyebrows furrow, to which he raises his other hand. Dirt beneath his nails and caught in the wrinkles of his hand. 

Ah.

Reluctantly, you pull your fingers from his warm mouth, and you're pleasantly surprised to find that there's hardly any resistance when you press them inside. Open and already wet, helped along by a moment of fun you'd had in the morning, hoping a familiar ghost may come to help you along. 

"How did you know I kept my lube in the bottom drawer?" You can't help but ask, watching as he fishes around for it. 

The tips of his ears are red again. "I learned the hard way not to float through bedside tables."

He's the one who uncaps the container, but it's you who reaches out for him to pour it into your palm. Not because you're concerned with dirt but because you want to feel him in your hand again. Twitching when you take hold of him, a thick vein running along the side of his length. He has to stifle a noise with each stroke, squeezing your knee all the while. 

"You're sure you're ready for me?" He asks when you urge him closer. 

"I'm sure I'll be fine, cowboy," fighting back a noise as you guide him down, letting him push between your folds, some lazy, teasing thing that has his plush head dragging past your clit. Sensitive, almost has you considering making him fuck you like this instead. 

But he's catching against your entrance, and you've daydreamed about this man too many times to pass up the opportunity. 

That tentative, forward tilt of his hips is enough to make your head spin. Pressure blooming as he pushes into you, careful, like you'll shatter into a million pieces if he's too quick. 

"Rhett," you whisper, don't quite know why. 

"'m here," he's coming back down, nose pressing against yours in his own little way of reassurance, "I've got you."

Your earlier rendezvous didn't end well for you, but you're so thankful for it in hindsight because his cock stretches you wide. Blunt head dragging against your walls, massaging past the bundle of nerves you couldn't seem to find with a toy, your thighs squeezing his pale hips. 

"So tight for me," he pauses about midway, or what you think is midway, at least, "you're sure 'm not hurtin' you?"

Your head spins, loose on your shoulders, "I'm okay." 

With a noise of his own, Rhett starts to move again, draws back a little before pushing further, and you can't help but wonder if he's holding his breath. Your nails bite into his shoulders, hanging on as he finally bottoms out, now flush against you. His mouth moves, but he can't speak. Only capable of releasing a shaky breath, lazily catching your lips in his.

He doesn't need to be asked to move, catching on the moment you grind yourself against him. Withdrawing slow, shallow, before pushing back in, and you're so, so full. Clinging to his shoulders to stay in place, feeling like you'll float away when he brushes against those nerves again.

Fuck, he's just begun to move, and you're already biting your lip. Don't know how you're going to keep yourself quiet because he massages past that little spot every time he moves, never lets it alone. 

His thumb pulls your lip out from between your teeth, "Let me hear you, darlin'."

His words alone have your cunt fluttering around him, and you're leaning into the palm that cups your cheek, mouth falling open. "Rhett, fuck."

You don't think you need to reach down between your bodies, but you do anyway, fingers pressing to your long-neglected clit. Working in tandem with Rhett's quickening hips, jolting as his angle shifts.

"There?" He says as if he hasn't already found that damned spot. All you can manage is a nod, a whimpered 'uhuh' escaping you. 

And he's doubling down, cock head kissing that oversensitive spot again and again. Grins wickedly when you shudder beneath him, nails dragging down his pale shoulders, panting into his mouth.

"Fuck, this sweet lil' pussy of yours feels so good 'round me," he groans, thrusts becoming harder now that he's remembered the ropes. Heavy balls smacking against you, and you really hope there aren't any more house ghosts who can hear the sinful sounds whistling through the air. "'s this what you've been needin', hm? 

"Rhett," you don't know how to speak, his name tumbling off your tongue.

"Bringin' home all those dates that could never make you cum," his voice dropping an octave deeper, damn near growling, but the softness in his eyes suggest he wouldn't hurt a fly. "Wouldn't have terrorized 'em if they woulda treated you better." 

That's why he chased them all off? God, how many times did you bring someone home, thinking he was gone? And how many times has he daydreamed about having you beneath him, whimpering his name as he fucks you nice and proper. 

You should be mad, but you can't. Not when you're falling apart at the seams, hand sliding from his shoulders, barely clinging to his bicep. Bounced by every heavy thrust, can't keep your fingers on your pulsing clit, tightening around him as something warm blossoms between your legs.

And he must be able to feel it because his eyes flicker into the back of his head, if only for a moment. "You gonna cum on my cock for me, sweetheart?" 

This is new. Fuck, this is so, so new and so much. No longer able to keep your eyes open, tongue lazy in your mouth, words long forgotten as you try to nod your head. Mind clouded with thoughts of Rhett, Rhett, Rhett. 

"Shit, y'got me so damn close, baby," he rasps, hair tickling your cheek as he presses kisses there, "You want me to cum on those cute thighs of yours? Or your sweet little tummy?" 

You don't have the answer to that question. Distracted by the crumbling of his rhythm, thrusts growing shaky, in perfect tune with the tightening coil in your lower belly. Almost there. Almost there. 

He's still talking. "Or would you rather I cum nice 'n deep in this pretty pussy of yours," you regret opening your eyes. All you see is the sweat beading at his forehead and strong hips working you over. Fat cock disappearing into your wet pussy, elicits a dizzying squelch every time. "Pump you nice 'n full of me, just so you'll need me to fuck it out of ya in the mornin'." 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where's your voice? Where's your voice? "I-inside."

Rhett's breathy "yeah?" is all you fucking need. Your back rises up off the mattress, head tilting back with a silent cry as you cum around his cock.

"There you go," Each pump of his length into you only sends your head higher up into the stratosphere. Whimpering, clamping down around him as a shudder washes over you. "Feel so good when you're clampin' 'round me like that." 

And he's still fucking going. Fucking you through it, beating against that bundle of nerves even when you begin to tremble, after-shocks still tearing through you. 

"Hang on for me, baby," his eyes are bolted shut, chasing his high, biceps shaking, so, so close. 

"Please, Rhett," you whisper, your hand soothing over his hardened face. Those deep blues flutter open, softening at the sight of you, like he's just seen an angel "Cum for me." 

A whimper tumbles past his lips,  a second one follows suit, and then those eyes are closing once more, hips stuttering to a halt as his orgasm hits him. Tiny noises escaping his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, the familiar tune of your name tumbling off his sweet tongue. Filling you with his cum, making good on his promise, jolting as you involuntarily pulse around him.

For a while, the air is silent. 

Until Rhett lifts his head and kisses up your sensitive neck, sending you into a fit of giggles. "C'n we take a bath t'gether?" He murmurs, seemingly shy, unable to meet your eye.

"So long as you agree to bubbles, baby." Baby. You don't think you've ever called him that. 

You can't wait to do it again.

For decades, the folks of Wabang, Wyoming, have whispered the tale of two brothers. Gossiping about a murder they presumed to have taken place, for they knew that Perry Abbott was a violent man, and it was only a matter of time before his little brother became the next punching bag. 

Never have they whispered about the hole that opened beneath the kitchen floor, swallowing Rhett's near-lifeless body up, escorting him to an unknown safety while leaving his lonely spirit behind. They don't know of the decades he spent forced into an unnatural slumber, only to be awoken by another lonely soul with a heart made of the same glass as his own. 

Nobody giggles about how a human scared a ghost or chatters about the adventures they've shared in that century-old farmhouse. They do not know of the arguments, and the boyfriends lost because a ghost wanted the best for his friend, appearing in mirrors and whispering their deepest insecurities into their ears. Worse, they don't roll their eyes over the many tales of him banging a cast iron skillet on the tile just to see them run.

But you do. 

Only you know of how Rhett smiles, big and dopey, as you take him into town for the first time in decades. You are the only person who gets to explain what self-driving cars are and roll your eyes as some new thing scares him into jumping behind you. Nobody else gets to take him on a road trip, watch him fight with a GPS for the first time, and introduce him to the ocean and the concept of crabs.

"Why are they shaped like that?" Rhett's stumbling after you; not sure if he likes or hates this little creature, only knows that he wants to follow you. "Why is he following me?" 

You wish you could see the little bugger, but it's so dark that you can hardly tell where you're going. The only light you have is a dull light in the parking lot and the silver moon hanging high above your head.

"Probably because you've pissed him off," you laugh, holding your hand out when he reaches for it, "are you going to survive two more nights this close to the beach, or do I need to take you back to the pasture?"

He hums, loud and dramatic as he can manage, scratches his freshly shaved chin for added effect, "I suppose I'll survive, but if that crab kills me, I'm comin' back as a ghost and suin'."

From the moment your feet are on the cool concrete of the parking lot, Rhett's spinning you around. It's still the only thing he knows how to do, and his feet tangle with yours a little more than they should, but oh, is it as magical as that night in your driveway.

"'ve I ever told you that I love you?" He smiles as he speaks; knows he says this every time you wind up dancing beneath the moon.

"Never," feigning surprise, as he pulls you in close, noses bumping together, "but I love you more."

And then you're running. Squealing as Rhett sets hot on your trail. He'll catch you before you so much as reach the hotel doors, trap you in his arms, and insist that no, he loves you more, punctuating every word with a wet, sloppy kiss. And you're so excited for it that you think you may let him catch you early. 

Perry took away a lifetime from Rhett. 

You're more than happy to give him a life worth waiting centuries for. 

Even if he does still refer to himself as the house ghost.

[astromechs]

can I get washing their hair for rebelcaptain? 🥺

fun fact, i received these two asks within about an hour of one another, so great minds really do think alike. anyway, since the other two were heavier, went with something really, really stupid for this one 💕 from this list; still accepting! (and this is now also available on ao3, just like the other fills)

“He does this on purpose,” Jyn grumbles, because she’s too fucking furious for more than a grumble. Well, that and she can’t exactly manage anything else in her current position, head tipped with water-soaked hair obscuring most of her field of vision, palm pressed flat against the shower wall to keep her steady after having to remain like that for so long, but her point still stands.

Could anyone really blame her for being furious? She knows fucking intent when she sees it. There’s no way that a droid with a self-professed “specialty” of strategic analysis hadn’t mapped out what her route around base would likely be today, and there’s no way that he hadn’t been ready with a whole fucking vat of oil in his stupid fucking mechanical hands to drop it over her at just the right fucking moment.

It’d been completely uncalled for, too. So what if she’d cut the power to Kay’s favorite docking port last week and forced him to spend an entire night cycle trapped next to that astromech he hates so much? That had hardly been worth this much torture — and she’ll probably never be able to wear that shirt or vest ever again; they’d practically had to be sliced off of her.

No, there’s a difference between justified retaliation and crossing a line, and Kay had passed that line by a fucking parsec, so he’s the one who’s clearly in the wrong here. That’s her position, and she’s sticking to it.

It’s a position that any reasonable person with sense would agree to, so it’s one that Cassian, logically, will.

But when the hands that have been messaging her scalp still and his response comes, it isn’t an agreement. No, instead, it’s, “He doesn’t mean it,” said in the tone she absolutely hates the most: the one that’s mildly neutral, that comes with the mask he puts on when she knows he doesn’t want to engage with something.

Fuck. For a brief amount of time, she’d actually managed to forget that the person who’s been standing in the shower with her for the past standard hour at least, helping her wash her hair, is the one who’d be the least fucking objective possible on this issue.

If she could turn around, she’d raise an eyebrow and give Cassian her best are you fucking kidding me stare, but since she can’t, she resigns herself to heaving a long, frustrated sigh, one she makes sure can be heard over the running water.

He doesn’t respond for a while, opting instead to continue with his task of rubbing another round of shampoo into her hair. If he were doing this for any other reason, it might feel nice — part of her has been halfway to thinking it at least three times over the past standard hour before she’s stopped herself, because even with the difficulty of what he he’s had to work with, he’s never been too harsh with his touch — but he’s not here for those reasons, and so his silence is annoying. HIs silence leaves her no choice except to try for the sigh again, and really mean it this time.

Eventually, after that, he speaks up again, with a sigh that’s almost as heavy as hers. “I’ll tell him to call it off.”

Finally. Had that been so fucking hard?

To her credit, and she really tries for this, she does her best to leave out that sentiment when she tells him:  “That’s all I’m asking —”

“ — If you also call it off.”

Seriously? Her first instinct is to roll her eyes, which she does, and then her next is to open her mouth for a counterargument, which she also does, only nothing comes out of it. Because maybe, just maybe, she can concede that she’d crossed a line, too, and had provoked something that hadn’t really been worth provoking. It’s just been so quiet, and when things are too quiet, she turns twitchy and restless, and —

She can swallow her pride, even if it means doing so while gritting her teeth.

“Fine.” She guesses she should probably sound less like she’s gritting her teeth, though, so before she elaborates, she takes a beat. “I’ll leave his stupid docking port alone. Will that make him happy?”

Pressed against her, she can feel Cassian lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Happy enough.”

Because she knows him, Jyn can tell, just from his voice, that the beginnings of that stupid smug smirk he likes to flash at her sometimes are there, forming.

Only the shower wall will see, but she scrunches her face and glowers at it with everything she has.

“Fuck you,” she says, though, despite her efforts, she doesn’t manage to inject any real heat into it. “I heard that.”

“Heard what?”

She thinks: she should be annoyed; she should curl her free hand into a fist so that it’ll be ready to give him a nice, solid punch when her position allows. But the thought is gone almost as soon as it surfaces, because — suddenly, in spite of everything, a laugh bursts out of her. A genuine, full-bodied laugh that has her hand shaking against the wall while still trying to hold flat for support, her side stitching, and her breath wheezing.

Behind her, she can hear Cassian joining in earnest, his composure crumbling alongside his current attempt to massage her scalp. His laugh is softer than hers, still trying to find its footing after what has to be years of rust, but it’s undeniable.

Understandably undeniable, because this whole situation really is fucking absurd, isn’t it?

They don’t get many moments like this, but even so, they’ve had more of them together than Jyn can remember having for most of her life before they’d ever met — and it’s a good feeling when they happen. Warm, easy. Safe. The last of the tension she’d been carrying washes away with the water.

And after her laughter subsides and she’s blinked the tears from her eyes, she closes them, relaxing, for the moment, into what she can.

[generalsdiary]

I'm here.

Alhaitham x Kaveh

warnings: mentions of disassociation, blood, cursing, nudity (?)

word count: 3.4k~

a/n: written in a 3rd person pov w/ a focus on alhaitham and his thoughts – i preferred this approach much more than 1st person pov, much more can be said and added with the way i wrote it. there’s a switch in the middle for a few paragraphs to kaveh’s pov (still 3rd person tho) marked with green, the switch back to alhaitham’s pov (3rd person) marked with blue. not beta read we pray to nahida, can be read whether you choose to view them as a couple/friends/companions/whatever you want any way works, i enjoy the uncommon way their relationship works without the typical romantic stuff <2

description: “who did this to you” trope (not the way one would probably assume), hurt/comfort (except they DIDN’T HURT EACH OTHER, they ended up hurt and therefore COMFORT each other), fluff at the end

he got into a fight. a group of eremites planned an attack catching him unprepared, surprised.  they got quite a bit of the punches in, he managed to defend himself but was mainly outnumbered. his injuries weren’t that bad, and he had no reason to cover up any of it. his hand still moves to his grey hair, while he walks home switching the bangs to cover the bruised side of his face. frustration fills him as he can't justify to himself why he is then covering it up; the red-purpleish eye, the cut on his cheekbone. with a soft sigh Alhaitham walks into his home.

the melodic voice pierces his noise-canceling pieces, his roommate complaining immediately about something easily resolved.

„... which resulted in me actually doing the work and helping the student and they-“ Kaveh stopped in front of him, mid-sentence, his eyes focused on his face. Alhaitham feels a shiver down his spine, fear? no, why would he feel fear? he is fine.

„you were saying, and they?“ he continues, to nudge Kaveh to continue his sentence.

„what is up with your hair, Alhaitham?“ Kaveh steps closer, his eyes staring, almost like he was digging around, scanning every detail.

„can I not change my appearance?“ maintaining the same unamused tone Alhaitham provides a counterargument.

not a beat after, “it is unlike you to change anything“ and a small frown on the blond's face.

Alhaitham sighs, and gestures with his hand, “you were saying, about the student..?“. he is doing his best to hold himself up normally, to appear like he isn’t in pain, and to give Kaveh attention so he can be unbothered in his room for at least the rest of the day. he doesn’t want him to worry.

„Kaveh, it is nothing of matter- a few eremites, there were more of them… they caught me off guard, I'm fine.“

Kaveh nods and starts talking about his interaction not even paying attention to Alhaitham, his eyes moving around the room as he talks and complains until one specific glance at Alhaitham's face makes him stop.

„Alhaitham, you're hurt. you- you're bleeding“ Kaveh moves closer, Alhaitham raises a hand over his hair in an attempt to hide any sign of injury and tries to play it off as a gesture. The blond doesn't buy it, wrapping his hand around the younger's wrist and moving it away. Kaveh's eyes calm, the red matching the anger starting to bubble inside him, and it is scary, he does usually get frustrated and loud, but angry? A terrifying sight, when a kind man is angry.

Alhaitham gulps at the sight of a calm, collected... dear Archons, quiet Kaveh.

„who. who did this to you?“ his voice slightly quieter than normal, he steps closer, his hand moving the hair out of Alhaitham's face and staring at the fresh bruise. “I'll kill them. Who touched you-“ his voice shaking with rage, worry, sadness.

„are you?“ Kaveh quickly sees through the façade he put down, Kaveh’s eyes drop down to the way his arm is embracing his own side like one would do if they were punched there, or kicked.

Alhaitham opens his mouth to reassure him that he is indeed fine but Kaveh cuts him off.  “don't lie to me.“

continuing to press this lie would be pointless so he just falls silent. Alhaitham pulls Kaveh into his chest with the hand that is still in Kaveh's grip. it isn't a full hug, or maybe it is. with the sort of free hand- he was using it to soothe his own pain, he brings him closer by resting it on Kaveh's back.

„I will be fine“ he mumbles, his words met with silence. Alhaitham finds himself thinking, is Kaveh crying? why the silence? no, he isn't crying, he is completely still.

„let's get you patched up-“„I'm fine- I have taken care of it-“„-and put something cold over the bruise and you should go rest“ there is a certain silence in the air beneath his words. the way his voice flows along the air and the sound evaporates like smoke. message between the lines, he knows him, why is he having trouble decoding it? perhaps the words between the lines aren’t meant for him.

the architect's hands are gentle and steady while they press the soft cotton onto his cheek, the cold towel soothing the bruised eye. his lips pursed, focused on his movements making sure to not provide Alhaitham any more pain.

Kaveh spent the remainder of the day, afternoon and evening included, taking care of Alhaitham's injuries, which weren't major, but enough to make him worry, to make him fill with questions. he did ask those questions along the way and loudly express his worries to which Alhaitham didn't make many comments or provide too many answers than what he had already given.

hence when the night came and both of them went to their respective rooms, Kaveh laid awake in his bed. the idea that Alhaitham could be attacked again, especially due to his current high-ranking position as the acting grand sage, dug around his mind. his thoughts of hopeless worry and helplessness turning into laser focus on making sure he is safe, probably in the most destructive way possible; by going out and taking care of it himself.

hyper fixated on only that, he organized what little information he had of the whole situation in his head and headed out, purposely leaving Mehrak behind.

the doors open, making Alhaitham look up for a second, he knows it's his roommate- but he does a double take, his eyes widening and freezing on Kaveh. Kaveh walks further in, his hands, arms - the white puffy sleeves covered in blood. the tips of his blond golden hair dyed a dark shade of red, his face splattered with drops the same shade as his eyes. his body language suggests he is uninjured, and there is a sound. like something is dragged on the ground. the large claymore weapon, which is still in Kaveh's hand comes into his sight.

he informed Cyno of the attack from the day by talking to some of the younger matra who were on his way, informing them of the urgency, and letting them know where he assumed their base was. without waiting for anyone or any feedback he made his way to said location. after confirming they were the ones who attacked Alhaitham... he attacked on sight.

lifting the heavy weapon like it was light as air, not caring for his muscles burning in pain, he knew how to wield it. along with using his vision, he fought quite a few of them, getting hit occasionally but much less than one may think, creating slashes, and getting covered in blood. no one dropped dead yet when the matra showed up, taking them all in and away. they thanked Kaveh for the information and while Cyno was busy scanning around the area and conversing Kaveh left. his job, his goal, finished. the price to achieve it, in the way he wanted to achieve it, was too high.

he walked slowly back home, dragging the weapon on the ground as he did. he walked for hours, his head empty, with no thoughts. Alhaitham was now safe and that was all that mattered. not feeling the pain in his body, not actually. the dryness of his throat, the bruises he sustained, the ache in his wrists. the way he looked like he had just slaughtered a boar or a sumpter beast. the way he has yet to realize the dire consequences and the toll it takes on one's mind when you do such things. when you... turn off everything except the one goal.

any hi's, hello's falling onto deaf ears, or comments on his appearance while he walked through Sumeru city. any worried, scared expressions unnoticed by his eyes. his body but a mere shell as he approaches the door of his home. unknown to him it was already past noon the following day, and quite a bit of time had passed.

Alhaitham is horrified, worried, and aware that this is a moment where he has to try his best to communicate the best he can - because Kaveh looks like... that. what could’ve possibly happened, possible outcomes run through his mind. he continues observing him, the way his eyes are focused on the floor, the fact he didn't bring Mehrak wherever he went. speechless for a few moments as he puts down the book and slowly stands up, patiently finding the right words to say. meanwhile, Kaveh gently leans the claymore onto the wall, his movements mechanical, and automatic, after which he straightens his back and notices Alhaitham. his eyes turning brighter at the sight and approaching him, behaving as if he looks completely normal.

„Alhaitham- don't worry, you're safe now, no one will hurt you ever again- they-they wouldn't, would not dare touch you“ his voice is full of emotion, shaking, showing flashes of anger, pain, relief, stumbling over his words as he approaches the taller man. he sounds almost delirious.

„Kaveh, what happened? are you okay?“ his voice calm, stern. he holds his tongue to not ask, what did you do?

„yes-,“ he waves his hand gesturing like it is nothing “of course, I'm fine“ he chuckles between his words “and nothing happened, I took care of those people that jumped you- well I-“ he stops, sighs, “the matra came quickly, you need not worry, I have not turned into a criminal on your account.“ he laughs dryly.

beat. a feeling of relief, murder sits heavy on the mind, it is good the matra came. Alhaitham nods to himself. he reaches with his hand, hovering above Kaveh's cheek, and lets it fall back. the way Kaveh didn't even react to that tells him enough, the architect is not fully here, perhaps dissociated or he was hyper focused on what he wanted to get done. he isn't facing reality, or rather he isn’t completely in reality at this moment. and if he is hurt he probably can't even feel it, can’t acknowledge it. no words Alhaitham would say right now to scold him, lecture him, or express worry would not reach him actually. he attempts to settle on other ways.

„you do realize how you look right now?“ Alhaitham can't help himself trying his normal way of talking, which fails immediately- his earlier conclusion on Kaveh's mental state at the moment proves itself accurate as the blond nods and speaks the same thing again, “you're safe, I- I took care of it“

...other ways it is. the underlying worry about him being injured still lies but at this moment, anything his roommate would say would be unreliable. “let's...“ he reaches with his hand towards his. “let's get you cleaned up“ Kaveh just shuts down, allowing Alhaitham to lead him to the bathroom, he stays silent, fully on ‘autopilot’.

with simple instructions he leads him in. “your clothes are dirty, take them off, we will wash them later.“ in his monotone voice he instructs.

a line which would be flustering at least, no matter the situation, now it provides not even a blush from the shorter man. he takes off the white blouse, which Alhaitham immediately places in a bowl filled with cold water, and does the same with the remaining clothing pieces. Kaveh sits down in an empty tub and Alhaitham gently washes the blood out of his hair, he notices from Kaveh's body language that he is slowly coming back to reality. with a cloth he gently scrubs down the blood from his arms while silently praying to lesser lord Kusanali that he doesn't have any cuts or wounds there. as if she had answered his prayers, Kaveh’s arms are only covered with the occasional light bruise.

after the only running water turns clear, with no sign of blood, he turns the water to fill the tub. allowing himself to place a hand on his forehead, his mind fills with worry and regret closing his eyes for a moment, his gaze moves to Kaveh who is staring at a dot on the wall across from him. the warm water fills the tub and Alhaitham speaks, but only in the basic words, instructive kind, keeping his thoughts still to himself, “the warm water will soothe you, you should stay inside the tub for half an hour at least.“ a nod. a positive sign in his mind, he stays sitting on the ground, observing the older man. Kaveh's eyes fall to the water, his voice comes out shaky, quiet, “A- Alhaitham?“

„I'm here“ he responds in his normal tone, he notices Kaveh's distress, his hand moving under the water, caressing the older's back. “I'm here“ he repeats himself, his tone a tad softer this time.

Kaveh turns his head to Alhaitham, his eyes filling with tears, “I-I-“

„you're in distress right now, you don't have to force yourself to speak“ to which Kaveh nods, but he is trembling slightly as if he is about to have a panic attack, Alhaitham notices that and makes a quick decision, moving to gently kiss his golden hair. “I'm here“ he whispers, offering a moment of comfort while he quickly strips himself of his clothes and goes into the tub, sitting behind him. his arms pull Kaveh into his chest, so he leans backward on him. Alhaitham whispers once more, his lips next to the older's head “I'm here.“

time seamlessly flows by, until Kaveh's breathing calms down to match Alhaitham's. the water stays warm, and Alhaitham would sit there with him as long as his senior needed, nothing else would matter. Kaveh then softly starts telling what happened, or what he believes is important at that moment.

„please, don't ever do that again- and, no, I do not care about those people, I am talking about you, do not bring yourself in such danger again, not for my sake at least, or anyone's for that matter.“ Alhaitham scolds the man in his arms.

„I'm not- I'm not a violent person, I just...“ falling quiet for a moment. “I don't mind self-defense- I just- I couldn't bear the thought of you being in danger... It had to be by my hands, not with Mehrak- and I, I probably sprained my wrist-“ his words made Alhaitham's eyes fall to his wrist, scanning it for any injury, moving to gently grasp it, hold it, ever so softly.“-and, I know why... for some... fucking reason I blame myself for not being able to keep one fucking person safe“ there's a heaviness in the way he says ‘one fucking person’, Alhaitham can sense the incomplete version of it hovering. one fucking person I care about, the most? his voice fills with anger at himself and Alhaitham already mentally prepares his words but Kaveh says the lesson he wanted to carry over, “tho it has no relation to me and I'm not guilty for it and therefore shouldn't have punished myself for it by using the claymore by hand.“

he shakes his head. “and I probably look like a wet rat now“ typically in Kaveh fashion he also adds a complaint or something rather unimportant and, if you ask Alhaitham, completely untrue. to maybe make Kaveh laugh, or even crack a smile, he plays along his line “eh, so do I, especially with the gray hair“ he dryly laughs. Kaveh turns his head to look at Alhaitham and sighs, “well that is no consolation, you look handsome as ever.“ which makes Alhaitham chuckle, his chest lightly rumbling under Kaveh's back.

Alhaitham of course doesn't allow such slander against his roommate, even if it comes from the roommate himself, grabbing his chin to make him face him once more for a moment, “and you look as beautiful as ever, as radiant as the sun.“ Alhaitham could ramble on and on about Kaveh's beauty, and how he must be a descendant of the goddess of flowers because he is so ethereal, yet his looks are what he cares about the least. thus, he sees little point in it. he has much more appreciation for his personality, intellect, habits, behavior, kindness, loyalty, etc. those things you can't buy. the moment is short and unnecessary in his opinion, yet Kaveh's eyes turn a shade brighter, appreciating the comment, but his head turns to the front and he leans his head back onto Alhaitham's collarbone.

„of course, I wouldn't, I wouldn't be so foolish.“ Alhaitham is quick to answer, to which Kaveh scoffs, “I'd get them to proper punishment from the matra, and be more careful towards my injuries, or get them to be judged in front of our archon.“

„that means I should never bring myself in danger then, Alhaitham.“ he points out a fault in his sentence, to which Alhaitham nods, a small smile playing on his lips, which Kaveh cannot see. “I'll try my best not to then.“ Kaveh adds, earning a nod from Alhaitham.

„you also don't understand- you wouldn't do it for me“ Kaveh turns the conversation back to the middle of the topic, an underlying tone suggests he is upset.

after a moment of silence, “I wouldn't do what you did.“ he says a bit quieter the following, in that moment, the warmth of the water, Kaveh's body against his, his tired mind, he can't bite his tongue to the next words “I would do much... much worse.“ his mind forces him to imagine Kaveh getting hurt, just the thought of someone daring or even thinking about hurting his comfort person, his roommate, his senior, his... everything... anger, rage flashes, his words whispered “I'd kill them.“ and in that moment, those are true words. he'd kill them in cold blood and never blink an eye for it until the rest of his life. it would be as natural and as justified to him as killing an ant in the kitchen is.

Kaveh moves his hand to Alhaitham's, which was beside Kaveh's thigh, he takes it in his own under the water and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “no one is harming me, I'm okay.“

Alhaitham nods, “I know“ he kisses Kaveh's temple, “the biggest threat to you is you, yourself“ making Kaveh laugh self-deprecatingly.

time passes, with comforting silence, and eventually, Alhaitham massages Kaveh's scalp with a mint soap bar, proving to be a soothing, simple moment for the both of them. they both dislike any sweet scents, mint being the only scented one amongst their shared products.

after the bath, the drying up, the clean clothes, pajamas, Alhaitham is escorting, that is what he told himself - in all actuality he is following, Kaveh to his room. promptly also moving into the blond's bed, nuzzling his head into the still slightly damp golden locks.

a silence falls over the bedroom upon which Alhaitham would've thought Kaveh fell asleep if it were not for the pattern of his breathing which gave away his state of consciousness.

„I..“ Alhaitham begins, “I care about you too much for this to happen to us, let's“ he exhales, “let's try communicating better“ which makes Kaveh chuckle, “you suck at communicating well enough.“

„I am excellent at it“ Kaveh raises an eyebrow to that statement. “oh, are you now? well-“ he decides to not go along his usual route of this conversation, he sighs softly, pausing for a moment as he changes the trajectory of his thoughts “we have different ways of communication, and 90% of them perfectly match which is not visible or even typical with any normal people, we... for fucks sake the fact that we write notes in an ancient language would be the prime example. but in those 10%...“ he sighs, and Alhaitham continues instead of him, “we differ to the point we hurt each other.“

in a hushed voice he says, “I care about you.. a lot. I am... I am failing to find words for the things I wish to say, except I just care.“

Alhaitham smiles, Kaveh grumbles a bit more and he listens. all is well.

Kaveh turns to face him in the dark bedroom, heads next to each other to the point they can feel each other's breath. “it is painfully obvious that I also care. I guess we should show it to each other, to remind ourselves, in more... mundane ways.“

Alhaitham closes his eyes, moving closer, his arm moving to rest on Kaveh's waist, his head resting in the crook of his neck, “agreed. you can start by doing the dishes in the morning.“ the soft quiet moment sliced by a high pitched whisper which makes him chuckle, “hey! I did them just the other day- it is your turn!“

they will be fine.

[valtsv]

last serious post for tonight i promise but i think part of the reason i value critical thinking so much (even though i realize that might come as a surprise if your only knowledge of me as a person comes from here, because tumblr is more of an escape slash stream of consciousness collaborative scrapbook for me than a platform for spreading awareness or teaching and learning tool - no offence to anyone who does use it for that, i just prefer to treat it as a hobby myself) is because i grew up both extremely isolated and controlled and prevented from expressing myself while also watching my parents fall hard down the conspiracy theory pipeline and experiencing the creeping horror of growing old enough to understand that and learning more about the world and being exposed to more people and ideas in it and realizing that my fear and frustration around them wasn't just typical teen angst but an entirely reasonable reaction to their increasing capacity to be very dangerous and untrustworthy people.

and like. i did actually try to pull them back. i wasn't very good at it (partly because i was a kid, and partly because i have my own biases and misconceptions and just plain bad ideas that i'll spend my entire life working on unlearning and trying to be aware and receptive to criticism of) but goddamn it did i fucking try. i tried discussing, i tried debating, i tried arguing back and standing up for myself and others, i tried researching and learning and presenting my counterarguments backed up with actual evidence, i tried to get other people to support me despite lacking much in terms of social skills or confidence or people around me who didn't buy into all the same bullshit, or something equally stupid and harmful. i even read the things they sent me and showed me so i could say "look, i approached this with an open mind and genuine good faith, i reflected on it and i used my critical thinking skills and tried to understand, but this is wrong and it's going to get people hurt. it's going to get you to hurt people."

i grew up knowing that as the closest person to them who hadn't fallen into the same trap of facebook radicalization groups and increasingly deranged and cult-like (and i don't use that word lightly) organizations and communities online i had a responsibility to try to protect people by warning them that my parents have the potential to cause a lot of harm and suffering if nothing else. and i failed. i'm not a trained deprogramming therapist and they probably crossed whatever event horizon ordinary people who aren't professionally taught how to combat that shit could have any chance of pulling them back from long ago. but the one thing i still have the ability to do is not let the same thing happen to me. i refuse to just passively let everything i see and hear fester in my brain until it starts poisoning all my thoughts and interactions with the world and people around me, and i'm still willing to try to encourage others to be aware and critical of everything around them so they don't end up following the same path and ending up unrecognizable to their former selves. i'm not perfect, i've definitely made some very bad mistakes and hurt people in ways i can't and don't want to be forgiven for and have many regrets, but i will never let myself end up like that as long as i have the ability to fight back.

[caterpills]

WIP Wednesday

Hello friends! ❤️ Thank you so much for the tags today from @onthewaytosomewhere @taste-thewaste @suseagull04 @sophie1973 @judasofsuburbia

It's been a bit (read: a lot) hot here, which makes writing a bit melty at all hours of the day. So, today, I have only a few unedited words from the next chapter of publicist/author AU (in Tucson!):

"When was the last time you drove yourself anywhere?" Alex asks as Henry unlocks the car with the fob. The horn double-honks, indicating it's open, at the same time that Henry visibly blue-screens, like he hadn't considered it until just now, seconds before sliding into the driver's seat, he would be operating the vehicle. Alex guesses, by that reaction, it's been a while.  "I have my license," Henry says. "It's like riding a bicycle."  Alex grins, and leans on the hood of the car.  "Not what I asked, sweetheart." Henry frowns and tries again with, “My name is on the rental agreement." As if that counterargument matters to Alex. It doesn’t.  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” Alex says, extending his hand for the keys.

(Not a super exciting bit — more book tour/trip shenanigans ahead! — but that's because I didn't want to spoil the Other Part in relation to The Cliffhanger from the last chapter - iykyk.)

I'm late today, so just going to leave this open as always. If you do end up using it, tag me please!