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[slowd1ving]

Hiiiii can u write Kim Dokja x Goth!Male!reader this sponsor constellation is Apollo and The reader is a simp for Dokja ( I love this man )

LOVE LIKE BLOOD ・゜゜KIM DOKJA

“The life is short, and I’m running faster all the time, Strength and beauty destined to decay, So cut the rose in full bloom.” By chance you meet him, by chance you become his friend, by chance you stay by his side; until it cannot be called fickle, capricious chance any longer, but an example of the inevitable law of universal attraction between two starving masses. art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! also thank you anon this ask was so big brained I yapped on for like 5k words (very sorry if you wanted headcanon/drabble form I got the most profound inspiration for this at like 3am :3) also damn you have no idea how many song titles I was perusing trying to find a suitable one for this... pairing: kim dokja + male goth reader warnings: pretty graphic metaphors, child abandonment/implied parental death, child neglect + abuse, alcohol, smoking, depression + bullying, hurt/comfort, injury, violence (as it's orv), does 10+ year long pining and oddly tense homoeroticism need a warning, anon I hope you ENJOY reading because I enjoyed writing wc: 5.6k (YAP because i love this silly man, I've never written so much for a request before lmao)

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Fundamentally, you and him are the same. 

There’s a sense of loss that’s too heavy for either of your bodies to comprehend. Rather than a heart, there’s a black hole right where the organ lies; so greedy, so hungry for acknowledgement. Born blue into this world—deprived of oxygen yet wailing, screaming for your voice to be heard—it’s little wonder you’ve always been avaricious for the love your parents could never give. The hands cradling the babe were never loving; they were clinical, they were covered in sterile blue gloves and they smelled only of caustic antiseptic. There was no kiss on your slimy, puckered forehead. There was only the sting of alcoholic sanitiser. 

Kim Dokja is similar, yet his parents wouldn’t (rather than couldn’t, for in your embittered mind the two concepts were so different as to be alien) spare him scraps of care. Rather than press a kiss to their son’s awaiting cheek, only bruises blossomed where the love should’ve been. No flowers were given for Children’s Day—only oily blood spilling and macerating against his chubby hands as a last, vibrant gift for their son. 

These two black holes sputtered on their axes while they spun round each other: gluttonous, esurient for care that didn’t come with bruises and wailing grief. 

Seoul had been unusually cold; blue afternoons spanned across the school rooftops. They were frigid and foggy—perfect for avoiding detection. Thus, the boy without kisses (only contused skin) encountered another like him on the rooftop that day. Against the haze, your own cigarette smoke had dulled the edges of what he saw—a boy canted against the railing with rippling earphones and a head tilted so far back he could taste the polluted mist. 

A merger had occurred. 

And though neither of you said it, there was an unspoken recognition of each other’s greed in that moment. Your eyes, ghosting over his injuries while the heavy bass played and the prussic wisps trailed around him: deep reverberations sounding a bit too like his careening heartbeat—as he made sure no one had followed him up here, that he was safe. And his umbrous eyes—honed in on the cigarette wedged between your lips, now stained black from the gloss decorating your humourless smile.

Maybe it was just that inherent feeling of kinship that came with avariciousness: a snarling sort of camaraderie that snagged at your skin with its claws. The wounds left behind were tender, but tender was precisely the adjective you were looking for—as was he. 

And so, Kim Dokja found himself coming to this particular rooftop the next day. When his breathing came ragged and his vision began to swim, he instinctively sought the numbness the frigid azurine firmament would bring. Like a wounded animal, he sought safety. Flight over fight—a lesson he’d learnt too late. Bruised fists would never save him. 

There you sat—eyes closed and lips still glossed in modest black. There were silver rings on your hands; rings he’d seen flashing before his eyes before he was hit, that those people no longer sported. Quietly, he matched up the scrapes on your own knuckles to the ones decorating their faces: to their unusual sullenness today. They’d furtively sequestered themselves in a club room all break, touching their swollen lips and eyes with bruised fists. Bruised fists. Like trophies, the achromatic metal glinted against the cobalt haze, and for once, his heart didn’t skip any beats at the sight of the gleaming metal. Neither did you acknowledge his presence nor their sins, but still, he sat on the same bench you were sprawled upon: hugging his bag to his chest while he scrolled the hallowed pixels of Ways of Survival. 

There was no grand exchange of words, no heartfelt conversations between Kim Dokja and the boy with a messed-up uniform. 

This was how tentative company was kept for a fragile week. 

Tuesday was the day that fragility finally shattered. He still remembers every detail about it—down to the particular cigarette brand you’d purchased that morning, down to the chips in your dark nail polish, down to just how many rings you’d worn on your left hand (three—it was three rings). Tears had spilled down his cheeks that afternoon; they warped and distorted the words that had saved him thus far, evoked from the pain in his purple ribs and his empty stomach. Somehow, the salt he’d kept tightly bound had been coaxed by your cold presence—perhaps, knowing your indifference made it easier to cry pathetically in front of you. 

You still didn’t speak, but you did hand him a tissue. You still didn’t speak, but you did press your shoulder to his own trembling one: smelling of caustic smoke, and something rich and sweet lingering beneath the plumes. You still didn’t speak, but your rings clinked on your left hand as you unhooked the earbud in your pierced ear and offered it to him: fingers brushed against his palm as he was forcibly shocked out of crying any further, like a blubbering child faced with such a conundrum that their little brains focused entirely on that rather than the reason for their tears. 

Melancholy had streamed out of the device. Doleful chords twined against threnetic voices—which he could not translate nor understand but could feel in pulsing waves. 

In that short whorl in the great machine of time, in the chill of the blue hour, he could not help but feel warm.

And thus, that Tuesday changed the trajectory of this merger somewhat. A deafening hum had finally blossomed from the gargantuan event; your presence could no longer be described as distant. 

When he went to class the next day, you were in the seat next to him: a mirage brought on by his lack of food, no doubt. He limped to his desk, but there your corporeal form remained: this time with silver chains lining the base of your throat and a dry, sharp grin decorating your face. Sure, he knew there was a student that never showed up in his class, but he wasn’t expecting it to be you: your name now a permanent fixture in his mind. 

There was a new name for this phenomenon: friendship. 

The boy, with the pensive music and trophies stolen from Dokja’s tormentors, smiled up at the reader staring at him. It was an inviting gesture: the proverbial hand reaching out, the hand which he took.

You weren’t a particularly talkative friend at first: preferring to simply share your music rather than speak much. That was fine with him—it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to reading alone. Then, you started bringing boxes of food alongside your cigarettes: containers that lacked the refinement of store bought meals. One for you, and one sheepishly thrust out to him with a smile bright as burst yolk and as messy as it too. Consequently, he returned a wobbly, unsure smile back at you—not mentioning that the vegetables were slightly burnt, slightly too salty. But that was fine. The more lunches you brought, the more skilled your hands became—until he never felt truly full unless he was eating what you gave him. 

In return, he cracked open his soul: pried its rusted walls with bleeding fingernails in a gesture never before seen, not since his childhood when he still knew what hope meant. Dokja for once didn’t blubber apologies and pleas for mercy—but became a teenager rather than a groveller. He complained about teachers, he discussed Ways of Survival at length (noting how you listened even when you showed no particular interest in reading it), he finally developed his own, modest aspirations for his own life. Lying in his bed in his lonely apartament, it suddenly didn’t feel so claustrophobic (yet somehow far too big for one) when you were there with your shoulder just brushing his own. 

You were not as cold as you seemed: though this was always obvious from that fateful Tuesday. You made fun of and empathised with the eternal regressor; you diligently stood at his half-broken stove frying meat and vegetables; and you talked at length about whatever band you were currently into—“I’ll take you to one of their concerts when we’re older,” leaving your lips, for your dense black-hole hearts did not conceptualise a future where the other was not present. He saw your loneliness—heard the rumours of you bouncing around from orphanage to orphanage, roaming the streets and working nights rather than return to that boreal home. 

So, more nights than not, he woke up from his nightmares to see you sleeping on the small couch in his home—legs just about peeking over the armrest, for your avarice didn’t only cover the abstract but the heaps of food you swiped from the canteen (and over the past two years he’d known you, you got your growth spurt far more obviously than he had). It partly contributed to almost skittish aversion his tormentors had of him—one you never did acknowledge, and so he learnt quickly to not mention it either. In this way, he too never mentioned why he invited you to sleep over more nights than not. And so, neither of your selfish hearts ever spoke a word of pity, but rather conveyed an unspoken understanding that bound the two of you in this merger. 

This routine continued.

He enlisted after graduating from the local university, and so did you—suffering the eighteen months of hazing with the smoke lingering on your skin and that same, humourless smile he first saw on your face. Frigid mornings turned his own lips as blue as the sky, yet he found it was harder to feel the chill when he saw you. Just like back then, you wore the same smile that brimmed with such colour it was practically incandescent with its heat. 

Two outcasts. It was hilariously terrible. Two outcasts, still sharing a pair of earbuds that had seen better days—blaring out the dolorous music that had grown on him, that described this situation perfectly. Stars were strewn in the fabric enveloped around you: memories that would continue to shine even after the world slowly marched towards its apocalypse. 

In that cramped bunkroom, it had been just like school—blue nights with the moon just barely peeking through the window, with your leg still hanging off the side of the bunk and within his field of vision. And he still found the steady rise and fall of your breathing far more comforting than any white noise: like a guard dog, almost, you still shielded him by his proximity to you throughout the brutal eighteen months of mandated service. 

Adulthood had crept up unbidden. In his single-room apartment, he sat on his couch with your legs sprawled just as lazy as they had been eight years prior. Though, your appearance certainly had changed—beneath the loose material of your tank top, he could see the ink seeping and decorating your skin. He’d gone with you to the underground artists right after the discharge: worriedly biting his lip while you simply grinned at him as if there wasn’t a needle pressing into you. And despite his initial concern, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away—sneaking glances even as he browsed through job sites since the winding patterns under the fabric and silver jewellery was oddly entrancing to the eye. 

In the end, he applied to the same company you had done on a whim: Minosoft, where you carefully wiped off the black residue on your lips and the smudged pencil round your eyes. You still shared your earbud with him on the subway (though you’d sent him your playlist aeons ago), you still smoked the same brand you did eight years ago, you still occasionally put on those rings you’d kept as prized trophies, you still made two sets of lunches for work. You still listened over drinks while hammered Dokja updated you on the latest update of Ways of Survival. You still angled your body just so, so that you would bear the brunt of Han Myungoh’s scolding rather than him. 

You hadn’t changed. 

But in some ways, he could no longer see the same boyish guy who’d awkwardly offered him his earbuds nine years ago. The look in your eyes was far more intense, the messy smiles splitting your cheeks were sharper, more overwhelming, and there was no longer any clumsiness in your movements from your sudden growth spurt from years prior. Even the very hand that occasionally clasped his shoulder, even the legs that you still casually flung over his on his beaten old couch, were far more scorching than he remembered. 

You had changed. 

And in the end, it was him who was left behind. 

Eternal loser, Kim Dokja. 

Though, he could never find fault with you for that. Not when you leaned over the tangle of limbs on his couch, not when he caught the thread of oud lingering beneath the smoke on your throat, and not when you thrust your phone screen at his face with that stupidly boyish grin that only peeked out when you brimmed with excitement—with a “look, I finally got us tickets for this festival!”. And he knew at that moment that you weren’t leaving him behind: stretching out your rough palm just like you had more than a decade ago. 

He let you tousle his hair to give it more spikes. He let you dress him up in your clothes—they sat too large on his frame, but he found himself unconsciously burying his body in the fabric that smelled like your laundry. He let you slip your rings onto his fingers: slender digits jolting at the sensation of the cool metal and the action itself. 

Finally, he let you rub your dark pencil on his lashline—lids fluttering up at yours while he did his best to not avert his stare. His gaze traced the bold lines of your brows and eyes, and finally onto the dark stain on your lips as you bit them in concentration. “There,” you’d murmured, gently grasping his chin. “That looks pretty.” 

And just like the loser he was, he felt his chest tighten at the casual compliment, for seemingly no reason. 

Over the din of the hall, he could barely hear the ebb and flow of music. Goth chords jostled him, weaving past the throes of post-punk and metal as band after band took the stage. In this crush of people, he was more focused on how your index finger threaded through his left-most belt loop; linking the two of you just enough that he wouldn’t get thrown into the mosh pit. No doubt the buzz of cheap liquor contributed to his distracted train of thoughts—he never was the best at handling alcohol. His hazy gaze distorted his view of your side profile; in the dim lights, obviously the wide smile (yolk-like, as was your grin years back) couldn’t possibly be that bright. 

It was at this moment that sentimentality got to him. He was thankful that his friend had stuck by his side for so long: gazing so softly at your happy expression he was unaware of his look himself. 

This was the night before the apocalypse began. 

When the crowds trickled out, when the reverb of bass still played through the club, you hugged him tight for coming with you. Outcast with the outcast, you’d thought introspectively. There were cheap spirits clouding your mind that night—a hangover would surely strike you come morning—which was why you weren’t as reserved as you usually were. As you leaned down to press the man into your arms, your lips had brushed past his cheek accidentally, and you could feel the black hole in the centre of your chest constrict. 

Profanities had whirled through your mind when the dark smudge remained on his cheek, and especially so as he made no move to wipe the umbrous gloss off on the subway back. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed—not with the flush on his cheeks from the alcohol in his system. There was a terrible, discordant crescendo to your pulse as you gazed at him. The gloss, from where it smeared slightly past the boundaries of your lips, burned your skin. But you made no moves to wipe the corners either—for this night only, there was something linking Kim Dokja to you. 

Thus, for the first time since he was a mere babe cradled in his mother’s arms, there was a kiss planted on his cheek that wasn’t from a fist. An accidental one, but one that could not be considered devoid of affection. And though neither of you remembered it after the hazy stupor faded, it did not change the fact that it happened nonetheless. 

A small snippet of joy in the bleak landscape. A caesura found within the long, winding elegy of this world. A reprieve before tragedy. 

It was a fitting conclusion for the night before the end. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

[The free service has now been terminated.]

Back in the carriage, wedged between Yoo Sangah and Kim Dokja, the two of you had shared a glance confirming the unspoken truth. Minds intrinsically linked together—he did not need to speak for you to understand his thoughts immediately. And Yoo Sangah had recognised this—as did she remember the devoted gleam in your eyes whenever you spoke to or of the man seated adjacent to you. Yet ultimately, her lips would remain closed. 

When the scenarios began, it was Kim Dokja’s turn to repay you. He would be your shield moving forward—protecting your messy smile even as the world burned away. He vowed this to himself, and though the promise was heard only by him, it did not change the fact that the constellations watching him and his companions could see the oath brimming from him as he put you first. 

[Almighty Sun has sponsored you.]

Even when Apollo chose you as his incarnation, even when you were just as capable as you had been before the cataclysm occurred—he could not help but feel his fists clench as you put yourself in danger. 

“Hold on,” you’d murmured, rings flashing as you’d caught his wrist in your firm grasp. Even with his coins improving his stats, he still felt so much weaker than you—still the boy who ran to the rooftops while your fists bruised against the faces of those who tormented him. 

Had your touch always been so scalding?

Privately, he thought Apollo had chosen the right person—smile bright as the sun, skilled fingers deft enough to play the electric guitar you’d bought on a whim, presence practically a healing balm for his soul. 

“You’re injured, Dokja-ya.” And the words had made him shiver as the syllables ghosted over his flesh—your face was too close to his chest where he’d been slashed by a monster, while the affectionate tone added to his name made this situation far worse than it was. Secluded like this, in an abandoned corner of the station, it was easy to misread the situation; this was the only reason his face flushed red. His friend was far too close. When those aforementioned fingertips brushed over the wound—just grazing the wounded flesh—he jolted. From the pain, of course. 

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire has sponsored 200 coins.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire would like to see more action.]

“Steady.” You eased him against a pillar while ignoring the message—ignoring how your pulse was now leaden in your mouth, how the golden gleam stitching flesh back together seemed far more shaky than usual. Though, you couldn’t ignore the pain you felt as you saw the rise and fall of his torso grow shallow; you were useless when it counted—arrows meeting their target far too late. 

“Dokja-ya,” you breathed, sweeping the hair that plastered to his clammy forehead. He didn’t meet your eyes, and the heavy feeling in your chest grew more burdensome. He was supposed to tell you what was wrong; as his best friend, you duly heard his complaints and dealt with them where you could. More often than not, you could intuitively tell what bothered him; much like you had from the very first day you saw him all those years ago. And as time passed, the object of your adoration only grew easier to read. 

But he was never avoidant like this. 

What happened? As you watched him leave with heavy steps and not a glance spared back, you could feel the crushing weight of the sky drop back down on your shoulders. Fuck. Burying your face in your hands, you barely registered the message that popped up. 

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire expresses her sympathy.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire says she knows how the two of you can make up.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire sponsors 69 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun tells the Demon-like Judge of Fire to not be stingy.]

[The Almighty Sun sponsors 6969 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun empathises with a lover’s quarrel.]

“Shut up,” you seethed, and the bad mood carried on late into the night. It was obvious to anyone with eyes; the conjured lamps lining the perimeter of camp had seethed with you. Gold had been interspersed with bleeding red—crackling like true fire, though it was anything but. Even the tattoos that lined your skin had begun eroding into ember-like patterns, as though lava was breaking through the dermis of your skin. 

Unsurprisingly, it was Yoo Sangah that had approached first: past the harsh glow of your lamps, gracefully weaving through the brightness with the light steps that belied her nebula. She’d taken a glance at the incandescent splintering of your body, your hands furiously working away at the guitar plugged into your practically-bulletproof earphones, and finally the imposing frame of Yoo Joonghyuk only a few metres away as he stood guard tonight. 

But when you paused, when you hastily yanked the buds from your ears, she could also see the wobble in your lip. The furrow in your brows wasn’t angry, it was anguished, while the fearsome glare in your eyes contained only pain. If she was being honest, it was hard to approach you at work and even nowadays—with ease, you picked off enemies from a distance and your longbow conveniently morphed into two curved daggers when it came down to it. You were a maelstrom with the capacity to take lives—stained with blood as you bared your proverbial teeth at any threats to Dokja. But it was precisely that that allowed her to see your stupidly blind adoration of this man. 

(“Your devotion will only hurt you,” she says, as if that will dissuade you. You’ll take whatever feeling he gives you: greedily swallowing each and every morsel of emotion. Tender is your heart, but tender is good. It means you aren’t going mad over the situation you’re in.

“Yoo Sangah, I appreciate the advice,” you reply politely—you do respect her, after all. “But I do not mind that.”)

Yoo Joonghyuk had bemusedly watched as she left: staring the the dim red tattoos strewn across your body as if they could possibly help him decipher the fool in front of him. His Sage’s Eye flashed as golden as your lamps for a brief moment—detecting that your statement had, in fact, been true. 

Fool, he’d said as your hands flew over the fretboard once more. Fool, as you disappeared up the stairs to the rooftop. Fool, when your lips had pressed together tightly against one another. 

You did mind, even when you thought it was the unequivocal truth that you didn’t. 

Maybe it was futile to even think it, but he thought that idiot didn’t deserve the long-standing care in your hands, and the veneration in the timbres of your voice. It was pointless to get attached to someone like that—especially when the end of the world was upon you. 

But you wouldn’t know that, since you could not read his mind. But you wouldn’t know that, since he would never explicitly say it. But you wouldn’t know that, since you’d long-since accepted your self-torture as perfectly and utterly a part of what came with knowing Kim Dokja for as long as you did. 

The rooftop was like all other rooftops. Similar. The same. Azurine fog was at your fingertips: just like that day all those years ago. Except this time, Kim Dokja was not in your sights, and you were left alone with wisps of smoke trailing from your lips and no other company save the glowing stick in your fingers. Just like it had been; before you met the boy with a heart as greedy and all-consuming as yours. Before the merger between two black holes occurred. Before he ran up to the rooftops with bruises on his face and placed new stars in the endless vacuum of your universe. 

There was no charge in your phone, but the song that played that day still rested heavy in your neurons as you sprawled out on the bench. Mindlessly, you summoned the lyre-turned-guitar: doleful chords germinated, flourished and withered away once more under distressed fingertips. It was a night between scenarios; another caesura in this ceaseless tragedy. Though those days were filled with an empty stomach and an endless struggle, they were your halcyon days. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, it was a blue Monday once more. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, you didn’t hear the heavy run of footsteps through the heavy burr of music. 

Just like that time almost twelve years back, Kim Dokja’s black hole heart pulsed with each discordant twang of chords—though this time the link was acutely clear to him. 

The boy who once tasted the mist and tilted his body into oblivion was no longer there: replaced by a man who’d faithfully stayed by him for more than a decade. Though you hadn’t changed, not at all; not when he could still see the rings you took off his bullies, gracing your fingers just as they had back then. A trophy, dedicated to his protection. When his plans involved his sacrifice, you were the first to reach him. Your face was the first he saw, tears brimming from your lash line. For despite how you’d grown into your looks, you wore your emotions clear on your face. Your heart had been taken from the cavity in your chest and replaced with a dense core that greedily always wanted; yet it had been sewn messily onto your sleeve rather than discarded. 

Kim Dokja suddenly remembered another interlude. A club, where the amorphous ebb and flow of bodies could not sweep him away from your side—since you kept him there, treasured his presence enough that you hooked your finger firmly into his belt loop and rooted him there. An anchor: you’ve always been the rock beneath his shaky feet, after all. He remembered that, and not the endless churn of music that made your face glow with happiness. 

(A black smear of gloss left on his cheek. His hands, carefully wiping eye pencil away yet not touching the remnants of your lips—not until it smudged away on its own, forgotten for all of time but this day.)

A sun of his own. The reader trod his slow orbit around you long before he could conceptualise the gravity that drew two masses towards each other. Newton’s theory of universal gravitation be damned; you were the only centre of the universe, the only body that ever existed to draw others towards your brilliant light. 

His eyes flickered over the smoke in your lips: the dim embers of a glow from the lines in your skin made it seem as though you were alight yourself. Instinctively, physically, he was compelled towards the patterns just like he had been all those years ago: your music, your stupid piercings and your stupid discussions about bands and the stupid way you listened attentively to his yapping about Ways of Survival. Stupid, because why did you do that? Why did you convince him to make a shrine for you in his heart? Stupid, because why is it only now that he can see what exactly lays atop the stone altar?

“Kim Dokja,” you spoke through your plumes, formal in the way he knew you spoke when you were upset and trying to keep it together. He swallowed, and he could feel the same pitter-patter of his pulse as he did all those years ago—heartbeat colliding loudly in his ear drums while he steps towards you, unsure. You didn’t let up with the strum of strings: electric in the drizzle of rain and wind and cold Seoul air. 

For once, he was the one looking down at your impassive face. He was the one brushing his fingers through your hair, he was the one whose hands made themselves comfortable on shoulders—for it’s always been you wrapped around him, you whose legs wedge on top of his domestically on his shitty couch in his shitty studio flat. 

“It’s Dokja-ya,” he corrected: tongue thick and leaden. It constricted his larynx and made his cadence oh so small at this moment. Tentative. Because he was your close friend and you his. He was the one who knows all your expressions—even the ones you deliberately tried to hide from everyone. He was the one who’s been with you the longest: always staring up at the muscle of your back while you act as his shield. He was the one who’s been blind. 

Your fingers halted against the strings and the instrument dissolved into the wind; the concert for two had reached its conclusion, just like it had all those months ago. For despite being packed full of people, the club only ever had two people in it for him. 

Lazily, those same hands that have bruised for him—but somehow had a touch that was far more painful than any torment that was physically inflicted on him—wrapped round his own that rested neatly on your shoulders. 

“Dokja-ya,” you answered, and the axis the world tilted on is finally righted. This man, Dokja thought—and his umbrous eyes traced down the warm lines of your face, stopping on your lips. Bittersweet. 

“Don’t leave me,” he all but begged—voice only a whisper. Don’t die on me, the black hole wanted to say instead; selfishly wishing for you to always be by his side so he doesn’t see you depart this world first. That would end him more than anything else. 

“I can’t leave you,” you murmured, and oh, the hand brushing his tear-stained cheek suddenly made more sense. “Dokja-ya, I should be telling you that.”

He pressed his face into your warm palm—scorching even with the boreal damp settling over his skin. There was something twisted within him that revels in your admission: that you, too, feared him abandoning you just as he feared you leaving him behind. 

“Idiot.” And he twined his fingers in yours, seeing the surprise on your face bloom—for he’s already established that you’re ever so easy to read. Idiot, because it’s ludicrous to even think that he’d ever willingly walk away from you like that. 

“You’re the idiot,” you whispered as your phantasmal hand ghosted from his cheek to his collar, yanking him so he fell onto the firm sprawl of your legs—in a way he’s never felt. So warm, he thought through the haze as he straddled your languid body—fit so right against you that there was none of the tension nor the anticipation that he might’ve felt. His hands splayed out onto your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart, tracing the glowing lines he adored on your body. 

So warm, he thought as your hands gently cupped his face—for you’ve never been anything but soft with this stupid man perched on your lap. 

So warm, as your lips met his and he melted into your body. He could taste the acrid smoke on your tongue, but he could also taste the food you’d prepared earlier for him, and the traces of whiskey you’d scavenged. All traces of you; his insatiable heart could not help but want to merge into you. 

So warm, as your tongue melded against his and he could feel the seam of his mouth against yours grow ever more ragged and messy. His hands desperately curled into your shirt, and he could feel your palms pressing harshly against his waist and canting his torso into yours more—something which his avaricious heart eagerly swallowed. 

On a blue Monday just like this one, two boys met for the first time once more on a rooftop just like this one. 

Again. Like and like created a merger for the second time, or perhaps it was already the third. Or fourth. Or the thousand-eight-hundred-and-sixty-third time this has happened—over and over and over and over. 

Fate has a funny way of bringing people together, or maybe it’s just the intrinsic law of gravitation that binds two black holes in a binary system. 

Blue Monday. What a silly notion, when the man beneath Kim Dokja is as warm as the brilliant sun. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

Fellas is it gay to pine after your best friend for over ten years and have oddly homoerotic moments with them

✦ . 　⁺ 

EXTRAS

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire returns from her work and asks what she missed.]

[The Almighty Sun keeps his lips shut.]

[The Abyssal Flame Black Dragon stays silent.]

[The Prisoner of the Golden Headband, perhaps not fearing his imminent hair loss, opens his mouth.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire promptly goes catatonic and explodes.]

[canisalbus]

I hope this isn’t unwelcome but here are a few of my personal Vascete modern AU headcanons:

As a child, Vasco was usually voted as a team captain when playing sports with other kids. Not necessarily because of his sporting ability, but rather because of his leadership qualities and general agreeableness and ease with others.

Machete always uses perfect grammar when he texts, but can take a while to respond. Vasco often responds instantly but with less attention to grammar. Machete texts in unbroken paragraphs (when he has a lot to say) but Vasco’s texts come through in small, sporadic flurries.

Machete is very familiar with hospitals, particularly so in his childhood due to his various medical issues. As a result he actually finds their cleanliness, and the politeness of the doctors, comforting. These experiences also made him more patient than he might otherwise have been.

Vasco donates blood and is on an organ donor registry.

Machete always carries hand sanitiser around and is constantly offering it to Vasco, who always carries hand cream around, and is constantly offering it to Machete.

Both are well-versed in music and have refined musical tastes.

Vasco hums wholeheartedly whilst doing the dishes - a chore Machete likes to avoid where possible. Vasco knows this, so he pretends he doesn’t mind doing them.

Machete often has a headache and Vasco’s usual first response to this is to ask Machete if he’s had enough water today. He’s often right.

Vasco scarcely thinks of the other paths his life could have taken. Though he knows pain, he feels very fortunate for all the good he’s been dealt in life, and attributes his good luck mostly to happy accidents. Machete on the other hand has unexpected moments of stark awareness of all the possible forks in his road. It’s a sudden deja vu that creeps up on him when he’s alone, almost as if he can remember all of his and Vasco’s past/ potential lives together. The feeling vanishes just as soon as it arrives.

Hot dang anon I LOVE these. Unwelcome UNWELCOME? You come to my house and present me with thoughtful interpretations of my characters, I feel nourished.

I can definitely see Vasco being a popular choice for a team captain. He's physically active but not ultra sporty, and even though he can get excited and carried away, he's never been that competitive (he's got that 'I just hope both teams have fun' sort of vibe that people tend to like).

The texting bit is terribly cute. Vasco rapid firing message after message vs Machete intermittently slapping half an essay in the chat.

Machete is hypochondriac and his threshold for seeking threatment is low, especially if he's experiencing anything he's not already familiar with. To my understanding Italy has a good quality universal public healthcare, but he typically chooses to go with private sector anyway and has been investing in pricey health insurance for years (probably way more extensive than what is necessary or reasonable).

I also thought of Vasco as a habitual blood donor. He wouldn't like it per se (medical surroundings unnerve him), but I think he might just get a kick out of being a good boy and potentially helping people. (I know gay, bi and msm men used to be banned from donating (or at least severely restricted) but it looks like many countries have revised their criteria significantly in recent years and there's a good chance he'd be eligible these days.)

The hand sanitizer/hand cream combo is so good. It made me chuckle. (Are you a hand sanitizer person or a hand cream person?)

Their respective tastes in music and cinema have more overlap than you might initially think, and they keep aligning closer and closer over time.

Machete wouldn't like doing dishes. Having to touch wet food (weird texture + unhygienic) is bad times all around. But he genuinely enjoys a little bit of vacuuming, dusting, laundry and general tidying and organizing. He doesn't leave that much for Vasco to do, just the occasional visibly messy jobs that squick him out more than he cares to admit.

That's very considerate of him. That's a very considerate thing to do to anyone in general. Dehydration and low blood sugar can really sour your mood and you wouldn't even notice they were the reason you're feeling so bad all of a sudden. (When I'm having a difficult day I try to remember to ask myself whether things are truly collapsing or am I potentially just a little too thirsty and hungry and unaware of it. Usually it's the latter).

Ah yes, Machete and the horrors. Vasco might be aware of the horrors as well, but perhaps he possesses the specific kind of galaxy brain that is near immune to this particular flavor of existential dread.

[losersimonriley]

The neuro ward smells different. Better than the ICU. Less like piss, more like hand sanitiser–which doesn’t make much sense, considering ninety percent of the population on this floor seems to be geriatric, but he’ll take it.

Forgot to share chapter 10 here~

[thebluemoonjune]

The Sounds Of A Black Dahlia- Chapter 1

Summary:

8 years after marrying into a rich but cruel and messed-up family, Michonne, a loving mother and dutiful wife, finds herself in the middle of a brewing storm that may take everything she cares for, all while an unexpected member of the family returns, wanting to cause even more chaos and uproot her already troublesome life. AU Richonne centred. The first chapter is the prologue.

Michonne styled her butterfly locs in front of the mirror in her pink silk robe. The mirror captured a stranger, empty and bored eyes, the glitter of vitality gone, replaced by the dormant look of disillusionment, casting doubts on her own identity. She had already put on her make-up and just needed to put on her dress and jewellery. When she was finished with her hair, she got up and went to the long, red, satin, side-split, spaghetti-strap Chanel corset dress when Shane entered her bedroom.

“You’re still getting dressed? We’re gonna be late!”

Her cold gaze fixed on the anxious young man; her eyes narrowed, and she got a vertical wrinkle between her eyebrows. Her lips pursed slightly.

“You seem to forget who you’re talking to. However loud and gruff your tone gets with your whore, don’t try that bullshit with me. I’m not in the mood.” Shane took a breath, not wanting to argue.

“Baby…I didn’t mean to yell at you, but we’re gonna be late. It’s an important night, and this is important to me. You can be mad; I’m gonna need you to keep that attitude in check; when we get back home, you can yell, cuss, or whatever, but none of that horseshit now.”

“You can leave without me, or you can call whatever her name is. I’m sure she would love to get out of that cave you keep her in.”

“Can you behave for once?”

“I don’t know, Shane; can you be faithful for once? Can you be a good father for once? Can’t you be a man for once? No? Then do not rush me. If you want a pretty, supportive wife, fine, I’ll put on the mask, but do not rush me!” She zipped up her dress.

“Don’t bring the kids into this. You don’t wanna go there…I know you're mad at me, but... baby, it’s complicated.”

“Shane… I want a divorce.” She went for her silver heels, not looking him in the face. “Andre and Maliyah are young; we should do it soon rather than drawing this out and letting it hurt them.”

“What?” Not acknowledging his confusion, she continued.

“They’ll ask questions at first, but they’ll let it go. I want you to move out permanently so they get used to it quickly.”

“Baby, I know you’re angry. Let’s talk about this tomorrow, okay? I‘ll be downstairs; don’t forget the driver’s waiting.” He kissed her cheek and turned to leave.

Michonne let out a lengthy sigh as she watched her husband head downstairs. If she had known then what she knew now, she would not have married him. How could a man have two families? How could he say he loved her while being between her and another woman? How could he marry her, knowing that there was someone else? How could she still love that man? Those types of questions plagued her almost every day. She sat in front of the mirror yet again, staring at her perfectly coiffed face.

  Come on, Michonne... This is an important night for our family; you shouldn’t delay any longer.

She stood up and stuffed her phone, breath mints, charger, hand sanitiser, and cosmetics into her silver sol metal oval clutch. She wanted to see her children before leaving, so she dashed straight to the room they’d be in while she was out. Shane didn't want her to work, so she didn't. Prior to the birth of her baby, she spent her days doing whatever she desired—having fun, going on trips with her best friends and school—all whilst she was being a wife to her husband. She made several adjustments after becoming a mother, not because she needed to, but because she chose to. Shane made arrangements for her to hire a nanny. Michonne, on the other hand, declined. She did not fancy her children being raised by a stranger, knowing her as their mother in name and name alone. She couldn’t have that. She would be there for her children every step of the way, no matter what. Her love for motherhood didn’t hurt either. As Michonne entered the room, the kids were play-fighting with the babysitter, Beth. It was hard for Michonne to find a babysitter she was comfortable with. Interview after interview and nothing. It was her friend, Maggie, who told her to give her sister a try. Shane preferred someone more professional, but Michonne decided to take a chance this time, not wanting to offend her buddy. She was overjoyed since Beth was a wonderful girl who was excellent with her children. Michonne employed this as a means to assist the seventeen-year-old girl in saving for college without relying on handouts.

“Did you two little troublemakers not see your mother?”

“Mama!” Her younger baby called her first and she rushed over. Michonne picked her up, kissing her all over her face. “You look pweety, Mama!”

“Thank you, Bubba!” She fixed the three-year-old’s messy curls and turned to her son, who was still up under Beth. “Peanut? Did you not see me?

Her son was only six—only six—but had a premature love for women. He had a crush on Beth, and he was no different when Maggie and her friend Sasha were over at their house. He never crossed any inappropriate lines, although she saw he had a wandering eye. She recalled telling Shane about it for the first time. He laughed for ten minutes straight. This was a bad habit; she'd have to kick early or risk becoming a grandma when she wasn't ready. She'd have to keep a close eye on him, especially as he hits his teenage years. It may be innocent for now, but every time she looked at her baby boy, she was reminded of how fast time flew; he would be a man before she knew it.

“I saw you, Mama! I didn’t wanna dirty your dress!”

“Oh, so it was for my sake?”

“Mhmmm!” Michonne laughed at his excuse and walked to him.

“Well, can I at least get a kissy wissy to go?” He got up from the large beanbag, planting a kiss on her cheek before rubbing the tips of their noses together. “You and your sister go to bed on time; don’t give Beth any trouble, okay?”

“Okay!”

"Tomorrow, the three of us will go shopping to get you guys bikes. Lia is old enough now for a little one and you’ve outgrown yours.”

“Really?”

“Only if you two behave.”

“We will, we promise, Mama!” Maliyah nodded in agreement with her big brother. “Alright. I love you both! But mommy has to go!”

“Beth, call me if anything! Goldie already got her dinner, so she’ll sleep on her own.” She gave her daughter to the teen.

“I will!”

…

As Michonne walked to the stairs, she saw her husband at the end, waiting for her with an impatient expression laced on his handsome face. Noticing her finally coming down, he let out a sigh of relief.

“What took you?”

“Well, one of us had to settle the kids, right?”

“Sorry…”

“You're the guest of honour; your father isn’t going to change his mind at the last minute either. Calm yourself.”

“You’re right,” he said, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Thanks, we should go.” Her tone was flat, almost cold.

…

The two sat at the back of his Bentley, five minutes away from their destination. Tonight would be the night her father-in-law announced that she was handing over the reins to his son, her husband. She was happy for him, ecstatic even, but she was also exhausted.

“I need a `goddamn cigarette.”

“Not in the car.”

“Oh, you ready to talk to me now… I didn’t go there to fuck her, if that’s what you think.”

“What was that?”

“I went to pull her up about that shit she pulled at the store. I haven’t been intimate with her for a long time.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Does it?” It did and she hated that it did. “I know it feels unfair to you, but Chonne, I can’t just kick her out of my life; we got two kids together.”

“Bastards.” It was wrong of her to say; the children were innocent. It didn’t change things, though.

“My children nonetheless.” He licked his lip as he rubbed his head. “She was in the picture long before you; it’s unfair to her too.”

“And yet you married me. Young, naive, clueless me. All because she wasn’t up to your father’s standards. I made the perfect wife. Young, educated, well-off and from a good family. Having a black wife on your arm also showed you were open-minded and a little liberal.” She gave a sad chuckle.

“Is that all you think you are to me? Woman, I love you. It may’ve started out that way when we tied the knot, but not for long. Chonne, I love you…”

“Can you blame me? You’re Emperor Qianlong and I’m Empress Nara, I just haven’t cut my hair yet... Everything is business with you people. You keep saying that you love me; is that really true?”

“Of course!”

“Then why is she still in the picture?”

“She’s in the picture because we got kids. I’ve explained it all before.”

“Again, Shane, why is she in the picture? The last time we had a fight, did you forget what you told me?” She positioned her body to see his face. “Feelings for your mistress aside, you could be in their lives without her. You could take them. Do you think I would hurt them?”

“It ain’t like that. I just—” At the same time, his phone rang. “Rick?”

“Rick?”

“Yeah, Man… We’re basically here, pulling up now… Tell my old man, we’ll be up soon... later.” Shane ended the call. “Dad wants to know where we are.”

“Well, we’re here... You never told me your brother was back.”

“You been mad at me all day; I ain’t got the chance.” He hit her with a smile, which she rolled her eyes at. “We’ll talk tomorrow, like I said. You know what we gotta do, right?” 

He kissed her hand once more, then her neck, pausing to inhale her sweet scent as he placed his head on her shoulder. She closed her eyes and rested her chin on him. She married him when she was barely twenty; he was six years her senior. He courted her for six months at the behest of their parents prior to proposing. He was her first time, her first kiss, her first love—her first everything. She had no clue he was already in love with someone else and had a son with her. What disappointed her the most was that both of her parents were aware. They were aware and pushed her towards him anyway. Now she’s tied to him in more ways than one. He got up from the creek of her neck as the driver, Gareth, reached the entrance of the building. Coming to a stop, Gareth got out, opening the car door for Shane, who in turn held her hand, guiding her out. He fixed her dress and interlocked their fingers, strolling into the venue. Michonne, understanding the show was on the road, adjusted. Her shoulders were pulled back and she held her head high as she adorned herself with an enormous smile.

There were many people in the vestibule. There, they saw the familiar face of one of her father-in-law’s assistants, Tara. She wore a black, knee-length dress, formal enough for the event but conservative since she was here working. Noticing them both, her shoulders dropped and her face lit up as she hurried over.

“Finally! Your father has been asking questions for the past fifteen minutes! You know he hates being late.”

“We ain’t that late.”

“Yes, you are! We started half an hour ago!”

“Come on. Stop. Let’s go in. Before your father actually changes his mind.” They went towards the main hall, hand in hand.

“Who else is he gonna give it to? That whore’s brat is like ten.”

“Is that any way to talk about your stepmother, hmm? She might be an insufferable bitch, but don’t let anyone hear you. He’s eighteen, plus, even if Alex’s young, there’s Monty or Rick; your father has always loved him like a son. He’s a brother you actually like.”

“But he ain’t a Walsh; he’s a Grimes. That old fox would never give my mother the satisfaction. The day that happens, hell gonna freeze over. He’s far too damn cold and petty for that.”

“They’re getting a divorce and still so sour. Flaunting his mistress and children, being close to Rick... What a petty bastard.” His guffaws echoed in the large hall room, causing strangers to search for the source. “Calm yourself.” She patted his back like he was a choking toddler. “It’s not like your mother cares. She’s no different.”

In the vast crowd, they could see John Castus Walsh, the man of conversation, standing in the middle of the room with his thirty-six-year-old fiancée, Andrea Holden, among a couple of business partners. Noticing their arrival, John smiled in their direction, flagging them.

“You recognise ‘em?”

“Yes, the tall slender one is Negan Smith, The woman Daniella Dane, her husband has recently become a shareholder in the company. Josh Cophe may be the COO, but he’s dangerous, so careful and try to get rid of him. The one in the silver-grey suit is Philip Blake; he’s a politician.” Her husband sighed at the information.

“So we play dumb... Any trouble with the other shareholders? Were their wives friendly?”

“No. They were great at the dinner, and you can trust Morgan Jones… Shane… Just because he chose you, doesn’t mean you’re safe. Many poisonous snakes lay in the grass.”

“I know… You ready?”

“No, but it’s not about me; it’s about you.” She stroked his chest, staring deep into his eyes. “This is your night; you worked hard for this and it’s finally paying off. Regardless of everything, Shane, I am proud of you.” 

She hooked herself underneath his arm and they made their way to the others. She could feel her husband staring at her but she did not return his gaze, simply staring straight ahead. He tightened his hold on her and spun his neck straight, smirking.

“Ah, let me introduce you to my son, Shane, and his lovely wife, Michonne,” he whispered to Shane. “You’re late,” then said to Michonne. “You look lovely, dear,” he smiled. “Shane, this is Josh Cophe, Negan Smith, Daniella Dane, and Philip Blake.”

“You have a lovely wife here.”

“Thank you Mr. Smith! She’s my partner in crime, this one. You got someone?”

“My wife Lucille. She isn’t here, though.”

“Sad to hear it. Maybe she and my Chonne can meet next time. And you must be, Mr. Blake.

“You’re a very talented young man as as my friend said, lovely wife!”

“Thank you, Mr. Blake. Wait… you’re running for governor.”

“Yes, he sure is and I’m backing him; we’re backing him.” John added.

“I see…” 

Shane glanced at Michonne, who tried her best not to roll her eyes at the shenanigans she was witnessing. Business. It was always business. John didn’t even attempt to talk to his son about Blake’s politics or policies. It didn’t matter. If John Castus Walsh was anywhere near a politician, it wasn’t to plan for the betterment of his community. Michonne was about to slip away when an annoying voice rang in her ear.

“Well, could you two be any later? Or did Shane have outside business to attend to?”

“Andrea… Sorry, but you see, I was with my kids... Not everyone can relate, but surely you’d understand.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her eyes narrowed as he attempted to decipher the cryptic message.

“Exactly as I said.”

“Your right. Hmm, speaking of children. I know you love yours very much, and so does Shane, right? I know he makes time for all of ‘em .” She made sure to draw out her last bit of words, twisting her knife.

Michonne looked Andrea up and down, a smile completely enveloping her face. She had to admit Andrea was stunning in her yellowish-green Valentino pleated strapless silk-blend gown. She had her hair in a beautiful French twist and a yellowish-green rhinestone flower clip to match. That, however, was where Michonne’s compliments came to an end. If she had to put words to thoughts, Andrea was, to put it simply, a money-hungry, vindictive, selfish, entitled, cunt of a woman who cared for nothing and no one other than herself. Not even her children were exempt from this, as they were simply insurance for her everlasting cash cow, whom she called a fiancé. Shane hated her to the moon and back. He could see through her from the day he met her thirteen years ago. It didn’t help that they were almost the same age either.

“Yes, something that everyone doesn’t do. You know, sex parties, drugs, trip here, trip there! Like shameless, egotistical, self-centred whores. No sense of responsibility, even to their kids... A sad state of affairs…” She tried to suppress her giggling, but ended up bursting into loud laughter. This drew attention from Blake. “Shane, sweetheart, I'm going to look for my parents. You know how much I miss them.”

“Alright, come look for me when done.” He knew she was lying and probably wanted to leave due to being tired of her quiet sparring with Andrea. She also hated her parents.

He gave her a demure kiss, sending her off. Michonne grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter and walked closer to a corner, not wanting others to talk to her until she was ready to go back to her husband. Sipping on her bubbly, her mind went far but was suddenly brought back when she heard her big brother’s voice over her shoulder.

“Mom and Dad are asking for you.”

“Mike! Don’t do that!”

“Sorry.”He began to chuckle.

“Not funny.”

“Okay! Okay!” he threw his hands up. “They still want to see you, though.”

“What the hell do they need now?”

“Why do you assume they want something? Maybe they really want to see you.” Michonne's brows gently lifted as she silently awaited clarification of his nonsense. “Okay… You got me. They want you to talk to Shane about an investment in a project. I'm just giving you a heads-up.”

“They have some nerve. Was this her idea?”

“Well, I have a beautiful and intelligent sister who’s married to one of the wealthiest families in the country and an immodest and audacious mother who’ll make full use of her.”

The siblings stared at each other, breaking out in a sad laugh. They both knew it. Sometimes she wondered if she had been born a son, if she would’ve been forced, controlled and manipulated like her parents were regarding her marriage. She loved her brother, especially when compared to her sister Macie; however, part of her resented him. She fought most her life, trying to gain a fraction of what he had. He lived his life how he wanted for the most part and would inherit their estate when all was said and done. After all, a daughter is like spilt water when she is wed, unless her maternal family needs something, of course. She admittedly would inherit nothing. She didn’t like that; she didn’t like that at all.

“They get dust from me.” She said bluntly, eyes cold and proud.

“Naturally… Look, your mother-in-law and sister-in-law are here. Oh, your brother-in-law is here too, well, other bother-in-law. Saw Richard earlier chatting with a pretty blonde.” Mike peeped her expression, trying to find a reaction on her pretty little face. He saw nothing.

Her sister-in-law, Kendall, wore a long pink open-side Armani halter dress. The neck of the dress was pure silver rhinestones, and her raven hair wrapped tightly in a fishtail braid updo, diamond earrings on her ears and a face beat to the heavens. Kendall Oliva Walsh or K for short was the youngest of the Walsh line and the only girl in a sea of men. She was driven, plain-spoken, and outgoing. She lived life with little regard for anyone, in the best way possible. She started her own publishing company against her father and grandfather’s wishes at the age of twenty-four. Out of all the family members Michonne gained from her marriage, K was her favourite, not counting her kids. Michonne smiled. Kendall is what Andrea wishes she could be.

Her eccentric mother-in-law was no different. Dressed to the fucking nines. Draped open-back Valentino silk gown, her black neck-length hair slicked right back with a side part. She had her face painted with a smokey eye and a ruby red lip, just like her own. Huge white pearls on her ears and neck and marble white red bottom Christian Louboutin heels with a white Saint Laurent clutch under her arm, along with her thirty-year-old French boyfriend. Michonne could smell the money. Some people suggest that affluent individuals don't like to flaunt their wealth, but this couldn't be further from the truth, especially in the case of Eleanor Olivier Grimes-Walsh. Eleanor was a stern woman who had a fearsome and commanding presence. She was harsh with her subordinates and peers, protective of all her children and cold and ruthless with those she deemed her enemies. The deceptively beautiful woman, Eleanor earned her the moniker ‘Iron Woman’. Being a mother of four at fifty-five years old, she looked to be in her early forties at most. She valued her beauty and appearance as much as her intelligence. You could never hope to find a flaw nor would you dare to. Eleanor came from nothing and married into this world, where she fought tooth and nail. 

She didn’t care what her Monty wore, as it was a boring, expensive tux like all the other men wore. The most she could say about it was that it was blue. Materialistic, aggressive, pompous, and unpredictable were all words that Michonne thought about the tall glass of concentrated ignorance. While Shane took after his father’s strong masculine features, Monty inherited his mother’s soft beauty, making him a ‘pretty boy’ and a sex-fueled one at that. She stayed away from him for the most part, unless it was a family occasion such as this one. Shawn Montgomery Walsh, better known as “Monty,” was many things and known for many as well but presenting his partners wasn’t one of them.

So, what interested Michonne the most about her ‘good brother’ was the woman at his arm. This was the first and Michonne was confused as to why. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Her hair was dark at the roots and light brown coming out, tied in a messy updo. She wore a white and green sleeveless dress and a white shawl covering her back, a yellow purse, and yellowish-green shoes with accessories to go. If she had to guess she was wearing one single brand, most people wouldn’t do that, not counting celebrities with endorsements. She wore the clothes; she had the man; she was at the event, but even so, she stuck out like a nail. Michonne could immediately tell that the woman wasn’t one of them; whether that was good or bad remained to be seen. One thing was for certain, though, Monty had already brought forth the woman, and so, she’d stay for a while. Oh, how interesting.

Given the arrival of the new party, she hooked her brother’s arm. Her eyes sparkled, understanding what was to come. Though she was trying to hide it, the corners of her mouth were twitching upward. In the corner of her eye, she notices Rick with his date making his way to her husband and father-in-law, same as Eleanor and her other children. Now that the whole family was here, it was time to return to her husband’s side. The event may have started but the show was just starting.

“You’re taking me with you?”

“Don’t you want to see something funny?”

“I’m sure it’s family business going on over there.”

“Probably, but you are technically family too. Just keep your mouth shut and be entertained. Besides, if Eleanor, Rick, and Monty can bring strangers here, I can bring my brother.” 

She walked over with her brother by her side and fell in next to her husband. On her way over, John left with his associates. 

The news will be delivered soon .

“Come on, Monty! Stop holding out. Who’s the girl?”

“Always in my damn business!”

“What are big brothers for? Come on, man.”

“This is my girlfriend, Magna. Magna Anders.”

“Girlfriend? Well, nice to meet you! Rick, you ain’t off the hook, man! And K, you’re by yourself.”

“Naturally! Why the fuck would I bring a man here? To look pretty?”

“You know she’s a fucking drugged-up slut. No proper man would want her.” Monty smiled at his little sister.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, you dead dick prick! You’re probably riddled with syphilis. Syphilis riddled.” Kendall chuckled hard. 

“Wicked ranthrough witch bitch…”

“Egotistical, small, dick twink-looking cunt.”

“Closet lesbian, dick tease.”

“I thought we were trading blows. I’d gladly give up men you sexist, inbred-looking, slack-jawed, drooling meatslapper.”

“Oh my God.” Holly and Magna looked at each other awkwardly, shocked at the unexpected turn, while Michonne sipped on her bubbly.

“Both of you stop that shit, right now. We’re in public for crying out loud! No need to get foul. Utterly fucking embarrassing!” Eleanor slapped Monty in the back of his head.

“I’m gonna take a gander and say… Companionship?” Directed the conversation back on track. Michonne looked at Shane with pity.

“Oh please! I’m smarter than that.”

“Can’t be that fucking smart; you’re an English major.” Monty quipped.

“Ignore him. Just answer the question.” Shane didn’t let up.

“A good dick down maybe, but companionship? Fuck no! Hassel Rick!”

“Kendall!”

“Sorry mother…”

“Rick.”

“Oh, this here is Holly. She’s my date for the night.” Michonne stretched out her hand.

“You’re very pretty, Holly. I hope you have a wonderful night.”

“Thank you.”

“She will. You don’t gotta worry about that.” Rick said it with slightly hostile eyes.

Michonne returned his gaze tenfold, not backing down in the slightest. His huge blue eyes gave her a playful expression, as if she were a mouse and he were the cat, like a tiger studying a bunny, until he began laughing softly to himself. His laugh was uncalled for and sounded more like an evil cackle than an expression of amusement. Andrea giggled at the side and Shane rolled his eyes at his brother's behaviour.

“Alright, alright. Stop teasing her.”

“So Holly, Magna, what do you think about our colourful family?”

“Well, like you said, quite colourful. Is it always like this?” They both gazed at her, truly intending to know.

“Oh Holly, stick around and you’ll find out!”

“There ain’t nothing you need to ask her for, Hol.” Rick cut in, making Michonne roll her eyes.

“Michonne! You look gorgeous, by the way!” Kendall attempted to break the tension her brother was stuck on causing.

“So do you, K!” They embraced. She turned to her mother-in-law. “You look absolutely stunning, Eleanor. How do you do it?”

“Ugh! You’re gonna let it go to her head! You know she loves hearing nothing more!”

“I stay stress-free darling. Never let small, egotistical men get the better of me or their whores.” Shane nudged his wife, not wanting her to add fuel to the fire. Michonne, however, did not care.

“I completely get you. What about you, Andrea? Surely you have your own methods?”

“Yes, Andrea, please share.” Kendall joined in.

“I just live my life without thinking of irrelevant people.” Eleanor cut in after Andrea’s words.

“Sure you do! You look… nice. My children’s money sure does wonders.” 

“You mean my fiancé’s money.”

“Same thing! My children will indubiously inherit every red cent !” Eleanor waved her hand high with a booming laugh. “Is that not why we’re here? Surely you can swallow those facts, though I know you are as helpless as you are homely, Amanda.”

“What are you talking about?” Her eyes narrowed as she attempted to decipher the cryptic message from the bewitching woman ahead of her.

“It seems the wheel is spinning but the hamster’s dead.” She strutted over to Shane, holding onto his arm on his left while Michonne was on his right. Her tone was playful, like a child. “I know it was kept in the family, but I would’ve expected your fiancé to tell you! Tonight my son will be announced as the CEO of Briton!” Noticing Andrea’s expression, Eleanor feigned a look of shock. “Don’t tell me you actually believed that my pig-headed husband would make your son his heir now? You think, because you got a cheap ring after pushing out two bastards, all your dreams could come true? Let me explain this to you. There are shareholders, investors, and people with whom we have certain relationships. There is still Ronan. Even if John had the idea, my father-in-law would never allow it! What do you have to offer other than your vagina? You don’t even have shares. My children do and I would never allow you or your hellspawns to. You have no power and you can’t intelligently use the only tool God has blessed you with either; that just makes you a cheap whore. One thing I can’t stand a Shameless, Stupid, Slut. They’re a bad combination.”

Michonne could see her brother’s mouth agape from the side, not expecting all he heard. At the same time, John took the front. They all went to take their seats. Though she didn’t tell Shane her thoughts due to not wanting to get the wrong idea, she was befuddled as to why he decided to give Shane control now. John was a man capable of kindness, and his raising Rick was a testament to that; however, he was also one of the cruellest people she knew. He destroyed company after company and family after family to get what he coveted. There was a man who threw himself off a building because he lost everything. It was one of the reasons her parents sacrificed her to the altar; for safety. He was not Ronan’s original successor nor was he his first-born son; he was the fourth child of five boys. His brother Ronan III, eldest, at sixty-six, was currently rotting in a prison cell for the murder of their great patriarch’s third wife, Helena, who also happened to be her father-in-law’s mother. The second son, Patrick, the main choice for the heir, was found drowned in his tub at forty-two. The third son, Cillian, at sixty-three, was held in a mental institution. And the fifth son, Joseph, was born from the same womb as John, never stepping on his brother’s tail and taking what he was given.

All so strange, but hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil... It’s not my business.

What was her business, was the father of her children. John was the possessive type; at only sixty-one, she couldn’t fathom a man as litigious, ruthless, controlling and determined as him giving over his blood work to expand to this point—not right now. Ronan, she could understand; after all, he, his parents, and two older siblings came here as immigrants, and he built everything from nothing for his descendants, but John was not his father. Leaving a legacy may be part of it; all men crave to leave a legacy behind, but there was more of a driving force to his motivations. She suspected more afoot.

“My father, Ronan Lucius Walsh II, came here to America from the old country, Ireland, when he was but 4 years old. My family, like other people of their time, had many difficulties… They bought into the American dream; they could make it here. I’d be lying if I say that upon arrival, everything was fine and dandy. You could imagine the hardships of an immigrant in a foreign land, but they never once gave up on that dream, particularly my father. He basically started Briton on thought, prayer, blood, and sweat and look at it now! Twenty-one years ago, he stood in a similar position as I do now, with the same intentions. ‘Times are changing’. Those were the words my father said to me when he handed me the reigns, and they are what I say to you, Shane. I am proud of you, son. Come on, let them see you.”

Shane squeezed his wife's hand, kissing her temple. He got up and went to his father’s side. The last time she saw him this happy was when he met their little girl.

“All children look up to their parents and I’m no different. As the eldest, growing up, I could only hope that I live up to my father, not for myself but for my family. I am not perfect. Many people helped me reach the point that my old man felt comfortable that I was ready. My father and mother, obviously; my younger siblings; my beautiful children; and my amazing, beautiful wife. Now I get to work for them and our future and build upon what my grandfather and father left to me. I vow to uphold the very same morals and values that has been instilled in me, to protect my family name, to progress my community, and to build upon the legacy that has come before me. That I, Shane Johnathan Walsh, promise.”

Everyone stood up, clapping. Whether it was insincere or not didn’t matter. The old ‘white-eyed wolf’ had already named his successor; there was nothing else to add. What would happen after tonight was a different story. As John gave another speech, Michonne turned to look at Rick, only to find him looking at her. She broke eye contact as quickly as she made it.

Why? Why did he come back… Why now?

After they were done addressing the room, Shane, John and she made the rounds, meeting with business partners, shareholders, board members and so on. She stood by her husband’s side, doing her ‘wifely duties’—smiling when necessary, reminding him of information or names in his ear, charming the opposite party and their spouse—the typical tiring dance. 

Why am I even doing this?

When he no longer needed her by his side, she quietly broke away, heading to an area where she could be alone for a while. She sat behind a shadowy section of a wall, in the back room of the lounge, pulled out her phone and began texting her friend Sasha, who should’ve been in attendance, when, all of a sudden, two voices could be heard having a not so ‘small’ argument.

“How dare you! You just announced that Shane would be given the company!”

“It’s still my company.”

“Does that mean you won’t hand over your stocks? You son of a bitch! How could you do this to my boy? Is he just your workhorse while you whip; He’s just a face?”

“When did I say I was giving him full control? CEOs are never in full control. I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t get what you want.”

“Transfer ownership! Two male rats cannot exist in the same hole!”

“If he wants what’s mine, he’s gonna have to work for it! I can’t just give him what I’ve built… I gave him a chance. If he messes up, there‘s Monty, and even Alex thought he’s young now. Hell, there are many others that’ll fight for it—not Kendell, of course, but you’ll see.”

“He has been working for it! I’ll never get over the embarrassment of being of the same species as you. You are a monster, a demon, a malformation. The fact that you would even bring up that woman’s child but K isn’t an option.”

“You think because he does what the fuck he’s supposed to do—because he’s the firstborn, it’s all that matters. No, Livi, that ain’t how it works. He’s so weak.”

“All parents plan for their children. Can’t you see what you’re doing? You of all people should know!”

“And what do you think I’m doing? Strong men create good times and good times create weak men.” Michonne could hear him smirk at his every word.

“You won’t win!”

“Livi… I always win!”

Eleanor stormed out, slamming the door behind her. John left behind her as easily as he came, leaving her sitting in mellowing in her thoughts! She knew John was cruel but he was basically putting a target on his son’s back, leaving him with no protection! How in God’s name could he put his son on the chopping block just to see if he’d survive?

What the actual fuck! Oh… I can’t breathe!

She got up, nose clenching, making breathing difficult. Stumbling to the balcony for fresh air, her mind a mess with this new information. She did not know how Shane would take it; he craved his father’s approval. Her mouth opened and closed without making a sound. There was no backing out now—not enough and not soon enough to make a difference—that’s where they were at. They were foolish to think things would be this easy. Stakeholders, board of directors...

He was at everyone’s mercy, especially John. A CEO with barely any power. A fucking puppet… He won’t be a John Sigismund!

“Eavesdropping? Really?”

“Rick… What are you talking about?” Her expression was carefully designed and constructed.

“Earlier in the lounge, when Eleanor and John were talking.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I just follow the scent of treachery; that’s how I found you.”

“Why are you here?” He ignored the inquiry.

“By the way, congrats on getting everything you wanted. Gonna be a long ride from here, though.”

“Did you come here to fuck with me?”

“No…”

“Go back.” She had no intention of playing his game.

“I forgot to tell you… You look beautiful…”

Rick cracked a grin and concentrated on her for a long time, his gaze gentle. Michonne could almost call it romantic. While they processed the statement, she leaned back on the balcony railing, her eyes deepening and her head tilted.

“I like the beard.”

“Didn’t have time to shave before I got here. Should I keep it?”

“I still prefer your clean-shaven look.”

“Give it time. You’ll like it all the same.”

“Can I have one?” Her tone softened.

“I thought you stopped smoking.”

“I have.”

Rick peered at her, pulling out his pack and removing one of the cigarettes, which he placed in her lips. He didn't reach for his lighter, instead lowering his head and igniting hers with his, never once breaking eye contact.

7 years, 9 months prior

“Hey…”

“Hi…”

“Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Touché…”

“Rick?”

“Mmm.”

“I wanted to apologise to you… for how I reacted at the wedding. That wasn’t called for.”

“Nah, no need. Should’ve talked to you better than that. I can see how it sounded... I’m not really good with people.”

“Believe it or not, me either.”

“You seem like a lively person... can’t see that.”

“I’ve had two friends all my life; everything I’ve known about the world, I learned from them... My parents didn’t like me out much.” Rick didn’t respond, simply looking at her, waiting for her to go on. Lost in reminiscing, she did. “I met them when I was like six; we went to the same schools… Getting married, I realised… I don’t know so much. Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“No, go on.” She looked at him with sparking eyes. She didn’t understand why he, of all people, would even want to hear her nonsense.

“There’s nothing particularly about me that stands out. I thought playing the piano and violin, painting, speaking multiple languages, and having the best grades made me great, and that everyone saw it like that too. I mean, it made my parents happy, my grandparents too… If I did well, my sister would be mad because everyone would praise me. I like seeing her mad; does that make me a bad person?”

“No, but I ain’t exactly the best person to judge so…” Michonne chuckled at his words.

He really is a socially awkward guy… What a weird response!

“You know… marriage is not what I imagine, at all…”

“Hmm?”

“Your brother doesn’t treat me badly or anything; I just thought…”

“Not some fairytale, huh?”

“No… I feel like an outsider here, with your family... in my home.”

“You smoke? 

“Huh? Uh—” 

Rick held out a cigarette; she took it and lit it for her. Unacquainted with the habit, her throat burned from the smoke, and she began coughing vigorously. She took it out of her mouth, handing it back to the owner. Without realising it, he spat out a globe of saliva. His eyes brimmed with tears of mirth, and the smile tugging his lips broke into a grin.

“Why are you laughing? It’s not funny!” Her eyes blinked excessively, and her cheeks burned as she hit him with an accusing glare.

“You don’t gotta do things you aren’t comfortable with, you know. You’re your own damn person, with your own damn feelings. If you don’t like something, say it! Got something on your mind? Voice it! Don’t be a people pleaser; don’t want people walking all over you, right?”

“What?”

“And if they gotta problem with boundaries, fuck ‘em. Stay away from folks like that. Live however the hell you want. Not for your parents, not for Shane; just you.”

She studied him with unwavering attention, and he stared back at her with a quizzical brow, left hand in his pants pocket still smoking. He was much kinder than she gave him credit for. And he was different from the others. Standing here, she felt at ease. It was sparingly easier to talk to him.

Present

“Why did you come back?” Her voice broke. “You said you wanted nothing to do with this family—with the Walsh's... So why?”

“You know… On my way back, I thought, ‘What would I do when I saw your face again?’ Would I choke the life out you? Maybe I’d shoot you dead for all the pain you caused me, for your lies... Looking at you now... so many plans, and yet.. nothing. Even after all this time, I—”

A tear fell from her eye. She bent her head, not daring to meet his gaze, all while he paced back to her. His face was neutral but his eyes held a crazed look. He lifted her chin with his finger and wiped the tear that trickled down her face, tilting his head to the side.

“I would say that you came back because of Lori’s death, but that was three months ago. You didn’t show up for the mother of your child, then, but Shane is taking over and here you are…”

“And what if I said Lori was part of it?”

“So you admit there are other reasons.”

“I admit that you’re gonna be crying soon. John made it so.”

“How long are you going to be here?”

“Afraid?” He nibbled her ear and for a second, her body began to fall into old habit. “Ain’t gonna push me away?” His hand began travelling up her dress. “Ain’t afraid my brother might see?”

“Where is your date? She seems sweet, all draped in white.” Her whispered question stopped him dead in his tracks. He backed off, licking his lips as his blue pools gaped at her.

“Doing something for me.”

“Doing what?"

“Hmm… I wonder.”

“Doing what?” She stepped towards him. “Rick!” 

“I expect a visit from you soon. I’ll text my number.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Shane. Specifically, the children…”

“Is this a threat?”

“No, darling… But you need an offer from me. I don’t wanna be an enemy to you of all people.”

“Says the man who wanted to strangle me on sight. Your words, not mine.”

“I still do. Ain’t that something?”

“And why exactly would you be an enemy?”

“You mean other than the obvious? Hmm, you’re gonna find out… in due time. I promise you that… Carl misses his aunt.”

“Tell Carl that—” 

Her voice was cut by a blood-curdling scream overhead, all the way to the bottom floor. A chill of fear caused them both to sprint back to the balcony. Their jaws fell, their eyes widening in surprise, as if a charge of lightning rushed through their veins, temporarily paralysing them. It was Holly. She was laid out deathly still, blood pouring from her skull and nose, eyes stood unblinking. Seeing the grotesque scene, Michonne’s mind ran straight to Lori as she covered her mouth in pure shock and horror.

…

…

…

Keynotes-

Empress Nara originally a noble-consort named Xian, was the step-empress of the Qianlong Emperor who was elevated to that rank after Empress Xiaoxianchun ( She was apparently really sweet and the love of the emperor’s life!) died. She served for many years. During the 30th year of Qianlong's reign, the Step Empress accompanied the emperor on a tour of Southern China. As the group arrived at Hangzhou, the step-empress cut her hair which you weren't supposed to do unless in mourning of the emperor and empress-dowager, so she was basically wishing them dead and wanted the marriage to be done. This was a grave crime but she was so fed up that she said fuck it!

John Sigismund Zápolya, Ottoman puppet king of Hungary contested Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand I of Hapsburg's claim to the throne. Boring man, but not so boring life! Was even exiled and made a return. Died childless though.

Would have made a  proper note about the Qianlong Emperor. But that man had too many women and too much shit going on. He was good at his job but a shit husband hence the haircutting, but most emperors are terrible Husbands. Read a biography lol.

White eyed wolf . The expressions 白眼狼 (bái yǎn láng) – literally “white eyed wolf” and 狼心狗肺 (láng xīn gǒu fèi) – literally “heart of a wolf and lungs of a dog” are both used to describe a particularly cold-hearted, cruel person.

Prologue

Chapter-2

[the-fiction-witch]

I Need Help

Media - The Maze Runner Series AU Character - Newt Couple - Newt X Reader Reader - Y/n Rating - Sweet Word Count - 3252

As I moved restlessly around the house, I meticulously checked and prepared everything. The dining table is spotless and uncluttered, while the fridge is meticulously stocked with carefully prepared meals, each one labelled with its date and cooking instructions. The milk has been properly organized by expiration date and labelled accordingly. Meanwhile, the bottle warmer is already in action, sterilizing the second batch of bottles, with the first batch neatly stored in the cupboard. Additionally, all the pacifiers have been thoroughly cleaned and sterilized. In the pantry, an array of cookies, snacks, and tea is neatly arranged, and the diaper cupboard is fully stocked and organized. Lastly, the teethers are already chilling in the freezer, ready for use.

I. Am. Prepared.

Bing

What the bloody hell was that! I jumped out of my skin leaping halfway across the kitchen, Ohh... just the bottle sanitiser machine. It's finished.

No need to give me a heart attack bottle machine!

I approached the sink, eager to begin the meticulous process of cleaning the baby bottles. First, I lathered my hands thoroughly with gentle, antibacterial soap, ensuring to scrubbed every nook and cranny. After drying my hands with a fresh, sealed dry wipe, I carefully donned a new pair of latex gloves. With deliberate movements, I retrieved the freshly cleaned bottles from the machine and placed them on their designated shelf, ensuring to seal the shelf with hygiene tape. Next, I carefully took the hand-washed and mini dishwasher-treated bottles from the rack, adding them one by one to the sanitizing machine. As I set the machine in motion, I discarded my gloves and once again washed my hands, ensuring every step along the way maintained impeccable hygiene standards.

"Hey Newtie Booty," Y/n giggled as she came down the stairs, in her comfy clothes ready for her long flight, her Y/H/C hair pulled up into a braid,

"Ah! Love!" I jumped, "Don't! I'm full of enough anxiety right now,"

"I can tell," she giggled,

"You can?"

"Newt, you're hyperventilating and you're chewing on your hoodie strings."

"Maybe I am," I sighed forcing it out my mouth, "I'm sorry love I'm just... nervous is all.... this is the first time I've been alone with all four of them. Ever. Since they have been alive." I explained, "I'm freaking out!"

"Newt. You'll be fine babies are more resilient them you give them credit for," She chuckled, "Remember when you couldn't burp Simon for a week becuase you weren't burping him hard enough,"

"I remember," I sighed, "But I felt bad... I didn't want to hit his little back too hard,"

"You are so sweet," she cooed kissing my cheek, "You'll be fine it's just a week."

"Just a week," I nodded already feeling overwhelmed,

"Hey, remember what we talked about? Breaking down your jobs into steps?" She suggested,

I took a deep breath and nodded, "Yeah... just a week. But a week is a whole seven days."

"Hey, hey, break it down." she suggested, "It's seven days. and you're on day one so it's really only six days, five and a half if you could be coming home on Friday,"

"Yeah... I guess that's true," I nodded,

"And really over those five and a half days you only need to break it down into eight feedings a day which is only really four in the morning and four in the afternoon, plus the twelve hours a day they are sleeping so really it either sleep or eat at any one time which if you get them all onto the same sleep and eat schedule it shouldn't be to... Hard." She explained but then she noticed my face, "This isn't helping? is it?"

"It is not love," I admit,

"Sorry Newt,"

"It's fine. It's okay." I gasped,

"You'll be fine," she smiled giving my lips a soft little kiss, "I have complete faith in you Newt,"

"You do?"

"Of course I do," She smiled, "Maybe this is the moment all those paternal instincts the books talk about will kick in, and you'll finally become the amazing super daddy they know you can be,"

I blushed, "I hope so, I love them so much... I just... worry about everything for them."

"I know you do, but do try and have some fun while I'm gone okay?"

"Okay," I nodded, "I'll try, I hope everything is okay."

"I'm sure it's fine, I'd say us all go but seems like more stress, I'll bring you a magnet," she smiled kissing my cheek before she headed to the door,

"Hey," I stop her, "I love you,"

"I love you too," She smiled and we shared a soft sweet kiss, "Have fun,"

"You too," I smiled,

As she prepared to leave, we exchanged one final kiss, savouring the moment before parting ways. She threw her bag into the car and then glanced back at me, blowing a farewell kiss as she reversed out of our driveway. I stood there, watching as her car made its way down the road, turning the corner until it vanished from sight.

And it sunk in... I really am... alone...

And as soon as I had a moment to breathe the crying began.

I rushed upstairs making sure to lock the door and bolting into the nursery where I saw the four sweet little cribs, each I passed to find who was crying.

Robin was fine,

Wren was fine,

Jay was fine,

And so the crying was coming from little Sparrow, so I picked her up in my arms and gave her a sweet kiss or two to soothe her cries, I cooed petting her soft little blonde and Y/H/C hair little sparrow our only girl somehow got a mix of Y/n and I's hair and she had one Y/E/C eye and one brown eye she's my special little sparrow. Robin was a redhead of course part of why we named him it even before we knew about all four of them, and both Wren and Jay both had my dusty blonde. As soon as Sparrow was back to sleep I set her down in her crib again and did my best to speak away but before I could my phone went off for feeding time which woke all of them.

"Oh Bloody hell..." I groaned,

I sat on the rocking chair in the nursery my eyes half-lidded, my breaths slow, the rocking almost sending me to sleep at this rate, Wren against my chest as he finished up his bottle. I was beyond exhausted, but I got them all down for their meal and when I burp Wren and set him to bed they shall all be about the same for sleep with a few minutes of gradual wake-up for the night feed so all four don't wake up at once, which I should be able to manage. I hope. If I can keep them on this routine for the next few days. This is hard normally for me and Y/n to balance all four babies but on my own... I just don't have enough arms with which to cradle babies. Once he finished his bottle I wiped his messy little chin and burped him luckily he burped fairly fast so I kissed him and set him down in his crib.

"Nightie night little ones, sleep tight, don't let those bed bugs bite ya." I cooed giving them each a goodnight kiss before I double-checked the baby monitor, as well as left the nursery door open as I went across the hall and fell onto the bed passing out.

I woke to the sounds that chilled my very core, all four babies crying relentlessly in pain, and bird song. No. No! I couldn't have slept through my alarms!

I grabbed my phone and to my horror, I hadn't plugged it in last night... and it had died!

"Oh no!" I gulped boolting out of bed and into the nursery trying to soothe my poor starving babies! "I'm so so so sorry my little ones, Daddy is so sorry, dadyd didn't mean to miss your feeding, I'm so sorry my loves," I cooed trying not to cry, I felt like such a bad father! They were crying begging for milk their poor little baby tummies must have been so empty!

I quickly gathered them up in their carrier taking them downstairs so I could feed all four in the kitchen as soon as the bottles were warm, but "Oh no! Oh No!" I gasped as in my sleepy haze last night I had forgotten to close the fridge door! and everything inside was bad, surely it couldn't have just- No... no no no the cooker clock is wrong... we, We had a power outage! No! We had a power outage with the fridge doors open! All the milk for the babies was unusable, all the meals for me were soaked and ruined. "I'm so so sorry my little ones, daddy fucked up, daddy made a big mistake! But it's okay. we have emergency formula milk which should be okay just for this week, and I'll do a delivery and get myself some food in for a few days it's okay..."I explained to them as they cry, "We just need your..." I gasped as I turned to the pantry, "Oh no... no... no no no no!" I fell to my knees as the water that had leaked from the defrosting freezer and fridge had leaked all the way across the kitchen to the pantry, every single diaper I had was soaked in water and unusual, and water had gotten in the formula cartons flooding the whole floor with milk. "Oh no... daddy fucked up, daddy really really fucked up!" I gasped trying not to cry as I tried to think of what on earth I could do!

I need to go get food, and milk and formula, and diapers, and I need to take four babies, and they are starving, and crying, and I'm crying cause I feel like a terrible father.

"I... I need help..." I cried,

I called up the group chat for help and explained my situation, I didn't know what else to do or whom else to call. Y/n is a thousand miles away she can't help me.

I tried to do what little I could but soon they arrived, Like three golden angels,

Thomas, Minho and Gally.

"Right. We are here. And we are here to assist!" Minho said, "Where are babies in need of love and affection!"

"Bring me a baby to snuggle!" Thomas begged,

"Baby Wren for you," I told thomas as I handed him over, "Baby Robin for you," I told Minho as I handed him over, keeping Jay and Sparrow in my arms.

"Awww such the cutest little puddling pop" Thomas cooed peppering Wren with all the love and attention possible,"

"I am made of muscles, muscles for baby cuddles!" Minho explained,

"Not so loud Min, Babies. small ears."

"Right," He nodded, "Muscels for baby cuddles," he whispered just as hyped,

"Okay. We have enough formula and diapers to get you through the next forty-eight hours, after that two will do a shopping run while the others play with the babies at the park. Yes, I know you split your shops into two stores becuase of items that's why we go one pair into one while the other pair minds the baby's second store we switch. We also brought you two takeaway pizzas and enough fries to kill a small elephant to keep you going till we can get some groceries in you. I also came prepared with additional towels for the fridge and some new baby bottles that may do in a pinch while others are sanitizing." Gally explained,

"Gally... I could kiss you," I told him,

"You are a married man with four children that makes me uncomfortable,"

"I am sure in this situation Natgalie will understand, but know I would kiss you in spirit."

"Gross. Mouths or butts what is the more pressing issue,"

"Mouths I missed a feeding so they have been crying out and I just feel like the worst father on earth," I cried looking as poor little Jay cried in my arms,

"You are not a bad father Newt. everyone gets overwhelmed. Happens to us all." Minho explained as he took Wren from thomas,

Thomas went to make the bottles up, "Yeah come on man every dad gets one fuck up,"

"None of you are fathers."

"No... but I like to feel I have a very fatherly vibe," Minho said,

"which do you want to give me," Gally asked,

"I'm okay," I nodded,

"Newt. There are four babies. and four of us. we need to share the load." Thomas said as he brought bottles for all four babies,

"Okay, take Jay. He's mad at me anyway," I sighed handing Jay over to Gally and sitting in my chair to feed little sparrow who drank up her bottle so fast, "uhh yeah they missed at least one feeding so... we may need a refill."

"Another round of baby cocktails Thomas!" Minho ordered,

"Coming right up four baby formula cocktails," Thomas said, "can I reuse bottles or-"

"Whatever you need to Tommy," I answered,

I collapsed on the chair as soon as all four babies were in bed, sitting with the guys.

"Have you even slept?" Gally asked,

"No... too many schedules too-" I began,

"Go," Minho demanded,

"I'm fine I'll be-"

"Go Newt," Thomas demanded,

"Don't make us feed, burp, change and read you to bed Newt... cause we will do it," Minho warned,

"Okay, Okay, I'm going," I sighed,

"Not gonna lie that does sound kinda nice," Thomas nodded, but got glares, "Kidding."

"Wake me when the kids-"

"No. Sleep. we will deal with them get some goddamn rest." Gally demanded,

"...fine, just yell me if there-"

"rest!" They all yelled,

"I'm going I swear," I said getting up and heading up to my room but I couldn't check in on them I found Robin squirming so I gave him a quick cuddle in the rocking chair till he was happy, but by then Sparrow was squirming so I gave her a cuddle, but by then Wren was squirming and wanted cuddles, and of course the moment I was finished with him Jay wanted cuddles but I settled him ready for this dance to begin again until just as I set jay down in his crib I was grabbed by my hoodie and pulled from the nursery, rolled along the floor into a blanket like a sushi roll and thrown on my bed, "Guys!"

"Rest," Thomas told me,

"Or else," Minho warned before they shut my door,

"What if I have to pee?!"

"hop to the bathroom!" Gally yelled,

"Can I have my phone?"

"Sleep!" They all yelled,

I smiled as I sat with little Jay on my leg giving him some bounces as we all sat at the table to do some crafting, something to take up time between naps and food, I had Jay, Minho had Sparrow, Gally had Robin and Thomas had Wren all of us sat around the table with some baby safe paint and paper.

"Hum..." Thomas pondered,

"Enlighten us," Gally sighed,

"...If I give Sparrow the pink paint to do her painting... am I being sexist 'cause she's a girl." he said, "Or if I give the boys pink and I don't give Sparrow pink is that also sexist..." he said, "Or If I-"

"Thomas. it's baby paints. don't think too hard about it," Minho sighed,

"Why not just do their favourite colours?" Gally sighed,

"Uhhh they are like three months old... they don't have colour preferences," I told them,

"Ohh... really?" thomas asked,

"Not really, they don't even really have toy preferences yet," I answered,

"They are like tiny not yet people" Minho chuckled,

"They kinda are," I laughed giving Jay a little kiss on the head, "Bu there my tiny not yet people,"

"Adorable," Gally sighed, "Just hand out some paint already thomas,"

I sat holding Jay as I finished up changing him luckily with four pairs of hands things were going fairly smoothly or as smoothly as four men in a house with four babies can go.

"Ohh I think Jay needs changing," Minho called,

"Uhh, I just changed him," I said,

"Well, he stinky,"

"You sure, cause I have Jay Min,"

"Oh... shit. Sorry Wren I thought you were your brother."

"Give Wren here I'll change him," I chuckled,

So Minho brought Wren over and I swapped him with Jay, "Nap?"

"Yes please,"

"The baby,"

"Both. Yeah, Jay needs nap time, Sparrow will be up in a second for her bottle." I explained as I began to change Wren,

"How did you get stuck on the baby changing station?"

"I don't know, I guess it's kinda fair you guys are all helping me, and it's kinda unfair I ask for your unpaid help and make you wipe my own kid's butts. Seems rude."

"Good point, I just like burping,"

"You are good at it,"

"I'm good at feeding!" Thomas called,

"You really are Tommy you get all the formula clumps,"

"The trick... is to shake it like a Polaroid picture," He said as he came in, "Gally is a great nap time supervision... like he should change careers something about how he lays them down they are just out like lights."

"Together we just about make one fully functioning father," I sighed as I tickled Wren's toes and gave him endless kisses,

"Newt. You are a good dad." Minho said,

"I... I don't feel like a good day most days," I answered,

"Everyone messes up."

"I make a lot of mistakes though,"

"Yes, but you have four kids. You got four kids on your first go, no one is prepared for that," Thomas explained, "You are doing a good job though Newt,"

"I don't know I just feel like I'm always messing up,"

"Newt." Gally came through too, "You know these kids better than anyone, you know how they lay, how they feed, how they squirm and burp, and when they get bigger and show more personality we both know you will know them better than they know themselves. You are going to be a great dad Newt, and you are one now."

"You guys think so?"

They all nodded,

"Thank's guys," I smiled,

I settled them all in for their nap giving each a kiss on the head finally feeling like I had the hang of this now the guys had left, giving me some confidence and some faith that I could do this. I checked the baby monitor as I heard the car pull up so I went down and quickly scooped her in my arms,

"Ummmmm I missed you!" she hugged me,

"I missed you too," I cooed, "I love you so so so much,"

"I love you too,"

"How was it?"

"Fine just a mad house, how was things here?"

"Uhhh... well..." I gulped, "Things went to chaos but I got a handle on stuff,"

"Really?"

"Yeah, some big stuff happened that I will go over but nothing I couldn't manage,"

"Aww that's sweet," she smiled, "With help,"

"Yeah... you uhh you know about that?"

"I was watching through the baby monitor feed on my phone,"

"Ah... so you-"

"I know, you had help,"

"They really were a big help but, I think I got a handle on it now. I think... I'm an okay dad, I'm getting there,

"That's perfect Newt," she smiled giving me a soft kiss,

"Ohh and babies made their mommy a little welcome home prezzie," I smiled grabbing the little painting from the fridge,

she took it and began to cry, "Aw, it's a little woodland of hands, our little baby hands,"

"Yeah, Sparrow did the sky, Robin did the leaves, Jay did the tree's and Wren did the ground and they all did a little sign at the bottom for you," I explained,

"It's so beautiful, Thank you," She cried joyfully, "You did such a good job Newt,"

"Thank you love," I smiled,

"You think you could handle two weeks for a girl's trip to Vegas?"

"Hell no," I told her,

"I'm only kidding," she laughs, "You deserve a week off soon."

"I'm happy right here, with my family" I cooed giving her a kiss,

"Alright, come on I wanna give them all kisses goodnight," she smiled heading upstairs. 

[loudblonde]

"The Last Person Left" Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish & Male Reader

Summary: After the death of John "Soap" MacTavish, a funeral is held for the family left behind, right next to Simon "Ghost" Riley, the married couple is finally together in death and in peace. (Y/N), asked by the grandchildren left behind, shares a relatively innocent if not funny story from when both men were still alive and working in the military, albeit a bit sanitised for the children's ears.

Warnings: This will be discussing a bit of death as well as being in a funeral. Do not read if you are not comfortable with this discussion.

Additional notes: This is part two to my werewolf series, if you click on the link to Ao3 you can find part one called "A little wolf and its handler" I also posted it on here but I don't know how to leave the little links.

Words: 1200

The day was cold, moisture clung to the air signalling rain to come. (Y/N) knelt down, his knee instantly getting wet from the dew of the rain. His calloused hand swept over the first gravestone, getting all dirt and debris off it. He looked to the other, much newer and still white. “I will miss you both, more than you will ever realise.” He whispered before placing the flowers on the graves. He stood up and stepped back. 

Simon Riley

19XX - 20XX

John MacTavish

19XX - 20XX

(Y/N) had been in their lives for so long and yet the man himself was barely greying despite it all. John’s deterioration as Alzheimer's took root in ways (Y/N) couldn’t help him. It was hard on the man, though equally hard on the kids left behind, both the adult people who already looked older than (Y/N) himself, and people (Y/N) had helped raise. 

Their kids in all but blood. While (Y/N) had never been romantically involved with Simon or John, they still were strong together, they still belonged together. They were a unit, both in the field but also as civilians. Instead of fighting for their lives, they were raising children together and… well two of them had grown old together, leaving just the wolf behind. 

A choke forced its way through his throat. (Y/N) felt a comforting hand on his shoulder as he turned to look at their oldest kid standing beside him, his own daughter at his side. “It’s alright Pa, Dad and Father are together now, neither of them is in pain. Come on, let's head inside.”

As they all walked inside, (Y/N) scooped his granddaughter up in his arms, holding her close. She was crying silently and no one could do anything. So, he just held onto her. He would be the pillar their family needed, everyone would mourn, get through it and move on, even if (Y/N) couldn’t.

Once inside, coffee, cake and some sandwiches were brought out. People smiled and shared stories. They celebrated the life that had been as both men would have wanted. One of the grandkids looked at (Y/N) with big eyes and asked, “Grandpa, what did you and grandfather and grandad do for work?” The room got a bit tense, as the past was never discussed while the two men were alive.

Though (Y/N) leaned forward and looked at the kid with a small smile. “We helped protect the world from evil people.” He said, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. 

The children all gathered around and sat down. “Like a superhero?” One of the kids asked and (Y/N) nodded before chuckling to himself. 

“Yes, much like a superhero. We…” (Y/N) knew he couldn’t share much of their time in the military. Between the war crimes, brutal killings, weapons of mass destruction and (Y/N)’s own personal transformation on certain occasions, the stories were nothing that children should hear. “We did a lot of bad things to bad people, I can’t talk about it. They are secrets and I am a good secret keeper. But, without what we did, this world would be a lot more different than it is today.” 

“Pleaseee Grandpa, just tell us one story.” His granddaughter asked. 

(Y/N) smiled fondly. “When you all get older, I will.” He said. “Though, I can tell you a story from one time on base when we were bored.” That got everyone's attention. Adult as well as child. People pulled up chairs as (Y/N) leaned back. 

“We had just gotten off mission a week prior and nothing was set to happen for a full two more weeks, but we couldn’t leave as we could get a call at any second. So,” he looked around the room, “your granddad, grandfather and I all decided to mess around with some of the recruits and create a legend in the area. My transformation was still hidden back then, we didn’t want too many to find out.” He chuckled fondly at the memory and thought back to it. 

“Soap, ya dunce, are you certain that we can pull this off?” (Y/N), half naked and still very human, asked. 

“I wouldn’y worry about that, Beast. Just be quiet and ye shouldn’y worry about a’body finding out.” Soap said, crackling like a maniac. 

“Speak English.” Ghost said, though made no attempts at stopping either of them. Far too bored to even care about it. 

“Aye, I shall when you stop being crabbit.” Soap said. “Aff with yer clothes. Just a wee wolf. Don’t go all Lycan on us.”

“Ha. Ha. McTavish.” (Y/N) said monotone. “If you aren’t careful I will just eat you.” (Y/N) dropped his pants and started the transformation. It was quick. Not having to go full-on wolf but rather a less-haired lycan, complete with fully white eyes and black fur that almost seemed to curl at certain points on the body, took less than a toll on the body. 

Ghost walked over to the wolf, which still stood taller than he was but not by the usual impressive amount. “Down to the lake, scare a few of the soldiers walking, don’t get seen and come back.” He gave the order with practised ease before opening the door to the tool shed.

(Y/N) went out quickly, easily falling into the shadows of the night. 

“In the end, we got caught by Price and scolded for trying to scare people and he forced us to be on clean-up duty for the full two weeks while we waited for something to do, since we clearly were bored.” (Y/N) said, chuckling. A few of his grandkids chuckled at the story. 

(Y/N) looked over to the doorway as he felt new eyes on him. He saw the familiar, though now white-haired, Garrick standing in the doorway. “So that’s why you were all scrubbing the toilet for weeks. Price never told me why.” 

(Y/N) nodded and shrugged before standing up. “It was fun. Not the clean-up detail, but getting into shit with 'em both.”

Garrick chuckled. “Come on, old man, let's get you home.” 

(Y/N) bid his family goodbye and headed with Garrick towards where he lived. (Y/N) took care of the team and would do so until they all died. Perhaps he would find the ones like him afterwards. They could all live out their lives in the mountains where no one would find them. Or, perhaps, (Y/N) could return to Canada, and find his biological family or whatever is left of them. 

He didn’t have any plans despite having close to 200 years left in him before his body would break down beyond repair. His bones already ached from over a hundred years of active service. He had always dreaded civilian life but now, it seemed to suit him well. (Y/N) wanted to at least see his children to the grave before disappearing. So far, all he had was no plans and a lot of time on his hands. At least another 50 years of being Grandpa. 50 years without his life partners. 

[run-me-through-but-not-like-that]

Two of Spades

Shout out to anyone who read the Ace of Spades series, here's another instalment. This one is short but sweet, the next one will be a little longer and a little smutty!

Summary: Izzy and Spades finally get around to giving each other those tattoos they talked about.

The Revenge was anchored in safe waters, at least as safe as waters came. Buttons was on watch, somebody with a good eye, and the rest of the crew was sleeping. It was a quiet night, the crew dozing away in dream, and the waters steady.

It was the perfect time for the two men in the first mate’s cabin to set up Izzy’s old tattooing kit. It wasn’t anything special but it was reliable, varying sizes of needles and ink that was still good. 

The two men sat on the floor of their cabin, legs folded beneath themselves, and facing each other with the tattooing equipment laid out beside them. An oil lamp placed close enough to provide proper lighting. 

“You can do mine first,” Izzy offered as he sterilised the needle. 

“Sure,” Spades nodded. “Last chance to back out,” he warned. 

“Getting second thoughts?” Izzy glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. 

“Not in the slightest,” Spades responded with no trace of uncertainty. 

Once he was content with the job he had done, Izzy handed over the needle and held his hand out to be tattooed. Spades smiled as he shuffled closer, taking hold of Izzy’s hand before inking up the needle.

Izzy couldn’t help but stare at their enjoined hands for a moment, marvelling in how Spades cradled his hand in his lap, gently and with care. He thought he may have gotten used to the treatment he received from the younger man, but perhaps he never would. 

“You have given somebody a tattoo before, right?” Izzy asked as the needle was brought to his hand. 

“Yeah, don’t worry. Given two before, and we didn’t even have a nice kit. Surprised the ink didn’t kill them,” Spades assured him. At least, that’s what Izzy thinks he was trying to do. 

“You let them go near your face with bad ink?” there was a clear judgemental edge to Izzy’s question, as if he hadn’t done stupid things in his youth. 

“I was young and dumb, what can I say?” Spades shrugged before beginning the tattoo, making the first poke of the needle. Izzy nodded slightly, more to himself than anything. Spades knew what he was doing, at least a little. The stab was deep enough, the ink would stay, he shouldn’t have to offer him any guidance.

“You’re lucky it healed so well,” the first mate tutted.

“Yeah, but now it’s real pretty, right?” Spades grinned, shooting him a wink. 

“Right,” Izzy muttered, purposely glancing away. Spades was pretty, too fucking gorgeous for his own good, in Izzy’s opinion. 

Spades smirked to himself, knowing exactly what Izzy’s avoidance meant, as he completed the outline. 

“Good size and everything?” Spades asked.

Izzy turned his attention back to the fresh ink between his thumb and index finger, inspecting it. He could complain about how it was a little too late to be asking that, that if he wanted it smaller it was too late, but he didn’t. “Yeah, it’s good.”

Spades smiled before tugging his hand back into his lap, filling in the shape he made. Izzy didn’t even flinch as he worked, finding the repetitive sting somewhat comforting, he knew what to expect, knew not to tense when the needle pricked his skin. Spades had a steady hand and worked consistently, didn’t fuss over him after every poke, Izzy was grateful for that.

“Done!” Spades announced proudly after laying the final prick. 

Izzy lifted his hand, examining the tattoo. The Ace of Spades, inky black against his skin. It matched the tattoo on Spades’ face perfectly, though his was obviously healed. 

“My turn,” Spades grinned, an enthusiasm Izzy had become fond of. A breath of fresh air, a light in the darkness. Izzy shook his head fondly, taking the needle from him. He turned back to the alcohol and flame, sanitising it again. “Very thorough, First Mate Hands,” he teased. 

“Don’t much fancy risking an infection,” Izzy retorted. 

Once he was done cleaning the needle, he gestured for Spades’ hand. Without hesitation, Spades placed his hand in Izzy’s. He held it with a surprising tenderness, just like Spades had held his. 

The first mate got to work quickly, etching the cross into the skin between Spades’ thumb and index finger, ensuring the lines were straight and clean. Spades would flinch every now and again but took it well, it wasn’t a large piece by any means but it was in a fairly sensitive place. 

He was done soon enough, Izzy was efficient like that.

“There. If you don’t like it, too late now,” Izzy declared, releasing his hand.

Spades smiled down at the cross on his hand. “It’s perfect, Iz,” he insisted, “thank you.” Spades wondered if he would get to see it fade, until it looked the exact way Izzy’s did.

“Alright, it’s nothing special,” Izzy rolled his eyes, wiping down the needle of excess ink. 

“Uh-huh, sure,” Spades chuckled, watching Izzy clean the needle before tucking it away in his kit. “You’re a real artist,” he teased, knowing exactly how Izzy would respond. 

“Fuck off.” There it was, the tried and true scoff. 

“I mean it,” Spades smirked, crawling forward into his lap. Izzy huffed, pushing his kit further to the side, but certainly made no move to actually stop him. “Maybe I should have you do some more tattoos for me, make me look like a real pirate,” he hummed, snaking his arms around Izzy’s neck.

“Yeah, like what?” Izzy asked, playing along as his hands settled on Spades’ hips. 

“Hmmm…maybe a ship or an anchor, something nautical. Might even earn myself a Swallow just like yours one day,” Spades considered, looking up the ceiling as he pondered his options. Then his face lit up in mock enlightenment, meeting Izzy’s gaze again. “How about…I.H right on my hip,” he suggested, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Fuck off,” Izzy laughed, an honest to god laugh. “You’ve practically already got my brand now,” he reminded him. 

“Yeah? And you’ve got mine,” Spades wiggled his eyebrows before dipping in and kissing him. 

“Have to tidy up,” Izzy protested weakly, as if wasn’t melting into the affection, as if he wasn’t chasing his mouth even as he spoke. 

“You capped the ink. It won’t spill,” Spades assured him, lips brushing against his, just close enough to tease. 

“Spades,” Izzy groaned, whether it was to tidy up or to kiss him again, neither were sure. 

“Izzy,” Spades groaned back teasingly. “It won’t go anywhere,” he promised, offering a peck to his lips. 

“...you know tattoo care, right?” Izzy asked. A clear after thought. 

“My face didn’t get infected, did it?” Spades asked, only receiving an unimpressed look from Izzy. “I know, I know. Keep it clean, wrapped if possible. Don’t scratch at it. Hey, I think Roach even has some coconut oil, that will help with the healing process.” 

“Alright, I’m convinced,” Izzy nodded, nose knocking against his. 

“Thank fuck,” Spades breathed out before diving right back in for another kiss.

This time, Izzy’s arms looped around his waist, tugging him closer as he returned the kiss fervently. Izzy knew he was getting too old for this, to be sitting on the floor, making out on the ground of his cabin when there was a perfectly good cot right next to them both. But he couldn’t find it within himself to care, not with Spades holding and touching him like this.

[softquietsteadylove]

Just here asking you for some soft moment for the thenamesh doctor au :D I liked the last ones very much!

Thank you so much for all of these story’s!❤️❤️

Gil does stay the rest of the night. He hovers around, helps out here and there. He never strays too far from Thena's side, and she doesn't go anywhere near their restrained patients without him standing somewhat in front of her.

No one is brave enough to say anything about it, and even anyone who asks is quickly silenced by Ajak claiming that Gil is extra security.

Thena has at least taken a small break to get some food and some coffee in her. She changed into some fresh scrubs and has put a white turtleneck sweater on under them.

"Breathe in," she says gently as she checks on the hallucinatory patients again. "And out."

The one that literally tried to choke her has no memory of it.

"Okay," Thena sighs as she notes down their vitals. "So, would you like to tell me what happened? Or, what you remember happening, at least?"

The two young men share a look between them before giving the doctor a guilty little frown. "We...we don't really remember much. We went to a party."

"Some guy had something he was passing around."

"Did everyone take what you got?" Thena asks with a frown. They might have to put out a warning to other EMTs that this substance might be in a slew of other students.

"We don't know," the first one shakes his head. "I thought it would maybe just, uh, make the buzz better, y'know?"

Gil is scowling at them both openly from over Thena's shoulder.

"Well, what you got was LSD cut with something else," Thena informs them with a frown. The kids look genuinely aghast, and she's guessing that when they say they wouldn't have done anything that serious that they mean it. "Look, guys, we're not the cops, okay? We're not going to call anyone, or rat anyone out. But it's important we know what we're dealing with in here."

"It can get pretty dangerous."

The young men shrink in their beds at the look on the paramedic's face. The one with Thena next to him looks at her, his eyes drifting down to her high collared shirt under her scrubs. "Did...I hope we didn't give you any trouble."

Thena smiles at the kid, "nothing we can't handle. But you boys should get in contact with whomever needs to know that what you took at the party is a lot more serious than a weed gummy."

"Yes, ma'am," he nods, curling up in his bed from the guilt of it all.

Thena stands, leaving the boys to handle the situation as best they can. She tugs at Gil's sleeve on her way, "come on, you."

He follows her out, giving the poor - confused - boys one last glower.

"They have no idea what they did," Thena chides him as she sets their charts on the nurse's station counter. "You glaring at them like that isn't going to make them remember, either."

Gil sighs, choosing to forgo her chastising. "I'll tell Kingo the kids have no memory of it. We might have to expect some calls from worried parents about why their kid is having an episode after the block party."

"At least it doesn't seem to have done any lasting damage on their organs," Thena murmurs as she leaves the charts and sanitises her hands.

Gil's eyes linger on her. "There's a little lasting damage."

Thena shakes her head at him with the fondest of smiles. Her hand moves to his wrist, forcing him to unfold his arms. "They're scared, and embarrassed, and terrified to call their families. Isn't that punishment enough?"

"No."

"Gil," Thena laughs faintly at his unusually petulant response. He smiles for her, at least, and she gives his massive bicep a poke. "Did it really make you feel better to glare at them like that?"

"A little."

"Fine," she fakes a sigh, stretching her arms behind her and leaning against the counter with him. "Just a few more hours to go."

"Still not leaving."

"Gil," Thena scolds him anew, although she's still smiling, so it doesn't have nearly the dissatisfied effect she wants it to. "They're getting discharged, they're both alert and sober. We'll be fine--you should go home and get some rest."

He shakes his head.

"And you call me stubborn?" she rolls her eyes at him.

"Hey."

Thena looks back at him but he's suddenly and deliberately leaning into her space. She blinks, naturally turning her head as he gets in close. One of his hands has secured her in place at the small of her back. The other one is hovering somewhere around her cheek. "G-Gil?"

Her hand perches on his shoulder. She's still wearing his work hoodie, although she's had to roll the sleeves up several times over to get them secure around her elbows. He pulls her even closer.

He's so warm, and he smells kind of nice--nicer than the hospital, at least. Her head goes fuzzy as the feeling of him holding her pushes away every other sensation. She briefly wonders if he can feel her heart pounding.

Gil tugs her turtleneck down. She feels his breath on the skin there. She's half horrified he's going to kiss her neck and even more curious as to why she hasn't stopped him yet.

"Hey, it's a little better."

Thena blinks again, but he's already pulled back (although he's still holding her). "Huh?"

"The swelling is down, although you might have to wear this for a little longer," he gives her a remorseful smile, tugging her turtleneck back up around the bruising on her porcelain skin. "But it's definitely better than it was."

"Oh," Thena stutters, still just staring at him. He looks back at her, as if he hadn't had her in his arms, completely pressed against her in a very pleas--inappropriate way. "Good."

He yawns and ruffles his hair, "you want another coffee?"

Thena just nods, still too flustered over what just happened to really get the words out. She stays rooted to the spot, trying to think her way out of it. She doesn't make it very far in thought, mostly to 'Gil-warm-nice'.

Ajak clears her throat, watching Thena turn a shade of red that most in their profession would find alarming. "I thought he was going to kiss it too, for what it's worth."

Thena just groans in response, running off to find another cold compress for herself.

[onewomancitadel]

A Hades and Persephone post

Seeing Demeter described as an 'overbearing mother' that Perpsehone should foil in a pseudo-feminist reinterpretation of Hades and Persephone is so funny. You just invented a new misogyny instead.

There's this attitude that whatever we are now is inherently more enlightened than those stupid historical peoples (either from ten years ago or three thousand) and it's very ignorant and arrogant - topically on the note of Hades and Persephone since an extant source of that myth, The Homeric Hymn to Demeter, is actually uniquely from the perspective of Demeter, but it's also annoying because it's that really, really flawed method of reinterpretation that is rooted in making xyz more progressive.

The meaning of the text itself transcends whatever political value you're assigning to it to make it more palatable. It's exactly why so many garbage 'reinterpretations' of Hades and Persephone are boring because there's a self-conscious focus on making Persephone 'empowered' instead of trying to tell a good story that respects them as characters and more importantly is using the mythic background for a reason beyond sanitising ancient history. Nevermind that Hades as a character is conflated with modern depictions of Death and/or Satan when in temperament and actual role he's really... not... and Persephone's story goes beyond her abduction anyway but the way Greek myth is generally taught and understood in popular culture is as a series of disparate myths and traditions as opposed to something organic and evolving.

Of course the uncomfortable part is that it doesn't matter how female-centric a religion or mythic tradition is, it doesn't necessarily reflect the values of that period. That's what I find kind of naïve about pseudo-feminist retellings of Hades and Persephone because it's also with the intention that a) the original just needs 'fixing', those silly unenlightened Greeks and stupid women who had nothing to do with the mythic tradition obviously and b) it's usually with the intention that some sort of political enlightenment is possible through it in response to the connection of Hades/Persephone to misogynistic Ancient Greek culture.

Writing a version of Hades and Persephone that works is possible whilst playing with gender dynamics and thinking about the new cultural context we inhabit now versus then but on the other hand I think that the point of engaging with these texts is inhabiting a new perspective perhaps even unfamiliar to your own - on this front I think this is where sometimes you have to put your own biases at the door. A great example of that is reading 'overbearing mother' into Demeter and automatically assuming an older female character who is a mother is ultimately accessory to the story and not who it's really about. That's just an assumption because in modern storytelling maternal figures are rarely narratively empowered.

So I don't want to read a version that girlbossifies Persephone without preserving Demeter's role in the story or even Zeus or even the dramatic irony that Hades, the boring one, is suddenly taken with a girl and has absconded with her. I think there's a really interesting question of what it means to adapt or transform myth when it's part of a larger storytellling tradition and what it means to take one bit disparately from the rest. More importantly I want to stress that I think transformation is fun and there's a reason myth is potent and kind of at the back of your mind. What I really bemoan is when it's somehow made unfun because the reinterpretations are so... bland. When you read Greek texts you can taste blood and sweat and age.

There should be a reason you're engaging with it that goes beyond trying to fix it, and in doing so - to circulate back to the impetus of this post - you should probably be careful about replicating the things you're critiquing under the assumption you're automatically doing it better.

[iamscoby]

“Didn’t you notice the sign?” Din asked, and the customer turned to look at the multitude of signs by the door:

KEEP A SAFETY DISTANCE OF 2 METRES

WEAR A FACE MASK WHEN NOT EATING OR DRINKING

WASH AND/OR SANITISE YOUR HANDS WHEN ARRIVING

NO DOGS

“No dogs.” Din read aloud the only sign that the newcomer was not currently obeying. Only then did he look down at the dog more carefully. His heart jumped of shock when he realised how familiar the dog looked. There was no doubt of its silvery grey fur, flappy ears and idiotic-looking nose. It was Artoo. And if the dog was Artoo, its owner could only be…

---------

Pairing: Din Djarin x Luke Skywalker Rating: E Words: 6k

[yuniemaki]

series: genshin impact pairing: beidou x ningguang rating: M genre: mafia au, slow burn, drama read on ao3 ┊ ┊ masterlist

chapter eight: to play the game

Resolves crumble; new ones rise. A new game begins, and may the best of us win.

Barely three days after she was discharged, Beidou finds herself back at the Rex Lapis General Hospital once again – this time as a visitor with a bouquet of flowers in hand, and not as a patient. She wanders through the glass doors and up to the reception, where a kindly nurse takes her particulars and directs her to the third floor, fourth room on the left.

The sickening smell of sanitiser; the icy-cold air-conditioning; the blindingly-white walls and floors of the hospital’s corridors — Beidou has never liked hospitals very much at all. She was brought here after that shootout, spending her days huddled up in a bed at the corner of the children’s ward with bandages covering her left eye. 

When the doctors finally let her go, she found a stranger with a kind smile waiting for her at the entrance. From the hospital, she travelled to Qingce orphanage. And from the orphanage, she travelled to an elderly couple’s home at Downriver. And from Downriver… she found her forever home in a person.

Now she is homeless once again.

[educatores]

Trends in Your Field PIDP3100 Post 1

This blog assignment we will talk about the use of medical gloves. Within my field of instruction in health care we utilize hospitals and long term care facilities for student training. At these sites we are currently trending a Gloves Off Campaign. This is not an easy task to teach as students see current workers wearing gloves inappropriately for tasks that do not require gloves at all. When I pair my student up with a mentor it becomes a mine field of cross contamination as my students follow what they see instead of what they have been taught. I feel I have become the nag and the voice of Student Learning Contracts within my program as well as the one rebuking the workers. It is my job though to uphold the policies of the college and the health authority, this will be an ongoing learning curve. I am constantly asking students and workers to critically think about why they are wearing gloves.

As a bit of background, at the beginning of the Covid pandemic, when health professionals and scientists were working to reduce the spread, we used copious amounts of Personal Protective Equipment in the hopes of keeping everyone safe, which meant running out of gloves as we rarely touched anything without them on. Constantly donning gloves across the globe took a toll on the ecosystem, albeit the environment was not in the forefront of peoples minds between 2020-2022 so it virtually went unnoticed until recently when in May 2023 posters arrived asking if employees wanted to become Glove Awareness champions. Be a Gloves Off! Champion | Medical Staff (islandhealth.ca)

This current glove campaign is promoted via posters and information sheets.

A quote from the Information sheet "a nitrile glove takes at least 100 years to degrade" reinforces the realization of the level of toxicity to the environment. IPAC also claims that even after these gloves degrade they leave behind harmful chemicals in the environment and expand on the environmental, " for 2875 nitrile gloves per day the carbon emissions would be 27 tonnes of CO2 ( carbon dioxide) annually- this is the equivalent of driving a gas powered passenger vehicle around the circumference of the earth 2.7 times". Hence, the trending Gloves off Campaign.

It is promoted by the Infection Prevention and Control Office (IPAC) at Island Health Authority where I am situated and acknowledge the Lək̓ʷəŋən and W̱SÁNEĆ territory I work and reside on.

This promotion of decreasing glove use to reduce the impact on the environment is not just where I work and teach, but across Canada and around the world. Global awareness has occurred post pandemic. With World Hand Hygiene Day which was May 5th this year the world jumped on board with the focus on better hand hygiene and less disposable glove use. West Yorkshire Health and Care Partnership in the UK wants to cut down on their glove use and discusses this on their webpage https://www.wypartnership.co.uk and includes "The overuse of gloves can create a false sense of security" and go on to say "Sometimes people forget this and don't wash or sanitise their hands as often as they should".

The World Health Organization (cdn.who.int) published a leaflet that talks about inappropriate glove use "the use of gloves when not indicated represents a waste of resources and does not contribute to a reduction of cross-contamination". (search: glove-use-information-leaflet.pdf )

As with many professions trends come and go like the tide. Ebbing and flowing with current managerial, environmental and societal concerns. This is one I hope stays around for the long run.

Information sheet posted here for educational purposes only not to be redistributed.

[blood-and-wine-ao3]

Chapter 3 link!

Chapter text below the cut!

"What the fuck?!"

"I'm so sorry," Wilbur choked out, dropping his coat to the ground.

He was covered in blood, the crimson seeping through a hole in his jumper on his shoulder and spreading down his torso from his neck. His neck. Two bleeding punctures on the side. Darker, almost black blood was smeared around his mouth and face.

Tommy's heart dropped into his slippers.

"Wh- the- God, Wil-" Tommy stuttered. He was lost for words. Tommy was never lost for words.

"I'm so so sorry," Wilbur repeated.

"The fuck are you apologising for?"

"I- just- I'm so sorry,"

Tommy was frozen.

Wilbur collapsed, completely passing out.

Tommy rushed forward, catching his deadweight before it hit the ground.

"Let's get you to the sofa-" Tommy huffed, dragging his unconscious brother over and placing him on the leather, swinging his legs up.

Now the taller was lying on the sofa, Tommy gently peeled off his sweater, the dandelion fabric stained with viscous crimson, being careful not to touch the wounds. The blonde winced when he peeled the sticky, partially dried-on fabric from the delicate skin around the puncture - Wilbur groaned, and Tommy froze in his tracks until his brother quieted. Tommy eased the woolen knit over Wilbur's head, pulling the fabric from his uninjured arm, and pulled it out from under his back. Now that the stained cashmere was bunched around the injured shoulder, Tommy slipped his hand under the material, between the sweater and the wound, and eased the sweater the rest of the way off making sure the shorn fibres didn't touch the broken skin and punctured muscle.

Now the sweater was off, Tommy crossed to the kitchen and placed it in the - thankfully empty - sink, before washing his hands to get to work on the next layer.

He carefully removed Wilbur's white button-down in a similar fashion, again working gingerly around the stab. Now Tommy was able to properly see the wounds and his brother's breathing, he winced - the wounds were serious, and his breathing shallow.

The blonde put on a pair of disposable gloves and sanitised his hands, working quickly and delicately despite their trembling. He cleaned the punctures with infinite care and attention, a rock settling in his gut at how quickly the blood re-pooled.

I- Clem, is he going to- Tommy started, the panic starting to settle in his bones like woodworms.

He'll be fine, you're doing great, just keep going for me, okay? the moth reassured, spurring Tommy on. Next is proper wound assessment.

Right. Tommy affirmed, kneeling down to get a closer look at the wounds. He gently tugged the skin around them to see how they moved, gently moving Wilbur's arm, neck, and head.

The prognosis - not good.

They're pretty deep, Clem-

Sutures, Toms.

Shouldn't I try to tourniquet it first?

Shoulder injury, Tom. Not gonna work.

Fuck.

Tommy grimaced, grabbing the suture kit from the first aid box- before, innocent and practical, now, filling his mind with ice cold dread.

I-I can't- Tommy stammered.

You have to, Clementine said simply. If you don't, he'll die.

I know, I'm just- scared of hurting him.

I know you are, but you have to. Either he hurts for a bit, or he's gone with the Flames.

The blonde hated the thought of his brother missing. He hated it.

He opened the kit.

He threaded the needle, holding it between the forceps like it was a loaded gun.

He took a deep breath, made a vain attempt to steady his hands, and held the wound still- and open- with one hand.

"Fuck's sake, Tommy, come on. You're a fucking tattoo artist. It's fine. A needle is nothing, right?"

He pierced his brother's flesh with the needle and the unconscious man flinched, Tommy attempting to soothe him with quiet singing. His voice shook as the familiar song broke the silence:

"You think he'd realize, but he's infatuated with ideas, of possessions and far-flung social policy... His daddy works on the Council, his missus loves the silver spoon- swore she'd never kiss a Tory, but this boy was too good to lose..."

Tommy wasn't sure if the music was more for Wilbur or himself.

-------

Wilbur woke up and the first thing he perceived was pain.

Pain in his shoulder, pain in his neck, pain in his head, pain everywhere. He closed his eyes.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan, a whimper, and a cry - there was a creak of an armchair, a few rushed steps, and then Tommy was beside him.

"Don't move, Wil, I'll get you some water, okay?"

Wilbur tried to nod and instead let out a pained hiss. He felt a gentle hand hold his own.

"One squeeze for yes, two for no, three for not sure, okay?"

One.

"Alright. Do you want water?"

One.

"Painkiller?"

One.

"Do you want some food, like some soup or something?"

Two.

"Okay. I'm gonna let go of you now, but I'll be right back. Should I draw the curtains so you can open your eyes?"

Three.

"Alright, we'll try it, but if you want to keep your eyes shut that's fine too."

Tommy let go of his hand, careful footsteps, the sound of some cupboards opening, clinks, running water, something being set down, curtains being drawn, a light switch, more steps.

"Could you try opening your eyes for me so you can take your painkiller?"

Wilbur did, and Gods it HURT.

Each ray of the godsforsaken sunlight stung him like a tattoo needle.

He hoped to the Gods it was just dehydration.

His eyes throbbed as two small capsules were pressed into his hand - which he slipped into his mouth, followed by cool glass on his clammy skin, which he leant forward off the couch to-

PAINPAINPAINPAINPAIN-

Careful hands pressed Wilbur back onto the couch as he involuntarily shut his eyes again.

"Fuck, don't move, Wil- I'll, fucking- I'll get you a straw, okay? And more painkillers, since you kinda screamed the others onto the carpet. It's alright. Take it easy." Tommy took the glass from him, crossing the room again.

He wanted to come up with some witty quip about how he was the oldest and here Tommy was treating him like some stray kitten in the rain, but he barely had energy to think. He barely had energy to stay awake.

Tommy came back, and like before he gave the capsules to Wilbur - but this time he gave him the glass, and Wilbur slowly, gingerly and painfully turned his head.

The water felt like bliss, the cool liquid washing down the tablets and clearing the lingering taste of bitter wine, and despite the pain, the water was relief, the water was-

The water was gone.

Wilbur must have pulled a face of some kind, because Tommy rushed to apologise.

"Sorry Bug Dubs, you drained it."

Wilbur just about managed to right his head before he passed out again.

[on-guardsanitisation]

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[wedoezy]

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