#sick sick fray fall apart

[geometricalien]

thinking about horrific akafuri >>> putting words together to describe horrific akafuri

[swordsandholly]

On the Mend

Ao3 | Chapter One | Next

Captain John Price x fem!plus size!reader

Word Count: 4.1k

MDNI | cw: referenced cheating, divorce, implied alcoholism, age gap, blood/minor injury

Summary: Following his divorce, John Price is adrift - strong armed into going on leave, he decides to use the time to renovate a run down family lake house. He finds himself drawn into an unexpected bond with his peculiar new neighbor who seems equally unable to leave him alone.

When John came home to papers and a set of silver rings on the kitchen counter he didn’t feel surprised. No sense of despair at the lack of shoes by the door or empty closet. No betrayal at the slight layer of dust covering the flat. A layer that had accumulated over the course of coming home two weeks later than planned. Just a a wave of numbness. That sick sort of relief when the bad thing you knew would happen finally does. Something that twists in his gut and hollows out his bones. He knew it was coming sooner or later.

Looks like sooner.

It started in the early fall - though, if he’s honest, he should have seen it coming long before then. Nearly a year of cold shoulders and whispers over the phone spoken in the other room during late hours. Passive nudges and snide comments. Nights spent alone more than together. New clothes and lingerie that he only spotted in passing on laundry day. All his time in the SAS and he didn’t see what was right under his nose. Five simple words that spelled out the end.

“I found someone else, John.”

That’s it. The grand finale to thirteen years.

Of course it’s never simple. What followed was weeks of arguing between - and during - his deployments. Months of lawyers sending information and communications back and forth because face to face talks were no longer getting them anywhere. It’s difficult to process so many years falling apart in such little time. It’s harder still to get over the hurled insults and accusations of stolen youth. The insinuation that he ruined her. The allegation that he never loved her in the first place. That this has been broken for a long, long time, John. How do you not see that?

How didn’t he see it?

At the end of the day, John is good at two things: compartmentalizing and work. It’s just convenient that those two qualities happen to go hand in hand right now. John lives on base full time - got out of that flat as soon as the lease ran out. It’s a waste of money sitting empty for most of the year. More often than that, really, considering he spends every waking moment - when not deployed - in his office or running drills. Never mind the fact that he couldn’t step past the threshold without feeling something shatter in his chest.

Now, six months since the final signatures, the walls John carefully built around the issue have started to wear. Coming loose at the seams - all crumbling brick and thinning mortar. He’s agitated. Frayed at the edges. You wouldn’t know it to look at him. John’s uniform remains crisp as always. His belongings placed in exact order - including the ever growing collection of liquor. His hair is perfectly kept. At a glance, he’s the same as always.

It’s those closest to him that can see it. That take the brunt of it.

Harsh, barking orders at Ghost that would have previously been calm instruction. Sharp reprimands that leave Soap jumpy and flinching. Both give him a wide berth when they can. His drills for the newer recruits became far more difficult with tougher punishments for any sort of acting out. Gaz has avoided his growing wrath for the most part - good at keeping his head down and following orders as needed.

Until today, it seems. An accidental, near deadly failure. The perfect boiling point.

While clearing a building currently housing a potential terrorist cell, one man managed to slip past Gaz. All of them, really, but it was his floor to clear. The man got a shot off on Soap after the Scot tackled him - luckily his vest stopped it. Ghost dropped the adversary and Soap won’t have more than a bruised rib and a couple weeks of rest but it could have been worse. Much, much worse.

Gaz knew he was fucked when the Captain went silent. John barely looked him in the eye and didn’t say anything more than necessary on their way back to base. A single grunt of “my office” and the sergeant’s fate became sealed.

“Sir.” Gaz prays that the quaver he feels in his voice doesn’t come through. He’s never been here before, standing stiffly across from the Captain. Not like this at least - waiting for the hand he’s about to be dealt.

“Donnae worry tae much, lad.” Soap had given him a rough slap on the back. “Price’s all bark an’ no bite.”

Right now standing across from The Captain, all he can see is a bite risk.

“You know why I’ve called you in, Sergeant.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes, sir.” Gaz shifts ever so slightly. “I wasn’t successful in clearing my floor-“

“And nearly compromised a teammate because of your carelessness.” John crosses his arms, a snarl in his tone. His nerves are fried - every bit of frustration and hurt that’s been pushed down and allowed to fester over the last several months bubbling up to the surface.

John can’t lose anyone else.

By the time he’s done with his verbal lashing Gaz looks like he wants to run for the hills and never come back. As good as the boy is at masking his reaction externally, just as any military man does, his eyes never hide anything. There’s a sheen over them that has John pausing, stepping it back and sighing heavily. He never raises his voice - doesn’t find it useful long term - but he has a skill for putting together strings of words that stab right to the heart. Gaz is an empathetic kid - a trait easily exploited to pour gallons of guilt on the sergeant.

“Don’t let it happen again.” John mutters, the fire gone. Doused out by the kicked puppy look Gaz wears. An itch of regret stings the back of his mind. “Dismissed.”

Based on the rhythm of footsteps the moment the office door closes behind Gaz, it really does sound like he’s running for the hills. John wouldn’t blame him. He doesn’t want to be around himself either.

John practically collapses into his office chair, finally letting his muscles relax. As much as they are physically capable of relaxing. These days his shoulders are always around his ears - hackles raised and hands flexing. He buries himself in the incident report - pouring hours into filling out bureaucratic red tape that he used to avoid at every turn.

The sun has set when a quiet but firm tap tap tap sounds at his door.

“Come in.” He grunts, knowing exactly who is about to walk through that door based entirely on the perfunctory knock.

“John.” Kate steps in, carefully shutting the door behind her before stepping forward.

“Kate.” He straightens in his seat.

“We need to talk.”

“I’ll apologize to Garrick tomorrow.” John waves her off, turning back to the files on his desk in a last ditch effort to make her leave. It’s a foolish attempt.

“You know that’s not what I’m going to say.” She crosses her arms.

“Do I?”

Kate stands over him, staring him down. It’s a position they find themselves in fairly often whether face to face or communicating from hundreds of miles away. There’s a new weight to it here. A far more personal tension than either are used to.

Kate pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m coming to you as a friend - not a coworker. You need to take some time.”

The last thing John needs is to ‘take some time.’ He just needs to focus. Get into the new swing of things. He hit the ground running now all he needs is to find his stride.

“I’m fine.” John snaps.

“You’re not.” She fires back. “It’s normal that you’re not but you need to deal with it.”

“I have dealt with it. It’s been dealt with for six months.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

John sighs heavily and scrubs a hand over his face. He has plenty of leave, really. About three months worth that haven’t been used. Months he was saving for a long vacation that won’t happen now. Ninety days that are wasting away on his employee profile - a fake number. It’s all bullshit anyway, right? The only thing that’s truly real is what he can accomplish here. Helping people and saving the world here. What good is he rotting at home for nine months?

He’s needed here.

John needs to be needed.

“John.” Kate sighs. Her voice is low - that of a disappointed mother. “Either you take your leave, or I get you sent on a mandatory mental health leave. I already have the paperwork drafted. You need to step away.”

The captain lets out another heavy sigh. Laswell has obviously made up her mind. There’s no changing it once she has the steel like gleam in her eyes.

“Fine. Give me a week to get things sorted.”

John doesn’t miss the slight quirk in the corner of Kate’s mouth. “Thank you.”

As usual, by the time he makes it back to his flat he’s completely worn through. Body and mind equally exhausted - just what he wants. John falls into his routine of pouring a glass of whatever he’s in the mood for, tonight it’s bourbon, apparently, and plopping onto the couch. Normally he’d turn on the television or grab a book or some other shite but all he can manage right now is a staring contest with the wall.

The hell is he supposed to do for three months? He can’t hang around here, that’s too pathetic. It’ll drive him mad. Could visit his mum, but she’s got a life of her own in that retirement community of hers. He wouldn’t want to disturb her peace for more than a week or two. That still leaves at least seventy-six days unaccounted for.

Somewhere during his wall-watching, he thinks it’s while taking in a particularly interesting mistake in the paint, an idea finally comes to him. A flimsy, probably stupid idea. John grabs his cell. It only rings once.

“Hey, mum.” John leans back on the shitty couch of his on base apartment. It’s minimal, but he doesn’t need much anymore, does he?

“Jack, love, how are you?” She says brightly. Always full of sunshine and excitement to hear from her only child.

“Fine.” He lies. As much as he hates lying to his mother and the acetic taste it leaves in his mouth, he just can’t handle her worry at the moment. John doesn’t need another reason to cry right now. “How are you?”

“Oh, lovely!” She replies. “I have the ladies knitting circle tomorrow - apparently there’s new developments about Harold and Linda.”

“Oh? What sort of developments?”

“The salacious sort.” She snickers.

John huffs out a laugh. The old gossip. “Mum, I was wonderin’… do we still have that old family home? By the lake?”

She hums, thinking for a moment. “Oh, yeah, we do. Though, technically it belongs to your Aunt Claudia - the old hag - love her dearly. It’s run down. No one’s been there in years.”

“Alright. Good.”

“Why do you ask?”

John sees no way out of giving into her prying just a bit. “I need a project.”

“A project?”

“I’ve been given some leave. Need something to pass the time.”

A short lapse of silence. “Jack?”

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?”

He sighs heavily, swirling the glass in his other hand absently. The breath comes out shaky and there’s a stinging in the corners of his eyes. “I’m really fine, ma.”

“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Wish you wouldn’t call me on it.” He chuckles bitterly.

“You’re my son, of course I’m going to call you on it.” She scoffs.

“I’ll…” John sighs. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know you will. You should talk about it, though. If not to me then to some friends.“

What friends? He wants to snap back. His ex-wife took all their mutual friends with her. The men on base aren’t his friends - can’t be with how he’s been treating them these past few months. There’s no fixing that. They’ll never trust him the same again.

Of course, he won’t tell her that. “I will, mum. I love you.”

“Love you, too. Goodnight.”

“Night.” The silence of the flat feels deafening as soon as the call ends. A reminder of all the things he isn’t - all the things he failed at. Nearly fourty years and nothing to show for it outside of his career. No one else is around to hear the poorly bitten back sobs and shaky gasps that echo through the bedroom until sleep finally overtakes him.

~~~

The home seems about as bad John assumed it to look when he pulls up. Bare patches where shingles have long fallen off spot the roof. The front porch has several posts missing from the railing and a few cracked boards. The steps creak worryingly under his boots but seem solid enough for now. John takes his time working through each room, just as he would on the job. Taking stock of damaged hinges and rusted pipes. At least the water runs and electric seems to be undamaged. Livable conditions even if it all needs a proper dusting and washing.

The interior is just as he remembers right down to the furniture. All family heirlooms with only a few updated pieces scattered throughout. Wicker chairs and heavy wood bed frames. The only truly new addition is the thick layer of dust and grime covering it all. If John were more poetic he may have something to say about that, but as it stands he is not and does not.

As he makes his way to the back, he comes across the majority of the damages to the property. The dock is missing a series of boards all the way down. The back porch has visibly rotting wood and most of the railing seems long gone. Weather battered and use torn. More shingles are missing from this side of the roof. The entire exterior needs a new paint job. Fixable enough with the right materials and some elbow grease. The perfect amount of work to fill the next ninety days.

As he makes his way through the overgrown back yard to look at the dock in more detail, movement catches his eye. A girl walking in the backyard of the house next door - a red, square little cabin that couldn’t house anything above two bedrooms at most. She stomps her way down the slight incline to the lake - carefully carrying a massive easel and canvas under one arm and a rectangular bag of what he assumes are art supplies under the other.

John isn’t sure what compels him to watch her. Maybe it’s the soft curve of her hips or the determined scrunch of her face - either way it takes longer than it should for him to tear his eyes away and head back into the lake house.

It’s easy enough to spend this first day busying himself with cleaning up the accumulated dirt. John ties a handkerchief over his face - more of a formality than a real barrier to keep from breathing too much in. He shouldn’t care. The man sucks down enough cigar smoke that even this dense sort of dust wouldn’t be more than a tickle. He sweeps and mops and throws some bedsheets in the wash. At least enough to last him until he can take the quilts outside and beat them properly.

Even as he climbs into the old but solid master bed he has lists running through his mind. Lists are good. Lists are a distraction. Sort of like counting sheep but more productive.

Needs a new hammer, nails, several lengths of screws. He’ll have to take into account the type of wood needed - might have to order the railing. The small town probably doesn’t have any that would match in person…

~~~

Even without an alarm John wakes at five am on the dot. After so many years of military life he has no hope of becoming a late sleeper. Even on lazy Sunday mornings, he’d wake first, stay in bed and wait for his ex-wife to wake. Often he would try to surprise her with breakfast…

John clears his throat and focuses on dressing for the day. Some old work jeans and a sturdy, standard issue t-shirt. He spends the morning finalizing his list, categorizing what he can most likely get in person and what will need to be ordered. He decides to get a calendar to plan out the repairs over the next three months, starting with the interior and working his way out. Methodical. Controlled. Just like he prefers.

Luckily the hardware store has more than he thought it would. Between the tools already in the lake house’s small garage and the few he needs to pick up, he should be well stocked for at least the first round of projects.

“New to town?” The older woman at the counter asks politely with minimal interest.

“Sort of. Fixin’ up a family home.” John grunts, dropping cash onto the counter.

“Ah.” She nods. “That’s good. So many places around here have been rotting away or getting bought up by vacation companies.”

John just hums in response. He doesn’t have much of an opinion on that. It’s not really his business what other people do. He shoves his change into the small tip jar on the counter and drags his supplies out to his truck.

He drives back in silence, opting to focus entirely on the empty country road. He hasn’t liked music much these days. John frowns as a figure making its way up the side of the road more into focus. The same girl from yesterday, the neighbor, pushes her bike along the side of the road. She’s limping slightly as she walks. Her legs and arms have a solid layer of dirt covering them. The front and back baskets of her bike are stuffed full of reusable grocery bags. She looks downright pissed as soon as he catches her face.

John slows when his truck finally catches up with her, rolling down the window. “You alright?”

“Fine!” You call back, obviously out of breath with a frustrated pinch to your face. You keep your eyes solidly forward. John glances down at your freshly skinned knees, wincing to himself.

“Y’don’t seem fine.”

“I am!” You turn up your nose, speeding up your walk ever so slightly. American. Interesting.

John lightly toes the gas to keep up. “Your knees look pretty banged up. I can give you a ride.”

You stop dead in your tracks. John barely has to touch the break to stop with you. There’s a fire in your eyes when you whirl on him - one that reminds him all too much of Soap when he gets the itch to blow something up. He takes you in piece by piece. He isn’t quite able to gauge how old you are. Younger than him, he thinks. Your face is soft despite the hard expression, body a graceful, continuously curved line. He snaps his eyes back to your face before you can catch him staring.

You raise your hand to point at him and then the little canister hanging from the carabiner hooked to your shorts. “I’m not going anywhere with you, old man! Try to make me and I’ll mace you.”

John blinks. Old man? He supposes it makes sense. To you he’s just a creepy guy trying to coax you into his beat up truck. “I, uh, saw you yesterday. Wait, wait! I’m fixing up the house next door. The blue one.”

That makes you pause your march again, turning to look at him slowly. You squint, eyes raking over the truck, the materials in the bed, and flicking around his face. A slow look of recognition dawns across your expression, the pinch of your lips changing into a gentle part.

“Oh. Yeah. I saw your truck.” There’s still a wariness in your tone, a shifting in your stance. Smart girl. He wonders if you can sense it. The things he’s done, the kind of man that he is. Does it roll off him in waves like he thinks? Would it surprise you?

“It’s still another five miles back. There’s room in the bed for your bike. Can’t be fun walking around all bruised up like that.” John nods to your knees again.

Your lip catches between your teeth, a sigh of defeat relaxes your shoulders. “Okay. I’ll still mace the fuck out of you if you get weird on me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” John chuckles.

You huff and load up your bike into the back of his truck. You’re stronger than he expected, throwing the bike and groceries around like they weigh almost nothing to you. The midday sun gives you a healthy glow despite the cuts a scrapes from your earlier fall.

“There’s a first aid kit in the glove box.” John says as you load up into the cab with him.

“Thanks.” You reach for it immediately, grabbing some disinfectant wipes and a few large bandaids. They’re still bleeding pretty badly - dripping down your dirt covered shins.

“What happened, anyway?” He asks as he starts down the old dirt road once again.

You hiss at the sting of the wipes. “My - ah fuck - bike chain snapped. Threw me off.”

“Y’don’t carry a back up?”

“Usually, but that’s the one that just broke. Piece of shit. Hadn’t gotten around to replacing it yet…” You keep your eyes down and pick at your confetti nail polish, obviously embarrassed.

John hums. “I might have one laying around the house. If not I can drive you to town to look for one.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that!”

“It’s no problem.” He chuckles. “If you don’t mind an old man driving you around, that is.”

“Y’know, on a closer inspection you’re not that old.” You grin. “Just the old-timey beard.”

“I’ve been told it’s distinguished.”

“That just means old.” You snicker.

A comfortable silence lapses between you - the only sound being that of the truck puttering down the dirt road. There’s a prickle on John’s skin and he glances over only to see your eyes dragging across his arm holding the steering wheel. You think you’re subtle, he’s sure, with the way you keep your face mostly forward and only look out of the corner of your eye. It’s hard to fool a SAS officer.

Who’s the creep now? John smiles and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting it out.

You turn away to watch out the window as he pulls up just between your houses. A two hour walk reduced to all of ten minutes. “Glad to see that house finally getting fixed up. It’s depressing watching it decompose - even if it is kind of cool.”

John nods. “My family is small. Hasn’t seen a lot of use since my cousins and I were kids.”

“Just you?” You tilt your head, staring up at him with big doe eyes. “No wife or kids?”

“No.” He grunts, wincing internally at the harshness of it.

You don’t seem phased. If anything your smile gets just a hair wider. “Well, thanks for the ride. Glad you’re not a kidnapper.”

“Anytime.” He snorts, climbing out of the truck after you. “I’m John, by the way. John Price.”

“Oh! Didn’t even think to introduce myself.” You laugh and hold your hand as you give your name. It’s so much softer and smaller than his. He almost doesn’t want to let go.

Christ, is he really that fucking touch starved?

John clears his throat and sets his hands on his hips. “Need help carrying that in?”

“I can manage.” You look him over again. John can’t help but wonder what you see. Whatever it is, you smile and wave politely before disappearing into your cabin.

He’s still thinking about that as he gets ready for bed, staring at himself in the mirror. All he sees are the bags under his eyes and scars littering his torso. The grey hairs beginning to salt his beard and hair. The rough callouses on his hands from rougher work. A tired, grizzled officer with only work to look forward to. What did you like enough to stare at? He’s strong, sure, but no more than the next guy that works out or does physical labor.

John downs the last of his drink for the night, brushes his teeth and falls into bed. For once, there’s a relative peace as he falls asleep to the sounds of nature outside. No sounds of base to keep him awake, no itching sense of duty. Just frogs and crickets.

A/N: I know I have other stuff to work on but the brain worms are wriggling thinking about sad, lonely John Price.

[yeyinde]

fever in a shockwave

pt., iii | stagnant on my betterment

“I don't want to lose you,” he's saying, and it's odd because he never really had you to begin with.

WARNINGS: angst, pining, yearning; eventual smut; trauma; grief and the existentialism of moving on; recovery; poor/unhealthy coping methods; codependency; reference to drug use (but it's just weed); reader has a backstory; spoilers for the series

WORD COUNT: 14,7k

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an update; this isn't the final part lmao dangerous words coming from someone like me oops. there's probably going to be three more parts after this.

There is no sense of closure when you watch the jagged pieces of a broken man fall to the floor by your feet. The splintered edges offer no succour, no victory, when they come to rest along the scattered ruins of a delusional love affair: alcohol bottles—Kraken, Captain Morgan—and grease-stained boxes of takeaway, most unfinished in favour of satiating yourselves on flesh, sex. 

(Booze, more often than not.)

Seeing him struggle to find meaning in what you say—watching that ethanol-soaked resignation filter through hazy, electric blue—brings a fresh pain instead, taking space in the hollow gaps where you expected vindication and self-worth to bleed through. 

You're doing the right thing, after all. Aren't you? 

Aren't you? (please, someone, anyone, say yes—)

Uncertainty is an uneasy, nauseating feeling inside your guts. Much like a broken bone, it emanates a visceral sense of perturbation through your body. Every synapse fires in protest; every nerve screaming out. They bellow one thing in unison: something is wrong and not quite right. 

You feel their cries deep in your being. Each muscle twitch and frayed thought that passes carries the echo of it. 

This pain, it seems, is cracking your ribs apart and exposing the rotting marrow to the open air. Slurping from the putrefying sludge, satiating itself on the sickness eroding you from within. 

It's all wrong. It feels wrong. 

Bear swallows. You watch the way his throat works around the bitterness that lashes across the cut of his brow; gyres darkening in his eyes. Storms on the horizon. 

(You think you'd welcome the squall. Might embrace anything to get out of this place—)

“That's what you want?” He rasps, thick and gritty, and you think about the last time he sounded like that—all torn up, and broken. Words mangled in his throat. Husked out when he told you about Rip, about the boy, his daughter, and—

No. No.

None of this is what you want, and it pains you that he can't see that. 

(Such a selfish, broken man.)

Inside the festering slurry of your marrow, an urge wells up. Bubbles in the putrid pools until it's frothing, raging against the walls keeping it trapped until it seeps through the cracks, leaking into your muscles, your tissue, your bloodstream. 

This silly little body of yours carries it up to your heart where it sinks talons into your pericardium, subsumes the serous in this terrible essence, this idea, this whim—

(“what?” the scoff he lets out trails on the coattails of what might have been a laugh in another life. if he was another man, maybe. you, more honest with yourself. but you are just two broken people in a run-down bar. humour exists somewhere in the muzzle of a loaded pistol. “got a saviour complex or something?”

or something. or something—)

Because the thing is: you do. 

You spend most weekends wandering around antique stores because you're convinced that everything deserves a home. A place of its own. You find the unwanted, the unsellable, and you let it take space in your lonely, cramped apartment. 

And why not? No one else will buy it. You're, technically, helping the environment. It's a win-win. 

(and more lies you tell yourself.)

These false promises are always made that one day, one of these days, you'll find something to do with it all—maybe you could learn how to make something out of it; stitch all the unuseable parts, the unwanted pieces, and create something that everyone will want—but so far, none of your rescues has ever been finished. Saved. They sit in a corner taking up space. Untouched. Unused. Collecting dust. 

That insidious whim curls inside of your heart, and whispers: 

it's never too late to try again. maybe this time, it'll work out for you—

It's the same one that lures you in, making you purchase a complete set of ugly-looking dolls because some ladies were recoiling at the sight of their lumpy, antediluvian faces, and you felt bad thinking that they were doomed to end up sitting on the shelf until they were unceremoniously tossed into the bin with all the other things that won't sell. 

And the one, now, that stares at the terse set to Bear's shoulders, the lines rucked across his broad, the helplessness etched into ashlar, and considers that maybe all he needs is someone. A friend, maybe. 

(And maybe, maybe, that it could be you—)

“Bear—” it would be so easy to swallow the words back down until you choke on them. 

You breathe in. Taste nicotine in your throat; the phantom burn of a memory from long ago: one once buried under the rubble of your crumbling foundations, now rearing into this yawning abyss as you waver on the precipice. This vacuum that syphons you dry. Leaves you empty, gaping. 

It’s your mum leaning over the railing of a mezzanine as she smokes a cigarette—the eighth in the last three hours, pack near gone—and tries (and fails; always, always, always) to find some temporal kinship with a higher power as you sit on the porch swing and drink in the scraps she tosses your way. 

(Today, it’s the way the smoke curls in the periwinkle sky like a naked gospel; grand televangelist to a crowd of one.)

She scrambles within the ruins of her own making to seek answers to compensate for the lack of worth that slips from the cracks. Left behind again. Again, but it’s not her fault. It’s never her fault. 

(You should know best, she tells you—you suckled from the shattered parts of herself before you broke away from the cradle of her arms. Genetics leaves you wrecked for company, for permanence.

It’s just not made for us, baby. We’re unloveable only because we love too much—)

An epiphany comes in the middle of her eighth cigarette, and she divines enough wisdom to come to the succinct conclusion that those broken pieces are not the cause of her misery. 

(How could they be when they’re a part of her and she’s a part of everything?)

Can't fix a broken man, she murmurs into the midmorning fog, blood-red mouth splitting into a sneer. There was beauty, you thought, to be found in the pale yellow of her teeth against the pastel dusting of dawn. Rapturous, almost. You couldn't look away even as the words snaked through the underdeveloped fibres of your mind. They're like someone who's drowning, you know? They'll grab on to anyone that gets too close and try to pull them under, too. Maybe because they want to save themselves, or maybe because they don't want to die alone. Better to leave them behind. 

Can't fix a broken man, (but maybe—)

Your dad tried to fix me, she adds, and it comes in the same cadence of an afterthought, blase; but the thinness in her voice, the reedy pitch of barely veiled urgency, all feigned indifference to the topic, all give her away. She's been waiting for this, you know. Gearing up in steady increments so that the blow lands harder when it's thrown. 

Isn't that stupid? And he couldn't even bother to stick around. What a joke… But I guess some people are like that, huh? Couldn't be me, she scoffed, jabbing her finger in your direction. You could see the yellow of her nails beneath the pock marks in her chopped, blue nail polish. And don't let it be you, either. The best thing you could ever do for yourself and someone else is leave. Don't cheat. Don't be the other woman. Just fucking—

The bubble bursts, and in that breaking, a truth is revealed to you in some strange, hangover-induced epiphany brought on by dehydration, malnutrition, and the terrific idea of going home with a man who has never once talked to you while being completely sober. It screams—first and foremost—you are an idiot, but beyond that, you really are your father's child, aren't you? 

Lost amid your memory, the emergence of a forgotten fallow, it’s Bear who shakes you awake when he reaches for you after the silence sat for too long. Fingers touching, too tender and too rough at the same time, and the juxtaposition makes you quiver as it ploughs disquiet into your being. 

Tears pebble in your lash line, threatening to spill over. You haven't cried in a long time and yet, yet—

His hand folds over your wrist, tight and unrelenting. Shackles against your bones. Grinding them into soft, fine powder. 

“C’mon,” he slurs, pleads; tugging you closer as if distance is what makes you say these things to him and not the heavy, overwhelming scent of alcohol wafting off of his numb tongue. “You don't know what you're saying right now—”

His fingers tighten. The midnight scabs on his knuckles tear from the strain, the stretch. Blood wells under the slit that lifts from his broken, battered skin. Pebbles like a tear-drop on the wrinkle of his bruised knuckle, and then sheds itself free. Running down the yellow mess of moulted flesh until it meets the cliff edge of where his palm rests against yours. 

“You don’t mean it. You can’t mean that. Stay with me, stay—”

The alcohol makes him sway where he sits, eyes upturned but focused inward, lost to thoughts and feelings and places unreachable to you. Ephemeral lines in jaded, blue sands. It slips, too, from between his fingers. Uncatchable to anyone but the flush under his skin, the slur in his words. 

Can’t fix a broken man. 

The motion dislodges the droplet and it waterfalls over his palm until his blood kisses the clean, unmarred skin of your hand. 

He doesn’t notice the way he bleeds on you (through you, in you; drowns you in it, in him—): outside of a thready determination built on drunk devotion, he doesn’t seem to see much at all. Clouded. Overcast. Those hazy eyes regard you with a thin, untouchable distance. Filmed over and too far gone for you to pull him back—

(and you can’t help but wonder if he even notices you or if, in those unending crevasses, an icy, broken bergschrunds, the misshapen silhouette of you strikes a different chord to him; if these slurred hymnals are just a hollow orison for someone else in your stead.)

—so you stop trying. Let it sit, let it rot. Smell the infection in the air as the wound splits apart. Gangrenous and beyond palliative help. 

Something must flicker across your face sharp enough to cut through the fog he drowns himself inside because his eyes widen slightly, and his hand tenses around your wrist. Tight. Unyielding. 

As his fingers dig in over your pisiform, deep enough to bruise—to mark you once more with his stain, his touch—you’re struck by the sudden thought of brittleness. It’s not something you’d ever considered yourself as—delicate, fragile—but with the way he holds you now, not at all dissimilar to the way he held on last night, fingers loosely wrapped around your wrist as he used your joints as a stress ball to calm himself down, you feel vulnerable. Swallowed whole, caught. 

What once felt like a comfort, a sense of security as you moulded yourself into an anchor point, a lighthouse on the sandy, dark shore, for him to find, to swim for amid the roaring waves dragging him down, now feels like dead weight. 

For the first time since you've met him, you taste chlorine in the back of your throat. Feel the pull of the currents dragging you down. 

You know all too well what it feels like to drown. 

You pull away. He clings tighter. 

“Bear, please—”

Please, you think. Please, please, please—

(If you keep stripping yourself bare, you'll be nothing but bones—)

He doesn't even notice. Nothing, it seems, will pull his fixed attention from every minuscule expression that flickers across your face as if the mere notion of weakness, of hesitancy, will give him reason to hold on just that much harder. 

“Can't just give up on this—” the words are tangled in his throat, caught on the end of a snarl, and vicious. He tugs on you, pulling you closer. “On us.”

“There's no us, Bear.” 

And it isn't a lie. Of course, it isn't. 

There's an empty chasm between you both, void of any tangible substance. Whatever he thinks this is, it can't work. Won't. Not in the real world. Not outside of the bottom of a bottle. 

You won't be his crutch. His bad habit. His midlife crisis amid a downward spiral. 

You can't be.

Won't be. 

(you will not be the other woman. you will not be your father's child.)

And it isn't remotely the same, you know. Bear's wife is—

Dead. Gone. 

—and yet, this whole situation still makes you feel like a homewrecker even though the home you demand he returns to is empty. 

Selfish, you think, but you can't even begin to know who you're referring to in this beautifully devastating moment. Bear, for chasing ghosts, drowning them in alcohol and bad choices and vices that end with bringing strange women back to his lonely hotel room just to feel more than the vicious bite of grief in his chest.

Or you, for pulling away from this drowning man because you're not strong enough to save him and yourself at the same time. 

(or—something sneers—you just hate the idea of being like either of your parents, but what can you do when you've stolen all of their bad parts for your own?) 

You think of the man in the bar. One hundred dollars to send him back home. Where he belongs. 

(...he can't destroy himself like this. You'd know that, though, as his friend.

send him home, alright?)

“Go home,” you say, harsh and severe. All the things that your mother wished she said to him. Regurgitated words spat out by his feet because borrowed doctrines are you've ever known. 

A fissure crackles across his expression, cutting through the fog. It's anger, bitterness, pain—some strange, fantastical amalgamation of the three—and it coalesces into broken defiance where it sits, clinging to the glossy grease around his brow, his nose. 

It makes your fingers itch with the urge to soothe—to unfurl the wrinkles in his brow, to tuck this grown man close to your chest until the tension in the thick set of his shoulders liquifies in your hands, and he melts into malleable putty. 

(Another trinket to collect dust on your mantle.)

You swallow it down—the salt and blood, and the pathetic pulse of your heart, and all. Hurt him, you think. Hurt him deeply. Deeper, still. Push him away and run. Run. Keep running until your legs give out, until your lungs collapse because if you don’t, if you don’t, you know you’ll stay with him until he throws you to wayside, until he wakes up one morning and decides that you are not enough compared to the big, wide world just outside his door; that your walls and your roof are not big enough for him—

“Please. Go home. Go home, Bear—”

Your words land like you knew they would, and he reels back for a moment, as if struck, but the anger, the twisted pain etched in the lines of his unkempt beard, his greasy brow, make stand firm. Unmoving. 

You catch the acrid scent of gasoline on his skin when he leans forward, forcing himself back into your space with his chin dipped low, eyes blazing with a defiant inferno. His scarred, battle-battered hands drop to his splayed knees, gripping tight. Holding firm. 

(Or holding himself back—)

His voice is a matchstick when he speaks. Smouldering embers sparking to life. Renewed with a sense of purpose you can't make sense of. What set him off? What made him flip—

(You're not worth it. You're not worth it—)

“M’not giving up on this.” 

His jaw is slack. Laxed. The words slip out slow, languid. Curling with a touch of humid derision, mordant humour, at the idea that after all of this, everything (nothing, you think—nothing, nothing, nothing), you could just walk away unscathed. 

If I burn, the crackle in his throat says, promises: then you're burning with me. 

“Bear—”

“I'm not giving up on us.” 

He leaves, and takes another part of you with him. 

(You sever a part of yourself and leave it in the mouldering hotel room that still reeks of stale sweat, cheap whisky, and sex.)

The aftermath goes like this: 

A tsunami of regret and indecision dredges up terrible, awful things—phantom memories and stains in the shape of fingerprints that pollute the inside of your psyche—ones that should have been left to rot at the bottom of your buried trenches. It makes leaving harder than it should have been considering the abrupt nature of this—whatever it is. 

(Untitled. Unnameable. Unknowable.)

There's betting on losing dogs, and then there's this: 

Pacing all your cards, all your coins, on one that wasn't even in the race. 

One foot in, one foot out doesn't apply when Bear has never even stepped over the threshold. That notion roots itself in the scorched fibres of your chest, knotweed in your alveoli, as you scent liquor on his breath when he speaks. A cavernous distance grows between want and reality. 

You thought you knew him. Learned and memorised all his hard lines, his soft valleys, the thick thatches of hair that dust his body like the dark depths of a riverbed; a nebula of loosely connected scar tissue—Orion's belt made of fine, silvery lines—and pock marks from blemishes and bumps born from the rich, enigmatic tapestry of his life beyond the mere sliver of you. Crows' feet in the corner of his eyes, but only when they're crested in pleasure, twisted in that tender sort of humour only comfort brings. 

It takes you a weekend to map out the burly topography of a man, and only seconds to realise you know nothing about him outside of this rapacious intimacy. 

And even though you want to feel like this was the right choice—because it is, it was—you can't seem to stem the sheer brutality in which regret tears through you as you stand alone in a desolate parking lot under the waning sun. A whimpering ending to a desolate beginning. 

Was it loneliness that brought you here, or just the mundanity of fearing failure? It's these unanswerable questions, these skewed thoughts, that tumble over themselves, struggling to stay buoyant in the molasses of your sicky grey matter. 

(Let them sink. Let them drown.)

These distant sentiments barely echo in the gaping vacuum of that is your mind. Untethered, whispering by as you stare, transfixed, at the broad strokes of pretty pastels in periwinkle, tangerine, and bluebonnet are rapidly consumed by the darkening sky that opens like a chasm above your head. The sight of it a little too close to the colours that danced in the aether when you both broke, finally, meeting somewhere in the middle, tangled webs. Broken people coming together in a cataclysm that was always, always, headed down a single path to devastation. 

(The perfect conclusion to a story without a beginning.)

It's something you shouldn't think about. Let them sink. Let them drown—

This looping, knotted thread is a dangerous one to follow—the agony of watching Bear storm off (even after asking, demanding, that you let him drive you home; an offer you quickly refused) is still raw and gaping; a pulsating wound in the back of your throat—but you're brittle enough to want it to hurt, maybe. Chasing that unequivocal high only self-flagellation brings. 

Masochism in failure. In heartbreak by your own design. 

And it should hurt, right? This lonely climax (not with a bang, but a fizzle) should devastate you. Cut you to the core. Leave false starts on your bones. Scars on your ribcage. A meteor shower in milky white. Something tangible. Permanent. 

But instead, it feels unfinished. More of a sudden paroxysm than a defining choice you've made. Concretely. Absolutely. It's a hollow win for your bruised ego. Your battered pride. It slinks, somewhere, in the depths of this renewed pain, and licks at the tender wound made when you pierced your chest and ripped your heart cleanout. 

Threw it at the floor by his feet. 

Quid pro quo, maybe. Or a desperate bid to rid yourself of the Bear-shaped hole now taking residence inside. 

(It's fine, though. That pesky thing, all wrapped up tight in thick layers of duct tape, has never really felt like it belonged to you, anyway—)

It's all such a beautifully horrific panoply, you find. Paradoxical. Oxymoronic. Smothering and somehow claustrophobic at the same time. Being burnt alive and dying from hypothermia. 

The cudgel of pain to your chest is white-hot and vicious, but there's a seismic polynya in the lavascape of sadness that drapes through the topography of your being like a sluice, and in that little island of ice sits the unrelenting sense of flat resignation. 

You left Bear of your own free will, but in the jaded fibres of your being, you know it was all—

Inevitable. 

And fuck—

(fuck, fuck, fuck—)

Was it? Was it all inexorable or are you just making up flimsy excuses for yourself? 

Yes, you think. And then: no. Maybe. Maybe. 

(you are your father's child—

and your mother's broken daughter.)

You want to cry, and scream, and break the pain against something willing to fight back, to cut you just as deeply as you hack at it, but all you have are fragmented memories swarming you in this vacant parking lot on the wrong side of Virginia Beach, and—

(don't let it in, don't—)

—you chase it, lure it all in as you compare the blue in the sleepy gloam to the colour of his eyes, and then—

Your back against a brick wall, his knuckles sticky with blood closing around the nape of your neck, pulling you closer. Closer. The wide expanse of his palm swallowing your wrist as he led you to his truck; then, heavy on your thigh the entire—ill-advised—drive to the Motel 6 down the road where you stand now, fragile, raw, and all alone. 

When this all started, when you finally had the cobbled remains of Bear’s lucidity in your arms, the flat press of his attention against your jugular, you considered it to be a victory—

(a victory in amber)

—but hindsight is a cruel, mocking laugh in the back of your head. Twisting the knife deeper, severing the fraying threads that anchor you to yourself. With a sadistic glee it tells you that while you might have won the battle over the bottle, you lost the war (—abysmally, and without even the haze of a fever in your veins to numb the hollowness of your loss). 

You just can’t fix a broken man, and you certainly can’t keep him afloat all on your own when you’re too busy trying not to drown yourself. 

It's just that the weight of your shared brokenness was incompatible and insurmountable to the grief in Bear’s heart, but really. You just wonder if it was inevitable that everything you offered would be passed over in favour of numbed indifference at the bottom of a bottle. For someone, something, else. And while you might have been the one to leave first, but somewhere in the misplaced hurt inside of your chest threatening to collapse in on itself, folding into a black hole that devours all of your messy, ugly parts, you know that Bear was never really there, anyway.

That thought stings more than it should because you know, you know—

It’s just not made for us, baby.

—and maybe it’s all your fault for forgetting that inevitability in the first place. 

(shame on me—)

The thread you warned yourself not to chase gets tangled around your throat, choking you with the very same line you should have stayed far away from. It feels like hollow cyclicity—a gluttonous ouroboros gorging on itself—when it all, eventually, leads back to the beginning. 

Your fault, again, for trusting broken guidelines in the dark. For betting on losing dogs. For picking up another stray who already had a home. Another trinket to gawk at that ended up being chock full of arsenic, killing you with every touch. 

But He's gone, now, despite the fire that raged in his eyes, he still left you here to burn on your own. 

(inevitable—)

You should learn when to let go, you suppose, and fight the urge to bite your nails down to the wick just to taste blood in your mouth that isn't his. 

For the most part, though, you’re fine.

You’ve always been a good liar (“terrible, actually,” Bear snorts, and it’s the closest you’ve ever come to seeing him roll his eyes. “Jesus, never play poker if I'm not around—”), and especially to yourself, so after a moment of self-reflection in the form of a scalding bath and a purging cry in your car as you shoddily cut the Joe Graves-shaped cancer from your aching heart before it can metastasise and infect you further, you come out of it all standing, somehow. 

It might be the pastiche of indifference you slip into; a facsimile of the one, jaded and so bone achingly tired, that fell over you when you stumbled out of the bathroom, ready for something more only to find a man half-gone already to a bottle in the span of a few moments alone with his thoughts. 

Regardless of what it is, it works (—in shades, and only as long as you cling so tightly to anger that your fingers bleed and your joints ache—), and you let the familiarity of your unpractised trot to some gnarled finish line lead you forward.  

A clean break, you think (—hope: plead, bargain; wishing so hard on every eyelash that falls, every eleven you come across so that something, someone, listening might cradle the delicate splinters in their arms and nurse this whim, this want, into fruition), and you'll be fine. Fine. 

You have to be. 

But the thing is this:

Despite your best efforts to put some sense of distance between you and the heartache that must be, at least a little bit, on par with being gutted, a clean break is never clean, is it?

Case in point—

Thinking about him makes you bleed, and you think about him constantly. 

(Regret, then, is a wellspring in which the pain drinks and you didn't know a body could thirst this much.)

And it's made even worse when you realise just how bullish a man like Joe Graves can be. 

Maybe it's the thought of everything that had built up between you shattering into pieces that awakens this sense of urgency within him. Clinging, perhaps, to the only form of comfort he knows. The only one who toughed it out—in part, due to your employment obligation; the rest? an unresolved saviour complex when it comes to the people even a contrarian wouldn't place a bet on. Maybe. 

(Probably. Undoubtedly. 

You stopped trying to find the reason why you kept picking up the strays who always bite you in the end.) 

Whatever the reason, Bear is persistent. Relentless. 

He makes it Wednesday (you'd left him behind Sunday evening—day of the Sabbath, you learn; how fucking ironic) before his campaign starts. 

It's forty-six missed calls, half a dozen texts (because he doesn't like texting—he likes talking. Face to face. No fallacies, no bullshit), and thirty voicemails (twenty-seven of which are drunken ramblings you don't even bother to listen to, and the rest—

Pick up. We need to talk. 

Listen, I—

I fucked up. I fucked everything up—

Delete. Delete. Delete. 

What are you supposed to do with any of that, anyway?) 

The crux of the issue that Bear seems to miss swims in ethanol and leaves behind a five-minute voicemail filled with slurred I miss you's amid a background chorus of a rowdy bar. Then, a woman's voice—a woman who isn’t you—urging him back for more shots. 

You can imagine how the rest of that night unfolded. 

(You wonder if the word meant for you—I miss you—was still on his tongue when he followed her back.)

It's your fault (again; always) in the end because while you don't answer him—neither text, nor call; all voicemails deleted—you can't bring yourself to block him, either. 

You let it sit somewhere in the murky middle. Untouched but looked at. Longed for. 

It would be so easy to just give in. To let Bear back into your life—properly this time, maybe—and to take him up on those slurred promises made at two in the morning about coffee shops on the boardwalk, and breakfast at the Gulfstream, and movies and dinner, and talking until three in the morning, fucking in the back seat of his pick-up truck—

But that's the thing about yearning, isn't it?

Everything seems sweeter when you want it bad enough. 

So, you drown yourself in him. Stand as close to the fire as you can without burning alive.

Dousing yourself in the scent of ethanol cleaner. Clinging to broken pinky promises. Thinking about peanut butter and bacon staining your fingers. Prying information from rotting timber, and keeping the saprophyte that falls off the wood in your pocket for safekeeping. Filling space on a drumroll because you talk too much, anyone ever tell you that? 

(ad infinitum.)

Taping the ugliest bible verses to the back of your eyelids just to get closer, to feel closer, only to come to the realisation that you have no stake in religion to care about the deeper meaning behind it all. Metaphors and imagery are hollow when they mean nothing at all. 

There's no comfort, no succour, to be found in the thin pages. 

(You roll them up and smoke them instead. Easier to digest that way, you find.

Bear would probably hate it, and that alone balms the hurt some. Marginally, infinitesimally, because nothing can cauterise this gaping hole in your chest so you might as well fill it up with paper mache instead. Origami cranes with how much you hate him miss him need him want him written on the inside.)

You ache. Moulder. But you let it all rot inside of you until it's a congealed mess of putrefying memories and the moulted remains of the yearning you kept locked in shackles; the one that keeps biting, gnawing at the limbs of its cage to free. 

It's easier to let it all decay together in a controlled space so that you can bisect the necrosed mass in a single go. Sever the limb to save the body. It's a mantra you repeat as you call in sick to work over and over again. 

The flu, you say, and if the sniffle you give is from crying, and the cough from the weed you've been smoking all morning (blue dream, the shaggy-haired kid tells you with a nod; adds: the good shit), well. No one—especially your shitty boss and his shitty work ethic—has to know. You balm the hurt in a way that makes you feel good, smoothing it all over with trashy reality television (though, the Japanese dating show you end up dozing off to is pretty good, admittedly), and junk food. 

Moving on—even some sad, pathetic facsimile of it—helps. Routines forged in wilful avoidance take the edge off of the livewires inside of your body, nerves overstimulated and burning up with a fever much too hot, too vicious, for you to palliate with home remedies. 

And so, you throw yourself into it. Become a human battering ram against the ghosts in your head. 

Things quickly become more of a coping mechanism than a potential, but that's fine. It's all fine. It'll work in the long run until the bruises that line your flesh fade along with the want and the hope, and the terrible memories, too. 

(Terrible, in the way only a desperate, all-consuming one-sided love can be.)

All of it up in flames, in smoke. 

You burn through an ounce in retaliation while watching his name flicker across your screen, and then spend an hour googling whether or not weed is really addictive (it isn't, but the routine, the habit, can be), before deciding that this whole affair is stupid, anyway. 

It's a carousel of self-pity, spite, and masochism that feels like it might never end. Your efforts to palliate the sickness amount to a week of paid sick time spent watching a slew of old romantic dramas on repeat, and ignoring the string of texts that pour through (talk to me, let me fix this, let me—). All voicemails are immediately deleted before you can even hear the hitch in his voice. 

It's duct tape over a gaping wound. Drifting aimlessly along Lethe, careless and indifferent, but all the while, desperately reaching down and cupping water into your palm for a sip that never seems to quench the thirst in the back of your throat.

You think you could drink until you're just standing in a dry riverbed and still feel parched. Effloresced by your own hand. 

(as usual. as always—)

But this wound is still raw, still tender, even beneath the tape. 

Ignore it. Ignore it—

(—before the edges begin to tear. Cloved down the middle.)

Another buffer is born when you get a text message from your boss—u comin in tmrrw?—and realise you can't avoid it, work, forever. 

The prospect of going back on Friday evening—tomorrow, you suppose (the days have been slipping like molasses through your spread fingers)—makes you nervous. 

You're not ready to see Bear. 

But more than that (deeper than it, too), you’re not ready to see Bear unaffected by all of this. Sitting in his usual spot, in their chair he barely fits in, ordering the same drink over and over and over again. 

Moving on, too—in his own way. Meeting someone else.

(His horoscope holds no punches when it tells you a past relationship may re-enter your life, which may open your eyes to a world of new experiences—)

It isn't as if he usually pairs celibacy with his whisky, and with the plethora of ignored messages (read receipt turned off), unanswered phone calls, and deleted voicemails, you know it's inevitable for him to give up. To get the hint—whatever that might be. Move on, maybe? 

(get your shit together and chase this properly, Bear, jesus christ—)

You consider calling in again, but without any paid sick days left at your disposal, you know you can't afford to. So, you swallow it. 

(And if it takes a little longer than usual to get ready for work, then so be it.) 

Even with all of the false bravado you can scrape together come Friday, your nerves are frayed. Raw. The anxiety rolls off of you in waves, noticeable enough that even the regulars loitering outside (the ones who usually try and bum smokes off of any passersby, yourself included) offer you a cigarette. 

(Politely turned down, but fuck—fuck—you wish you took it.)

The first hour into your shift is spent trying to pretend you're not aware of the way your roaming eyes skirt to the door in thirty-second intervals. Traitors. Or the involuntary flinch each time the door opens. 

It would be easier to get lost in the familiarity of this desolate dive bar on the fringes of town, and so, you do. 

(Try to, anyway.)

Immersing yourself in the routine of it all—the motions of pouring drinks, sizing the newcomers up (profiling their personage down to a drink and a random idiosyncrasy); the astringent scent of alcohol, the mild barley and hops; the noise of hushed conversations lulling between the static rumble of the television (sports, per usual). 

The clock ticks down the seconds, the minutes, hours. You pour drinks. Clock the local gossip. Listen to the patter of condensation dripping into the tin bucket beneath the hole in the roof. In between the threadbare stirrings of routine, you find yourself waiting with dread gnawing at your insides until they're shredded and raw, pulsing ligaments burning with the fever of infection. 

But it's moot. All of it. 

He doesn't come back to the bar. 

Where you expect to see his broad shoulders slouched over the counter, head hanging low over his steady accumulation of shot glasses (a drinking challenge with only one participant; his demons the spectators), the seat he usually occupies remains empty. 

And maybe you're idealistic and stupid and wet behind the ears, but a part of you expected him to. To wander up to the counter with roses and chocolate and sobriety etched into the Neptune blue glow of his eyes, and to pick you, to choose you, but—

A fairytale. 

The box on the counter—complaints—$5—is picked up by some wayward frat boy, and the mocking laughter that follows makes you think of cobalt blue, and peanut butter and bacon burgers in the empty parking lot near the beach, watching the endless midnight black ocean rock against the sandy shore. Talking. Talking. Talking. 

Everything. Nothing. All the things in between. 

You told him about college—failed the first semester, and then my dad… well. Anyway, had to drop out for a bit. But. I went back. Stupid, I know, and it doesn't matter but—

His hand falls on your arm, fingers a little greasy from the sweet potato fries, the ones he kept sneaking from your pile when he thinks you aren't looking, and he says:

It matters to you. 

And it did, but only because it was something your dad mentioned a long time ago—I'd be proud if you followed in my footsteps—and despite everything he'd ever done, his attention, his affection, was all you'd ever wanted. 

Yeah, you'd said, and stared out at the vat of blue until your eyes burned. Yeah, I guess so. 

Well, he had peanut butter staining the corner of his mouth when you blinked the sting from your eyes, and turned to him. What do you wanna do?

Nothing. Everything. 

Your dad once picked you up from practice, hands tight around the steering wheel. He filled you in about his day (stupid fuckin' guy from upstate came down and bought all the houses we were fixing to sell), complained about your mother (god, you know, that woman didn't even tell me what school to pick you up from? Said I should know where my daughter goes to school, as if I'm not working all damn day to keep you fed, and—), and gave you the biggest piece of advice you'd ever get:

"Look, no job is better than real estate. All that crap you think you want to do? Not important. All you need is four walls and a roof, and that's it. The rest is secondary."

(If that was true, why weren't you enough for him? Why weren't your four walls and roof enough to keep him?)

A shrug. I don't know. I've never been good at anything. You think of bruised knees. Scraped skin. Chasing a car, a dream, that never once slowed down. Can't even run right, it seems. 

I can teach you. He clears his throat when you look at him, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand twice but somehow misses the dollop of peanut butter tangled in his beard. M’used to training men, I'm sure I can whip you into shape. Teach you how to run. Put you through the wringer until you come out sprinting on the other side. 

"Teach me how to swim instead." 

The bark of laughter he let out was cut off when you held your pinky up. 

His brows bounced, incredulous. "Really?"

"A Taurus always keeps their promise." 

"Christ's sake," he shakes his head, and you count the lines on his forehead when he turns, and rubs his fingers against his temple so hard, you wonder if he's trying to chisel through his skull to get at where it hurts the most. "I might not even be a Taurus."

"When were you born?" 

His tongue pokes out from between his teeth, chin dropping to his chest when he huffs. You watch the way his shoulders shake, the flesh softening around his neck when he dips it low, and wonder if this is what it was like to yearn. 

His eyes spark, Neptune blue, when he looks up. He says nothing, but holds his pinky up to yours, the digit swallowing yours whole. 

It's a promise. He squeezes your hand in three pulses. One. Two. Three. You think you might get lost in the canyons that keep dividing inside of his eyes. 

"Bet you were born in April." 

"Not even close." He grins, all teeth, and drops your hand. Motions to the fries spilling over your console with his chin. "Finish up."

"Oh, did you even leave any for me? Thought you ate them all."

"Watch it."

Your stomach churns at thoughts, the memories. Plagued by him, it seems. So tantalisingly out of reach, and yet—your phone vibrates in your pocket; another voicemail left for you to listen to in your car and pretend that this whole thing is fine—so close. 

He's everywhere, it seems. The scent of this place makes you think of him, and the stench of sickness—

Every square inch brings back some reminder of him. 

When he got too trashed the first few visits and stumbled into the washroom. His bulk falls into the cheap door frame, and sends the ugly photo of what might have been the boardwalk crashing the floor. His call of: take it outta my tab when it shattered into pieces. 

(You didn't. You hated that picture, anyway.)

When he knocked over his shot of tequila when you told him you thought he'd look really handsome in a beanie—a touch too bold, high off of the ethanol that leaked from his pores—and the rubescent smear over the bridge of his nose that followed. The ruddy stain on the counter—nail polish, you think, from that time a group of bridesmaids stumbled in after a wedding on the beach, and used the washroom to freshen up—matches the shade of his blush. 

You spend an hour before closing scrubbing the counter down until your fingers are cracked and dry and burning from the chemicals you douse on the cheap, aged wood. It doesn't come out. Nothing you do will ever make the table unsticky. It's too far gone. 

Like him. Like—

"Whisky," a man barks, slapping a dollar bill down on the stain. "Two shots." 

Four walls and a roof, right? Right. Right. Right. 

The walls here bleed condensation from the humidity outside, and the roof leaks when it rains. Always. It's patched up with duct tape and pipe dreams. 

(Like you—)

The box on the counter catches his attention, rheumy eyes skimming the words. He scoffs. "Funny. Make me a drink worth a tip, and maybe I'll—"

"You know what?" You snap, throwing the wet cloth down with a splat that sends droplets pelting across his abdomen. There's a vindictiveness in seeing the splatter on his smooth, unwrinkled shirt. 

Your eyes sting from the bleach, the lemon cleaner. Pebbled tears in your lash line threaten to spill over, but you swallow it all down. You won't cry. Not now. Not anymore. 

Your hands twitch, an aborted motion to scour the wetness from your lashes, but you stop it in time. Curl your fingers into fists instead. 

(And stupidly, nonsensically, you have the sudden, passing regret over washing your hands of the blood he'd spilled on your skin.)

"I don't work here."

"Since when?"

"Now. Get your own whisky, and take your shitty tip, and shove it up your ass—"

Quitting your only source of income certainly isn't the wisest decision you've ever made—but you've never been wont to make good ones, anyway, and so, you think it's all perfectly fine, considering. 

Considering. 

If anything, it's better than waiting around for the inevitable collapse of this shaky, patchwork foundation of paper-mache you cobbled together (reinforced with pipe dreams) to come crumbling down around you when Bear wandered in.

(If he ever would—

Fuck. You hope he does. Hope he doesn't. 

Get better. Come back—)

You sit in your car at the end of your shift—the very last one after several odd years of growing roots down into the worn floorboards, and keeping more secrets about the occupants in this town than you care to admit—and just—

Breathe. 

Sort of. 

It's twisted in a way that makes you entirely too aware of what everyone would think if they knew about it. So, you cup this little secret between the palms of your hands, and cradle it to your chest, only exposing it to the outside world when things become too much. It's easier to say you count to ten—in, out, in, out—than to admit that your methods of self-soothing, of quelling the visceral sense of anxiety from pinballing around inside your guts like a marble, is to lean back, close your eyes, and pretend that you're back in the deep end of the swimming at the local chapter of a YMCA. 

Drowning, of course. 

Or some fictive version of it. 

It comes to life in smeared yellow against hazy blue. A cacophony of muted sounds in the background—exultant shrieks of children, splashes in the distance, the low chatter of garbled conversation—is all you can hear in your underwater sanctuary, but only just. Noise is distorted and strange. A warbled mimicry of noise. 

Your world is pressed into a cerulean marble, untouchable and inescapable. You linger in the centre, floating aimlessly in stagnation. 

Down here, nothing matters. Everything is dissolved in the heavy chlorine that saturates the cold waters, and whatever resilient pieces remain sink low to the pool floor, scattered around the yellow goggles just within arm's reach. 

You sink with them. Your thoughts become liquid; mercury slinking around your head. Intangible. Nonsensical. And above all else—silent. 

Or they're supposed to be. 

But even down here where nothing can touch you, where no one noticed you haven't surfaced in ages, your thoughts are carried by the lulling currents. Saved from your murky grey matter, from the sap that traps them in the mouth of a pitcher plant, they buoy to the surface, unmoored now. Free to scream at you in whispers. 

You think of Bear.

Or rather, you think about not thinking about Bear. 

About other things. And nothing—forced white noise. Static. What you're going to do now that you don't have a job. The scabs on his bloodied knuckles. No. Work, maybe. Finishing up that degree you promised yourself you'd get, if only to fill some absent void in your chest—or a futile obligation to a man who forgot your birthdays. Who spelled your name wrong on holiday cards—on the rare occasions he ever bothered to send them. 

Other things. Other things—your faucet is leaking. You'll need to call the property manager to fix it. You need to get gas, too. Groceries. 

Faintly, you catch the musk of his cologne still clinging to your passenger seat when you breathe in. Hold it, count to ten. It makes you remember the warmth of his humid breath on your cheek when he leaned in close, tapping your console as he pointed out your CHECK ENGINE light was on. Had been, you confessed sheepishly, for a few weeks up to that point. 

Stupid pothole, you grumbled around the electricity running down your spine when his arm brushed yours as he leaned back with a derisive snort. 

You caught the headiness of white oak, musk, when he turned his face to you, decidedly unamused by your answer, and flatly told you that you were driving around in a death trap. 

Things not even on its last leg—it's in the damn grave. 

Whatever, you shrugged. I'll just hit another pothole on the way home and it'll turn off. 

Jesus Christ—

He didn't smell terrible. Faded cologne from a few days ago. Something woodsy. Cedar, maybe. Leather, smoke, pine. Sweat from the unrelenting humidity. Loam clinging to his skin. Spiced rum around his collar when he spilled his drink down his chin (you, eagerly, hungrily watching the amber droplet roll down the length of his neck—). He always seems to smell like he had been working in a thick, taiga forest in the dead of winter. Cindersap. Evergreen. Sweat-soaked leather. Chopped wood. 

It congeals in your senses. Glueing to soft tissue, embedding itself in your skin. Permanent, unshakeable. 

Unwashed sheets shouldn't be appealing. Motel shampoo. Cheap soap. The muted smell of old, stale cigarettes. 

And yet, in this marbleised world, you think of it. 

Of his skin, and the way it feels against yours. The slight sheen of grease along his nose when it nudges the soft slope of your neck. The rough drag of his beard over your pulse. Wry curls that end up on your tongue after he'd kiss you. 

Any plans on shaving?

He dragged his cheek over your collarbones, eyes lidded, heavy. None at all. That a deal breaker?

You hold your breath until your lungs start to quiver, to ache; until you're dangling precariously on the verge of hypoxia with ink blots splashing across your vision in a garish Rorschach (they're all butterflies. with knives. what does that say about me, doc?). Phosphenes scatter in a nebula of colour. Your throat constricts around nothing, empty. Empty. The urge to swallow follows on the coattails of a pitifully fleeting euphoria. Temporal and untouchable, but you still reach out, grabbing and grasping with straining fingers because you'll hate yourself forever if you don't try. Scrambling, desperately, to catch cosmic dust on the tips of your fingers. To imbue your disjointed cracks with the chemical makeup of a Magellanic cloud until your broken parts burn incandescent. Kintsugi in cuts, scraps, of Andromeda. 

But for as much as you want to shatter your lungs into infinitesimal pieces, and scatter them across the universe, your body has a failsafe against stupidity. 

It forces you to gasp, gulping down thin, crisp air until you feel the burn in your chest from overexertion. 

You open your eyes, and wish the world around you was still draped in teal and hazy yellow. That you could taste chlorine in the back of your throat. It's a brutal awakening to find a gossamer of silken midnight draped over the parking lot in the back of the dive bar. Empty, barren, save for yourself and the chef. A man you guess you'll never see again. 

Soft, crushed ochre smears a hazy ring in the east. The dawning sun of a new day. 

Leaning against the old leather of your car, your eyes cut to the console briefly. The CHECK ENGINE light is off. You made Bear groan, out loud, when you hit a pothole on the freeway and it flicked off, like you knew it was. Problem solved. More duct tape over what is probably something wrong with your engine (probably dented the filter in your catalytic converter, Bear grumbled, and you nodded along, pretending like you knew what that meant). 

A light catches your eye. Your phone buzzes on the dashboard, screen illuminated in the reflective surface of your window. 

You could pretend you were getting a call from RAEB if you tried hard enough. Answered it, maybe, and feigned ignorance while you chatted away to him like nothing happened. Like you sometimes don't try to drown yourself on land. 

You reach for it, fingers tingling at the last vibrations before the screen cuts out, and bring it close. 

It takes a second, but the voicemail icon pops up in the notification bar beside a text from your friend sent hours earlier begging you to come out next weekend (haven't seen you in forever okay?? come out w us!!). 

You don't know why he keeps trying. Why he's so persistent over something that is, quite decidedly, nothing. 

The icon taunts you. You hate seeing it—always have. It can't be swiped away. Can't be hidden. It irks you somewhat, seeing this little symbol. 

Make it go away—

You shouldn't. Not when your insides are this raw, this fractured. Broken. But you turn your phone over in your hands for a moment, mood mulish and itching for something. A fight, maybe. Something to be angry about, justifiably. To vent your frustrations. 

You tap it before you really think things through, watching as it dials VOICEMAIL and the automated message pops up after a ring. 

Please enter your password—

You have one new message. To play your messages, press one—

It starts shaky—like he's moving. You can hear the shuffle of his body, the rasp of his shirt. A door slams. He huffs. 

Look, uh. I'm not… I'm not good at this kind of thing. I was hoping—hoping we could talk… but. I guess I, uh. Anyway—

It goes quiet. You reach up to hit SEVEN on the keypad, delete the message like all the others, but a noise stops you. The screen hums under your finger. 

I've been thinking lately. About a lot of things. The team, myself. You. I made—some bad calls. Got some good men…uh, into some trouble. The kind of trouble you… don't walk away from. 

It made me think about Rip. I told you about him, right? In the—the motel. Rip is—Rip was… important to me. To us. Saved my life. In Iraq. Mosul. Bullet nearly hit me but somehow, he pulled me back just in time, took the bullet instead. Right in his stomach. And you know, he, uh—he huffs. It sounds like a laugh, but one he's choking on. He got right back up and took the bastard out. Just—wasted him. I owe him my life. Always have. It's muffled, as if he has his hand pressed to his mouth, keeping the words in. Should have saved him, but I couldn't. Couldn't do a damn thing to help him. I let him get that bad and I knew. I fucking—I knew. I saw it. Watched him spiral. And now—shit. Now I'm—uh, talking to your voicemail at four in the morning—

You think you catch what am I doing before the line cuts out. 

Fog settles in the midmorning dawn. You lean against the headrest, clutching your phone, and try not to think at all. 

(wash, rinse, repeat)

The hole in your chest, filled in with clay and papier-mache, crumbles under the seaspray.

What am I doing. It stays with you. 

These flimsy excuses become a house of cards. 

It doesn't surprise you much at all when they wobble, falling on top of you.

It's his name flashing across your screen—just Bear—as you lay in bed days later, pretending not to think about him that starts it all.

(again, again, again)

This is all a cruel sort of timing, you think, and feel the harsh thud of your heart so strongly against your rib cage that you wonder if the silly thing might break through them yet. 

You shouldn't answer. Know, without any hint of uncertainty, that Bear has the potential to pull you back in—fish to a pretty, glimmering lure—and that the moment you acquiesce to one thing, others will immediately follow in rapid succession, much too quick for you to keep up with. 

There will be no stopping the deluge once it breaks. 

And yet—

What did you expect?

The words thrown back into your face echo in the small of your flat as the walls around you wobble, teetering on the edge of collapse. 

Like most things when it comes to him. 

After the second buzz, one that sends a thrill through your spine that you refuse to give attention to, you hesitantly press your finger against the green answer key and slowly bring the phone up to your face, inches away from your nose, before stopping. Abruptly. 

You can handle Bear at a distance, you think, and so, deciding better than to have him murmur directly into your ear, you quickly tap the speaker button, and stammer out a muzzy greeting. 

“...Bear?” 

There's a sharp inhale that threads through the speaker, and you know, all at once, that he hadn't expected you to pick up. Was, instead, ready to meet and reluctantly embrace the cool, blithe distance of your voicemail. 

“You answered,” he hedges, and you wonder if the wariness in his tone means anything deeper. “I didn't think you would.”

Despite his honesty, there are shades of derision tainting the gruff timbre. 

“I wasn't going to,” you volley back, matching the fickleness of his misplaced scorn with your own. 

“Then why did you?” 

“You know why,” you admit quietly. 

No one is around to see your boundaries crumble. To watch as the cards you kept so close to your chest dip once, quick enough for him to glimpse them, to see what is tucked in the palm of your hand. 

In that loneliness, you find a sense of freedom that you had been missing. One tinged in the bitter coat of nostalgia. 

It feels too much like those nights spent arguing about the meaning behind the perfect pour (and why yours would always be trash), and showing him abysmal creations on Instagram in a thinly veiled attempt to make him see that you weren't, objectively, the worst at it. 

Back when you held the patchwork remains of your bruised, duct tape heart out over the countertop that never seemed to ever be clean as an offering to a man who bluntly looked down into the nozzle of his bottle instead. 

He huffs a little, then. Put-off, maybe, by the distance you pitch when giving in is always just within reach. “I don't see the problem.” 

“Well, yeah…” you mutter, shuffling in bed to get comfortable. You drag your knee to your chest, as the other stretches out in the sheets, and lazily wrap your arm around your shin, fingers digging into your flesh. Bruising, biting. It centres you, this fleeting pain. “You wouldn't, but I'll have you know—”

It's comfortable. The thought is a battering ram, one that hits hard, vicious, and dredges up the realisation of just how much you missed this. And just how easy this all is with him, even know when your heart is in tatters and you can hear the slur in his words (though, that might be his usual mumble—the man is hard to understand on a sober day, what with his penchant to grit words out between his teeth, as if he needs to tear them to shreds, to chew on them, before forcing them out), the normalcy in all of this, or as normal as this abnormal situation can get, is a bludgeon to your resolve. 

“...what, huh? What'll you have me know?”

You'll get suckered back in again, but this time, all the way to the event horizon. Inescapable. 

“You know, Bear.”

It's flimsy when he huffs, and sounds too much like relief when he growls: “Then why fight it?”

“I don't want to talk about this right now.”

The line goes still, but you catch the hitch in his throat all the same. “We should. I can fix this. We can fix this. You can't just decide—”

You can, you think, and drop your forehead to your knee, letting the phone slide down the valley of thigh and stomach where it comes to rest on the clothed crease of your hip bone. A prison. Your body is the cage. 

Not being able to see him gives you some sense of power back, and you reach for it. Needing to wield something decisive and distant before the rough timbre of his voice, his desperation, scoured your resolve into thin powder. 

“ Just give up, Bear. It's over. There's nothing to fix because there was nothing there to begin with.”

“Nothing there, huh? Is that what you think?”

Overtaking the bitter resignation is anger. A bone-deep fury that simmers to the surface, dredged up from the bottom of the bottle you thought you lost him to. You can hear it in the sharp breath he takes, the little growl he lets out. 

“Fuck that,” his viciousness stabs into your defences like a battering ram. Unrelenting, dizzying. You make to step back, but he fights you on it. Keeping you close. Blazing anger so hot, it nearly burns you. “You waltz into my life, chasin’ after me and then, what? You just decide it's too much for you? I warned you. I fucking warned you, didn't I ?”

“I—I know. I just—”

What, you wonder. What? Because was it ever as simple as wanting a hurting man to be a little less lonely in an empty pub? 

It's moments like this that make you contend with your self-sabotage, the unmaking of yourself (morality, compassion, kindness) by your own hands. Your complicity in all of this is staggering, and suddenly the idea of a clean break feels vile. 

How could you drop a man you spent months pursuing, expecting him to change overnight? 

Your faults, and flaws, soften the part of you that wants to run, fleeting into the dark to avoid the consequences of your actions. 

It takes two to tango, and the idiom bludgeons through the headache like a battering ram. 

“I guess I just wanted to help, at first. To be your friend. You seemed so—” lonely. Sad. One bad day away from slipping too deep into the bottle that he couldn't climb out again. 

His laugh is ugly, biting. “What? Pathetic? A sorry fucking drunk—”

“Alone.” 

It quiets him, this soft confession. 

“Can't save everyone,” is what he says after an agonising beat, and you think of the priest he tore into viciously for uttering the same sentiment. Bruising with his words, his tone, instead of his fists. Creating walls from the craters it left behind. 

“Doesn't mean you can't try.” 

“Wasted your time, don't you think?”

“No.” The word is immediate. Forceful. “With you? For you? No. But Bear. The thing you don't get, what you don't understand, is that you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. And maybe it's selfish, and honestly, I know it is, but you always risk your own life whenever you try to save someone from drowning, and I know I'm not enough to help you.” 

He's quiet. “Reading up on being a lifeguard?”

“In my spare time.” 

A huff. It's barely a ghost of laughter. “Yeah. Yeah. Well. Hope it all works out for you.” 

You can imagine the grim twist of mouth as he says it. The downward pitch to his chin, dipping in his misery. 

“I hope the same for you.” You whisper, and it feels like finality. 

Moments ago, the thought might have brought a sense of bitter relief to you, but now it just feels sickeningly like loss all over again. 

“Shit,” Bear grouses suddenly, and then draws a sharp breath once more. “I miss you,” he rasps on the exhale. 

You don't know why he would, but you understand, maybe, because you do, too. 

(So much, so much, so much—)

“I miss you, too, Bear.”

The tentative words seem to shake him, and all at once, he's commandeering again. Authoritative, in that way only he can be. 

“I'm getting better,” he rumbles. “I gotta. For the—for the team—”

It's the wrong thing to say, though, and he seems to realise it midway through. A quick course correction comes with a rushed, and for me, too, that reminds you too much of all the times you heard this same thing from behind the counter as you topped up their third, fourth, fifth glass. 

You know better than to believe in this hollow gospel, this midnight epiphany, and for the most part, you don't. It's all empty words. False promises from a prophet, spoken as a defence mechanism against the ugly reality of what happens when people catch on to their bad habits. 

But it's Bear.

Out of everyone who murmured the same phrase in that exact tone, you believe in him just a little bit more than the rest. 

(Stupid, stupid, stupid—)

It's his intense tenacity. That gritty determination seems ingrained within his very being. Inseparable. 

You wonder when you started divining truths from its scripture. 

“I don't want to lose you,” he's saying, and it's odd because he never really had you to begin with. 

“Bear—” It's late, and your thoughts are just running themselves aground. Turning into a tangled, indecipherable mess. “I need to get some sleep. Can we—can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Will you answer?”

It's deserved, of course, but you know that particular knife twist hurts him just as much as it does yourself, and whatever little vindication he finds from it is swallowed, quickly, by regret. 

“I just…want to talk to you.”

You imagine that somewhere between the lines, the things unsaid, sits the glaring truth of his sudden devotion, his obsession: 

there's no one else. 

(never anyone's first choice—)

“Sure. Okay, yeah, we can. We can talk. You're—” you need distance. You need space. A minute, maybe, to sort through the ugly thoughts making webs in the back of your head. “You're my friend, Joe. We're… we can be friends, again.”

“Friends?” 

It's not what he wants. That much is clear by the threadiness in his tone, but at two in the morning and with your thoughts liquifying into syrup, it's all you can offer him, all you're willing to give. 

Friends. It makes you remember the limbo you sat in before, the murk and heartache of watching him ply himself with overpriced liquor and then stumble out the door, sometimes with company but most often, all alone and with just ten minutes to spare before closing. The yearning. The pining. The want that made you feel sick to your stomach with guilt for some unseen, unknown woman back home. 

(“Dead. She's dead—”)

It sickens you even more to think about that. The ring he kept, the sadness that draped over his shoulders in a swath of agony. The one he didn't take off, not even for you. The warning signs were there. 

You just ignored them all.

Friends, you murmur again, and wonder where, in all this, you went wrong. The beginning, maybe, when you looked at him and couldn't bring yourself to look away. Friends. We can be friends, Bear. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Best friends,” you echo back, hollow and thin. “With matching bracelets and everything—”

“Thought it was a tattoo?” 

“That, too.” 

“Okay,” he acquiesces quietly, but you can hear the threads of obstinacy in his voice when he says it. The combativeness, the steadfast refusal to fully submit, rears in the things he doesn't say, pitching bivouacs in his tone. This isn't over, it says. You're not over. “Friends.”

It's scornful, and you hate the way it blisters under your skin. Burning hot, the same feverish delirium that turned you incandescent with just his touch. 

Everything about Bear tells you to relent. Submit. 

It would be so easy to just give in. 

And the thing is:

You want to. Desperately, achingly. 

His certainty, his acuity in all of this, has a way of dismantling your sense of reason. Or, at the very least, your rationale for why you're keeping him at a distance. It's not just being diametrically opposed, though; this is the unerring knowledge that your complicity needs to be curbed. That you are, in small parts, responsible for this barren husk of a man. For aiding and abetting in his spiral, sure, but mostly for expecting him to greet you with sobriety when he woke up, as if spending an entire weekend between your thighs was enough to negate all the demons clawing at the walls of his skull. Scarring bone. Chiselling into marrow. 

Simply put: you're not enough. You knew this, and yet—

Pursued, persisted. Laughably, even echoed the same words you repeat now to a man on the verge of going nuclear under the pressure of his rage, his grief. 

It's impossible to make a levee out of skin and bones, and no matter how much Bear might want to try—maybe has tried with his late wife, with a bottle, with vice, with bloodied, bruised knuckles and a chip on his shoulder deeper than a canyon—it's just not feasible. 

Too bad, you think, that this bone-weary epiphany didn't come sooner. That you didn't kick him out when you realised those beautiful valleys in his eyes were really just trenches. 

Hindsight, of course.

(How were you supposed to know that the rough growl in his timber wasn't a security blanket against the world but just the aftereffects of inhaling too much artillery fire?)

You should have, though. Your mum was a how-to manual on the things to avoid. She could channel wisdom directly from a man's marrow, and you—made in her spitting (vitriolic) image—seem to have learned nothing at all about divination. 

And you—forgotten ilk—can barely tell the difference between a portend and good fortune when you sift through clumps of barley tea at the bottom of your cup. 

For all of her stolen wisdom, you make a promise to yourself that you won't tear yourself into pieces just to make a safety net for him out of your flesh. Or set yourself on fire to keep him warm. 

(Not anymore, anyway—)

But then, cruelly, viciously, you wonder if you ever really helped him at all, or if this is just a manifestation to assuage your own guilt. Doubtless, you find. What have you done for him that wasn't, in some part, mutually beneficial? All this time, you've been gambling equivalence with a broken man, and then ran the moment those jagged pieces cut you. 

And maybe a little bit of this hesitancy is rooted in fear as well. A fickle thing you try to ignore in favour of something that makes you seem more altruistic than you really are, but still lurks in the shadows, in the words you, too, won't say. 

Things like: 

He's never met you sober. Not completely. And certainly not in a way that counts. 

Each interaction is marred with some form of a buffer between you both. Distance shaped in sips of his (fourth, fifth) beer; a shot of whisky. 

What if he doesn't like what he finds sober? 

You heard enough jokes at the bar about falling in love drunk and then waking up sober. If this is that, you don't know how you'd regain any sense of ground back. 

The precipice you clawed your way up to is endlessly steep, treacherous, and yet: you still let yourself fall. Still took the risk in opening your hand just to show him your still-beating heart. 

Return to the sender, you think a touch hysterically, deliriously. 

In the suffocating silence, his voice rings out. Quiet, rough, as if his vocal cords were made of charred wood, smouldering embers, and not warm, wet tissue. It's just your name, but the sound of it seems to drag you down to yourself, if only in increments.

“You good?” He asks when you hum noncommittally in response. 

With your forehead braced against the slope of your knee, it feels like bowing your head in a confessional when you whisper, paper soft, “I'm tired, Bear.”

It sounds like he is chewing on glass when he sighs. Throat torn, raw. The ghost of it whispers across your chin; fingerprints tapping over a tender bruise. 

“Haven’t been sleeping much these last few days. Been thinkin’ of us. Of you. And the team. All the people I let down—”

“Bear…” 

“And I—I want to see you soon. When you're ready. I'm not going to rush things this time. Not gonna mess it up again—”

He speaks like this is settled. Over. As if you've already climbed into the palm of his hand, and all he has to do is just close you up tight in his fist. A little flower he can carry around in his pocket. Kept safe. Kept close. 

It's—

A lot. Overwhelming. He sounds sober enough, and you know that he's not wholly dependent on drinking—it’s palliative; a coping mechanism to numb himself from the reality of everything else that happened to him—but there's a real crutch there that can't be erased by determination alone. But thinking about that—the future—makes your chest feel like it's going to cave in on itself; collapse and become another black hole in the Milky Way, swallowing everything down. 

You need to breathe. You need to think—

“You should get some sleep, Bear. And—”

Don't drink. Stop. Get help. Talk to someone. 

But the words are empty. Hollow vessels to placate your sense of responsibility. Your own guilt. 

Coward. You've always been so good at running—

“Take care of yourself.” 

“Yeah,” he rasps. The hushed timbre makes you tremble. “You too. Get some sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning.”

And so, this delicate dance made of putting duct tape over fractured promises and palliating the sickness in patchwork hope begins again, working in pieces. 

There's a distance that lingers between the folds of you both, unspoken hurt and distrust—a lingering symptom of letting yourself get swept away by the idea of a man rather than the flesh and bone cut of one—but despite it all, each misgiving that passes your mind when you see Bear’s name flash across the cracked screen of your phone, it works. 

Somehow, somehow. 

It isn't as deep as missing puzzle pieces, because as much as you and Bear seem to connect on a level beyond sex, and booze, and fleeting highs to numb a phantom ache in the pit of your chest, the idea of soulmates seems to be frangible for your fractured selves; with all of your jagged, sharp edges, something so soft would break into pieces, shatter apart. But it is something. 

And that might just be enough. So, you let it root. Let it grow limbs, and leaves, and curl around you like gentle, strangling wisteria until it reaches up to your chest. 

This delicate, fragile thing makes a home, again, inside the empty landscape of your heart.

(shame on me, you think, but still pick up his call as this tender, soft thing you're nurturing snakes across your jugular where it's the warmest, leeching heat from the fever that thrums under your skin.)

Despite his bold declaration, though, he seems to waver on a full pursuit. Content, almost, to maintain this idea of closeness without shattering the bubble you've reconstructed. 

It's odd, though. 

Bear is a man who seeks logic out but always ends up relying on his hunches. Emotional in the sense that he places all confidence in himself beyond the scope of what he might be able to deliver. If his determination can't bring him across the finish line—well, then it was unwinnable from the start. 

For a man so tenacious, so driven, his hesitation in all of this surprises you. 

But something has to give eventually. 

It always does.

Bear isn't terrible at texting, but he prefers phone calls. Something he admits has less to do with his occupation (no, I won't have to kill you for telling you this, you need to stop believing what you see on tv), and is more just a way of gleaning nuances he can't with written word. 

Though, not always. 

There's a softness when he speaks tonight, a quality you're unfamiliar with, as he confesses on a hushed memory, half musing aloud when the world is dead asleep and the sun is a distant idea in the back of your head, that he used to write letters to his wife whenever they weren't on the phone talking. Or Skyping each other. 

“Deployment with a group of guys doesn't leave much room for privacy,” he says, as if he hasn't just unravelled this hidden part of himself at three fifteen on what was meant to be a rather mundane ending to your Thursday. “They're not really, uh, sensitive to that. We're on top of each other for most of it, anyway. Asking a whole room to clear out just so I can talk isn't happening. So, uh, we—uh, me and Lena, we wrote letters.”

There's a stutter in his voice when he relays this to you, and you're struck numb by it all. Lena, you think, putting a name to a concept. 

“Oh,” you say, and you're not sure what to think about it. So, you don't. You tuck it aside, where all the other things you've learned about Bear go. The ones revealed to you in shambles. “That sounds— romantic. ”

It makes him scoff, and it's this terrible, broken thing. “Romantic, huh? Is that what you think?” 

You hum, taking it in. The grand reveal of his ex-wife (she… we, he corrects and clears his throat like it burns: we decided to separate. See, uh… see other people), and his marital problems, you connect the dots lingering in the foreground. 

You're not completely ignorant of his intentions. 

It's the first move on a fresh chessboard: a show of his commitment to this—whatever it might be—and how serious he's taking it all. Where you'd been the only one to dare pry open the rusted nails keeping your secrets at bay before, he's taking the initiative to do so now, to meet you somewhere in the middle where the olive branch still grows. Placing his bets before the race. Offering himself, and his secrets, up as collateral in this strange game you found yourself in. 

But does he know that you can still hear the slight slur in his voice when he speaks, or notice the way he seems to skirt around the conversation of his drinking habits on the days when it must be hitting him harder? Surely, he must. 

And yet, he still calls. Still decides to gamble with your devotion in maintaining a strange facsimile of friendship with whisky on his breath, slurring his words, and gives out the pretence of playing for keeps under the table. 

Maybe he knows you'll still give him the chance to keep playing no matter how many times his luck runs dry. It makes sense, considering. 

You'd always had a weakness for men like him. 

(Stupid—)

Outside of the tipsy phone calls, you've yet to hear him completely gone. A testament to his dedication, maybe, but you know the first week is always the easiest. When the high of the epiphany roars through their bloodstream, and the weight of the world doesn't feel as crushing as it once had, it's easy to make deals you don't have the means of keeping up with. But the debt is insurmountable to those who aren't fully invested, and the collectors are vicious. 

Still. Still. 

This is as close to sobriety as he's ever been, and you soak up his unbridled attention like you're starving for it. 

And in all honesty, you are. 

Bear is a strange, complex web of a man. Full of grit, anger. Misery curls in the corners of his eyes, hidden there amongst the powder keg of obsessive devotion just waiting to go off. You scented kerosene on his skin—napalm drenching his pores—when he'd lifted two fingers up and nearly snarled his order from across stained cedar wood. 

Having the brunt of his fire listing your way is a character study in restraint, in penance. It taps against the delicate binds holding everything back, and loosens the ties with every piece of him you're given. 

It's hard, you think, to stay so far away from someone when you're wobbling on the brink of devotion. Love, in shades of obsession. The taste of which settles in the back of your throat like a sickness, aching each time you swallow. 

You're not sure what it is about Bear, about this particular brand of miserable, angry man, but his very existence feels like it was constructed, handspun, to make you hunger for a taste. 

And then, you know. It's just that, isn't it? Miserable, angry man. 

(saviour complex, maybe. maybe, maybe, maybe—)

It feels deeper than that, though. It might have been the cause for this unravelling, this unmaking between you both, but the rest—the helplessness and the anger and the worry; answering his call even when you swore you wouldn't, leaving him in the motel room like a bad dream smeared across your pillow only to pick him up again, another bad habit in a sea of others—is than just a simple desire to fix problems that are not your own. 

(especially when they aren't your own.)

“Never really been the romance type,” he rumbles, shattering this strange, introspective reverie you've fallen into. 

“You seem to be doing okay for yourself, though,” you volley back, a touch too cautious compared to how it all was before. When you'd read him his horoscope, and pester him about trying your audacious food combinations he'd complain about, but eat, anyway. 

“Is that what you think?”

“It's what I know.”

You expect him to pick up your jab, turning it on you instead. Something caustic, something severe. Something equally mean and mordant in the way only Bear could be. But he doesn't. He lets it fall to the wayside instead, humming under his breath in something that might be acquiescence, or maybe avoidance of the topic entirely, and shifts back into neutral territory. 

How was your day? He asks, as if that wasn't one of the first things he'd said to you when you answered the call.

“Fine,” you hedge, breezing the word out between your teeth. “It was okay. Bear—”

“I, uh, have a meeting tomorrow,” he steamrolls through your concern like it's made of paper instead of the broken remnants of your heartache. “Another eval., to see if I'm fit to return to training. Make my way back to being an Officer.” 

More secrets are revealed to you in the slow dawn of his unfurling fist. Held out like a beacon, a piece of candy. Good job, it says when you reach for it like the good, obedient dog you are. 

Pavlov's finest. 

“That sounds…” You're not really sure what it means, in all honesty. Words coming together to form a sentence. The meaning is absent from between the lines. You could infer, but you've never been good at guessing. So, you stagnate. “Good. Um, really good, Bear.”

He huffs, and you take it as a laugh—or as close to one you'll get from him. “Gotta pass the eval first.”

“Should be easy for you.” 

“Should be,” he mumbles, and you catch the faint end of a muffled groan. “But I've been slacking. Put on extra weight. Need to burn it all off before I can really get into the old routine. Gonna fall behind worse than a newbie.”

Newbie being growled out in his flat intonation makes you snort. 

“You find something funny? ”

“Ha, no—” his words turn over in your head—put on extra weight—and, damningly, you remember what all that extra weight felt like, stretched out beneath you; arched over your body, heavy and suffocating, and—

Fuck. 

Bear catches the hitch in your breath, and makes a questioning noise in response. You can't let him ask. Can't let him know that you keep painting a picture of his hairy belly brushing against yours in the forefront of your mind. His biceps. Burly is what you'd thought of him before. Thick. Husky. A heavy man, in more ways than one. 

The softness around his waist belied the hard muscles below. You could feel it pressing firm against your palm when he rolled under you, bracing your hands over his chest as he let you ride him. 

That's it, sweetheart. Just like that—

“No,” you swallow around the desire welling up inside of your throat. “Nothing.”

He hums, and it's tainted in disbelief. Like he knows, somehow, what you were thinking of. What you keep thinking of—especially after these phone calls, his voicemails, when you're lying in bed with your fingers whispering between your thighs—and you almost expect him to call you out on it. To demand an answer. 

Instead, he offers a tender truth that nudges against the soft pulse in your throat. 

“...Not drinking as much helps.” 

You almost want to call him out on the as much he tacts on to the end of his confession, to question the logistics behind those two words. To quantify it in a number, in tangible data. Something concrete you can plinth your hope on. But the answer scares you. 

Too much and you'll fall all over again. Too little and you'll have no choice but to run. 

So, you retreat in the face of his truth. A coward. 

“That's—It's good. That's good, Bear—” and it is. Of course, it is. Great, even. He isn't even yours and this silly notion of pride staples itself to the front of your chest for the world to see. “I'm, um. I'm proud of you.”

It sounds hollow, pyrrhic, coming from you—repentant enabler—but the airiness in his voice strikes something deep inside. Pulses against a dormant place that comes alive, fecund with the bittersweet stirrings of hope germinating in the fibres. 

Skingraft over the wound. 

“Proud, huh?” 

And the sound of his voice cuts that thread as soon as it forms. 

His voice is pitched low, throaty. He draws the syllables out as he says, at length, “I, uh, keep thinking about you.” 

You should warn him away. Tap the impish fingers sneaking to the cookie jar—a thorough chastisement to keep wandering hands in check. Bad dog, is the passing thought, and you try to swallow down the hysterical giggle that bubbles in the back of your throat. 

You should.

But you don't. 

It comes out breathier than you intended when you say his name, and it sounds much too malleable in the face of this tactile man. 

“Been thinkin’ about you a lot.” 

“Yeah,” you whisper. Too much. Too much. “Same. Uh, me too.” 

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Going out with some friends. Probably going to get dinner. Watch that new movie that just came out. And, um, have a few drinks after.”

“How're you getting home?” 

“Taxi, most likely.”

He hums low, throaty. The sound seems to reverberate through the phone and tremble deliciously down the length of your spine. “That so?”

“I'm not going to be drinking much.” You weigh the ethics of discussing your intentions to drink, to get completely wasted, and maybe go home with someone who isn't Bear, who doesn't even so much as look like him, before waving the thought away before it can take shape. “It's just—social. Getting caught up. Haven't seen them in a while because of school and stuff.”

And because you've invested so much of your free time spinning in circles around a man who didn't even really seem to look at you (who insisted on calling you kid to force distance and indifference between you) until a few months ago, letting your social life dawdle on the wayside. 

Not that there was ever much one. It's easier, sometimes, to push people away than to explain the inner workings of your borrowed scar tissue. 

He hums again—and he really needs to fucking stop doing that before you do something stupid, something reckless, like remember the way he sounded when he lifted his head up after coming deep inside of you, panting in your ear from exertion, and groaned just like that when he shifted forward, inching his softening cock further you, seemingly content to stay like that as you melted into the mattress that reeked of stale sweat and sex.

“I'll drive you.”

Your breath catches. “You don't have to.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but it's decidedly noncommittal and comes completely undone when you catch the crackle of iron in his mulish tone as he adds: “but I want to.”

And he will, is the underlying promise that brims to the surface, wrapped up neatly in a way that brokers no real room for a counterargument. Not that he'll give you the chance to make one. 

Still. You try, if only to snatch at some modicum of control that slips, gossamer thin, between your fingers.

“It's fine. Making you go out all that way is kinda…”

“Don't worry about it. Beats paying for a cab, anyway.”

“Bear…”

It's firm when he says: “let me drive you home. Make sure you get there safely.” Final. But to soften the blow, he adds, voice tender like a bruise: “Just let me do this for you.” 

And how are you supposed to stay no to that?

“Okay, Bear.”

(Answer: you don't.)

[eyesofshinigami]

Brave

Rating: G

CW: None

Tags: Love confessions, fluff, so much schmoop

Prompt: From @sidekick-hero "Love is what makes you brave"

WC: 1812

Written for @steddielovemonth Day 7

Steve, admittedly, has done a lot of really stupid things in the name of love.

He hid so much of himself, what he liked, and who he wanted to be to make his parents love him. He was a perfect child, always seen but never heard, the perfect little trophy for his parents to put on display. He thought that was love for a long time. That it was performative, transactional. If he just did this one thing, surely they would love him, right?

Then, Steve forced himself to fit into a mold. He slid on a mask, played a part that was really easy to hide behind. People like Tommy and Carole seemed to love him when he was mean, when he looked down his nose at people they deemed unworthy of their attention. They would laugh and clap him on the back and keep him close, even if he knew deep down that it made him a little sick. And for some reason he still can’t fathom, it made other people love him too. Well, that superficial, surface kind of love where he was still seen as an object, an achievable goal. Be friends with King Steve and you’ll get something out of.

Transactional.

It wasn’t until Nancy that Steve really began to understand what love really was. He threw his whole self into loving her. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to go all in on something that he still didn’t really have a grasp on, but for the first time, it felt like he was being loved for love’s sake.

Until it wasn’t. Until Jonathon. Until the house. Until the world quite literally turned upside down.

Even with that falling apart, it opened up a whole new world of love for Steve. A new understanding to just what the word meant, the weight behind it when it really matters.

Love is protecting those that matter most. Love is staring down the mouth of a hell creature and still swinging even though your arms feel like jelly. Love is redirecting punches so that they don’t have to hurt. Love is diving into a murky lake into hell to help fix what someone else broke. Love is late night drives when you can’t sleep and the nightmares are too much. Love is admitting that maybe, just maybe, love looks a little different than what you expected it to.

Love is being brave.

All of these lessons, all of these people in his life that showed him that love can be so many things, if only you’re willing to give as much as take.

Which is why Steve makes a decision. It might be a bad one, but he’s learned that sometimes love means having to jump into the fray and trusting that they’ll catch you. He knows, deep down, that someone will, even if it’s not the person he really wants to.

“I’m going to do it. Tonight,” Steve declares that evening as he’s shelving movies. He’s working the late shift with Robin, but has plans to hang out with Eddie later. The very thought of it makes him flush, with happiness and nervousness in equal measure. “I’m going to tell him how I feel.”

It was a slow sort of descent, realizing that he loved Eddie. It started with their talk in the woods of the Upside Down, to pulling Eddie’s broken body out of that awful place, to helping him heal once they realized he might actually pull through. He was drawn to Eddie, drinking him in whenever they were together. He loved when Eddie was loud, or when Eddie was quiet, settled. The fact that Eddie trusted him with the different facets of himself blew Steve away. And Eddie listened when he talked. He listened when Steve talked about sports, or his newfound interest in carpentry thanks to helping Hopper fix up the cabin. He listened when Steve couldn’t sleep, or when Steve got scared about what the future was going to bring, now that it felt like maybe they could actually move on from the nightmare that is Hawkins, Indiana. Little by little, it made Steve realize that Eddie made him happy and maybe a little stupid. The good kind of stupid, the happy kind.

Robin turns to look at him, smiling softly. It’s her soft sort of smile, the one she only saves for him when he’s actually doing something for himself. “Good on you, bud. You’ve only been pining for him for months now.”

“You’ll have a pint of ice cream at the ready in case this goes south?”

“Sure, but I doubt you’ll have to worry,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Now go find something to do before you pop out of your skin. I can see you sweating from here.”

He lasts about another twenty minutes before she lets out a gusty sigh. “Okay, you’re starting to make me nervous. It’s dead in here, why don’t you just leave and head over there now?”

Steve wants to argue. It’s on the tip of his tongue, but she’s right. If he waits any longer, he might just vibrate right through the floor. Once upon a time, he was good at this, smooth and suave and so fucking fake. It was easy to talk to people he didn’t care about, but this? This thing with Eddie?

It matters a lot.

“Okay, okay. Sheesh. I know when I’m not wanted,” he jokes, clocking out and heading out the door.

“Go get your man, Harrington! I expect non-explicit details in the morning!”

He waves her off and gets into his car. The drive takes about fifteen minutes, heading to the little house that Wayne and Eddie got as compensation for their trailer being confiscated for study. Steve’s just glad that Eddie doesn’t have to live in the reminder of where everything went down.

He parks his car and sits for a long, long moment, fingers tight around the wheel and his breath coming in harsh pants. He can do this. He can do this. He can be brave.

“Steve? What are you doing out here? I thought you had work,” Eddie calls from the porch. He must have been sitting out here longer than he thought if Eddie had come to find him.

Steve takes one more big breath before he heaves himself out of the car. “I did, but Rob sent me home. It was dead and she said I was bothering her.” He smiles, trying to ease the angry butterflies he feels building in his stomach. “You good with me coming now? I guess I should have called.”

Eddie smiles, wide enough his dimples pop and Steve wants to feel them under his thumb. “Of course, Stevie. I’m still working on dinner, but you can keep me company.”

Steve eagerly follows him inside, feeling himself relax as he steps through the door. The place is always a little cluttered, a little messy; Steve loves it because it looks like people actually live here. The fact that he’s welcomed into this space makes him feel a little warm and gooey inside. “Thanks, man. What’s on the menu?” He’s babbling, he knows he’s babbling, but he can’t help it.

Eddie gives him a look but answers, “Just some spaghetti. Nothing fancy.” He heads to the stove and starts stirring a pot, the smell of it hitting Steve full force. “You okay? You seem a little off.”

He wants to brush it off, pretend it’s nothing. It would be so easy and he knows Eddie would let him. They’ve learned each other’s tells, when it’s time to push and when it’s time to leave shit alone. Just one more thing that Steve loves about Eddie.

So, no. He needs to say it. For himself, to let go of this thing that he’d been trying to hide for fear of it being yet another stupid thing he does for love. But his love for Eddie could never be that, even if Eddie says no. Eddie will still be his friend, will still love him, even if that love doesn’t look the way Steve wants. He doesn’t expect anything, doesn’t want more than Eddie can give him.

“Uh, well… actually, there’s something I want to talk to you about?”

Eddie nods and sets the spoon down, during the fire down as he turns to face Steve. “I’m all ears, Stevie.”

Steve nods, taking a deep, shaky breath. He can be brave. “Okay, so. Can you… let me just say it? Don’t say anything until I’m done, okay?” At Eddie’s nod, he continues, “Um, all right. So. Uh. Eddie… I’m… I like you. I like you a lot. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.” Eddie’s mouth drops and Steve has to look away, before his heart beats out of his chest and he gets sick from the way his stomach churns. “It took me a while to realize it, but I am. I just… I love you. I love everything about you. Even the weird, shitty parts that I know you don’t like, but they’re part of you, right? And I don’t… I don’t expect you to feel the same, or want me back. It would be great if you did, but like… it’s not why I told you? I told you because you deserve to know. To know that someone loves you because I can’t imagine not loving you anymore.”

There. It’s out there. Steve swallows around the lump in his throat and tries not to count the seconds as they pass. It feels like they’re beating against his ribcage, in time with his pounding heart.

Suddenly, there’s a hand cupping his cheek, gently turning his head until he’s looking at Eddie. The look on the other man’s face is soft, his eyes sparkling and the curve of his mouth small but so so kissable. “Stevie… baby…” The words are like a gut-punch, making Steve weak in the knees. “How could I not love you back, hmm?” Eddie chuckles, his thumb caressing the skin of Steve’s cheek. “Always the brave one of the two of us, aren’t you? I didn’t want to say anything because this… I didn’t want to lose this. If I was wrong, you know?”

“Me too,” Steve whispers. He’s afraid to break the bubble that’s surrounding them, like if he speaks too loud it will break and he’ll realize this was all just a dream or something. “Eddie…”

Eddie doesn’t say anything, he just pulls Steve in until they’re kissing, mouths moving against each other softly as they press closer.

It’s warm. It’s sweet. It feels like coming home.

Something settles in him as they kiss, as they touch and move together in this new way. He wants to cry. He wants to laugh. He feels like he could fly.

[onlyswan]

summary: in which you always come home to jungkook.

> fluff, angst lowkey, very suggestive LMAO

> word count: 3.7k

> warnings: mention of the word whore, they shower together, a love boner that won’t go away </3 not a warning but we have a special guest hehe

note: i feel sick to my stomach i want they have so bad OH GOD

anw i will be travelling for the next week so i wrote this right away bc i’m not sure if i’ll be able to write then :D + feedback is always appreciated <3

—

your heart thunders in surprise when you swing the door open to find jungkook’s tall figure standing only a few inches away from you. when your gaze falls on the bouquet of flowers he’s holding, you breath out a sigh to release the tension that zapped your body.

“yah! can’t you atleast knock?!” you exclaim with wide eyes.

his mouth hangs open in confusion, before looking behind him where you can immediately see his cozy living room. “i’m inside my house. why would i knock on my own door?”

“bro, i-i don’t know-” you stutter. “you scared me! why are you just standing there?”

a look of horror and offense flashes on your boyfriend’s face. “did you just call me ‘bro’?”

you wince at the realization. “it slipped! i’m sorry!” you push inside him the house, shutting the door behind you. you throw in your car key beside his on the little bowl and leave your opened umbrella by the doormat so it can dry off.

you’ve been in his apartment a bunch times — knowing the passcode and where he keeps his secret stash of snacks in the living room and the brand of aftershave he uses and all that jazz. basically, you just waltz in whenever you want. so no, you are not used to jungkook welcoming you by the door.

“what do you mean ‘it slipped’? what happened to babe, baby, my love?” he whines as he tails you to his living room.

“sorry, baby. i’m just tired from school and work.” you groan as you fall back on the soft couch, sinking into the bunch of pillows.

he looks at you sympathetically, sitting next to your curled up figure. “would flowers help make you feel a bit better?”

you lift your head up to see the bouquet of tulips poking your thighs, the sight of them making your heart clench in your ribcage.

“of course, they’re so pretty. thank you.” you breath out, enamored by your favorite flowers gifted by your favorite person.

he quirks an eyebrow.

“. . . my love.”

he seems satisfied after hearing you call him your usual terms of endearment, letting you hug the bouquet as you rest. you mutter a quiet i’m cold as you shift and curl up against yourself more. poor baby, he pouts. jungkook immediately grabs the blanket hanging on the armrest and throws it over you, making sure to tuck it under your chin. a small smile makes it ways to your lips.

he chews on his bottom lip, trying to come up with ways to make you happy as it saddens him to see you in such a frayed state, but he decides that it’s best to just let you do nothing as the true meaning of resting.

he leans down to give a kiss on your forehead, but he frowns when he feels your damp hair against the palm of his hand. “baby, you got rained on?”

you hum in response, eyes closed as you savor the feeling of his touch- the feeling you’ve been craving to come home to as the draining events of today rained on your parade.

“it just poured so hard while i was walking and i had to get my umbrella out my bag soooo, and it was windy so it was practically useless in the end.”

he clicks his tongue in worry, deciding his course of actions. “don’t fall asleep yet. take a warm shower so you don’t get sick.”

you feel your body getting effortlessly lifted off the couch, and you grunt in protest when the flowers slip away from your arms. “but i’m too tired!”

“you don’t have to move. i’ll take care of you.” he reassures you as he carries you to the bathroom.

“you don’t have to. i’m not a baby.”

“no, you are an overworked adult who has a very caring boyfriend.” he sets you down by the sink, fond eyes gazing directly into your tired ones.

“i know that. but you are, too.” you bow your head in shame, playing with your fingers as a way to distract yourself.

“i am what too?”

“an overworked adult. you work harder than me. but i’m the one always being taken care of and it makes me feel-” you cut yourself off, the word lingering in your mind would taste too bitter in your tongue and feel too heavy in the air. you close your eyes in frustration, sighing in defeat.

jungkook’s heart breaks into two. the other half drops to his stomach, and the other, he feels climb up to his throat. he anchors one hand on the sink, leaning his weight on it. he uses the other to tilt your chin up to connect your eyes once again.

“feel what, baby? talk to me.”

your eyes droop with vulnerability. “like a burden.”

you and jungkook live in two different worlds, and you entered this relationship acknowledging the challenges that may come along with that fact. the world you carry on your shoulders is different from the world he carries on his. way too different. just imagining yourself living in his shoes for a day scares the living daylights out of you. you adore him for waking up every morning, for smiling at you with sparkles in his doe eyes. for memorizing every lyric, for practicing every dance step. for attending meetings, for showing up on dates. for taking english lessons, for doing abs day at eleven pm. for answering emails until two am, for listening to you talk until he passes out.

and sometimes you get so terrified that listening to you complain about your professor who talk too fast, the customer who didn’t gave you a tip, having to walk home in the middle of a rainstorm . . . god, maybe even hugging you and kissing you and saying good morning and good night; they may start to feel like a chore. and you wouldn’t even be able to blame him because you’d understand based on his lifestyle.

his hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin. and you start to feel self-conscious, about it being oily and dirty from the long day that you had. from the stress, the pollution, the weather. but you don’t push his hand away, because as greedy as it may sound, you want him to still want you despite of that.

“you’re not a burden. you’re my partner in life.” he says with unadulterated sincerity, praying that you can feel it through his words and through his eyes. “life is hard for the both of us, so fuck, what a relief that we have each other. that’s what i think about when we’re together.”

and then his hand drops to the curve of your waist, which you recognize to be one of his favorite places to hold you. “me taking care of you— that’s me loving you. you don’t see how happy i am when i brush your hair or watch you eat the food i cook? it’s my peace.”

“but i’m so chaotic.” you interject with a whine, hot tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

he chuckles at your comment, giving you a kiss on the lips, emphasizing the mwah sound. “you are. it’s a breath of fresh air for me. and besides, we both know you show your love through physical touch more than anything.”

“yeah, i’m so clingy. love you so much, want you close to me. so i can catch a bullet for you.” you agree quietly, wrapping your arms around his neck. you close your eyes with a sigh, and the tears escape one by one.

“no need, baby. i’m bulletproof, remember?” he snorts at his own joke.

you mentally facepalm yourself. “right. almost forgot my boyfriend is a bulletproof boyscout.”

you don’t know how much time passed with you and jungkook just hugging in comfortable silence. you can imagine how silly you look, acting all lovey dovey in the bathroom of all places.

you almost fall asleep in his embrace until he breaks the silence.

“i feel fine overall but my throat is a little sore from practicing today. a warm shower should help with that too. want to take one with me?”

“one warm shower with my boyfriend, please.”

your small, squeaky voice makes jungkook’s heart flutter. “coming right up, baby.”

—

“my new seatmate asked me last week why my hair smelled like a dude’s.” you randomly share as jungkook lathers your hair with his shampoo.

your tone and choice of word make him chuckle. “and what did you say?”

“that i slept over at my boyfriend’s house. then she jokingly called me a whore.”

his mouth hangs open, and he’s about to scold you for not calling out your seatmate for referring to you with such an offensive word but- “which i can admit, but only for you. because i like the smell of your shampoo on me.”

he swallows thickly, your words making him turn red. he turns on the shower to wash off the shampoo on your hair. “you’re so honest, it makes me speechless sometimes.”

your eyes remain closed as you feel his fingers softly massaging your scalp. your arms wrap loosely around his naked waist.

you’ve always been honest and straightforward, speaking out your mind even if it involves topics many people aren’t specifically brave enough to talk about aloud. he realizes it’s one of the reasons why your relationship is smooth sailing, because you’re open with your thoughts and emotions and well . . . because there is the constant reassurance that you are crazy about him as he is crazy about you. it leaves no room for doubt in his mind and heart.

“is that why you like sleeping over? because of my shampoo?”

you slowly open your eyes once your head starts to feel lighter, free from the thick bubbles. “no, because sleeping beside the owner of the shampoo is nice.”

the shower gets turned off again. your boyfriend is squatting down there, spreading body wash on your legs while it’s your turn to put shampoo on his hair.

he silently looks up to you with one of his eyes closed, and you wipe away the bubbles covering it with your wrist. he goes back to work after, pressing a quick kiss to your right knee before covering it in bubbles too.

you massage his head like he did yours while you wait for him to finish, and when he stands back up, he gives you another wet kiss on the lips. and then he’s lathering your upper body with the body wash next. from your arms, up to your shoulders, your chest, your stomach, your hips.

“need to do your back next.” he says quietly, expecting you to turn around like you’ve done in the past. but then you snake your arms around his waist to embrace him.

touching your breasts is an entirely different experience from feeling them pressed up against his own torso. raw skin-to-skin. his heart beating against yours. two souls intertwined. overwhelming all the senses of his body. and like a teenage boy, his hands tremble as they run across your back.

he feels you smile against his shoulder blade. “why are you scared? you’ve touched me a million times.”

“am not. i just love you a lot, i’m malfunctioning.” he reasons, which isn’t exactly a lie. being this close and intimate with you is somehow making him emotional— he feels like his heart is being squeezed inside his ribcage by a nutcracker.

“a love boner. cute.” you giggle as you trace the ink covering his biceps. a tingle runs up his spine, and he shivers. you squeeze him tighter, making his breath get stuck in his lungs. the way you nuzzle your face against his soft skin doesn’t exactly help his case either.

“want me to take care of it?”

the offer is tempting, but he knows you too well— knows how greedy, and even competitive, you get. knows how one becomes three then five, how minutes become hours. and you’re practically limp in his arms, in the verge of falling sleep any time now if you stay in this position for the next five minutes. you’re not in an entirely coherent headspace, and your stamina is a far cry away from his. “not tonight, my love. when you’re recharged, you can have it as long as you want.”

the shower turns on again, washing away the dirt and worries of the day behind you down the drain.

you look up to him with wide, innocent eyes. your next words almost make him burn and crash to his knees on the tiled floor of his bathroom.

“mmkay. can i atleast give it a kiss? just a peck.”

he genuinely thinks he might burst into tears if he gives you what you’re asking for. despite being in a relationship for quite some time now, he’s not entirely sure if there is no wicked intentions of driving him wilder in your pure acts of love and intimacy or if you just truly don’t see the loose grasp he has on self-control when it comes to you.

jesus christ, the only thing he’s sure about is that you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

“baby, are you trying to kill me? be honest.”

the expression on his face looks helpless, and though you won’t admit it to yourself, you secretly enjoy to see him suffer like this. you hide the smile on your face by squirting body wash on your palm.

you huff, running your palms across his tattooed arm. “okay, fine. i won’t even make eye contact even though it’s staring at me right now.”

he laughs raspily, shaking his head in disbelief and amusement. how do you act so casually about this? “be good. today is about learning the art of self-control and yearning.”

he chastises you with his tongue poking his cheek, but truth be told, the lesson is meant for him. especially for when you copy his previous position to spread body wash on his waxed legs too, and his tender hands covered in conditioner run through your hair. this position is really not- the art of self-control and yearning. if this was a normal exam, his brain should be filled with answers. however, in this case, it’s better to leave it blank. except jungkook has never been good at leaving things blank. he likes writing down answers, and if not answers, then doodles. in other words, his imagination is running wild and it’s so hard to breathe and-

“breathe. it’s almost over, baby.” you press a kiss on the corner of his lips, and he stands motionless as his adoring eyes watch you put conditioner on his hair as well.

how could you ever think that you’re a burden to him? not when he feels like he’s lying on the clouds.

the small yawn you stifle reminds his cloudy mind of the reason why he’s trying his very best to be good. he turns on the shower again, and you automatically cling to him. this time, he reciprocates your embrace. his nose brushes against your shoulder, the running water washing away the remaining conditioner on the back of his head.

his love boner, as you like to call it, is poking the both of you. the art of self-control and yearning, he chants in his head over and over again.

“don’t fall asleep on me yet.” he reminds you as he makes sure that the body wash and conditioner are completely washed away from the both of you. your eyes are closed as you feel his hands on your hair, your body. gentle and thoughtful. the opposite of his rough and fast actions when he washes his face and brushes his teeth- and this case, rubbing the conditioner out of his hair.

“all done.” he coos as he wraps you in a towel. you mutter a thank you, and you pat yourselves dry on your own.

he leads you to his walk-in closet, and you part ways to choose what you want to wear to sleep. you take a dark blue oversized shirt, and one of the clean underwear that you brought here for your frequent sleepovers.

jungkook, in his matching pajamas, worriedly pads over to you. “baby, aren’t you cold?”

“it’s your job to keep me warm.” you answer simply.

he breathes out a laugh. “making it my full-time job then.” he pulls you in for a hug, gently rocking your body back and forth. you weakly grip the soft cotton of his top, his movements lulling you to sleep.

“let’s go take a nap now, hmm?” his lips brush against your neck before he puckers them up for a soft kiss.

“wait. i’m thirsty.” you pull away with a pout, already making a move to the kitchen.

“okay. go drink while i fix the bed.” your hand slips away from his when the distance grows too long, and you disappear from sight.

he enters the bedroom. he fixes the fluffy pillows into a neater position, smoothing down the pillowcases. he decides to change the blanket in hopes of the smell of fresh laundry will make you feel better too. when he finishes up and you’re still not there, he journeys to the kitchen to fetch you.

he finds you standing infront of the fridge, drinking from a carton of chocolate milk he bought only yesterday.

“shouldn’t you drink water if you’re thirsty?” he smiles at the adorable sight.

you lower the carton from your chocolate-milk-stained lips. “i did- hmph-” jungkook can’t help but to crave for it, interrupting you with a long, hard kiss.

he licks his lips to taste the sweet dairy, and you unconsciously copy his actions. you continue talking like nothing happened. “and i can’t pour this on a glass, it spills down the side. it’s annoying.”

“oh, then let me-” he tries to take it from your hand, but he freezes when you yelp loudly, some of the cold liquid spilling down on your feet.

“you squeezed it too hard!” you whine, sucking on your knuckles where it also streamed down from.

“i didn’t know it was still full.” he squeaks in defense.

as he cleans the small pool of chocolate milk with a rug, you put the carton back in the fridge and venture back into the bathroom to wash your hands and feet and brush your teeth.

on the other hand, jungkook divides your precious tulips between the three vases in the living room. they can last seven up to ten days if taken care of properly in a vase with fresh water, you told him once. these days, you like coming home to his apartment more than yours, so he figured he should display it here instead.

“please live as long as you can to make my baby happy.” he talks to the flowers cutely as he sets the third vase down on the left side of his giant television.

when he comes back to the bedroom, he finds you already passed out on his bed. the only evidence left of you trying your best to wait for him is the baking video playing on your phone screen.

“so cute. didn’t even let me blowdry your hair first.” he whispers, more to himself as he lies down next to you.

he watches the rest of the video, the chef finally assembling the strawberry cake. it’s an asmr cooking video, of course you’re the type to fall asleep to the sound of cracking eggs and intense whisking. he carefully sets it down on the nightstand after, deciding that he should follow the recipe later.

the thing about you is when you sleep alone, you curl yourself up into the fetal position and cry about your back hurting in the morning. however, when you cuddle with jungkook, your body straightens without complaint so you could be as physically close to him as possible. it also helps your back when he hugs you very tight. (you heard cracks that one time and almost cried of relief) so when you say that it’s nice sleeping beside him, it’s not only because it boosts the feel good chemicals in your brain, but also because it’s almost like physical therapy.

and so, as much as it breaks his heart to bother your peaceful sleep, he manhandles you into your usual cuddling position. you whimper weakly as you throw your arm over his waist.

“you’re so heavy.” you whine when he puts his thigh over your legs.

“i know you like it.” he grins, tugging you closer using the strength of his leg.

“hate you and your love boner.”

he gasps in offense. “you just wanted to give it a kiss earlier!”

“i changed my mind because it keeps poking me awake.” you complain, nuzzling your face against his chest.

he scratches his head in dismay. “then should i go take a cold shower and play overwatch in the living room?”

“nooo, don’t leave me. i’m too attached now.” you bundle up the cloth of his top in a weak closed fist, a sad attempt at preventing him from moving away.

“attached to my love boner?”

“yes.”

he makes a noise of confusion. “how does that even work?”

“i don’t know. psychoanalyze me while i sleep.” you mutter tiredly, falling back to sleep with a steady rhythm of your breathing.

“but it hurts.” he whimpers, suffering in his silent battle. fuck the art of self-control and yearning.

he lies there in silence for a few minutes, observing you before discreetly making a move to the bathroom. he manages to remove his arm under your head, but while he sits up, he feels your grip holding him back.

right then and there, a small bundle of fur walks into the bedroom. the clueless creature who has been sleeping for hours in its bed in the living room has finally awoken. it jumps on his bed and curls up beside you, its cheek leaning against your stomach.

jungkook desperately makes eye contact.

“gureumie . . . please help me escape.”

—

taglist! @alanniys @jjkeverlast @queenofdragonsandcats @yvesismywife @enhypenslay @cramseys @witchfqllen @virgogentlejk @rkie @jeonwiixard @monilyv @bermudaisy @ameliejeannelaurent @takochelle @the1921-monsters @investedreader @seagulljk @yeow6n @yoonqkiss @hopeworldjimin @lllucere @unnatae @zqynmlk + send an ask / dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

[whatwouldmickeydo]

Mickey leaving prison in S10: "All right, here are your belongings: your clothes, your wallet, and your folded-up photograph of a teenager giving the middle finger to the camera."

He hadn’t meant to hang on to it for so long, never intended for that picture to become a staple in his wallet, tucked away behind his license, the edges frayed and faded.

It had haunted him at times, like a green eyed specter keeping watch whenever he’d open his wallet to grab something, that smirk of his staring back as if to remind him of all the ways he’d failed.

Then there was prison, where he thought it was gone forever, relegated to wherever they put prisoner’s belongings while they rot away behind bars. Until he managed to bribe a guard into bringing him his shit, crinkled picture peaking out of a messy bundle of other crap that suddenly didn’t seem so important.

He’d stared at it for so long that night, before tucking it away with a heavy sigh and heading out to the car where Damon stood smoking a cigarette, the moon the only light to see by.

He’d carried it all the way to Mexico, hesitating for a moment before stuffing it inside his backpack at the last minute, refusing to unpack all the loaded feelings that went along with it.

It’s been folded and unfolded so many times, there’s now a layer of tape keeping the top and the bottom half together, thrown in the trash at some point, then fished out five minutes later, smoothing it back over and over to remove the wrinkles. Rinse and repeat.

And then he doesn’t need to look at it because the real thing is finally there again, beautiful and vibrant and fucking alive. Coming together like no time has passed at all, lips and tongues and hands burning the same familiar paths down each other’s bodies on a shitty prison mattress.

He’s got newer pictures now. Better ones, ones with just him and ones with the two of them together, happy and healthy and fucking loved.

And yet.

And yet somehow this picture stays, transferred from his old, ratty, falling apart at the seams, one good rip will tear the whole thing apart wallet to an actual nice leather one that Ian buys him for a birthday one year.

He’s not even sure why he still keeps it there, doesn’t really take it out much but it’s somehow a comfort to know it’s still there, a reminder of all the heavy shit they’ve gone through over the years, both good and heartbreakingly bad. But maybe that’s all the more reason to keep it, something to balance out all that they have in their lives now. Sickness and health, all that shit. Maybe it’s a symbol of hope, that things weren’t as lost as they once were, that it was all worth it after all. That they found their way back to each other in spite of all the cards stacked against them. Then again, maybe it’s just a picture.

[copperbadge]

Hi Sam! When you decided to go for an adhd diagnosis, is there a reason you went to the type of place you chose? I know you ended up having a difficult time with them after your evaluation. Did you go to your pcp first or try any other routes?

I’m starting to feel very heavily impacted by what I’m fairly certain is undiagnosed adhd, and I really want to try medication to see if it helps, but as I’m sure you’re aware, the process of making appointments is very difficult for one with undiagnosed adhd. Sigh. I’m wondering if it’s worth it to try and just make an appointment with my regular doctor to see if that gets me anywhere. But I know that doctors tend to be very cautious when prescribing, and I don’t want to bother with completely pointless appointments.

I just feel so overwhelmed when I think about trying anything else.

Yeah, I started working on getting evaluated in 2019 and only managed it in 2022, so I'm familiar with The Delay :D It never occurred to me to go through my primary care doctor -- I haven't had one for most of my adult life, because my insurance doesn't require it in order to see my specialist, and I just use a clinic if I'm sick. If you have a PCP you trust that's probably your best bet. You don't need to talk to them about prescribing, even, just talk about "I wonder if you have a recommendation for where I might get evaluated." You might even be able to get a recommendation without making a formal appointment. But if you get pushback on getting evaluated, then you can venture out on your own (more on this below).

I had a recommendation for a testing site, and I called a handful of times in 2019, but they never called back -- the desk person would say "Leave a message for our scheduler" and I'd say "Is there any way I can talk to a person? I keep leaving messages that don't get returned" and they'd say "Oh, they'll definitely return it this time" and that never happened. So by about mid-2019 I gave up and said I'd deal with it later. I started to research it in 2020, but then there was a global pandemic and I didn't want to be spending hours on end in a small room in a medical center.

And honestly, whenever I spoke about it to someone who wasn't a peer -- a parent, a doctor, etc -- I'd get a skeptical look and the response, "But you're so put-together and you're successful. Why would you think you have ADHD?" And I internalized that a little, to the point where I thought, yeah, I'm coping fine, it's not like anything would change other than maybe medication, why bother? Which...

That worked until it didn't, sometime in late 2021.

It worked until I looked at my life, which was not falling apart, and could see it fraying, and that if it did fall apart, it would be catastrophic. So my resolution for 2022 was to get evaluated. If it was ADHD, to get medicated; if it wasn't ADHD, to get help because clearly my life was not going as well as it looked.

So I just...sat down with an empty spreadsheet and I started googling "adult adhd evaluation chicago" (If you're not in a major city, I'd google your state or major cities nearby instead). Every site I found, I recorded the URL, my thoughts on the site, and their process for making an appointment. Once I had a list of places, I started "cold-calling" -- mostly via email, just reaching out to each place and recording the date and how I contacted them. When they answered, I recorded the date they replied and whether I responded.

The place I ended up going wasn't the first to call me back but they WERE the most responsive, and the first to schedule me for the evaluation (I did save the spreadsheet in case that fell through). They did a good job, more or less; I had struggles with them, but those were more to do with the fact that the woman who evaluated me already had one foot out the door and left my eval unwritten, meaning someone else had to take up the slack, which took time. And it at least helped to be able to say to my prescribing psych, during our first meeting, "Look, I have a diagnosis but I'm struggling to get the paperwork from them, and I'm really hanging on by a fingernail here." He gave me a much-abbreviated evaluation (basically a 20-minute questionnaire) and was able to prescribe for me that day.

So your other option is to just...find a psychiatrist who specializes in adult ADHD and/or ADHD medication management, make an appointment, and say, "I don't think I have it in me to set up a longform evaluation for this. I'm wondering if you can help me get evaluated and get some help." One of my goals was to get medicated but your overall goal is not medication -- the goal is help, and that just often happens to be medication. This isn't like, a trick to get a prescription or to manage a suspicious doctor (those have their place, believe me I know) -- your goal in getting treatment should always be to improve your life. But it's okay to want medication, you just have to want it in terms of improving quality of life, not medication qua medication.

So on the one hand, you sound like you need help, and you should work towards getting it -- but on the other, bear in mind that this sometimes just takes the time it takes, and keep your eyes on the goal. If you can be doing something, do it, and if you can't, then don't feel guilty that you can't.

Good luck :)

[fluffyhare]

Like Real People Do, Part 2! ♡ (Casper x Avery)

☁️ Summary: Casper waits for Avery to make good on his promise to visit, and gets more than they bargained for!

☁️ Warnings: Suggestive language, mild tickling (please do not interact with this if you're a minor!)

This is a series now!

Part 1

Part 2 *you are here

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

If you just got here and want to know more about my characters, you can read my comic starting right here!

Everything that hurt, always hurt more the second day.

I sat up in bed, pain wrapping around my middle like a boa constrictor, squeezing agony into my bones. It was four a.m. again, but now it was Monday; a workday.

I grabbed my phone and opened my company's intranet page, hastily navigating to the HR section of the site and putting in for a sick day, followed by an email to my boss and coworkers.

Good morning,

I am not feeling well and will not be in today. All incidents assigned to me are up-to-date with notes. In case of emergency, please text me.

Thank you,

[deadname]

I stared at my reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror. My teal hair looked like the aftermath of a fork stuck into an electrical outlet, and there were pale violet circles under my eyes. While they were genetic, they had become even more visible since my insomnia started. Lifting my shirt, I looked at my stomach, where a bruise like an arm of the Milky Way bloomed in shades of blue and purple, fading to yellowish green at the frayed border. I clattered three Excedrin into my palm and swallowed them dry.

My apartment didn't have a dining area, so I sat on my green-corduroy couch as I peeled an orange. Aside from the hum of the air conditioning unit, it was quiet.

What the hell happened yesterday?

Given the shape and location of the bruise, I felt pretty certain that I had, indeed, crashed my skateboard into the pier's guardrail.

"Oh, shit! My skateboard!" I remembered dismally. It was probably at the bottom of the ocean by now, waterlogged and unsalvageable. Unlike most other skaters I knew, who often had a quiver of five or six boards, I only had one; a drop-through longboard that wasn't too long, which meant it was perfect for my short stance. It was the first board I'd learned to ride, and I'd saved up for months to afford it. My heart sank as I remembered how much research I had done to find the perfect beginner skateboard, and the graphic I had so carefully selected -- a stylized depiction of a person surfing beneath a cloudy, pastel sunrise.

Sunrise. Clouds.

The rest of my memories from the previous day surged back.

"Avery!"

I nearly choked on an orange slice as I glimpsed the microwave's digital clock. It was five a.m. now.

"Sunset time Port Oleander," I googled frantically, the search engine responding with cruel indifference, "seven-thirty p.m."

My fingers counted the hours: fourteen and a half. I collapsed back into the couch as impatience like a cartoon anvil fell on me. How could I possibly wait that long?

Memories of the lighthouse assailed me as I slumped, stunlocked, on the couch; wet brick, old paper, bergamot, sea spray. An embarrassment of books. Sunlight glinting off bits of ice in Avery's swirling, translucent head. His huge, sincere, almost goofy smile. His laugh.

My stomach twisted with a swell of emotion so strong it was almost painful as I recalled the sensation of Avery's warm, boisterous laugh vibrating my ribcage. I wanted - no, I needed - to hear it again and again and again. My fingernails dug into the couch cushion as I fought to gather myself.

"This is just infatuation... right?"

I wasn't exactly a stranger to romance. I'd had partners here and there, but admittedly, the termination of my previous relationship over two years ago had left me unsure that falling in love was, well. For me.

The initial "spark" that seemed a crucial part of attraction for other people, for me, was apparently defunct; attraction did not happen often, and when it did, it was more a slow and methodical building of a home, less a match igniting an all-consuming fire. Love, intimacy and trust were all building bricks, predicated upon a wrought-iron foundation of knowing a person well, forming a bond as friends over time.

Physical intimacy, itself, was a whole 'nother ballgame. As a solitary person, most physical touch -- even mundane -- carried a weight of closeness that was not always comfortable or welcome, but was embarrassingly out of my control. I recalled my recent visit to the doctor, cringing a bit. Though I was loath to admit it, even brushing hands with the grocery store clerk as they handed me my change left a lingering sensation that I had to fight to ignore. I wasn't the type to hug a stranger; I wasn't the type to even hug my friends unless we'd spent significant time together. I certainly didn't think about ti...

My ears suddenly grew hot.

Was I already thinking about... that? With Avery?

Avery's hand holding mine over his kitchen table, his palm cool and soft, the mysterious and silent storm rushing beneath his skin. His gentle gaze that, despite his obvious years, held an innocent curiosity. His playful-yet-shy bravado as he introduced himself with a flourish of his hand, the way he so effortlessly scooped me off the ground. I wondered if his skin felt the same everywhere else... on his body, and on mine.

"Oh, no. We just met, we are NOT doing this," I argued, trying to appeal to my own sense of reason,"you're just gonna have to tough this out, Casper. Don't rush into things and scare him off, this is probably just a crush you're going to get over once you get to know him."

"But I've never even had a crush before, I don't know what to do!"

"Dude, just be regular! Just hang out with him like normal and see what he's like! I don't know, take him to the fair or something!"

"Is that a good way to get to know someone you're attracted to?!"

"I don't know, I'm you!"

I lowered my reeling head into my hands, suddenly regretting eating that orange as my stomach churned. Things were happening so fast. I looked at the clock again -- agonizingly, only an hour had passed.

A horrible thought occured to me, then:

What if Avery didn't feel the same?

"Don't go down that road," my internal monologue chided, "you have no idea how he feels. Don't spiral out of control."

"Why would he even be interested in me? I'm weird! I spend all my time by myself, I'm chubby, I barely have any talent, I don't even have any friends since I moved here! Not to mention how much trauma and baggage I have-"

"See, this is exactly what I'm talking about! Stop it! Everyone has baggage, even Avery probably does. You don't have to earn other people's love! You're good enough just for being who you are, and if he would only love you for what you can do for him, he wouldn't be loving you for the right reasons, anyway. Now get up and channel this nervous energy into something productive for god's sake, before you burn a hole in the couch."

I stood.

I cleaned up the coffee table.

I vacuumed my carpet. I washed every thread of clothing I owned, and my bedding. I did the dishes, cleaned every window and mirror and dusted every surface. Raiding the fridge and freezer, I threw out everything that was expired, then I alphabetized my spice cabinet. I mopped, scrubbed, wiped, and folded until my apartment looked like it was straight out of an IKEA catalogue.

Then I left, and ran every errand I had been putting off. I finally emptied my mailbox, bursting with junkmail (I was sure that our postal worker just loved me). I got my car inspected and put air in my tires. I went to the grocery store and restocked my fridge.

All the while, my mind reeled like a YouTube video set to loop:

Avery, Avery, Avery.

+++

By the time I was done, it was six forty-five p.m. I sat on the couch in my favorite pair of jeans and my coolest short-sleeve button-down: a navy blue number with tiny koi fish print. My hair was perfectly quaffed, and I radiated a shower-fresh clean. My apartment was silent, my palms sweating as my hands rested on my thighs. Despite all my arguing and resistance, I was the very definition of down bad.

My incessant thoughts piped up.

"You're trying too hard. You realize that Avery saw you yesterday, unconscious, in a ratty t-shirt and cargo shorts, nasty and sweaty from skateboarding, right? You probably looked like shit, and he probably thinks that's how you normally look. You probably smelled bad, too. He's gonna know."

"He's not gonna know. How would he know?"

A soft knock on my door interrupted my internal warfare and made me jump out of my skin.

I put my hand on the cold doorknob. My heart beat so furiously I could feel the fuzzy edge of my consciousness, and I silently bargained with my hypotension that if it just left me alone for now, just for tonight, I would pass out all it wanted tomorrow. I turned the knob and opened the door.

"Hi!"

It was my neighbor. I experienced an emotion that could only be described as crushing relief.

"I found this outside my door, I think it's yours, isn't it?"

She was holding my skateboard. It was wet, but it didn't look to be soaked through. I gasped, taking it from her.

"Yes! You said it was outside your door?"

"Yeah, I don't know how long it was there, though. Probably since this morning. This is the first time I've gotten out today, so..." she trailed off. We'd spoken in passing, but we didn't really know each other.

"Well, thank you, I lost it yesterday. I think my friend found it and probably just forgot which apartment was mine."

"Hey, no problem. Have a good one," she said, smiling politely as she left.

When she was out of sight, I hastily looked around. The sun was just beginning to sink below the horizon, and as I looked up, I could see hard chips of stars starting to appear. Over my shoulder, I checked the microwave clock again. It was seven o'clock on the dot. How much longer? What would I say when he arrived? What would I even do when he did? My hands grew cold as I realized that, in all of my stress-cleaning, I hadn't planned anything for Avery and I to do together. Maybe I still had time?

"Good evening," a familiar, airy voice spoke from mere inches in front of me.

I jumped again, head snapping forward as my suddenly weak hands dropped my skateboard, which rolled lazily across my small patio.

Avery stood before me in the dying light. He wasn't completely transparent yet, and the fading sunlight behind him illuminated the delicate curves of his head, giving new meaning to the phrase "silver lining." He was grinning like a child who'd just had ice cream for the first time.

My words caught in my throat.

"I'm glad you found your skateboard! I fished it out of the water after I took you home, but I couldn't remember which apartment you lived in -- sorry about that. I hope it isn't ruined."

Across the courtyard, a man opened his door and stepped out, snapping me out of my besotted daze. My fight-or-flight engaged.

"Get in here!" I whispered urgently, grabbing his shirt sleeve, eliciting a surprised yelp as I pulled him into my apartment. He was lighter than I expected, and as the door swung closed, I tumbled backwards onto the floor.

"My goodness, Casper, are you okay?" He offered a hand to help me up. I scarcely had time to brace myself before taking it, and had no choice but to endure the overwhelming thrill of sensation as his cool palm pressed against mine, pulling me to my feet. He was light, but his strength was undeniable; he practically pulled me off my feet by my hand.

"Oh, yeah, fine... ah... I saw someone... out there, across the yard, and I was afraid they would see you," I hastily explained, avoiding his eyes as I tried to calm my palpitations.

"Well, that was kind of you! Believe it or not, though, humans do see me sometimes. Usually you just assume I am something else, like fog, or simply a trick of the light. Come to think of it, though... I suppose, technically, I am both of those things..." He put his fingers to his lips contemplatively. It was only then that I noticed a few things about him that were different from last time -- he was wearing square-framed glasses, and he seemed... shorter? The first time I saw him, he practically towered over me; now, though, he was only about a head taller.

"Did you get shorter?" I asked rudely, wincing before the words had even left my mouth. Mercifully, he didn't seem to mind.

"Oh, yes! It's a scorcher today, isn't it? I evaporate when I get too hot, or if I go too long without water, similar to how you run out of energy when you don't eat."

I realized that I hadn't offered him a seat or anything to drink since I abruptly yanked him into my apartment. I sensed my father rolling in his grave.

"I'm so sorry, can I get you something to drink? I have plain water, but I also have flavored sparkling water, you know, like La Croix? They aren't sweet, but, they're kinda fruit flavored. The kind I have is strawberry. I also have hot tea? I don't have any soda or anything, I don't really drink soda or alcohol, I also have m-"

Avery put his large hand on my shoulder, offering a reassuring smile. I flushed immediately, becoming aware that I had spoken in such a rush that I'd forgotten to breathe. I inhaled greedily, unable to meet Avery's eyes as I gestured to my small couch for him to sit.

"Sparkling water sounds lovely. I've never had that before, but I love strawberries!" he said, taking a seat.

I cracked open a can for each of us, then took a seat on a cushion across the coffee table from Avery. My couch was so small -- really more of a loveseat -- and I was afraid it was too soon to sit so close to him.

As Avery took a sip of the fizzy drink, his eyes lit up, like they did when he laughed. The liquid entered his mouth, and I watched the bubbles swirl like a hurricane just below the surface of his clear skin, before disappearing into the cloudy translucency of his body. Almost imperceptibly, such that I might not have noticed if I wasn't watching, he grew a bit taller.

"Hehe, that kinda tickles," he said, giggling, "it's not much of a flavor, is it? More like an idea of strawberries. Nonetheless, I like it! It reminds me of the flavor of tea."

"Oh, god. Oh, no."

My mind spun like a top flying off a ripcord. I felt my blush rise cartoonishly from my neck all the way to my hairline, like mercury in a glass thermometer being thrown through time, straight from winter into summer. Had I been a cartoon, I was sure that steam would be whistling out of my burning ears.

"The way that word sounds on his lips... oh, god, this is more than I can bear," I thought, watching him read the back of the La Croix can, his head tilted upward as he peered through his bifocals. There was no denying anything anymore; no bargaining, no holds barred. I was helplessly, hopelessly, powerlessly smitten. I had no choice but to admit it, now: all I could do was double-down.

"Hey Avery?"

"Yes?" He smiled again, and I realized with dizzying elation that he always smiled when he looked at me.

"Have you ever been to the fair?"

[kelnexia]

This song reminds me a lot of Five Pebbles…

Pregame and Spearmaster’s part of the timeline:

“Lost in this desert and I'm looking for freedom. A small oasis or a moment of breathing.”

(He want’s to ascend and is searching for a solution.)

“I'm still alive but I can hear my body screaming…”

(Could be referring to the rot painfully eating away at him.)

“On my own I'll make it. Blood and bone, I'll take it!”

(His stubborn pride and independence.)

“There's no one to call my friend, but the burden's feeling lighter without their things…”

(He’s kicked everyone out of his life and is trying to convince himself he likes the solitude.)

“I see on the road ahead, a person walking slowly as my vision fades. I wake on an empty bed, but I quickly take my leave and I refuse the aid. No one can hurt me if I'm walking all alone... They can't desert me if I've already turned to stone.”

(He rejects Sun’s offer to help.)

“I'm burning! I'm burning! I'm burning it all down with me! I'm burning! I'm burning! The only way I'll be set free!”

(He’s desperate… Desperate enough to take Moon down with him on his quest for self destruction, despite her begging him not to.)

Rivulet’s part of the timeline:

“I'm sick of asking, if this path will make me who I'm supposed to be... In taking the path less traveled, will the difference be the one I want to see?”

(This could be him looking back on his past choices that ultimately lead to everything falling apart.)

“If I had known that it would be this way, I would've never put myself this far into the fray. Cause now I'm seeing everything I am today, is just a product of the existential price I paid. Now there's dust in the wind and my vision has dimmed. The sand has covered my skin. Is this the end of the end?”

(He’s acknowledged his mistakes for what they are and is filled with regret.)

“I wipe it from my body, but it's starting to blend, and now the only option left is just to soak it in…”

(He’s stuck with the consequences of his actions and has nothing left to do but sit with it.)

“SCORCHING SUN! FREEZING NIGHTS!... I'm slipping. LOSING SIGHT of my WILL TO FIGHT. ON MY OWN. All alone... It's ticking. Counting down my fading light. I'm sick of picking myself up off of these burning sands below. I'm still alive but something died in me, ages long ago... Now my stomach is sick and I'm hearing the tick to the next time I fall and hit the ground. This time will be quick, no longer equipped to lift myself this time around. I've burned it all down, as the flames surround me and I fall into the sand. Like a shot in the dark, I use my last spark for one last deed before the end. My head's on the ground again... I try to lift my head, but I'm still sinking in... I lift up a shaky hand, and I say the only word I should've said back then... Help”

(He’s dying and has lost all hope of being able to save himself. The last line reminds a lot of what he says when you return to him after you’ve delivered his power cell to Moon.)

[death-poems-itsuki]

Tw: Referenced suicide attempt, self harm, talk of past abuse, Itsuki just not being okay at all

Inspired by @v-extreme-diminuendo

Falling to the floor, the young preteen sighs in disappointment. They’d made sure to a really sturdy rope this time, but this time it’s fallen off the hook they’d tied it to rather than the rope fraying. After taking a moment to get some air back into their lungs, they carefully push themself up and walk across the apartment to the bathroom, checking their neck in the mirror.

Rope burn, pretty prominent this time. This would definitely not be fun to explain to their sister later.

They felt even worse this time, which was strange. This usually cleared their head for a moment, but it was just worse this time. Maybe it was that stupid parasitic bullshit that lived in their brain. They’d found out pretty early on that thing’s goal was to make them kill themself, but they’d been trying that long before it had showed up. Maybe that’s why they felt worse now, as if it was punishing them for failing.

Looking back up at the mirror, they realize how awful they looked. Their split dye looked messed up, their roots growing back in since they hadn’t had the energy to fix it, the bags under their eyes horrible, their neck all raw and scarred up from how many times they’d attempted. The fact they went to school like this made it worse. No wonder they got bullied so much.

They’re momentarily tempted to punch the mirror to get rid of that horrible reflection before remembering in the back of their mind that their sister would have to pay for a new one, and she was already tight on money trying to raise them on her own.

Instead, they punched the wall as hard as possible, over and over again. They’re not sure how many times their fist slammed into the wall, but they could feel the steady drip of blood pouring down their hand. Luckily, the bathroom had strong tile, so it didn’t break, though their knuckles were completely busted, reduced to a mess of broken skin and blood, leading them to simply shove their hand under the sinks water and watch the blood pour down the drain. It was bleeding much more than they’d expected it to, and the more blood poured out of their skin, the more their head began to fog.

They can’t really remember what happened between that and them collapsing onto the mattress they slept on every night, but the wounds had managed to spread up to their elbows and from their hips to their knees, making any movement they made hurt horribly. But they felt like they deserved it. Thats why this stupid ability chose them in the first place, right? Because they’re too pathetic to live.

All they do is burden the people in their life. Thats why their parents hurt them, right? Why they’d go to bed every night completely sore from another beating? Why they’d memorized the sounds of footsteps down the hallways? Why their sister had to borrow money from coworkers to pay for them to live with her?

If they just died, that would all be solved, right? But it was as if the world just wouldn’t let them perish, as if it was keeping them alive as some sort of sick punishment. They simply sigh and decide they’ll deal with this all tomorrow, pulling their blanket up over their mangled body and falling into restless sleep.

[superbcloudbagelbandit-blog]

You’re too Kind | Sam and Colby Drabble

A/N: This is legit a blurb I wrote in one sitting while listening to this specific song on repeat. Brainrot go brr

The rain glistened off the concrete through the glare of streetlights. I could feel the chill around me, yet I couldn’t feel it at all. I felt detached from myself with the anguish coursing through my body. I watched the puddle beneath my feet ripple and dance with the onslaught of fresh raindrops.

How the hell did I end up here? Sulking in my own misery and melancholy outside in the rain? I would laugh at myself if the hole in my heart wasn’t weighing me down.

I had given myself to this woman, laid my heart out on the line and trusted her with everything. And yet, here we are. I stand outside the rundown apartment that I used to call mine, carrying the small amount of clothing I could gather in my teary eyed frenzy.

She couldn’t even look me in the eyes as she whispered how she’d fallen out of love with me.

I should have seen it coming from a while back: the loving glances were few and far between and I wasn’t giving what she wanted. Clearly I was the problem.

No. This isn’t my fault. She should have just told me she was falling out of love before I had to catch her fucking her co-worker in our bed. The rain patters on as I take out my phone and overwhelm my ears with the sounds of music. I get to have my cheesy movie moment without any judgment from the person reading this, I’m ailing.

I drag my feet, trudging along the sidewalk as thunder rolls overhead. How fitting. What the fuck is wrong with me? I knew this was coming, and yet it hurts all the same. Regrets burrowing a hole in my chest as memories flash across my mind.

I had to have been wallowing for hours before even noticing how soaked I had become. Frosted breath escaping my lips into the atmosphere. I could barely bring myself to care until I had bumped into another figure.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“It’s alright,” the figure replied. Their voice muffled by the music in my earbuds.

I thought that would be the end of it; a simple interaction due to my own clumsiness, but I was wrong

“Jesus you must be freezing! How long have you been out here? Where’s your umbrella?” The barrage of questions seemed to never stop from this person.

“Didn’t bring one. Don’t know how long.”

“Why? What could have-”

“Cheated on,” I interrupted, the pang in my heart only worsening with reality setting in. I no longer have the love of my life. The only woman who broke through the apathy I had towards the world. I could feel the cynical nature returning home to my mind as my thoughts continued to run a mile a minute.

“Oh god…Here, I have a spare sweater in my bag, you should find somewhere to stay and warm up before you get sick,” This person is persistent.

I found myself wanting to scoff and roll my eyes; yet a tiny voice reasoned that this stranger had done nothing to hurt me yet, why not trust them? I was hesitant. Trust is what got me into this situation in the first place: Cold, alone, and probably looking like a drowned sewer rat.

“I don’t need a sweater, I’ll be fine.”

“Please, I insist,” refusing to give up.

They hold out their hand and I finally look up to meet their eyes…well I try to. It’s a little hard in the dark night and the streetlight only helps to cast harsh shadows along the contours of their face. In their hand lies a thick knitted sweater.

“It might fit a little awkward, I made it myself so the measurements are off”

I take the sweater and feel the tiniest of smiles break the clouds that hang above my head. Not literally though because it’s still raining. Who did this person think they are? Being kind to a stranger and offering a sweater to keep them warm? How does one have such empathy towards everyone? I paused, staring into the slightly frayed yarn.

“How can I return this to you?” I asked.

“You don’t need to, think of it as a gift from one ailing man to another”

“Thanks…”

“I’m Sam,” the stranger mentions, a soft smile gracing his features.

“Colby,” was all I managed to get out before he started walking again.

“See ya around Colby,” Sam calls with a soft expression before turning and continuing his way.

Looking back down at the sweater I see that he left a small umbrella with me as well. Maybe there are good people still in the world. Or maybe this guy is an idiot to trust people so easily. But I can’t help the warmth I started to feel in my heart. I thought I had found the meaning of kindness when I was with her. I guess I was wrong.

Kindness was found in soft smiles and handmade sweaters.

[koifishart]

I want to be Your Koi Fish

Warning: +18 content, criminal underworld, intercourse, strong language - and so on

Fanfiction based on: "Baki" by Itagaki Keisuke

>3<

>>3<<

It turned out relatively as planned. He stated that the closer she got to him, the easier it would be to use her abilities. Besides... he felt a warmth in his heart as he sat next to her. He suspected that she was also aware - the relationship didn't have to last long, it didn't oblige anyone to anything in the end. She was an interesting change for him in the after all boring life of a mafioso. Oh, usually hovering around the city, a bit like a police patrol, checking the grounds are quiet and clean. Everyone was getting out of his way, only from time to time the "brave" people thought that they would be able to jump up. He felt good about having a girlfriend, even if only for a moment. Did that mean he was going to make their relationship completely shallow? Probably not...It would be appropriate to give something of yourself, even though he was not romantic. Cherry trees blossomed, and in Japan that meant the Hanami celebration. A great opportunity to get her somewhere, have fun. He hadn't celebrated since his mother's death, it was just weird himself... This time he had an excuse in his hand and was going to use it. He wasn't going to admit it to anyone, they didn't need to know everything. Anyway, he has sneaked out so many times that they've probably gotten used to it that he just disappears. He tried to contact her, but she seemed to be avoiding him. He called - she did not answer. He sent messages, she replied briefly, casually, as if she hadn't read the content at all. Had he already done something wrong at the start?

He was walking down the street in the center when he saw her several dozen meters apart. There was no mistake. He would recognize those long dark hair and pale green eyes anywhere. He stared at people for a while, though not very polite - he hadn't met anyone of a similar beauty. He had expected a more girly, or perhaps feminine, outfit in the Hanami period. She was dressed in sand, tied ankle boots on a light heel, black jeans with a little frayed ends fastened with a belt with two buckles, a bright sleeveless top, covered with a rather large, open sweater, a color resembling dirty blood. He came closer as if nothing had happened. Something clicked under his shoe. Hearing the sound, she turned abruptly, like a startled pet. She immediately blushed at the sight of him. She looked tired, as if she hadn't slept for several days, and scared to meet him.

-Eh ... hi Kaoru ... - she muttered sluggishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

She avoided his eyes. She looked away every time they spontaneously wanted to look at him. Was she ashamed for not saying a word?

- Do you have a moment for tea? - He asked. - Although when I look at you, I think I could use a pot of coffee ...

- Yeah ... could use ... - she croaked, then cleared her throat solidly and added with poorly mock glee. - Sure, I'll find a few minutes.

They sat down in a nearby cafe in a quiet corner, hidden from the viewers, next to each other. She rested her head on her forearms. The dead silence lasted until the waitress walked away, leaving an order on the table.

- Will you tell me why you are avoiding me? - he said finally. - Even now.

- Well ... let's assume it's not the best time to date ... but don't worry, nothing is happening. - she muttered sadly, stirring her cappuccino cup with the spoon, slowly eating the froth. - I just have a lot on my mind, I do not have time for calls, and I answer text messages practically on the run, writing essays with my other hand and ... stuff.

- That doesn't explain why you're not looking at me now. - he continued, leaning a little towards her.

- I'm not in top form. Sometimes I fall into depressive states due to a drop in mood. I'm sick of my life. I'd love to go out of my way ... but I can't. - she grunted, then sighed heavily. - Besides, I feel bad about the fact that I didn't have a minute to read at least half of what you wrote. I'm sorry ...

At times like this, he concluded that he was a typical guy - not very good at talking about feelings or so. It seemed he had to learn a little bit of it. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her to him. She tensed instantly, looking up. It was the first time he saw how her eyes could shine.

- Something's wrong?

- No ... no ... it just ... somehow still doesn't get to me. - she replied softly. - You must understand that this is quite unlikely, don't you?

- Yeah... interesting coincidence. - he laughed, looking at her.

She probably relaxed a little. She dropped slightly, resting her head on his torso. She took the fragile cup in both hands, slowly sipping her drink. He somehow enjoyed her cuddling. It is usually said that women feel safe in a man's arms. He didn't know if she was one of those women, but he seemed to be uniquely out of place like never before. She put the pot down, gently clinking the porcelain saucer.

- Would you like to celebrate Hanami? - he ventured a question. - Maybe it'll cheer you up.

- No offense, but probably not. - she replied at once. - I'm in the process of ... work. I will find a moment as soon as possible in a week, but it will be over of the celebration.

They parted in front of the cafe door. She waved him with the faint shadow of a smile on her face. He had a feeling she wasn't telling him everything. Of course, she didn't have to, but there was a kind of hunger that he absolutely wanted to satisfy.

>>><<<

Goro remembered the day she was born. It was a warm April morning, Sakura was blooming exceptionally late this year. He supported all his daughters in giving birth, he felt responsible - he had fathered, so he wanted to help his wife in giving birth to their children. Honestly, he hoped a boy would eventually happen ... and four beautiful girls made it. This birth was special. All without complications. The last baby had an umbilical cord wrapped around it. The wife went through the birth but came out in terrible condition, so much so that she refused to feed the child. He took care of it himself, after all, children's nutrition changed a lot, as long as the mother's food was of course the best option, not the only one. He himself gave her a name - Hanabi. In fact, that was the first thing that came to mind - the previous evening he had seen beautiful fireworks from the window of the house, maybe that's why. He thought that the malaise would pass, but his hopes were vain. His wife completely rejected her, and for him she was the apple of his eye. He loved all his daughters equally, but he had to replace the one with his mother. They had always been on good terms, which is why she stayed with him when the love of his life passed away, throwing divorce papers at him.

Eight years have passed since that day. Hanabi grew up to be a beautiful and capable girl, but he couldn't fool himself that her mother's behavior did not affect her psyche. He had often heard her roll from side to side at night, unable to sleep. He knew that eventually she had found an outlet for all the tension in extracurricular activities, which he was not particularly favorable to. Yes, thanks to them she was even more independent, but... he hoped she would come out of it, she would fall asleep peacefully without such aids. Eventually, there was an incident where the news spread that he had a skilled murderer at hand, and it drove the last knife into his heart. He knew she hadn't changed at all after all - she was still Daddy's dear little daughter, but she had a side that he didn't want to see. When she said she didn't kill one of her victims, adding slightly that it was THAT Hanayama and they just had sex, he almost had a heart attack. He thought that if she saw him shortly after, she wouldn't want to abandon the mission so dispassionately, and would optionally leave the contract murder. Soon after, he found out that the yakuza had picked her up from school, and that same evening she happily announced that they had become a couple! He felt that his life was spinning out of control. Although... maybe it's the best solution anyway?

More Hanami were passing by, and this year the cherry blossom was extremely late. She was too busy with the assignment to celebrate with friends, or even eat festive lunch with him. On the last day of the holiday, she went out to do the job. He usually stayed up all night then, waiting to see if she would come back or the police would rather call that her body was found. He froze in horror at the doorbell. But is it? He held his breath. He opened the door.

- Hanayama-san? - he was surprised as he let the air out of his lungs.

- Soga-san, do you know where I can find Hanabi? - he asked bluntly. - She's not answering the phone.

- She left right after school and hasn't come back yet. - he explained. - Probably she's not finished yet.

The phone in his pocket rang cheerfully. He glanced at the display. He breathed a sigh of relief.

- "I'm fine, I'll be back later." - he read.

- Where can she be? - the young mafioso stubbornly asked.

- Probably sitting on a huge cherry tree in the very center of a nearby cemetery. he sighed heavily.

- Thanks for the information and sorry for disturbing the evening. - the giant replied, bowing.

Amazing. He had such a blood-stained reputation, the reputation of being one of the strongest, great brute who shook the entire underworld... and bowed down the waist to one of his smugglers. Maybe because he came not to his employee, but her father? Everything turned upside down! He was completely confused.

- Wait! - he tossed after him, then added as he turned around. - Hanami is not a happy holiday for her. She probably wants to be alone, so she doesn't come back.

He nodded and walked away. Goro was very curious to see how this situation would end, and what the young yakuza boss might really want from his daughter.

>>><<<

Finally. She could sit down and breathe some fresh air. She didn't want to mention another murder. Oh, it was, it's gone. It was easier for her to get on with it... if you could put it that way. Teen killer, exams coming soon, yakuza boss's girlfriend. Cinderella better not come up! Actually, who was she kidding? She agreed, fully consciously. She was waiting longingly for his proposal as well. It pained her that she wasn't quite honest with him... but she couldn't get it out in the coffee shop.

Which time is it? Eighth. For the eighth year in a row, on exactly the same day, she sat on the same tree - a beautiful cherry in the cemetery near their home. Father said that when she was born, it was Hanami at that time. Hilarious that Sakura was blooming later this year as well. She unbuttoned her body-hugging dark sweatshirt, revealing a black, tight-fitting, sleeveless low-turtleneck T-shirt underneath, tucked into close-fitting dark jeans that tucked into rather bulky sneakers. She tied her hair into two long braids that fell over her shoulders. This time she didn't even stain her clothes with blood. Guess she was getting better. She thought.

Her tenth birthday was approaching, when her mother yelled at her father that she had enough of him and was leaving. She never understood why. She was screaming about her father having lovers, that he was ignoring her, that they weren't sleeping together... They were sleeping, she had heard them. She was not a child, she knew what they were doing, especially since her older sisters spared her information. They said their mother had a young lover. Then she began to reproach her husband that he loves the youngest daughter the most, and not her and the other three. True, she and her father got along best, but she hadn't noticed that the rest was left out. Or maybe pink glasses? It was her mother who ignored her, looking at her as if she were an unwanted stranger. He once explained to her where the reason could lie, so she did not try to force her mother to even hug her. She didn't want to be a burden. And then suddenly, on the day her father was hit in the face with a bundle of divorce papers ... she suddenly remembered her existence. She said she loves more than life, and that Daddy is the bad guy. Then she looked at her father and saw in his eyes how he and his world were falling apart. She couldn't leave him, since his lover was doing it. She couldn't let the man who had always been there for her, tumble to the bottom. She stayed, despite her mother's great fury and sisters' pleading.

It hurt. She didn't know if she had done right. On the one hand, she wanted to help her father, on the other ... the mother's words seemed to work. She felt horribly discarded like an unnecessary old toy. For eight years she had been trying to get used to it, but could not remain indifferent. The same thing happened every year. She felt a stream of tears running down her cheeks. A strange clang of metal awakened her from her reverie. She looked around, trying not to move the flower branches around her. No one was ever there, the only cemetery where Hanami was celebrated was Aoyama. The crowd thickened, illuminating the vicinity of the huge cherry tree with the amber glow of lanterns. They sat at the tables, ate, drank, and talked. She never wanted to even go out with friends, eat something nice and come home. She felt strangely helpless and lonely.

- Hanabi! - she heard someone's voice.

She looked down. He stood beneath her, slightly smiling, in a perfectly cut white suit and purple shirt, straightening his glasses on his nose. He was the last person she expected in this place. She looked more closely at the people at the surrounding tables. These were HIS people. It is true that she did not know everyone, but she recognized some "by sight".

- Will you come down, or should I go get you? - he asked bluntly.

- You'll break a tree if you try! - she laughed, sipping tears. - Leave me, I want to be alone.

- I will not let you sit alone in the cemetery for another year in a row. - he replied calmly.

Yeah. How could he know where to look? He must have been at her house. Since he had let his men go after her to find her school, they must have found out where she lived. She sighed heavily, wiped her face with her sleeve and jumped down.

- It looks like you talked to my father ... so I guess you know why I'm sitting here. - she muttered, adjusting the backpack on her shoulder.

- Not really, but I'd love to know. - he replied, pointing to her a place under the tree.

She was sitting on his lap again, this time snuggling into his white jacket. It was amazing how natural it felt to her.

- On exactly the last day of Hanami, eight years ago, my mother left my father. She took my three sisters, and even though she never liked me, she wanted to take me too, squeezing the stuff that my father was the bad guy. I don't think I've ever seen such a nasty and effective psychological manipulation before or after. I seem to have resigned myself to it, but I'm still afraid. Not death at all, but life. Life is people, and people are wounds that often don't heal. - she said hoarsely, then added a little more cheerful. - Apparently I'm a terrible masochist, since with this approach I became your girlfriend!

He did not answer. Actually, what could she expect? "Yeah, you're a terrible psycho"? Or "not at all"? She felt a warm arm around her waist, and a large, scarred hand lifting her chin skyward. She was sure it was his doing. He had given her the last day of Hanami, full of glittering colors of fireworks. Involuntarily, she smiled at the sight.

- You can stop being afraid. - he muttered in her ear.

Guess he was right, she could have started to sleep more peacefully. She felt surprisingly safe in his arms. The pleasant atmosphere was interrupted by the sound of the news again. She didn't hide the screen from him. Another assignment, damn it. She unzipped her backpack and tossed the gear nervously inside. Automatically she nestled against his massive chest.

- I don't even want to look at it today ... - she grunted.

- Wouldn't you rather work for me? - he asked quite seriously.

[chim-aera]

the dance

you wander into the woods on a particularly pleasant evening, fireflies are dancing in the sky, and the trees thrum with some sort of primal, eldritch energy. It's Beltane, may day, the mother earth, the may queen, has her head tipped back in splendor as the sun coaxes spring from her core, and the earth spins and shimmers with the green flush of life, abundance, fertility. the air is sweet, saccharine like blackberries smeared in your pockets, on your hand, your lips, brushing them to a rosy purple laughing like Dawn, rosy fingered and grinning. they're all grinning. once you step past the sanctuary,

it's already too late little mortal, but you know that don't you?

stones stand like stoic sentinels, you set down an offering, maybe a piece of lemon cake, or a button that never stays on right, and you slip past the fraying seams of reality, into what lies beyond. laughter, dancing, wine sweetened smiles, languid grins, it's dizzying, and otherworldly, eyes, slit, cat like, fangs and rows of teeth like a predatorial fish, wings, gossamer and goose down, claws, hands, boney and double jointed, they glance at you, in all their unblinking eternal curiosity. you move, spinning, the music takes you like an overzealous dance partner, turning you around and around until you can't remember when you even started dancing. lips meet yours, sticky with honey and nectar, soft, sickeningly sweet, it's drowning you alive, you're drunk on it all already.

he notices you, a gaze sharper then briar-points, his hand grasping his chalice, long cold fingers slipped around glass. a smile tugs at his lips, flowers are braided into his hair, long, heavy tresses falling down to his waist. he smirks at you, dangerous, the game you're playing, deadly, but there's a sick little joy in that isn't there?

he asks you to dance, do you take it? a cloak like meadows, his breath earthy, wine laden, hot on your ear, on your cheek, sharp nails tease lazily along your collarbone, skeletal fingers curl gently around your throat, he feels the pulse throb there, it only makes his smile widen, creeping along his lips like a snake soon to be fed.

you don't pay notice to the danger here, thousands of eyes flicking towards you, curved mouths lopsided and hungry, watching, waiting. but he holds still, they wouldn't dare strike, they wouldn't dare play with his toy, not until he's had his fun with you.

he takes your hand, his other at your waist, or the small of your back, he twirls you around, his gaze heavy, holding you in place like a moth pinned down by a needle, still fluttering, but hopeless nevertheless. the dance continues, your body never letting you stop, you don't want to stop. you protest when he begins tugging you away from the dance floor, but he simply shakes his head, eyes crinkling in amusement,

mortals are fragile little things, it wouldn't do to see you break all this early.

the effects wear off, eventually, you feel tired, heavy, he pulls you effortlessly along like some sleepy child and you find yourself eventually pressed to his chest, folded in his embrace on his throne, his firm body, large, startlingly large, you realize that now, held fast around you like a shield, or a prison. his gaze never wavers, and he lifts your chin, long digits pried under your jaw, tilting your head back as he gently coaxes your lips apart with one finger, it teases your tongue, pushing down, silencing any startled, pitiful little sounds of protest, before something cool and metallic is pressed to your mouth and the taste far too sweet it resembles bile floods your senses. you try to choke, you try to sputter, but his grip holds firm, forcing it down, while his hand at your neck presses ever so gently into the column of your throat, making you swallow every last drop.

you're left reeling, confused, the sound of the music seems far away, yet it pounds in your ears like some distant demonic drummer, and you press yourself into his arms, nuzzle into the soft silk of his tunic, he coos, soothing you with sweet words of endearment while his touch slides down your spine.

and what do I call you, little one?

the word falls past your lips before you can even think, and a cold, slithering dread grips your soul. this was the third rule you had broken.

never dance. never eat nor drink whatever they offer. and never, never child, do you give them your name.

It's too late now, you're cradled against the chest of the Seelie Lord, he chuckles, a rich sound that vibrates in his chest making you shudder, and his fingers keep caressing your shoulders, yet it feels strange, like branches brushing against your skin, or spiders scittering beneath your clothing. your mouth tastes strongly of the wine, it sets heady in your mouth like the taste of a nightmare, yet you know this is far, far from the storybooks of lore.

you squirm, he holds you fast, two large hands clamped over one thigh, the other threading into your hair, tipping your head back, effectively immobilizing you.

he looks down at you, amused, almost pitying.

you were far too much of an easy little game.

but he's won, no matter.

you try to struggle again, but petal soft lips, sweet yet hungry crash against your mouth, swallowing any sounds from you as his fingers tangle into your hair. he rocks you against him, his hands grasping, kneading, caressing any flesh he can reach, and you can't help but lean into him. growing drunk on his attentions until you're pleading and begging like the sweet little mortal you are.

you don't remember much when you wake, all you feel is a dull throb, a need, festering inside you. you awake in a field of soft grass, mushrooms circling you like a mycloligical Stonehenge.

a fae ring, how fitting.

your hair is braided, mussed, yet not tangled, and a heavy crown of blossoms rest on your head. you can't help but bring it to your nose, your body responding to the sweet, sharp scent of earth and pleasure, and the need inside you only heightens.

you look around to find the stones, moss laden and unchanging. yet your meager offerings are long gone, was it last night you laid them there. last week? last month?

you stand but your mouth feels dry, insatiable, you feel hungry, a desire inside you untamed and wild.

you stand like a bewildered creature in the forest shade, blinking and confused, remembering his soft touch, his gentle words, his lips, his hands, prying apart your lips, tangling in your hair, pinning you flush against soft earth, gentle, all consuming, pleasurable.

you crave it.

you don't know if you can live without it now, everything you knew was faded, fuzzy like the glow of fluorescent lights. distasteful, bland.

when the sound of music fills the air you want to cry, of joy, of terror, your legs react far quicker then you do and you find yourself running, the barrier splits for you once more, the revel hasn't ended, and his throne is in view among the crowd, debauchery and revelry filling the eternal dusk.

you move towards him, strong arms embracing you, he takes you back into his hold and you feel you want to never leave. when he brings his goblet to his lips you snatch it from him, in your strange human hands, bringing it to your mouth as you greedily down it to the dregs.

you laugh, his eyes flicker with something dark, something filled with a dangerous enjoyment, but you only find charm in that.

a wicked, wicked charm.

your head swims from the wine, your mouth tastes saccharine, from his lips, from his drink.

before you know it his mouth is upon yours, his tongue licking into your own, your hands clutch his doublet, he smirks and you can feel it. you devour each other like beasts, like lovers, like fae.

when you both eventually pull away you're panting, he is not, but his eyes are blown wide with lust.

you smile, a dizzy sort of desire tugs at your senses, fills your mind and body.

this was wrong, all of it, around you horned beasts and beings, creatures with tails and cats smiles twist and move, drinking wine from each other's mouths, hands, hooves, horns. cries of ecstasy and energy. it was a dance of debauchery, to the very finest, but you simply lean back into his chest, finding a solace in it. and he presses you closer to his heart.

now the fae king watches new strangers stumble drunken and laughing, tripping like newborn fawns around the revels, the ones that wish to stay, while his lover holds their arms around his neck, watching, with the same clever, amused smile he has. they turn to you, king and consort, and a grin spreads across both lips, of the fae, and the one who's not quite human, not anymore.

so if you travel, little one, to the world of the fae, past the stones arch sentinels of cracks of mossy grey.

leave a gift and carry caution, rowan, iron, salt, and do not heed their pretty promises, do not take their balms.

take not wine nor bread nor cakes, kiss not the honeyed lips. raven eyes, and silver horns, rolling nectar hips.

take not their hands, their fervent dance, step not to beat nor tune. and when you see the High King's head don't follow him to your doom.

and if you follow my warnings fast, perhaps you can go free, but trust me child, you'll wish you had, and ended up like me.

[awkwardgtace]

Ice Cube Prank Gone Wrong... or Right?

hey @da3dm here's the next request. This might have changed a little bit from the original idea.

Rhys is a young borrower that likes to play tricks on mostly one of the two humans he lives with. One day it goes a little wrong.

Ice Cube Prank Gone Wrong... or Right?

Rhys glared at the dark blue thread currently wrapped around his ankle. It mocked him as he hung limply from the vent with that as his only life line. Stupid vent just had to shift under his weight and make him fall. He knew he was lucky he was caught by the thread, but he was more annoyed that his prank wouldn’t work out now. How could he drop one of those weird cold plastic cubes on the grumpy human when he was stuck like this? 

It would be easy to free himself. It wasn’t like this was the first time he was caught by his ankle, but the humans were loudly talking in the other room. He had time to glare at the thread and vent for betraying him. At least he was supposed to have time. The humans were supposed to stay in the kitchen together. This was the day they always did that, but one voice started to come closer. From where he hung in the sky Rhys saw the grumpy human in the doorway starting to walk away from the room the other was in.

“I’ll just eat later, I have to meet this deadline,” the grumpy one shouted. Rhys started to try and climb up enough to free his ankle. He had to work quickly. Heavy steps rocked through him making it hard to grab the string.

Rhys froze when he felt himself drop. Staring up he saw the thread fraying. The sharper edge of the vent had caused the thread to weaken. Another step from the human had him drop again. He managed to grab the thread and start to pull it apart enough to free his ankle. He paused as he dropped again to stare down at the floor that would kill him if he landed on it. Another heavy step, another drop, and he went back to work.

Biting back a cheer he pulled his ankle free, holding himself up with the thread. Unfortunately it wasn’t fast enough, the human took another set of quick steps that had him falling. Rhys had no time to scream as his body registered the free fall. He was going to hit the hard ground and turn into nothing. His mouth kept moving as he tried to make some noise to maybe land on a human’s hand rather than the floor.

His body collided with something soft and warm, but firm too. The thing shifted forcing Rhys to slide down the soft surface. He felt more than heard the human make a noise that would usually make him laugh. He tried to grab onto something, but found only a surface that felt like skin against his palms. Ice filled his veins as the realization of where he landed hit him. The human, the grumpy human and he was still sliding down towards the floor. The reality didn’t get to set in long before he’d fallen between the human’s shirt and skin.

“Ryder! An ice cube really?” the human shouted. The voice was too loud. Covering his ears would have been a blessing. It took a steeper fall for him to remember to grab the cloth and avoid reaching the hard floor. “I told you to knock it off with these dumb-” A hand reached in too quickly to dodge. Rhys had the air squeezed out of him as fingers pinched him. “-pranks.” 

Rhys was pulled out from the human’s shirt and rushed up to see a giant face. He felt sick as the golden eyes studied him. It had been terrifying to consider being caught by either of the humans. The one holding him always looked angry and put his full weight into each step. The yelling would bring the one with silver eyes, meticulous in everything he did down to the bits of plastic he left out a lot. The one holding him narrowed his golden eyes.

“...You’re not an ice cube,” the golden eyed human said. 

Rhys had quips and responses flit through his mind. No I’m not, put me down. I’m just one you’ve never seen. Correct now if you’d let me go. I’m a new ice they’re testing out. None of them sounded quite right. He didn’t really know what an ice cube even was. His best guess would be that plastic square filled with water he was planning to drop on the grumpy human. 

Either way he couldn’t bring himself to make a sound. Even if he did speak and miraculously got let go, there was no way for him to get home. He never set up the ladders and steps he needed after he moved here. The humans were too fun to mess with. Along with how hard it was to steal the materials from them. A stolen pin had grumpy searching for hours until Rhys put it back. A stolen plastic sword from the other one had the guy almost digging into the vent that Rhys liked to store things in. No reason to bring it all the way home when the humans might go crazy enough he gives it back.

“Felix I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the meticulous one said. He was coming closer now. The steps reached him even through the grumpy one. The fingers holding him actually tensed which forced a pained gasp to escape. It was followed with almost too much pressure removed. Rhys had to hold the fingers to make sure he wouldn’t fall.

Horrified, he stared at the entryway the grumpy human had come from. The other human appeared, his long black hair tied back and out of his face. He always knew the grumpy one was shorter, but held up this high made it more obvious. It was also more terrifying as the taller one came closer. His silver eyes lit up once they found Rhys. The approach of the tall one grew worse once he smiled.

Fingers thinner than the ones currently trapping him wrapped around him. Rhys could feel the strength in the digits as they forced him from Grumpy’s hold. He was moved quickly, fast enough to make him feel sick. The light around him disappeared. The fingers pressed him to something firm and warm. Not as soft as before, but that wasn’t important. The fingers slid until he was pressed against that firm surface by a human palm.

“Ryder, what exactly are you doing?” Grumpy asked. Rhys was doing everything he could to forget about those eyes. The way they looked at him made him want to die.

“You mistook them for an ice cube, they have to warm up,” the meticulous one announced. He always spoke like he was issuing orders to someone.

“You don’t even know if it’s supposed to be that cold. Warming it up could kill it.” 

Rhys shivered at the tone used. He was going to be just some bug or animal to these two. He shouldn’t have been so focused on messing with them. They just kept blaming each other, but never did anything else. It was funny and almost made him feel like he belonged here. It was a lot nicer after the way he was sent away from his last few homes.

It seemed like the one holding him now at least wanted to help him live. That could give him the chance to escape. Then he’d leave and find another new home. The fourth one this year… 

“Please, nothing alive should be this cold. Probably came in from outside due to the weather,” the meticulous one said. Rhys almost nodded along to that. A perfect excuse that he could use. A clicking sound came from above. It made his blood run cold. The things he left in the vent weren’t likely to stay where he left them now. 

“Ryder, you have no idea what that is, if it belongs-” the grumpy one stopped. Silence followed for a horrible span of seconds. 

Rhys held his breath, unable to see what was happening. The fingers that slid away wrapped around him. He grabbed the cloth shirt as tight as he could, desperate for something to keep him safe. His attempts to stay were completely ignored as the meticulous one pulled him free. He was forced to face the humans, wrapped in a tight fist. The grumpy one held a purple plastic cube between his fingers. The traitorous frozen thing had become slick in the warm air of the vent.

“Aha,” the shout made him jump, the meticulous one was too loud. “It appears we discovered a little prankster!”

 Rhys started shaking. The humans definitely would hurt him now. He felt the golden eyes assessing him the whole time. The softer hand was held out near him. Rhys looked at the one holding him, there was something in the way he looked that answered any questions Rhys could ask. The grumpy one was going to get his way, it didn’t matter what happened.

The fist holding him moved until he was dropped on the palm. Fingers curled over him. He was brought close to those eyes, he genuinely considered poking one to try and escape. That would just kill him, Grumpy was wearing a shirt that just had thin bits of fabric on his shoulders to hold it up. Grumpy let out a hum while staring at him.

“Ryder, finish cooking breakfast. We’ll come eat in about…” Grumpy mumbled as he tilted his head, “thirty minutes.”

“Yes sir!” the other said. 

The hand holding Rhys wrapped the fingers around him blocking most of his view. He was pulled close to the human, unable to see anything around him anymore. The steps jolted through his spine. This human wasn’t thinking about anything he did as he walked. Rhys didn’t want to see what Grumpy was planning. He tried to run through what he’d been taught before being sent off on his own. He was following one rule at least, never refer to a human by their name. Being too familiar could get him killed, although familiar wasn’t the issue now that he was caught.

Felix sighed as he kicked the door shut to his work room. He should have warmer fabrics than the creature currently wore in here. He just needed an idea of how big it really was. He walked to the desk he used to test designs, none of the dolls were quite small enough. They’d work at least.

He sat down, grabbing a few things before bringing his hand close to the table. Folding back his fingers, the thing was still shaking. It was hard to believe this was actually planning to drop an ice cube on anyone. Probably just liked the color and tried to steal it. He tilted his hand until the creature slid off. He hesitated for only a second before curling his other hand around it.

Felix grabbed a few of the heavier sewing kits he owned and placed them around the creature. Each side blocked off except the one open to where he’d be working on something. He considered something to keep it occupied. If it liked purple he could give it some purple fabric. Maybe it would make a nest on his desk… that would be interesting at least. He pulled his hand back, resting his elbow next to the sewing kit near the edge of the table.

“Stay put,” he mumbled. He didn’t really expect the thing to listen. Looking human doesn’t make it human. “I have a feeling you’ll run off if I don’t stop you.”

Felix grabbed the smallest doll he had. It was still at least twice as big as the creature. He found himself wondering if there were any other extremities he should worry about. Wings, a tail, anything. He’d just have to assume there weren’t. He wasn’t going to risk injuring it to find out, plus he’d need more than thirty minutes to go that detailed. He snapped the doll apart to get to work.

Felix jumped as the small creature shrieked. He stared at the thing, the small hands held over its head in fear. He didn’t see how it could have hurt itself. There weren’t any loose pins around. The idea that this had been the cause of the string of pranks he’d suffered only grew more impossible. Although the shaking was making him struggle to believe it wasn’t as human as it looked.

He noticed the creature looking at the doll in his hands. His own eyes went wide as he made the connection. Ryder’s theory that it came in to avoid the cold may not be wrong. If it had been in the house for any time it would know the dolls come apart. He put the doll back together, holding it out to the little creature. He used his empty hand to tap the creature’s head, guilt consuming him as the little thing scrambled away. The eyes locked on his fingers.

“Hey,” he whispered. He spared a glance at the doll he held. This creature was smaller than it and the doll was already so small in his hands. “They’re designed to come apart. I’m not gonna hurt you, I just use them to make small designs easier. Here, try pulling it apart, it’s easy.”

Felix held the doll’s head close to the little thing. He didn’t expect it to listen, he wasn’t ready to accept tiny people existed. It was a strange creature that used fabric to cover some shell or something… probably. Regardless he’d make something to keep it warm. After that they’d have to wait and see. The small form slowly stood and reached past the doll head to the shoulders. He smiled a bit when pink eyes stared up at him. Weird eyes just like he and Ryder had.

The small person tugged on the doll’s body. Felix didn’t even need to help, the doll popped apart. He smiled when a look of awe took over the creature’s face. There was a chance it hadn’t spoken because it was mute. It looked so much like a person, it was getting harder to deny that. It was possible that their voice was too quiet for them to hear too. The face was staring straight at where the doll had separated.

“Wow…” they whispered. Felix thought his heart stopped. That was definitely not meant for him to hear. It would be easy to pass off as the wind. At least if he hadn’t been sure the small mouth moved when he heard it. He sat back, pulling a slightly bigger doll closer to work with. He couldn’t deny it anymore, they’d found a tiny person. He’d wait until they’d eaten to ask about getting measurements for better clothes.

It was hard to guess the right size for someone so small while working on a doll four times their size. It didn’t have to be perfect though, an oversized sweater was enough. He kept looking at the small person while he worked. They were studying the part where the doll broke apart. It was clear they’d never seen something like it up close. He smiled when he saw the way they acted when they found another part that could disconnect.

Felix finished the sweater, but left the small person investigating the doll longer. At one point he reached closer to show more of how it worked. They backed away, but moved closer as soon as his hands were gone. It sort of reminded him of when he and Ryder were younger. The constant questions from the younger one about what he worked on. The look of awe felt more like their sister though.

“We’ve probably made Ryder wait long enough,” he said. The little person jumped and stumbled away from the doll. Felix grabbed the pieces, locking them back in place. He offered the sweater to the person, hoping it would work to get some response. He wanted proof he hadn’t imagined their voice. It would make everything a lot easier moving forward. 

Small hands grabbed the sweater. The little face stared up at him with wonder and something he couldn’t name. The purple sweater was pulled over the small head. Felix had estimated poorly, it looked like it hung down past their thighs. It would be something he could fix once they started communicating. It had only just occurred to him they might speak different languages.

Felix reached for the small being. Hesitating when they started to shake again. He bit his lip, they couldn’t just wander freely. They would probably disappear, or worse a careless action could hurt them. He wasn’t about to let them die from his own ignorance. He pulled his hand back and set it in front of the person instead.

“Is this better?” he asked. The small face stared at him again, Ryder wasn’t going to be happy to let them leave anytime soon. Their frame looked thin. They felt it when he held them too. It was likely the little person hadn’t had a good meal for a long time. They nodded, Felix felt like an idiot. They listened when he offered the doll, of course they spoke the same language. He would have to make it up to them for doubting their personhood later. “I’m Felix.”

“...grumpy,” the small person said. He could hear a bit clearer. The voice was much more masculine than he first thought. The little man looked up with wide eyes. A deep breath made the sweater hanging loosely on his frame move. Felix opted to let Ryder deal with trying to make the man talk.

“Ryder’s waiting, let’s go.”

Ryder had focused his time since meeting the little prankster on trying to make small pancakes. He didn’t have the best judge of the small person’s size, but that wouldn’t stop him. Of course it didn’t help that he burned a lot of attempts. The delay Felix ran into wound up being something he appreciated. By the time he heard his elder brother returning he had the prankster’s portion ready. He set the plates with the pancakes he’d made for the two of them down.

Ryder stared at the small pile of tiny pancakes. He needed something for the little prankster to eat from. He searched around the kitchen before settling on a small dish they had from a tea set someone gave Felix a long time ago. He knocked the pile of food onto the dish, setting it centered between the two normal plates. He opened a bottle of water, using the cap to hold syrup for the small person.

As Ryder set the bottle cap down Felix walked in. His brother carried the small person in a flattened palm held near his chest. The small person didn’t appear to love the arrangement, but it might be better than a fist. He’d take that into consideration the next time he held them. Felix took his seat and set his palm down on the table. It made him smile to see the little prankster in something his brother had put together.

Ryder took his seat, leaning his elbows on the table. He put his hands up to rest his head on as he stared at the small person. It was clear they were young, probably close to his sister’s age. It made him worried that someone else was around they hadn’t seen. Felix hit his arm distracting him from his thoughts. The little person was staring up at him.

“I hope you haven’t found my brother poor company,” he said. Felix sighed, he never did like how Ryder phrased things. “I hope the pancakes are something you’ll enjoy, little prankster.”

The small person tensed. It made him worried. He moved his hand to check, but they scrambled away. The reaction spurred him on, reaching closer to them. Felix cleared his throat, getting Ryder to look at him. A single shake of his brother’s head made Ryder pull his hand back immediately. He looked to Felix for a sign of what to do next, a shrug was not the answer he wanted. 

“...gonna…me…” the small person said. Ryder leaned closer to try and hear them better. The following stumble made it worse again. Especially when they tripped on the too long sleeve of the sweater Felix gave them. He and Felix shot out a hand to catch them, but failed. The small person fell onto the bottle cap of syrup spilling it on the table and themself.

Felix stood up quickly, shaking the table as he did. Ryder frowned as the prankster wound up covered in more of the sticky syrup. He reached forward with every intent to help the person. They started trying to force their way out of the purple sweater on their own. Looking at the mess, the best option seemed to be pulling them by their legs. It would get them out of the sticky substance, mostly clean. 

Ryder moved carefully to pinch the small legs between two of his fingers. He pulled the prankster free from the predicament. The amount of squirming made him frown. The attempt was successful as he pulled them up and away from the puddle of syrup. The sink was running as Felix got things to clean the mess, he was almost tempted to just bring them over to it.

All his thoughts stopped when he met the face of the being he held. Nothing could make the tears on their face any clearer. The sniffling he heard was louder than a concert speaker to him. Slowly and carefully he set the little prankster down on the table. It was the first time Ryder took a good look at them.

The little person was young, younger than his sister. Salmon hair that needed to be taken care of and bits of dirt stuck to his tan skin. They didn’t find a small adult or a child without a parent. They found a young boy who was on his own in a world that definitely wasn’t made for him. Felix came back with a few wet paper towels, but Ryder knew the damage was done. They’d made things awful for a child.

Rhys wanted to die. He’d been able to handle it with Grumpy. Completely dumbfounded when he learned the human hadn’t just been finding the same doll a million times. Of course with both of them staring at him he’d started to lose his confidence. It didn’t help that he was almost positive Grumpy heard him mumble that in response to his offered name. Trying to speak was a mistake, he should just stay a dumb quiet animal so these monsters let him go.

He didn’t expect to be put down gently after Meticulous held him by his legs. A quick motion had him curled in a ball the second he was free of those fingers. Honestly, he thought that was going to be when he died. Whatever curiosity kept him safe so far would be gone now that he made a mess. No reason for humans to be any nicer than other borrowers.

“Hey,” Meticulous said. Rhys just tried to curl up smaller. Maybe he could disappear if he got small enough. “No one is going to hurt you.”

“As if I can trust humans,” he mumbled. Something cold touched him, making him jump. Grumpy’s face was close.

“So you can talk little guy,” he smirked. Rhys was even more mad at himself. He should know better by now. Talking to himself is what got him sent off on his own in the first place. He hugged his knees as tightly as he could. Desperately hoping the humans would think he died or something. A finger poked him, he tried not to move. “You need to clean the syrup off of yourself. Can you do that?”

Rhys refused to move. He felt one sigh and heard the other’s. Mumbled voices that he couldn’t make himself understand. Humans plotting was bad. He was expecting those huge fingers to lift him up and start wiping off the syrup stuff. Instead he was left alone. The humans moved other things, but not him. Slowly he chanced looking at them again. Grumpy had the clothes he made and turned away with them. Meticulous was holding a plate of something up high with his arm stretched over Rhys to do something.

Grumpy took a seat in front of one of the giant plates again. Meticulous set the one he held down in front of Rhys before sitting down himself. The two humans shared a look before nodding at each other. Rhys just hugged his knees tighter. A part of him thought if he didn’t act then they’d forget about him. Once he was forgotten about he could try to do something.

“You should eat the pancakes before they get too cold,” Meticulous said.

“He’s right. The syrup incident just joins our list. There’s also the butter event and the jelly fiasco,” Grumpy said.

“Jelly…?” Rhys mumbled. He didn’t know what jelly was. Grumpy got a smile on his face that actually made him look nice. Meticulous groaned which made him jump.

“My dear brother never tires of telling this story.” Rhys tilted his head, but Grumpy’s smile got bigger.

“He’s right I don’t. The kiddo here asked about it, no reason not to tell him.” Meticulous buried his head in his hands. “When Ryder here was a kid he wanted to make everyone breakfast. He was determined and succeeded in burnt toast. He slathered peanut butter on some pieces and decided he needed jelly to add to it.”

Rhys found himself nodding along. It wasn’t like Grumpy was a good story teller, but Meticulous reacting by hiding made him curious.

“Well the jar was stuck closed. Ryder wasn’t going to let that stop him, but his master plan was to hold it up above him to open it,” Grumpy mimed the action, holding an imaginary something above him and twisting his other hand a bit lower. “Our parents walked in just in time to try and stop him. He was pulled off the chair he stood on only to manage to open the jar as our dad held him close.”

Grumpy was laughing and Meticulous moaned. Rhys found himself grinning.

“The jar popped open and jelly spilled all over Ryder, our dad, the chair and the floor. Somehow it missed the burnt toast completely despite the splash all over.” Grumpy leaned closer holding up a finger with a big grin. Rhys actually leaned forward too. “The best part was back then every time he made a mistake it was some heroic deed. So he valiantly announced he’d defeated the monster trapped in the jelly.”

Grumpy started to laugh more and Meticulous hit his head on the table. Rhys wound up laughing too. It sounded funny even if he didn’t know what all the words were. Especially with Meticulous getting so upset. Grumpy kept a big grin on his face as Meticulous sat up straight again. They both were smiling still, it made him feel a lot safer.

With that safe feeling he decided to try the food they put near him. He reached out to one, it was almost as big as his head so he ripped a part off. Carefully he took a bite and his mind went blank. He couldn’t remember having warm food really ever, but it was more than that. He never had something that tasted like this. He started to eat quickly, completely ignoring the humans. He didn’t want them to take it away. 

“Hey,” Meticulous whispered while tapping Rhys’s head. Rhys froze, looking up at the human. “Take it slow, if you eat that whole pile I can make more. Or you can take from one of our plates. Going too fast can get you sick.”

Rhys nodded and forced himself to go slower. He almost wondered if they’d let him take some home. If they let him go. Although getting let go still wouldn’t do much. He didn’t get to focus on his situation for long. The two humans started to talk again. Telling more stories that wound up with him laughing. He had no idea how long he sat between them listening, how long he felt like this was normal.

After a while he realized he couldn’t eat anymore of the food. He frowned at the pile that was still mostly his height. He didn’t want it to go to waste. The two humans ate everything they had. He felt almost out of place, but the casual way the two talked had him lose that thought. He liked how they acted. Every once in a while they’d say something directly at him, but neither made him answer.

“Well, it’s almost time I get back to work on my designs,” Grumpy said as he stretched.

“I do need to finish painting those figures,” Meticulous nodded. Rhys felt a little sad that this couldn’t keep going.

“What about you, kiddo?” He jumped when Grumpy spoke to him, but got excited too. He never got to talk about the things he was planning. “What are your plans for the day?”

“After I dropped the cold purple thing on the grumpy human I was gonna try and take some warmer fabric from him. Then I wanted to see if the meticulous one dropped one of those swords so I could take… it…” Rhys trailed off. He realized too late that he excitedly told both humans his plans to first play a trick on one and then take from the other. He stared up in fear, but both humans had a look that almost made him feel safe.

“Grumpy… I wouldn’t think I look grumpy. Although Ryder does fit meticulous.” Rhys shrank away from the humans staring at him. Slowly Meticulous started to shake. Rhys started to slide back, he only moved a little before the human burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry, but Felix, that is one of the nicer things someone has said when they see your neutral expression.” Rhys backed up more. He didn’t want to be near angry humans. Grumpy sighed.

“That is true…” Grumpy’s eyes locked on Rhys again. “So, what else were you planning today? I don’t think you’ll get one of the swords you wanted. All of the meticulous human’s statues are being sent out soon. They need those weapons. I’d be happy to get you some warmer fabric, even make the clothes once I’m done with my designs.”

“Felix, he'd be bored watching you work. Why don’t you come help me paint, little prankster?”

Two hands were set down in front of him. He backed away, the warmth from them terrifying. He started to feel safe, like he belonged. That was dangerous. All he found out was these humans wanted to keep him and he wouldn’t get to find a new home. He didn’t want to be a pet… He wanted to keep exploring and playing his tricks. 

“Y-you’re keeping me?” he managed to ask. The humans shared wide eyed looks with each other. Both hands were pulled back. He didn’t know what was worse.

“No, we’re giving you a choice to spend the day with one of us,” Grumpy whispered.

“A-aren’t you mad?” A finger ruffled his hair and made him duck down to hug his knees.

“When I thought my brother, the adult, was playing tricks? Yes. A kid having fun, not so much.” Rhys stared at the humans with his own eyes wide. He pouted almost immediately after.

“I’m not a kid.” Meticulous leaned closer.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.” Meticulous gasped and leaned back, the hint of a smile on his face.

“Felix he’s right it’s worse he’s a teenager. Soon we’ll have to deal with loud music that the neighbors complain about.” Grumpy nodded as Meticulous spoke.

“It might even be rock music.”

“Oh no, little prankster, do you listen to rock music?” Rhys climbed up to his feet and shook his head. He didn’t understand what the humans were even talking about.

“I don’t know what rock music is…” Grumpy shot him a smile that made him start feeling safe again… It was tempting to use their names. They kept saying them. He already broke so many rules, would it be bad to break another?

“That’s a relief, maybe we can skip the punk phase.” 

“What’s going on?” Rhys had to voice his confusion. He didn’t understand anything anymore. The humans weren’t grabbing him or punishing him. They were just… making jokes. He stomped his foot as he stared up at them. “Are you treating me like a joke? I’m a person!”

“No, we’re making you smile.” The meticulous human’s voice was soft and kind. Rhys jumped from the voice. The grumpy human just gave him a look.

“Of course you’re a person… I apologize for doubting that at first. It is hard to believe people so small exist.” The grumpy human looked away. He saw a bit of red on his cheeks. That meant the human was embarrassed.

“So… what are you gonna do with me?” If the humans were just going to keep trying to make him smile he had to ask. He couldn’t just look for an escape when the humans weren’t making it easy. Acting different from normal would only trap him. The two shared a look.

“Nothing.” Rhys fell to his knees. This was just a weird dream and he’d wake up cold in his poorly insulated home. The humans would be loud, he’d still drop the cold thing on Felix. He’d maybe try to steal some of the stuff Ryder made… and he’d keep calling them by name in his head like he just did.

“I can’t get home… I lost my hook when I fell out of the vent.” It felt like he opened a door he shouldn’t. That now the humans would know he was helpless and stop pretending.

“What do you need for it?” He stared up at the humans in shock…

“Y-you’ll just give it to me? No deals or-or threats? Just… just like that?” One of the massive hands came close, a finger ruffled his hair again.

“Just like that. What do you need for a hook?” It felt strange that the constantly grumpy looking Felix was the one who gently ruffled his hair. It didn’t feel real.

“...thread and a… a paperclip or safety pin.”  Felix left without a word. Rhys just watched while Ryder folded his arms on the table and smiled. He looked at the silver eyed human with a bit of hope. “Can I… can I have pancakes with you again?”

“We can add chocolate chips next time.” 

Rhys jumped to his feet with a smile. He never got to have chocolate before. He knew humans liked it a lot. Felix came back, setting a whole spool of thread down along with a bunch of paper clips and safety pins. Rhys grabbed one of each, quickly fashioning a hook similar to what he had. He looked up at the humans, both standing at their full height again. He should leave, humans were dangerous. They weren’t mad at him or yelling or upset he had been messing with them.

“...can I still stay with one of you today?” he asked. Rhys jumped when two hands were set in front of him again. He would run away later, for today he’d embrace this feeling of belonging.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Rhys!” Felix shouted. The borrower ducked under a table to avoid the angry human. It was probably not the best idea to mess with the sewing machine… again. Heavy steps came towards his hiding spot. He tried to run, but a hand caught him as soon as he shot out.

“Um… hi?” he smiled. Felix glared at him, but the hold stayed soft. These humans were nothing like they looked like. The human turned and walked back to his room, setting Rhys carefully down on the sewing machine where he’d left part of it dismantled.

“What did we talk about with the sewing machine?”

“Not to take it apart when you have deadlines nearby?”

“What did I tell you and Ryder two days ago?”

“You have a deadline to meet… I still don’t know what those are though!” Felix sighed, it blew his hair back. He fixed it to sit over his shoulder again, he liked how clean it was now.

“You know exactly what a deadline is. I've explained it to you six times already.”

“I’m a fourteen year old borrower with no education. You can’t expect much from me.”

“Ryder told you to say that, didn't he?”

“...no.” Rhys looked away as Felix sighed again. The human did it on purpose, blowing his hair out of place again. He liked keeping it on his shoulder and Felix took advantage of that. The golden eyes stared down at him unflinchingly. He let out his own sigh and stepped back a bit. “I… might not know how to fix it this time…”

Another sigh and he stiffened. Despite how nice the humans were he knew they’d get angry at some point. Felix would grab him and squeeze him, or Ryder would trap him in one of those cleaners for the statues he made. Felix’s hand came close, but all he got was a light shove from one of the fingers. He pushed back at it, stumbling when it pushed him harder.

“Stay here while I fix it so you don’t leave it taken apart again. Next time I’ll start locking it up when I have a deadline to meet,” Felix whispered.

Rhys climbed to his feet and sat off to the side. He watched the huge fingers fix all the things he took apart. It felt weird to see how deft Felix actually was. The whole thing only took a few minutes. He just sat silently as it happened. Once it was done Felix sat back and smiled at him. This still didn’t feel real.

“Let me know next time you can’t fix it, I usually can ok?” the human said. Rhys nodded. He expected to be ignored, but a hand was placed in front of him. “Did you want to stay in here while I worked or go back to what you were doing?”

“I’m allowed to stay?” he asked. He thought Felix would kick him out after that.

“It’ll be boring, Ryder’s probably going to watch a video or something while the minis print.” Rhys climbed on the hand with his eyes shining.

“Let’s go to Ryder!” The human holding him laughed, but did as he instructed. 

The humans were dangerous and could hurt him. They could turn on him in an instant. The hand that was holding him carefully now could squeeze hard enough to break him. The one he was dumped on before Felix walked off could just drop him somewhere to forget about. Each time they held him promised those things wouldn’t happen. Soft, gentle holds that kept him close to their hearts. He really did find a place he belonged.

[thosewickedlovelies]

Coping Mechanisms  |  Dieter Bravo x afab!Reader

Rating: E for Explicit

Summary: Dieter Bravo finds you in an uncharacteristic state, but he’s an adaptable guy. It's a night you never anticipated for yourself.

Tags: Offscreen drug and alcohol use, and descriptions of being Affected (but not so drunk you’re incoherent). SMUT: semipublic sex, unprotected sex (don’t do that), there is a mirror 👀, Dieter has absorbed some of his dom/me’s teachings, uhh p*ssy slapping, ring kink.

Word count: 4,885

Note: whew so this is a little uh. dirtier/messier than my usual smut 😬😳 10/10 recommend writing dieter bravo smut as a coping mechanism 👍🏻

The effects of the ‘drug use’ are probably definitely not accurately depicted as I have never done a Drug, but that’s not really the point of this is it? 🤷🏻‍♀️😘

Masterlist

---

You don’t know what you took. Only that you wanted to forget- wanted to be out of your own head. That you couldn’t stand to sit at home and wallow, drowning in the heavy, hollow sense of defeat yet again.

Not that you’re exactly swimming now, you suppose. But you’re…managing. Floating, if nothing else. Your head filled with cotton candy instead of the tolling of bells, each clang another blow to your self-esteem: worthless. useless. pointless.

You only know that the room is spinning. That the wall you’re leaning on is cool and still, offering a moment of reprieve from the sticky warmth and noise of the party. 

Your mouth is so dry.

You frown. It’s too dry, enough so that you can’t just ignore it, which is annoying.

Supporting yourself on the wall, you rotate yourself along your head and shoulder before pushing off. The bathroom is closer than the kitchen, and your cup is empty.

“Oof.” Your path is interrupted; you rebound off a cushy chest you hadn’t noticed come up from behind.

Dieter Bravo frowns at you.

No wonder the chest had been so soft. Dieter Bravo, the unlikely A-lister famous for his hedonistic penchants- the least mentioned but most relatable of which (in your opinion) included the comfiest clothes his considerable money could buy, which he then ‘wore in’ until they were falling apart. Proof of this theory is easy to come by- it’s currently visible in the tiny hole fraying along the stretched-out collar of tonight’s gray t-shirt.

Why is he wearing sunglasses inside and at night? Has he found a way to make those comfy too? The gleam of the party lights on the plastic frames is hypnotizing, pulsing red, purple, green…

Dieter tilts his head down, looking at you over the glasses, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

Had he asked you something? “...What?” 

Dieter snorts. “I said, are you on something?”

He leans in closer to examine your face, scrutinizing your eyes, your mouth.

You bend back, affronted- and fearful. Could he tell?

Would you get into trouble? There were always rumors of whether Bravo was clean or not, what his drug of choice was or had been while filming any given movie. Whether his presence in the cast made it easier to deal or buy on set. There had to be almost zero chance that Dieter Bravo would be the one to get you in trouble, but the mere idea…

Dread slithers oily and sick in your chest as the things you fought to escape return, battering at the chemical barrier around your thoughts.

“No, I’m just getting water.” You push off the wall with more effort, only swaying slightly as you swerve around him and navigate to the bathroom. Your brow furrows deeply in a scowl exaggerated by the effects of the alcohol you’d also consumed.

Dieter dogs your steps. “The kitchen is the other way,” he points out.

You open the door with an exasperated flourish. “There’s a faucet in here, too.”

“...Huh.” Dieter sounds vaguely impressed, like such a thing would have never occurred to him.

Water swirls away the brown dregs of Coke in your cup at a turn of said faucet. You roll your eyes, nettled at this man’s interruption of your vibe and the risk, however slim, he represented.

The door closes, and the sudden glare of lights from above the mirror makes you squint.

Well, the glare of one light- two of the three bulbs are out, which you’d find gratitude for once your eyes adjusted. 

“What are you doing?” 

Dieter is grimacing too, bringing a hand up to shade his eyes, and a smile prods at the corners of your mouth.

You’re on reasonably friendly terms with Dieter thanks to your position on the film crew- one of the grip team. He knows your face if not your name, winking at you the same way he flirts with so many cast and crew members everywhere he goes. You’ve been warned of the infamous question he asks- and how little emotional investment usually lies behind it.

Which would be fine with you, frankly. You don’t understand how so many people claim to have been left broken-hearted by the philandering Dieter Bravo when it’s equally proclaimed that ‘everyone knows’ being propositioned by him never leads to anything deeper.

The man in question shoves his hands in the pockets of his knit cardigan, which rides the line between ‘well-worn’ and ‘dumpy’. He leans his head back against the door, brown hair bristling against white paint, and regards you.

“You’ve never done drugs before.”

The water you’ve half-emptied your cup of roils in your stomach, leaden and nauseous.

“Not here, anyway. At a work party,” Dieter allows. He tilts his head, those unexpectedly observant eyes clinging to you from behind tinted lenses.

It’s not a ‘work party’, strictly- just a crew get-together, letting off steam- but you know what he means.

“What happened?”

The red plastic cup creaks in the clutch of your hands.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” You avert your gaze from him, from your reflections in the mirror.

“But you wanna do drugs about it.” His eyes have gone half-lidded, yet they remain on you, watching, watching.

What the hell does he care? “What’s it to you?” you demand.

“Well, if you must know…” Dieter saunters toward you- as much as one can saunter in a space three strides long- and extricates the cup from your hands. He drains the last of the water from it, and you stare at the stretch of his throat, open-mouthed, until he sets it down.

“If you must know,” he says, with a smile that has some awareness sitting up straight inside you, “I was going to ask you a question tonight.”

He drags a knuckle lightly along the length of your jaw, one of his rings leaving a cool trail in its wake. “But if you’re in some kind of..fragile state…maybe I shouldn’t.” Despite his words, Dieter continues easing closer, dipping his chin so his nose brushes your temple, your cheek.

Your eyes must be as wide as your mouth by now. His smell fills your head- a whiff of marijuana from smoke sessions past, the musk of sweat from a day of filming, a stronger layer of something pleasant but artificial. A swipe of deodorant in lieu of a shower, maybe. His presence beckons, looming large and warm, all that softness offering a better kind of oblivion.

“I…” Your hands hover helplessly by his sides, not yet caught up.

“You..?” Dieter raises his sunglasses enough to catch your eye unfiltered, one eyebrow lifting.

“You should,” you whisper.

He grins, and a flash of that old movie star charm appears for just a second.

His sunglasses clatter carelessly to the counter. His fingertips skate up your arms and oh, does that feel nice, like tingling, sugary cloud filling your body again.

Dieter’s hands come to rest on your shoulders. He begins with your name- oh, he does know it- and with effort, you focus.

One corner of his mouth remains curled higher than the other, a trace of amusement at the dramatic redundancy of what he’s about to ask. Dieter looks you in the eye. 

“...do you want to have sex with me?”

–

You don’t know how long the two of you have been here.

Here: locked in what you hope isn’t the only bathroom at this party, pressed against the tiled wall, bodies steadily entangling in a slow rhythm that matches the exploratory pace of your kiss. 

Dieter crowds into you hungrily, using his whole body to seduce you, as if you hadn’t already answered yes. His teeth nip your lip, your jaw, his tongue sweeping along in the aftermath, the difference like fireworks to the soothing black of night. He moans at the taste of you, the feel of your body writhing in response to his; soft, helpless sounds spill from him so unabashedly that it makes you wonder who needs this more.

Sobriety isn’t fully in your grasp; it comes and goes, a little bit like you’re underwater but don’t know it until you come up each time. Your embrace would likely be considered sloppy to someone with more sense available, but Dieter doesn’t seem to mind, and it feels so good.

You moan freely, loudly, as his tongue laves your pulse point. He slips his hands beneath your shirt, kneading at your skin with his warm, wide hands, and you swear your vision goes white. Your nerves are all singing and crashing into each other, and your knees wobble.

Dieter catches you. He carefully withdraws from the kiss, and your lips chase his, dazed. Your breathing is heavy in a way that you’d probably be embarrassed about if you thought Dieter was in a position to judge.

His brown eyes glitter in the light of the dim orange bulb. They sweep from your own glassy eyes to your kiss-smudged mouth, to where your hands clutch fistfuls of his shirt in attempt to keep him close.

When he speaks, you flinch. You don’t know why; maybe you weren’t expecting him to be able to formulate his thoughts into sentences, or enunciate them in a way that seems to echo in the enclosed space.

“What do you need?” Dieter asks. He says it like an offering; he’s still close enough that his voice slides down your spine like a bead of sweat.

What do you need? 

It’s such a different question to the one he asked earlier- what happened?- and so much better. It doesn’t matter what happened; what matters is what he can do about it.

Still…

“To forget.” Your eyes drift shut against the beginnings of shame clogging your throat. Dieter can do what he wants. You wait- for him to do something to you, or tell you what to do, or leave- 

A light nudge beneath your chin. A request; a plea. You open your eyes, and Dieter is still there, holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger. His gaze is steady. 

The silence pulses like a heartbeat. A strange connection between you that you weren’t expecting, but that you grasp at like a lifeline nevertheless. You can almost read the words scrawled across his pupils. I understand.

He leans in, and you think he’s going to kiss you again. Instead, his lips brush your ear. “I want to remember this next part, though.”

His fingers and lips crawl down your body until he’s kneeling, his nose at the seam in the crotch of your jeans. 

“Can I?” Dieter looks up, a smirk toying with his lips. The signet ring on his right hand glints compared to the snap of your jeans, a disk of gold flashing beside copper-black tarnish.

Gaping, you nod. 

Dieter Bravo getting a grip on grip team! The tabloid headline, a variation on the many you’ve seen dedicated to Dieter’s exploits, ripples like a bright yellow banner in your mind’s eye. Your friends would never believe it.

Your hands instinctively go to help his, but Dieter bats them away. He seems to enjoy this task, parting your zipper tooth by tooth and pressing his nose to the triangle of fabric revealed beneath, your chest heaving all the while.

Your jeans pool around your ankles, but Dieter makes no move to free them. Instead he digs his fingers into your thighs- his long, thick, fingers- and drags his lips up the sensitive inner flesh. Futilely, you attempt to bury your fingers in the featureless tiles of the wall holding you up. What is he waiting for?

Your muscles judder with tension, flickering and snapping like electricity in overloaded wires.

Dieter, attuned to the body under his palms, looks up from where his tongue was tracing the curve of elastic along your hip.

“It’s the anticipation,” he explains, conversationally, although his eyes gleam. “It makes it all better. Fills your head so it’s all you can think about.”

His fingertips grasp the waistband of your underwear, but roll it down only far enough to run his tongue along the imprint it left in your skin. Your rapid breathing turns into a high-pitched sound.

“...Until all you want to do is beg for relief.”

Dieter’s voice, impossibly, lowers to an even deeper rasp. You’d wonder where he learned this, but you can’t, because the only thing in your head is the hot, wet line of his tongue, drawing shapes on the tiny bits of skin he exposes at a time.

You moan your agreement, and Dieter seems to understand. 

He tugs down your underwear in one smooth motion until his hands ring your ankles. The sensation makes you instinctively widen your stance, allowing Dieter, rubbing his face against your calf like a fucking cat, to run his cheek up and along the inside of your leg until you have to lift it over his shoulder with an unbalanced squeak.

“Dieter! Please,” you huff.

Chuckling, he splays one wide palm against the hip not lifted on his shoulder, keeping you upright with surprising strength. “There’s the begging,” he purrs.

You almost fall again as he backs out from under your legs, wondering indignantly where the hell he’s going. Fuck, you’re not steady enough for standing-up foreplay- but as Dieter gets to his feet again, you find yourself very interested in trying if it would mean you get to play with the thick, rigid length swaying prominently beneath his thin pants.

He snags your hands before they can reach him, however, and uses them to guide you into a seat on the counter. 

Oh, this you can handle. You keep ahold of him with one hand while the other darts to the back of his head, into his hair, to pull him close again. The strands are soft despite a residual coating of product, the perfect length to fist and tug. 

Dieter’s eyes widen slightly as you direct his head, but he seems to relax again when all you do is guide his mouth back to yours. His hands settle on your bare hips- and hold you in place as he slots himself between them.

Your back arches at the feel of him. That rigid length, rock hard and burning hot, deposited directly between the lips of your cunt- which, you realize, as the pressure increases, is wet. Your cheeks flare with heat. It smears and soaks into the flimsy fabric of Dieter’s pants as he rubs himself against you. 

Dieter withdraws to suck in air. He looks down, and his mouth opens as he catches sight of the dark patch on his pants. “Fuck,” he croaks eagerly.

He drops to his knees so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t bang himself on something. But then he’s easing up one of your feet to rest on the counter, utterly splaying you for him, and arousal erupts between your thighs, thoroughly sweeping away any other concerns.

Your bare sex seems to hypnotize him- a specimen pinned open and on display. “Hold on to the counter, okay?” Dieter doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t even glance at you, before he’s eating your cunt like it’s his new favorite snack.

A strangled keen bursts from you, cut off almost before it starts, but your lip soon stings where you bite it to keep the sounds in. God, if you had known Dieter could use his mouth like this- all slithering tongue and sucking at your clit amid sounds of relish- you would have propositioned him first. He shoves his tongue into where you ache and you nearly leap off the vanity.

Dieter chuckles. “I said hold on, sweetheart. Is this what you need?” His tongue teases your entrance again. 

Your grip on the counter is almost cutting off circulation to your fingers. “I am holding on!”

Dieter’s right hand is splayed on your lower belly, his thumb poised above your clit. Your gaze skitters down, lingers where the gold ring on his index finger is a cool indent in your flesh.

He notices.

“Ohhhh.” That hand moves, fingertips fluttering a taunting dance down toward where his mouth just was. “I’ve seen that look before.”

Dieter takes one of the rings off his left hand and places it on the middle finger of his right. The thick silver band and large stone seem flagrant and crude next to the simplicity of the matte gold signet. Regardless, the sight of both of them on fingers so near to where you’re all but flayed open, raw and slick and throbbing, makes you swallow hard around the desire ballooning inside you.

He makes soothing sounds as he eases first one, then the second finger into you. “You’d be surprised at how many people are into these.”

Dieter reflexively tries to wiggle his fingers in demonstration, but the first two are, of course, buried inside you, so it doesn’t have the usual effect. He watches your arousal leak and glisten onto the metal bands decorating them, spreading like some kinky polish, then looks back up at you.

“Or maybe you wouldn’t be.” Dieter grins, a touch of smugness crooking its shape.

You’re too far gone to care. The rings at the base of his fingers add an increased pressure at your entrance, a cool, unyielding demand, and you’re already addicted to the sensation. Whines bubble from your throat as you cant your hips, trying for more. 

Dieter hums. “Oh right, sorry.” 

And then his mouth is on you again, wet and swirling over your clit, and his fingers move, the hard metal bands a continuous threat- one slippery stretch away from fitting inside you. If Dieter is bothered by licking his own rings, he doesn’t show it, only spears his tongue where you moan the loudest. And you do moan- nobody has knocked on the door yet, so you give up on listening for intrusions and allow the banks to burst on the pleasure flooding from where Dieter laps at you.

Does drinking make it easier or harder for you to come? You can’t remember, but it’s probably harder. Your head is still in a sluggish spin, blurring all the wonderful sensations, but a cramp in your thigh is becoming hard to ignore. 

“Dieter,” you mumble. You risk moving one hand to nestle it in his hair and tug.

“Mmm?” The sound is lazy, hazy. Bliss clouds Dieter’s face as he cracks one eye open, his mouth and fingers slowing. 

“I want you.” You pull upward on his hair, gently, and lift him to standing again.

He carelessly wipes his sleeve across his mouth, clearing most of your mess. But you can still taste it when he kisses you, the unmistakable tang, can smell it when his still-damp fingers- and rings- come up to cradle your neck. 

Dieter kisses you, thorough and languid despite the needy half-sounds that catch in his throat and the way his other hand splays on your back to keep you arched into him.

“You want me to fuck you like this?” he murmurs. It would be easy- only a moment’s transition from your current position.

“Or do you want me to bend you over?”

The image bursts in your head: the one dingy bulb making an orange shimmer of the sweat on your bodies, bare and conjoined in an obscene tableau. Imagined sensation follows: the commanding clutch of Dieter’s huge hands on your hips as he fucking plows into you, losing yourself in the stretch of taking (what feels like) his sizeable cock. Maybe you’ll have to lift a leg on the counter to get him in all the way…

“Fuck.” Your voice is weak.

But there’s no question. “Bend me over.”

Dieter chuckles, a sound shaded with intrigue. “I like wherever your mind just went.”

When he helps you off the counter and turn around, you see what he means. Your eyes are still glazed over, your jaw slack, and heat floods your cheeks at your obvious desperation. 

But Dieter holds you flush against him, his fingers flexing against your skin, gazing with eyes huge and awestruck at your reflections. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re fucking gorgeous,” he groans, mouthing at your shoulder over your shirt. His hands twitch upward beneath the hem. “Can I take this off? Wanna see you while we do it.” He’s rutting his hips against you like an animal, helplessly.

He’s no better off than you. Your insecurity vanishes. “Fuck yeah, if you do too. Wanna feel your skin.”

Your words are an eager jumble as you clumsily spin to help him. Fabric pulls and drops. Dieter’s loose pants slide right off his hips, and you were right about his size; you actually lick your lips at the sight of him. His dick is flushed ruddy and readily (flatteringly) spurts precum when you grasp it. You weren’t the only one to leave a damp patch on his pants, it seems.

“Mmnnn, turn around again, please.” It’s Dieter begging you now, but not a cell of you is asserting itself at the moment, and you obey his plea-command without thought. 

Under the orange bulb of the mirror your bodies gleam, just as you’d imagined. Dieter devours the sight of you, his eyes still wide. 

“Fuuck, yeah.” He palms your tits, experimentally tweaking your nipples and grinning at the way you squirm and whimper. You can't decide if sober-you would want to slap him (for grinning) or you (for being so damn susceptible) more. It seems like Dieter is regaining some of his discipline, but in the next moment his cock nestles against your ass; he spasms, and in the next second it’s between your legs.

Eyes a little wild, Dieter watches the head of his cock appear between your thighs in the mirror, coated and gleaming with your slick, and his mouth hangs open.

Fuck. You’re never going to be able to see his shocked face on a screen again without thinking of this moment- without feeling the silken skin and stiff, fever-hot length of his cock insinuating itself in the mess he made of you.

Your breath coming short, you lean forward, bracing your hands on the counter. “Dieter,” you manage. You won’t even be able to say his name on set anymore without thinking of all the different tones in which you’ve stuttered it tonight.

Your shift in position changes the angle at which his cock catches on your entrance, and Dieter’s head snapped down, riveted to the sight. At the sound of his name (in such a gorgeously consumed tone), he looks up.

“Oh shit, yeah.” He adjusts his grip, working the head of his cock at the molten give of you- the place where you clutch at him so desperately.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

“Please.”

With no further ceremony Dieter sinks into you, and the pressure is divine. You literally feel your walls stretch to accommodate him, and a throaty moan rips from you as you give yourself completely to sensation. 

Your eyes close. At first there’s only him- only Dieter and the sweet ache of his cock, his guttural sounds and hot breath in your ear. Only his hands, big and careful as he holds you in place, as he eases himself closer to you, to the incredible feeling.

A few short, tentative thrusts, that despite their slowness make your brow crumple and your mouth open. Dieter whines, a barely-there sound strained from him.

Your head drops back and Dieter gently turns it toward him, lips seeking yours. It’s a tender kiss until he starts to move in earnest, thrusting deep and sharp, and then it’s simply a direct line of filth from your brain to his mouth as you spill pleas and curses and vulnerable little whimpers that you think you’d have rather died than let any other partner hear.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart.”

You obey, turning your head to meet his gaze in the mirror. Dieter’s brown hair is tufted and mussed beyond its normal craftedness, but it only adds to the stunning vision he makes, with his arms and shoulders unexpectedly defined and his eyes full of fire as he works.

“Mm, there you are, so fucking pretty. You look so good like this, feel so good like this. You okay?”

His question almost blends in with the rest of his vocalized stream of consciousness. Are you okay? Pleasure rocks you in unceasing waves, jolting up your spine with every hungry kiss of his mouth on your neck, at every strike of his hips. His cock is shoving into something incredible, and if you were in your right physical state you probably would have fallen apart by now- but as it is, elbows buckling while you hold yourself up, all you can do is take it. Accept whatever Dieter gives you, this blissful, drawn-out torture of hanging on the edge.

Dieter reads this in the pained furrow of your brow in the mirror. He noses your ear. “I’m not gonna leave without making you come, sweets. You need something more?”

His fingers itch toward your mound. The same ones that he had obligingly beringed and fingered you with earlier now hover over your clit, waiting, along with his cocked eyebrow, for your response. 

Dieter banks the pace, though not the depth, of his thrusts. 

“Trust me,” he husks.

Scratch whatever you said earlier, you’re not telling this story to anyone.

You nod.

His hand comes down. Dieter slaps your clit, and although it isn’t painful you gasp at the sensation, bright and electric, sizzling through you in a way you could never anticipate. Shocked, your legs jerking, you try to close your thighs but you can’t, because Dieter is holding you in place and the cabinet is in the way of your knee-

He slaps your cunt again. Your head drops, air punching from your chest on a strangled sound. All your lower muscles tighten.

“Mm, I felt that,” Dieter grits. “One more?”

Your breathing comes short and fast, everything in you winding up tight. One more? You can feel the end rising in you, thick in your throat- it tastes like him.

It’s less a word than a sound, but the confirmation is there: “Yes.”

Dieter strikes your clit a last time; and like a bolt of lightning to a house of cards, you collapse. He moans as you come, hips ratcheting again at a furious pace, stroking something inside you that bursts to life with your climax.

It’s not as earth-shattering as some you’ve had. But damn, does it do the job, searing your mind clean of everything but the euphoria tingling through every limb. Dieter comes at exactly the right moment, shoving his hips into yours and wringing a last, delicious shudder from somewhere deep within you. His arms enwrap your whole body, one around your hips and the other up between your breasts- as much to hold you to him as to hold you up, period.

Dieter is still panting in your ear, making these unfairly sexy little sounds as he clings to the last flutters of pleasure. His incongruous strength plus those noises are almost enough to wind you up again- maybe if it weren’t for the film of sweat on your skin and the sudden exhaustion that's demanding a prompt collapse into bed.

With a flutter of his fanlike eyelashes, Dieter returns to himself. The dopey- crooked- charming grin that turns his mouth is the most recognizable expression you’ve seen on his face tonight.

He burrows a sigh into your neck. “Good?” he murmurs.

His breath tickles; it pulls a drunken giggle from you. “Good,” you confirm.

“Good.” He appears covertly satisfied, but not in the suddenly distant or obnoxiously masculine way you've experienced from the occasional man previously. It’s strange, but you don’t get a chance to comment before he’s easing out of you and hunting for clothes, rambling sheepish assurances of birth control and STI testing as he goes.

It’s touching, and pulls your head back toward the real world in a way that makes you want to cry- in a pleasant, cathartic way, as if at the end of a feel-good movie.

Dieter stops you before you can reach for the door. Curiosity rises on your lips- but then he’s kissing it away at the same unhurried pace with which he began; so gently and yet so impossibly thoroughly that you’re stunned, unable to pull enough air into your lungs.

You’re lightheaded by the time he pulls back. A bit of that post-orgasmic peace returned, to cushion your spirit for the way home.

Dieter’s smile softens when he sees your eyes round and questioning. He cups your cheek one last time; it’s unintentional, but the graze of his rings recalls a faint heat to your face.

“I know what it’s like to want to get out of your head,” he murmurs. “But I’m a healthier coping mechanism than drugs.”

The hole at the neck of his shirt looks bigger than it did before you yanked it off him. You fixate on this tiny detail, until another movement diverts your attention.

Dieter Bravo, his handsome features more sincere than you've ever seen them, holds out your phone. A contact profile under the same name glows on the screen. 

“Call me next time?”

---

Post A/N: Yes i did google “film crew jobs” to come up with the funniest tabloid headline, and I did amuse myself 😂😌

Taglist: @thirstworldproblemss

[captainderyn]

Roommates prompts: falling asleep on the couch together (and being very flustered at their positions in the morning)

I'VE WRITTEN THE THING!

Thank you for this! It's kinda more a temporary accidental roommate vibe but its sweet and cute and filled with panicked gay feelings xD

Judy x V (Cyberpunk 2077)

--

Inviting V to spend the night at her place hadn’t been Judy’s plan that first night. Or the night after, or the night after. 

But the drive from Charter St in Kabuki to the other side of Little China was a pain, especially night after night, and V just looked so damn tired all the time. The circles seemed to get darker under her eyes each time she showed up at Judy’s door and the way she always picked up the phone no matter what time Judy called had to mean she wasn’t sleeping deep. 

Last time it had been three in the morning, when she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Evelyn, imagining her just down the hall, bloody and cold and dead. Her apartment had closed in around her and she’d paced her room like a feral animal, clawing at the walls but unable to face passing by that room. 

‘Sides, going into Night City at that hour was a surefire way to lose all your eddies and personal belongings at best, your entire life at worst. Judy was miserable, not suicidal. 

She didn’t have anyone to call other than V. That restless pain in her wanted to be soothed in only the unique way only V could. Typing out a text message was impossible, there was no way she could articulate exactly what it was she needed. She didn’t know what she needed. 

And she hadn’t expected V to answer. 

For 3am, V had been alert. Her quick answer, her face popping up on the holo after barely one ring, had been enough to jar Judy into sitting down for the first time that night. From the looks of it, V was curled up on her cough, her cheek pillowed on her forearm, even if there was no sleepiness in her voice. 

That first, “What’s up, Judy?” had been a soothing wash over her fraying state of mind and she’d taken a deep breath. One that hadn’t meant to quiver just like her voice wasn’t supposed to wobble as she’d tried to joke that she hadn’t expected V to pick up and was just going to leave a voice mail. 

Something about that had made V heave herself up from her couch, saying she’d be over at her place ASAP. 

Kabuki was a thirty minute drive from Little China. Judy didn’t question it when V was at her door in fifteen with take-out from the questionable 24/7 shop nearby. She just stepped to the side, holding open the door, and let V sweep in like she was always meant to be here. 

That had been four days ago, and V had been back at her place every night despite Judy’s half hearted protests that she really didn’t need to. 

She stayed until Judy fell asleep in the early morning hours and was always gone by morning, a note left on the counter in V’s awful handwriting and coffee ready to brew in the pot. 

And everytime without fail, when Judy called about their ongoing plans, V picked up on the first ring. 

By the time they wrapped up planning their assault on Clouds and the dolls  had left, V was swaying in her spot on the couch. 

She made to stand, mumbling something about how she should go, and Judy tugged her back down. Way more forceful than she’d intended. 

V tumbled back against the touch cushions with a grunt. Something was up, her eyes had glazed over partway through their planning and she’d excused herself to the bathroom as a coughing fit had nearly doubled her over. She hadn’t bounced back since. 

“Just want to crash here tonight, V?” Judy dropped her hold on V’s wrist like the skin-to-skin contact burned. Was it weird to ask? What if V was sick of staying here and just wanted her own apartment back? 

She tacked on before V could get a word in, “It’s late and I know you’ve been making that drive back and forth…” 

“Mmph, don’t wanna intrude. It’s not that bad of a drive.” 

Oh hell, maybe Judy keeping V up at all hours of the day and dragging her out here every night meant V was coming down with something. Guilt washed over her at the prospect. So many other big, important gigs V had on her plate and it would be Judy’s personal shit that would get her sick. 

Judy looked V up and down, “I think I’d rather you not drive back right now.” 

That felt too serious, too concerned for…whatever it was that they were. The merc she hired, who’d become something like a friend. The very attractive merc with the tattoos and the bright, bubbling laugh and--

She was staring; she ripped her eyes away from V, “Erm, yeah, kinda need you for this job so…makes sense for you to just stay.” 

“Can’t argue with that I guess.” V sighed and curled up on her side, sinking into the cushions. 

She was asleep before Judy even had a chance to say goodnight. 

**

 Judy froze when V’s sleepy grip found the hand tracing the ink on her arm and pulled her over onto V’s body instead, pivoting them so V was on her back. She tried to pull away, but V’s grip was surprisingly strong, and she relaxed into it. She settled against V’s chest and V curled around Judy, arm slung low over her back.

     V breathed deeply once she felt Judy relax and nuzzled her neck, nose buried in her hair.

    She had a feeling this was the first time V had fallen fully asleep in awhile. She was dead to the world as Judy squirmed for a moment, adjusting and questioning whether she should pull away.

Judy let herself melt against V. Their breath mingled and Judy could almost pretend that this was completely normal, that her brain wasn’t screaming, and that this wouldn’t all dissipate in the morning.

 She didn’t have half the reason to worry over V so damn much right now. This was V, dependable V. Who thought nothing about coming over to Judy's house in the middle of the night and who would think nothing of this.

V, who looked at her like she was the best thing in Night City.

 She shifted so that her head fell against V’s shoulder and took another deep breath. A few more minutes, that's what she'd give herself. Then she'd get up, grab a blanket for V from the hallway closet, and sequester herself away in her room before she made things all the more complicated.

A few minutes, she reminded herself, before V woke up and felt the way Judy’s heart was hammering out of her chest and how hot her face was. Before Judy had to come up with a series of lame excuses as to why they were in this position. 

She tried to focus on anything other than the fact that V smelled good, like the coffee she'd spilled earlier after gulping it down, and felt warm and comfortable.

The soft hum of V’s breath in her ear and the slow rise and fall of her chest pulled Judy's eyelids down. They might wake up early tomorrow and Judy was going to be embarrassed, but her body was too heavy to move.

Days upon days of exhaustion settled down on Judy all at once and she didn’t even mean to when sleep pulled her under completely. 

*

Unusual warmth registered first, before Judy even opened her eyes. Warm against her chest, her back; a steady, comforting weight draped over her lower back. 

Mind still muddled, she chased that warm, nuzzled closer to it. The warmth tugged her closer, that weight against her lower back tightening like muscled arms. 

Arms…it’d been so long since she’d been held in the mornings. What a pleasant dream. 

Her nose brushed against skin that still smelled faintly of coffee, and beneath it the rich, leather and gunmetal scent that always meant V. 

V. Judy went rigid, eyes shooting open. 

Though she was no longer snuggled on V’s chest, V was laying beside her, her arm draped over Judy’s side. They were tangled together, legs intertwined, and up until now Judy’s face had been buried in the crook of her neck. 

In one swift motion, Judy twisted away from her, nearly tumbling off the edge of the couch. 

V awoke more peacefully at her movement, the deep blue of her eyes clouded by sleep still and half lidded. Her hair was an absolute mess, half of it sticking up while her bangs were mused and tangled. 

Judy squished down the thought that she wanted to run her fingers through that hair, straighten it out. She pushed that thought deep, deep down. Already her face was flushing, cheeks burning so hot she was certain her skin would melt away. 

They stared at each other for several moments, neither moving or speaking. The air between them crackled with tension. Finally, V blinked, the dark circles under her eyes looking deeper than usual. She sat up slowly, stretching and groaning softly. The light caught just right, the muscles in her forearms flexing as she rose. 

Her shirt rode up her stomach and Judy forced herself not to look. Even though she could see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from the exposed waistband of her jeans. 

“Morning, Judy,” V drawled with a yawn, smiling lazily and stretching, rolling her shoulders, popping her back. “Sleep well?”

Judy nodded. The words wouldn't come out.

How was V so nonchalant about this? That they’d fallen asleep entangled the way lovers do? 

Horror dawned over Judy and her skin burned, prickling. Did V even know they’d fallen asleep like that? She’d slept so deeply that Judy wasn’t even sure she’d been coherent when she’d tugged Judy onto her. 

 Did V remember?

Was she supposed to fess up?

Why did Judy have to be so goddamn awkward? She couldn’t take her eyes off that naked sliver of V's torso. She watched as V stretched again, arms reaching towards the ceiling and fingers splayed wide as she rotated slowly.

“Earth to Judy, you okay there?” V asked. She gave Judy a searching look, "Look like you're fightin' demons over there."

“No no, sorry, just thinking,” Judy said, forcing herself to look away.

V seemed to accept the answer at face value and flopped back against the pillows behind her, sighing and running her hands up her face.

"Think that's the best I've slept in weeks."

Judy swallowed hard and said, "Yeah,”

The clock blinked barely six thirty, “I mean - it's not even seven yet. You’ll stay for breakfast if you want?"

V perked up again, looking far happier than Judy would have expected. "I won’t say no to that!” 

Anything to get off this couch and away from the distracting curves of V’s body, the temptation to fall back against her and give into everything that whispered in the back of Judy’s mind when it came to the merc. 

“Coffee sounds great right about now.” V made to get up and without thinking, Judy planted her hand on V’s shoulder. 

“I’ll make it, you stay here.” She scampered to her feet before she could think twice. 

V sighed behind her but planted herself back on the couch without more protest. 

But when Judy glanced over her shoulder, V was staring after her with unfocused eyes, cheeks a flaming, bright pink. 

Shit. 

She remembered.