#spite fics are just fun man what can i say

[hunny-beann]

You Can; You Will...

Dream of the Endless x f!Reader

Note: Hi! This is my first time ever writing for Dream, so if anything seems a bit off or if there are any minor lore issues, please do your best not to pay them too much mind (although absolutely feel free to point them out). That said, I had a lot of fun writing this fic, and I really hope that you enjoy it!

Warnings: Uh angst(?), is Dream himself a warning? Because he should be.

Word Count: 2,644

This had to be torture, surely.

Some evil method of malice created by some long forgotten god of pain.

Why else would Dream have been looking at you so?

Here, sitting in his rotting throne room, upon his crumbling dais, his expression as close to pained as you had ever seen it before.

"You have returned."

He stated matter of factly, though his eyes betrayed the solemn tone that his voice held.

It had hurt him to come back to his realm and find that you had gone with the others, more so than you ever could have anticipated or imagined. You could see it in the way that his fingers gripped at the arm rests beneath them, and in the way that his all encompassing presence seemed to shrink slightly, as if the very particles of him and his power that made up the world beneath your feet were attempting to flee from you.

You swallowed thickly, but managed a nod in spite of your nerves and the heavy weight that bore down upon your heart at the sight of the being before you.

"I have. I did not anticipate it, but I found that I was suddenly overcome with the urge to..."

The words 'go home' died upon your lips before you could say them, because in truth, you were not entirely sure if this realm truly was home anymore, not just for you, but to anything besides the endless sitting before you and his most loyal of dreams and nightmares.

His own creations.

Dream let out a soft hum in response to your words, before he carefully rose into a standing position, his coat swishing at his feet in that familiarly dramatic way that you remembered so painfully at present, and had once recalled so fondly in the past.

Now though, after over a century of having it as only a memory, a longing lodged deep within the confines of your soul, you found that it almost hurt to bear witness to his familiarities again.

You had buried the Morpheus you had once known in all ways but the physical sense, mourned and grieved him as if you had watched his demise with your own two eyes, never having a day pass you by where you did not think of him and the way that his voice had sounded, or that his hands had felt.

And now, he was standing before you so casually, and you could not help but view this figure before you as a caricature, some imposter sent to cause you even more pain than you had already endured.

Being an immortal human was a burden in and of itself, because it meant watching nearly all those that you loved die in the span of a lifetime, which to you, had long since started to feel like nothing in the grand scheme of things.

You had begged Death to take this weight from you, to let time have its way with your body, bones, and soul, but Destiny had seen to it that his sister knew better than to meddle with this particular affair.

A long dead family member had blessed you with what they perceived to be a "gift" long ago.

And now, you suffered while they lay buried in the ground in lands you had not seen nor touched in centuries.

So, once upon a time, Dream had meant everything to you.

Ever since the day you had met him, after once again grovelling with Death to let you go, he had become abundantly special in your eyes.

Because unlike almost everyone else around you, Dream could not die, not from the ticking of any clock, nor the feebleness of his own body.

He was the one thing you believed to be permanent.

And certainly, it had taken quite a while to warm up to the man, and far longer still for him warm up to you, but after enough impromptu meetings in Death's domain over multiple centuries, he had eventually indulged you when you asked hesitantly if you could see his realm, 'the dreaming' as he so fondly referred to it, for yourself.

And oh, what a sight it had been.

Lush rolling lands, fields upon fields of flowers, a palace so tall it seemed possible to view it from miles and miles away...

You had never wanted to leave.

And eventually, you would not have to anymore.

Not after you had fled to the dreaming after losing your very best friend to disease, her death so dirty and without dignity that you could scarcely bare to even consider it.

He had sensed your arrival, of course he had, for the realm was made of the very power that he possessed, but he had not sensed your woes, nor had he anticipated your sudden presence in his crowded throne room, searching for any familiar face that might serve as a reminder that you were not without some semblance of certainty, to prove if nothing else that you were not yet alone.

You had all but collapsed at the foot of his throne, eyes bloodshot and cheeks wet with tears as you regarded him with a pain he was all too familiar with, but had no clue how to comfort you about.

Loss.

'I can't do it anymore.'

You had told him with absolute certainty, hands clenched into fists as you struggled to hold back sobs,

'I can't endure this torture, I feel as if I have died a thousand deaths without ever having experienced even one.'

Morpheus reached forward, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, before he sat back once more, taking note of the way that, simply due to his touch alone, you were now giving him your entirely undivided attention, breaths shaky but eyes wide and trained on him, as if you had never been touched before, or maybe as if you had never expected him to touch you in the eternity that you would experience.

'You can.'

He said, voice steady and eyes cold, though almost determined looking as he spoke.

'You will.'

You felt your eyebrows crease at his words, but Dream simply shook his head slightly before you could even open your mouth to reply.

He watched you for a few moments, before finally, he decided that enough silence had passed.

'If it is easier, you may remain in the dreaming as long as you please. All I ask, is that you do not make me regret my kindness.'

Shocked, you had nodded, before finally mustering up the strength to respond.

'But why?'

You had asked, watching as the being sitting before you sighed, his gaze traveling up toward the ceiling as he spoke,

'You will not have to watch nearly as many crumble to dust here in my domain, and I can see the toll that your immortality is taking on your feeble human mind. My sister has taken a liking to you, and I do not doubt that she would want me to take pity upon your unfortunate circumstances. To preserve someone she calls a friend, I will allow you to reside here until you give me a reason not to.'

And you never had.

For so very long now, hundreds upon hundreds of years, you had remained almost entirely within the dreaming.

You had friends here, nightmares and dreams alike, although truthfully, none captured your attention in the way that Morpheus did.

And none captured his nearly as much as you somehow managed to.

You were close, bound by some firm understanding of one another that never ceased to solidify the fact that the dreaming was your home, the place where you belonged, and Dream the very host that so effortlessly kept you rooted.

Before, there had been almost nothing for you in the way of consistency or rhythm, and now, there was an ebb and flow, a push and pull, a beat to follow, and the biggest surprise of all was that you made up half of each of these things.

Where Dream would ebb, you would flow, where he would push, you would pull, and you so very easily followed along with and eventually even progressed and changed his rhythm in a way that almost made the dreaming feel as if it had two rulers.

The dream lord,

And his once missing other half, the muse of the very land beneath your feet, and of the wind within your hair.

Until one day, that all came to an end.

The king of dreamers left and did not return.

And you could not even dare try and pick up the pieces of his realm that he left behind.

It had been a shameful abandonment, one full of pain and grief, but only a few short years after Dream's disappearance, you grabbed the scarce few items that did not remind you of him or the family that you were leaving behind, and you vanished just as he had done.

At that point, the slow but sure crumbling of the dreaming had only just begun, but your cowardice had won out over your strength, and you'd quickly found that you could not bare to see it shrink into nothingness.

'You can.'

Dream had once told you.

'You will.'

He had assured.

But you could not this time.

You likely would not ever again.

You were not the first to leave the dreaming, not by a long shot.

But your absence and the meaning that it carried rang out loud and clear for all of those who had chosen to remain.

The once so honored and beloved guest of their lord of dreams had chosen her painful mortal world over anything that the realm had left to offer...

And for many, that was all the proof that they needed that their creator would not return.

You were far from the first to leave.

But you were even further from the last.

"Did you lose faith in me?"

Dream asked suddenly, and you felt yourself gasp slightly at the question.

Lose faith in him?

Was that what you had done?

With almost no consideration for the question, you shook your head.

"No."

You said firmly, watching as the endless in front of you tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes boring into your own even from across the room and down the ruined steps,

"Never."

Morpheus took a few steps toward you, and almost instinctively, you moved to lessen the space that lay between before forcing yourself to stop, hands clenched into fists at your sides, the pain of seeing your friend, who you had believed to be dead just hours ago, too great even for longing to overcome.

Dream seemed to notice this, and stopped in his tracks, though he was now far closer than before, only a few short steps away.

"Then why did you leave so easily? Why did you abandon the life that I offered you here if you had the faith required to know that I would someday return to the dreaming? Return to you?"

Your breath shuddered at the implication that he had come back in any part for you, but you chose to ignore his words in favor of fighting off his accusations of faithlessness on your part.

"I left because I could not bear to see this world that you created fall apart around me while I did nothing. It felt as if I were watching another loved one die, and I could not deal after believing that someone had taken your life as well. I was hurting, and I found that it was easier to hurt in the waking world, where pain was familiar, than it was to hurt here, where it never seemed to bite so hard. That is why I left. But I never once lost faith in you."

Dream raised a brow at that last part, and you were quick, to clarify,

"I may have thought you dead, but I did not once believe that if you were alive, you would not come back. My belief that you were dead, my certainty in that regard, came from the immense faith that I have in you, Lord Morpheus, because I could not fathom that you ever could have abandoned us or the dreaming... After years, I ceased being capable of thinking that you were somewhere out there anymore. I did not think it possible for anything to bind you so tightly away from your duties, if not for death herself."

Dream stared back at you in response to your words, as if taking them in for several long moments, before finally he nodded,

"I see. Though I do wish you would have considered the fact that I never would have allowed myself to die knowing what I would be leaving behind."

You sighed exasperatedly,

"But we know that you would not be the first to abandon your post, my lord, not the first to leave something as fickle as your universe given duties behind. Who could have blamed you if you died in spite of these things if others were able to willingly leave them?"

Your voice was small and quiet as you spoke, unsure of how Dream might react to the mention of Destruction, even when the wound was not necessarily new anymore.

You watched as the being before you stiffened, his gaze growing ever so slightly colder, before he spun around and began making his way back toward his throne, his tone firm and serious as he replied, still facing away from you all the while.

"I was not speaking of my duties to the dreaming."

He stated simply, though you could tell by his cadence that his words were anything but.

You sighed, exasperated and fragile after all that had been said thus far,

"Well what else was it that you were leaving behind that was so important that I should have known it would keep you alive then, Dream?"

The lord of the dreaming locked eyes with you as you finished asking this question, cold piercing gaze filling you with a deep regret and an immense longing as he sat upon his throne once more, one long leg crossing over the other as he all but stared into your very soul.

"You."

He said simply, voice low and gaze unwavering as he spoke, watching as that one word alone sent you staggering several steps backward, one hand clutching lightly at your chest as your feeble human mind tried to comprehend all that had happened to you in this one day alone.

"Me?"

You whispered, voice echoing slightly throughout the empty throne room in spite of how quiet it was.

"But I am not-"

"You are everything."

Dream cut you off before you could finish, eyes still boring holes into your own as he continued to watch you from his seat, as if knowing that if he moved any closer now, that you would run, run and likely never return for fear of what any of this meant for you and for the once permanent seeming fixture that Dream had so easily played within your life for so long.

You floundered at those words, vision growing bleary and spotty as you turned to rush out of the room, to be anywhere but this pale comparison of the dreaming, the once beautiful world that you had known for so very long.

You fled your home with tears in your eyes and a hand at your heart.

Dream stayed where he sat upon his throne, and watched your fears consume you again until you faded from view.

He did not try to stop you.

A broken home like this was no place for a fragile soul like yours.

And he could offer you no better than the very world he had once so kindly rescued you from.

[tj-dragonblade]

[Fic] With Every Nerve Alive

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: E Word Count: 4623 Tags: Human AU, Mechanic Hob, Rich Guy Dream, brief appearance by Matthew, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel, class dynamics, as a kink perhaps, sweat is sexy, so is automotive grease apparently, scent kink, detailed sexual fantasies, Dream of the Endless is intense and unhinged, questionable lube choices, within a fantasy don't worry, no one's really getting fingered with engine grease, sugar daddy-sugar baby fantasies, glass sex toys

Notes: Prequel/bookend to Customer Service. I realized that Hot Mechanic Hob needed Dream's pov to get the full effect, so this happened. Also fills my @dreamlingbingo square C1, 'Sugar Baby', a couple thousand words in. Title taken from Turbo Lover by Judas Priest

Summary: Dream Atelíotes is merely seeking car repairs from a reputable shop; he was not expecting to get punched in the libido by the most beautiful mechanic he could have imagined.

On AO3

~ "Alright, and what're we lookin' at her for?"

"The clutch. Is not operating as expected; I fear I may have damaged it. Somehow."

Dream is grateful that the stout American behind the counter at Matthew's Motor Repairs does not pass any obvious judgement on this damning statement.

"Well, that definitely needs checking, then," he says instead, punching in notes on his computer terminal. "Hob'll be runnin' things for the next couple of weeks, lemme see when he can fit your girl in." He turns toward the half-open door that leads to the garage and yells.

"Hey Hob!"

"Yeah! Just a tic—"

"He'll definitely be able to find the problem and fix you up," the American is saying, but Dream pays him little mind, thinking ahead to schedules and obligations; the Porsche is not his primary means of transportation regardless. It had been a gift from Alex that he'd kept after the breakup, primarily out of spite. He will say, when asked, that he drives it for fun, but truthfully the manual transmission does not come easily to him and the car suffers for it. He is considering selling it, perhaps once the satisfaction of knowing how Alex seethes to see him with it has worn down—

"What's up?"

Dream spares a glance for the man who's just entered through the doorway to the garage, and promptly loses his breath.

—Exquisite—

The man is beautiful, average height and slim sturdy build, dressed in grimy coveralls that are split just enough at the zip to glimpse the collar of a plain white tee beneath. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead and when he wipes at it, still with a wrench in hand, he leaves a faint smudge of black grease behind. His hair is dark, longish, tied up in a messy bun on the back of his head with wisps straying loose about his face attractively. His eyes and his smile are warm, strong nose and chin, a few days' worth of beard growth giving him a wonderfully soft-rugged cast that sets Dream's mouth to watering.

The coverall sleeves are rolled and twisted up to his elbows; the forearms exposed are liberally covered with dark hair, skin a warm sunkissed golden brown beneath, shapely and corded with the strength that comes of manual labor, of hefting tires and torquing wrenches. Dream considers, quite despite himself, how those hands might fit around his waist, his hips; how easily this man might lift or manhandle him about in bed, and the heat that has risen in his loins stirs approvingly.

"Mr. Atelíotes here's got clutch troubles with his Porsche," the American is saying. "Think you'll have time to check it out?"

"Not right away, I'm afraid. How soon would you be needing her back?" the mechanic asks, directly to Dream, and oh, the full focus of that gaze is divine.

"I am in no hurry," he manages to reply, voice only marginally dipping down toward sultry. He is here to see about car repairs, not to flirt with the hot mechanic in front of an audience. He is an adult. He is well-versed in exercising all manner of self control.

The mechanic smiles, like a ray of sunshine, and Dream's self-control is tested.

"Okay then, I can probably get you looked at and fixed up toward the end of next week, if that works for you? Thursday or Friday, let's say." He slips the wrench that he's still holding into a pocket on his coveralls, drawing Dream's attention to the lower half of his body, how the zipper on the coveralls goes all the way down underneath, and he firmly corrals and muzzles the thoughts that arise. Later. Let him finish his business here before he embarrasses himself.

"Next week is just fine," he agrees.

"Excellent," the mechanic says, beaming brightly, and Dream's mouth goes dry.

He is so unfairly beautiful.

The mechanic is talking now to the American who is entering Dream's work order and Dream drinks in the sight of him greedily, committing every detail to memory—the brush of silver at his temples, the crows' feet blooming at the corners of his eyes with every smile, the dimple in his chin just visible as a darkening of the scruff that adorns his jaw so beautifully. His arm flexes prettily as he points to the screen with a black-stained fingertip and his voice is strong yet soft and warm like honey; Dream sneaks a glance at his backside when he turns to the printer and finds the suggestion of shapeliness beneath the loose fit of the coveralls. Dream imagines, helplessly, buttocks and strong thighs covered in hair to match those exposed forearms, and barely stifles a whimper.

This man is absolutely exquisite, and Dream wants him.

Badly.

"Alright, Mr. Atelíotes, let me get your signature here," the mechanic says cheerfully, oblivious to the tempest he has stirred within Dream as he hands him the printed work order and a pen.

Dream makes certain that their fingers brush as he takes it, noting the smudge of fingerprints left on the paper by the other.

He glances at the mechanic's name on the form as he signs. Hob Gadling. He tucks the name safely into the vault of his mind, hoarding it for later use.

"Give me a call on Thursday next week, we'll see where we're at," Hob Gadling is saying, handing him a business card and leaving another grey-black thumbprint on the corner of the white cardstock. Dream immediately thinks of such fingerprints against the pristine paleness of his own skin and swallows thickly.

"Thursday," he repeats. "I will call then, thank you." It is Monday, currently; a week and a half is quite reasonable for routine car repairs in a reputable shop, he is given to understand, and Matthew's Motor Repairs is consistently rated with four and five stars online. He is confident that he has chosen well, especially when Hob Gadling smiles brightly while bidding him good day.

It is a good day indeed, for having met such a stunningly beautiful man.

~

He takes a cab home to Kensington, trying very hard to put his thoughts in order and focus on the week ahead, on his business meetings and the client proposal he's expecting on Friday. But his mind is full of brown eyes and warm smiles, hairy forearms and grease-stained hands, and his entire body finds these thoughts far more appealing than those of his day-to-day mundanities.

Hob Gadling lingers in his mind persistently, a siren call warming his blood and distracting him at the slightest provocation. Late afternoon finds him abandoning his office and retreating to his rooms, surrendering to the thoughts that have plagued him since his visit to Matthew's Motor Repairs this morning.

Hob Gadling—

He imagines how the smell of the shop might cling to the man, oils and gasoline and the sweat of his labor, intoxicating and inviting should Dream nuzzle in close. He imagines those hands with their black-stained fingertips, their work-roughened texture, sliding over his body. How might they feel against his skin, his chest, his thighs? On his tongue? He imagines the hungry light that might fill Hob Gadling's eyes, if Dream were to take those skilled fingers into his mouth and hold his gaze while sucking on them, tonguing lovingly at every crack and callous. He imagines those fingers dark all over with a thick layer of fresh grease, the mechanic holding them up with a smirk like a promise, turning Dream to lay on the bonnet of his car—or perhaps bending him over a stack of tires there in the garage, yes—and pushing those fingers inside him, deep and insistent and perfect while his other hand holds Dream down at the small of his back. Automotive lubricant is perhaps not sanitary or otherwise suitable for sexual use, but the heat-of-the-moment urgency of the idea appeals all the same.

He groans aloud at the thought of being fingered with the thick warm grease, the slide and drag and the way Hob Gadling's fingers would curve and press exactly right until Dream was shaking apart with pleasure, scrabbling at the rubber tread of the tires he's bent over. He imagines Hob Gadling murmuring complimentary filth above him—"You look so pretty with my fingers up your arse; bet you'd look even prettier speared on my prick"—as he comes and comes and comes.

Of course he wishes to have the mechanic's cock as well. He is certain it is full and glorious, a beautiful specimen that would fill him perfectly, touch every sweet spot within him and set him alight. He wants it in his hands, in his mouth, in his arse; he wants it any way he can have it.

He desperately wants to get fucked by Hob Gadling in his garage amongst his work, by Hob Gadling strong and sweaty and dirty in his element, vigorous and virile.

The car would perhaps be most comfortable for lying on his back, the better to see Hob Gadling's gorgeous face while taking his cock. He himself would be stark naked and the mechanic still in his coveralls, unzipped all the way to let his prick out. Dream imagines him naked beneath the grimy clothing; Dream envisions chest hair to match what was seen on his gorgeous arms. Dream imagines those arms sliding up along the bonnet beside him, bringing his legs with them until Dream is nearly folded double and breathless with the sweet pressure of the mechanic's dick inside him, pistoning deep and perfect.

Would Hob Gadling pick him up, like so much inventory to be moved about the shop? Would Hob Gadling fuck him standing upright, holding him as if he weighed nothing? He fantasizes about the strength in those forearms and biceps, of the way they would flex and hold, Dream's knees hooked in his elbows and those broad hands gripping his hips as the mechanic would bounce Dream up and down on his prick, Dream clinging around his neck and jack-knifed beautifully in his powerful arms.

He comes at the thought, face down on his knees in his bed with a toy vibrating steadily against his prostate as he strokes himself over the edge, and the orgasm is so intense that he loses all sense of space and time for a moment. The toy is still buzzing merrily when he comes back to himself and he fumbles for the remote beside him, turning it off without yet removing it. He rolls over, brings his messy hand to his face and licks. He wonders what difference he might taste between Hob Gadling and himself, imagines that he is licking Hob Gadling's spend from his hand instead of his own, imagines how those dark eyes and that lovely mouth would smile to see him do so, slow and lascivious.

He turns the toy back on.

His fantasies continue as the days progress. He imagines taking Hob Gadling into his mouth, tasting the sweat and the musk of him after working all day in the garage; he imagines lavishing his tongue all over the length of him, sucking and swallowing and milking him dry. He imagines Hob Gadling's work-roughened hands in his hair, combing through it, clenching tight as he spends into Dream's eager mouth.

He imagines Hob Gadling on his back on the low wheeled board that mechanics use for sliding beneath cars—he does not know its proper name, but he imagines opening Hob Gadling's coveralls while he is laid out on this board and riding him like a prize stallion there on the shop floor with the scent of his work and his sweat all around. He imagines the blackened smears Hob Gadling's hands might leave on him, on his hips, his waist, his arse.

He imagines Hob Gadling bending him over the bonnet of his Porsche, fucking him hard and fast and absolutely without mercy until he is screaming his pleasure, until he is so loud that the mechanic will cover his mouth to muffle the noise and simply fuck him harder still. He wants it, aches for it, imagines Hob Gadling's hands planted firm on his arse, squeezing, spreading him open for his pounding cock, leaving dirty smudges on both cheeks as they careen into orgasm together—

Dream comes under the warm cascade of his own rainfall shower, one hand braced against the sleek tiles while the other grips his pulsing cock tightly. He draws great gasping breaths of the humid air, mind barreling on even as his climax peaks and begins to subside. His mechanic in the shower with him after all of that, sudsy and slippery-wet beneath the spray, shedding the grease and grime of his workplace; his mechanic, pulling him in for a kiss, smelling now of soap more than sweat. The idea appeals, on more than one level, and will not be dislodged even as he dries and dresses for bed. He falls asleep at last to the thought of a scrubbed-clean Hob Gadling on his knees beneath the gently-pouring water, freshly-shampooed hair swept sleek and dripping back from his face and his smiling mouth wrapped around Dream's cock.

He wakes to the sun streaming in his window and lies alone in his spacious bed with drowsy thoughts of being kissed awake, of Hob Gadling's stubbled face and warm lips nuzzling against his cheek, of calloused hands with black-stained nailbeds petting down his sides and grasping his hips. Of Hob Gadling's strong shapely arms pulling him close, Hob Gadling's chest hair tickling his nose, Hob Gadling's heartbeat strong and steady beneath his ear.

He thinks of Hob Gadling following him about the kitchen as he fixes breakfast, imagines his mechanic in a borrowed robe that hits him mid-thigh and doesn't quite close over his chest. He does not currently own such a robe, but that does not matter to the fantasy. He imagines Hob Gadling draped warmly over his back in this too-small robe while he cooks, nuzzling kisses into the nape of his neck, purring about how he wants Dream for breakfast while dragging his calloused fingertips up the insides of Dream's bare thighs. Because of course Dream has merely thrown on a long shirt to cook for his lover, and of course his mechanic cannot keep his hands to himself, and of course Dream would like to be fucked over the kitchen worktop before breakfast.

It is a daring fantasy, this stranger in his home, infusing sex and affection into his daily routines, and Dream wants it with an intensity that is frightening.

He spins himself broader fantasies as the days become a week, of showing up to his mother's summer gala with Hob Gadling on his arm, a mere mechanic brought to an Atelíotes event. He dreams of engaging in increasingly indecent public displays with him where all the high society patrons would see, embarassing Mummy Dearest and igniting gossip that would haunt her for years. He would reward Hob Gadling handsomely for his part in the scandal, sexually, financially, both if he should like. Or perhaps he might offer Hob Gadling gifts and incentives without petty family business mixed in, lavish rewards simply for his affections and sexual attentions. The term 'sugar baby' is very much in line with his thoughts, if not entirely accurate; he is only forty himself and his mechanic had appeared to be in his mid-thirties at least. But that feeds into his story; Hob Gadling is well into adulthood and working in trade labor. Perhaps he never had the chance to go to university; perhaps he had grown up poor. Perhaps he might like to undertake a course of study now, if Dream were to offer to pay for such a thing, in thanks for how well-fucked his mechanic would keep him?

Perhaps he might gift Hob Gadling a luxury car like his Porsche, in return for the sexual services he should like to be provided. Perhaps he might buy him tailored suits, expensive clothes in the latest fashions. He is undeniably drawn to the grimy working-class vision that had been branded on his memory when dropping off his car, sweaty and grease-smeared and glowing with life, but he also imagines how stunning his mechanic might look cleaned up and dressed to the nines. Dream would like to wine and dine him at the finest restaurants in London, put him into a limousine after, open his perfectly-tailored trousers and sample his cock on the drive home. To Dream's home, of course, where he would take Hob Gadling to bed and offer up his body for his mechanic's use—which would be delightfully merciless, given how Dream had primed and teased and denied him with his mouth in the car.

Perhaps he might take Hob Gadling away with him on holiday, show him all manner of foreign destinations he would never have seen on his own; at each of them Hob Gadling would fuck him, in sumptuous hotel beds or private beach cabanas or the gleaming toilet stalls of michelin-starred restaurants, with every bit of skill and enthusiasm at his disposal—delighted to be Dream's kept man and eager to show his gratitude for all that Dream could provide.

Dream groans, dragging one hand down across his mouth and arched throat while the other works swiftly over his cock, writhing on his bed with his shirt undone and his trousers open. He is achingly hard, leaking steadily into every rapid stroke; he hasn't even bothered undressing, so caught up in the feverish fantasies of the money and favors he might lavish on this man who consumes his thoughts, of how thoroughly he could expect to be railed and ravished and seen to in return—

Orgasm overtakes him quite suddenly, leaves him gasping and breathless and wrecked, and still he craves more. His fantasies are delectable, but his appetite is insatiable.

He desperately wants the real thing.

~

It is Thursday of the next week at last and Dream, fueled by his fading ability to recall the precise brown of Hob Gadling's eyes or the way his cheeks crease up when he smiles, does not call Matthew's Motor Repairs to check on the status of his Porsche as instructed. Instead, he drives out, excusing the trip to himself by visiting a local bookseller first and picking up several selections to add to his personal library. He does not linger overlong among the shelves, however; today he is consumed with much more pressing distractions.

He must see Hob Gadling again, if only for a moment.

When he enters the shop, there is no one at the counter up front and the door to the garage is ajar, raucous music drifting faintly through. "Hello?" he calls, but receives no reply.

It is a warm day outside and quite warm inside as well; Dream imagines how sweaty Hob Gadling must be, to be performing physical labor under these conditions. Such thoughts do nothing to calm or cool him.

After only a moment's hesitation, he rounds the counter and passes through the doorway, at which point he can hear Hob Gadling's voice singing along—"You don't have a clue/If you did you'd find yourself/Doin' the same thing too!"—beneath the music, passably on-key no less.

Yet another appealing feature to this man; it is simply unfair. Dream draws himself up, heart beating harder, and ventures around the large sink and cleanup station until he can see his Porsche, up on ramps, and—

And legs sticking out from beneath the side of it on one of those rolling boards, Hob Gadling's legs no doubt, spread wide like an invitation.

Dream stops abruptly, heat pouring into his belly; he takes a deep breath of the warm stuffy air, the machine-and-metal smell of the garage doing nothing to calm his libido. He stares, helplessly, at the work boots and coveralls, at where they stretch across Hob Gadling's crotch, affording frustratingly little suggestion of what lies beneath. And just above that, he can see that the coveralls are unzipped, not quite far enough to expose underwear but enough that Dream is treated to a glimpse of warm golden-brown belly and the dip of his navel, the dark sweep of hair above and below it.

—Mouthwatering—

It is with tremendous effort that Dream corrals his thoughts, steps forward again, closes the space between them and clears his throat to announce his presence. He nudges one booted foot with his own, not entirely meaning to do so but somehow unable to resist.

"Bloody—" The mechanic scoots out from beneath the car and Dream's knees go weak; he is grateful they do not give out altogether.

Hob Gadling is indeed shirtless beneath his open coveralls, displaying a chest far more gloriously hairy than Dream had imagined, a pelt thick and dark and alluring. He wants to touch, to comb his fingers through and rub his face against it, to lick the trail of hair that leads down to where the parted zipper comes back together. There is a visible sheen of sweat on his skin and Dream would lick that off as well; Hob is smudged with grease in various smears across his torso and forearms and Dream can hardly think for the rushing of blood in his ears, the swelling of want in the pit of his stomach. He drags his eyes back up to Hob's face, trying to school the ravenous hunger from his own gaze; he does not think he is overly successful in that regard but there is discernible heat in the warm brown eyes that meet him, and it is difficult to care about dignity, propriety, with reality unfolding so near to the fantasies that have carried him through the last ten days.

He stutters through some explanation for his presence, barely aware of his own words, barely registering the rundown he is given in return, watching hungrily as Hob climbs to his feet. His car will be finished tomorrow. He will have reason to see Hob again tomorrow. But right now he is unraveling, his self control a tenuous and threadbare thing barely within his grasp. He is watching Hob's mouth as he speaks, captivated, obsessed with the warm color of it flashing among the dark scruff of Hob's beard, and Dream wants to taste. His mouth, his skin, his cock, which is surely as magnificent as the rest of him—Dream cannot bear the thought of leaving without confirming his certainties, but it is one thing to revel in fantasy alone in his bed and quite another to actually act on it when faced with the man before him—

"Is there something else I can do for you today, Mr. Atelíotes?"

Hob Gadling is looking at him, hip cocked and coveralls alluringly open, smile just this side of invitational; there is the strong suggestion of interest and an implied offer in that warm tone and Dream's resolve, such as it is, crumbles.

He reaches. He touches. He speaks his want and follows with a flirtatious tease to mitigate his intensity, is met by teasing agreement in return, but when his mechanic mentions cleaning up first he absolutely cannot agree.

"No. As you are now, please." He steps closer, directly into Hob's space, a week and a half of fantasies clamoring in his mind as the scent of the man wafts into his nose—oil and grease, warm metal, sweat and a faint trace of citrus and a hint of some pleasantly masculine deodorant; Dream's mouth waters, and his prick throbs.

His mechanic hesitates. "I'm kind of filthy though?"

There is a tinge of shame beneath the words, and Dream. Will not have it.

"I am aware, yes," he purrs, seizing the open lapels of the grimy coveralls, and kisses Hob Gadling with ten days' worth of anticipation and want.

~

Dream is coasting on an adrenaline and endorphin high as he drives home, afterwards. He acted. He spoke directly of what he wanted. And he got it. He had spent ten days nursing fantasy and now he has experienced a delightful sliver of the reality of Hob Gadling.

And tomorrow, he will experience more.

Sleep does not come easily that night, keyed up and aroused as he is, but he manages at last. He wakes later than usual the next morning; he eats a light brunch, the excitement in his stomach counterproductive to the task, and makes sure to drink more water than usual. Thoughts of Hob fill his mind, arousing, distracting, enticing; he recalls with a sharp thrill the taste of Hob's pleasure on his tongue, and he is eager to be on his way to their appointment.

But there are things he must do to prepare, first.

He takes an enema, then shaves and showers, lathering everywhere with his sweetest-smelling soap, determined to be the polar opposite of what he lusts for in Hob. He strives for the cleanest prettiest and freshest he can get, the better to be taken and sullied and dirtied by his mechanic; Hob had seemed quite pleased with that dynamic yesterday and Dream is eager to repeat it with Hob's cock in his arse this time.

To that end, he employs a favorite dildo once he is clean and dry, lubing himself carefully and working himself open on the toy, mind blazing with thoughts of Hob all the while. He knows, now, the size and the shape (and the taste!) of Hob's prick, and he is giddy with the anticipation of having it inside him. He is salivating over how Hob compares to the dildo, how Hob will fill him just that much better, what filthy things Hob might say while taking his time over long slow thrusts, how good it will feel when Hob finally rails him without mercy—

He must force himself to stop, hard and panting as he withdraws the toy from his body. He sorts through his glass plugs quickly, finding the one he wants and fitting it carefully inside himself. It's broad enough to stretch him just a little more, perfectly flared to fit just right inside and out, short enough that he can bend and sit without discomfort. It's a beautiful tease, as a matter of fact, keeping him keyed up and aroused as he dresses himself, making him squirm just a little with every step as he gathers his condoms and his pocket-sized bottle of lube and his phone wallet and water, and leaves the house.

He composes himself over the two blocks he walks to the busier streets where he can hail a cab, steeling himself to normalcy in both movement and appearance while pleasure sings in his veins with every subtle shift of the toy within him. He is half-hard, hidden well enough by the loose cut of his slacks, and works to keep his thoughts from heating any further until he has reached his destination.

The cab drops him outside of Matthew's Motor Repairs and he pays, distracted and breathless with anticipation. Hob is there, inside, and Dream is certain that Hob is just as eager as he is for their rendezvous.

He hopes that Hob is just as eager.

Closed for walk-ins due to special circumstances, reads the hand-written sign taped to the glass of the shop door. Ring if you have an appointment.

Dream's heart plummets for half a second, until he remembers their parting conversation yesterday about appointments and showing up and fitting in. This sign is for him, surely, a blatant invitation.

He takes a breath to calm the excited pounding of his heart, squirms surreptitiously on the toy inside him, and rings the bell.

= Started: 5/15/24 Drafted: 7/27/24 Posted: 7/29/24

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

can you not a masc reader x arcane characters? and i don’t mean masc as in male i mean like someone who just prefers to be the more masculine one in the relationship, do u know what i mean?

this was kinda a long shot bc i actually don’t know if you even still do arcane fics but if you could find it in your heart to do this, i’d love you forever <3

(Hello! I get what you're saying and of course but I didn't know what characters so I just did jinx and Ekko, so sorry but I hope you enjoy and my arcane asks are still open!)

Masc!Reader

Jinx

Jinx whole heartedly does not mind!

As long as you love her and don't leave her, she's cool

She teases you a bit still as well

She doesn't mind if you present more masculine and can pass of as a guy

She likes pranking people by making them think your a guy and seeing how long it takes them to find out

Especially if you dressed more masculine and in guy clothes

She loves stealing your shit, like your shirts and crap

Even if they're very big on her she doesn't mind and finds them very comfortable

She doesn't really know the definition of the masculine and feminine roles in relationships as you're probably her first one

But if you wanna take on more man-like jobs, go ahead!

She's still gonna bug you and probably is helping and taking stuff as well

If you like pampering her or if you like giving that princess treatment though she will def take it

You better be the one to propose as well

She's gotten so used to it it's funny

She expects flowers as well and if you pull the "Why didn't you get me flowers?" She's like

"You wanted to be the man, tic, ain't that how we got 'ere?"

She finds it fun

She's still gonna give comfort and princess treatment just to spite you and have fun

She finds it funny

Ekko

Ekko was a bit surprised

He honestly needed to adjust a little bit

He didn't mind either though, if that's what you're comfortable then he just lets you do your thing

But with helping out or with doing stuff that's deemed the more masculine side, he will still help

He's not a dick that's gonna make you do stuff like that just because you're the "masculine role"

He doesn't really buy into roles in relationships

He doesn't care for masculine or feminine roles, just equals

Still treats you well, still loves you and is always willing to show that love

I'm spoiling it and saying he def loves princess treatment in secret

He loves giving and receiving which is something he discovered when you took on your own role and gave it to him

Had a moment of realization

He definitely teases you a lot, like Jinx, if you do try and do more and more masculine jobs, not in a bad way though

As in like "you know you don't have to, right?" Kinda way

He doesn't mind if you pass off as a masc or if you dress in a more guy like style

Hell, he'll even share his clothes if you want

Your guys' closet is just one big mixed one because he literally forgot which ones are yours and which ones are his

He has worn your clothes on many occasions and doesn't really mind

As long as you have style

That is a given and you better

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@FensDelight @kaorussgf @miranexx

[taomyou]

the art of watching the wind - chapter 1

Pairing: Nanami Kento/Reader

Status: ONGOING, updates every other saturday, 1/7 chapters

Summary: As it turns out, swapping out his corporate cubicle for a florist’s counter doesn’t mean he’s learned how to live life to the fullest.

But, as Nanami Kento comes to find out for himself, it does mean he has all the time in the world to spend it on the beach with the woman who’ll show him how to.

-

or, Nanami learning how to be happy.

Word Count: 9.0k

Tags: slow burn, modern au - no curses, reader-insert, character study, fluff, hurt/comfort, light angst, nanami pov

(A/N: this fic is available on ao3 here if you would like to read it there instead! chapter one is mostly setting/exposition)

“That’ll be it for today's shipment, my friend!” Gojo beams, one hand on his hip while the other slaps against the side of a crate of roses. When his friend doesn’t say anything in response, he frowns, shoving his hands into the pockets of his rugged work pants. “Hey, what’s with the long face?”

Nanami blinks, his hands gripping onto the handlebar of the platform cart. “What?”

“You good?”

“Oh, yes, I'm fine,” Nanami answers, loosening his grip on the handles. “Just a bit tired.”

"Last one in the shop today?"

"Yeah. Yaga's coming by later to drop off some papers, but I should be gone by then."

"Sounds good." Gojo smiles at his friend sympathetically before putting a hand on his shoulder as he begins to pass him on the walk back to the delivery truck. “Take it easy, yeah? No need to stress yourself out.”

The blonde sighs before halfheartedly nodding, gently removing the gloved hand from his arm. “I’m not, but I appreciate your concern.”

“If you say so,” Gojo teases, “See you around, Nanami. Would love to chat, but I've gotta finish up my route ASAP and beat that loser."

"You're still on about that? I thought you already won."

"That was last month! I need to prove I can keep up with the spring rush this month!" Gojo laughs. "Besides, he's the one that gets all butthurt about it, I wouldn't care if he didn't."

Nanami supposes it's true. The older man—whose name is Fushiguro, if he's remembering correctly—seems to have it out for the white-haired delivery driver; Nanami remembers him grumbling under his breath about Gojo "fucking up the schedule" and "making him look cheap," whatever that's supposed to mean, but though their rivalry seems fairly one-sided, Gojo indulges him for the fun of it.

Nanami doesn't quite get it, but he supposes this is just what happens when you need to make up your own fun on the job.

"Well, good luck then."

"Won't need it, but thanks! Let’s grab drinks sometime, my treat if you pay for dessert after!”

The blonde kisses his teeth, but he smiles in spite of it. “Sure. I’ll let you know when I’m available.” He probably won’t, but he’s sure that his friend will find a way to drag him out for a night in the town sometime soon, one way or another (and that, one way or another, he'll find a way to get out of it).

Nanami raises a hand from the handle as a gesture of his goodbyes as Gojo leaves, as does Gojo himself on his way back to his truck. He watches as his friend hops up onto the high seat of the vehicle, picks up a clipboard from the passenger-side seat, and writes down something with a pen he'd kept tucked behind his ear. With his gloves still on, Gojo pulls out his phone from his pocket and nestles it between his shoulder and his ear, still marking down items on the clipboard whilst checking over his shoulder occasionally to look for things in the backseat.

It sure is jarring to see the boisterous snow-haired man hard at work at... anything, really. He'd always been so carefree and limitless, and though those traits still exist in the man whilst on the clock, he seems just a tad bit more responsible than Nanami remembered him to be.

Has it really been so long that he'd been able to change so much without Nanami noticing?

The blonde is completely silent as he turns and wheels back the last of this week’s delivery into the back of the shop. It's not an entirely far walk, but the shop isn't immediately near any delivery zone, so Nanami has to push the cart a fair bit away before he can really call it a day. He's had to walk the same path everyday, multiple times each time, but he still somehow forgets the crack in the pavement that, if he rolls the cart over it, knocks back the whole thing and nearly tips all the crates' contents out. Instead of cursing himself (or whatever else he can think to blame, really), he bitterly smiles as he tugs on the cart and lets go of the handle with one hand so that he can hold up the crates for the remainder of the trip back to the shop.

At least this is the last time he has to make the journey today. He'll just have to remember to avoid that sidewalk hazard next time. He's reminded himself of this every shift, actually, but he somehow always seems to forget.

When he gets back to the shop, the back entrance is held open with a spare footstool he'd placed there at the beginning of the day. Helps keep the place well-circulated while the air conditioning is being repaired, for one, and it's nice not having to awkwardly open it and hold it out with his arm fully outstretched every time he passes through. Still, Nanami has to readjust his grip on the handlebar of the cart because one of the front wheels gets caught on the doorframe, and after tugging on it thrice, it gives way, he's able to get through smoothly. He pushes through and is now inside the back room of the shop, and he makes sure that his apron is securely tied behind his back before he moves to take the crates off of the cart.

The backroom is quiet, save for the gentle creaking of the boxes as he moves them into the walk-in cooler, and once everything’s offloaded, he moves the cart to its designated spot in the corner of the room. His back aches slightly from the slow, weighted movements, as the crates are decently heavy and require more strength to lift than he has at this late hour of the day, but he bears with it long enough for him to finish without breaking too much of a sweat.

“That should be it,” Nanami whispers to himself, looking around the room. He makes sure that everything’s in its proper place—the cart, the gloves, the stool, the rows of crates filled with flowers that’ll need to be sorted first thing tomorrow morning—and he lets out a sigh of relief when he's triple-checked that it is.

Good. Everything’s where it should be. All that's left is to close the back door, and he'll get to be cozy at the counter doing what he does best. It's a bit cold today, winter only just now turning to spring, so he'll change his apron and pull his sleeves back to full-length.

As he steps out to retrieve the chair that's holding it open, his eyes are downturned and his hands are busy putting the stool back in its proper place; but, as he waits for the door to close behind him, he looks over his shoulder to be momentarily met with the sight of the sunset. The sky at this time of day is a sight Nanami hardly ever got to see before working here, and he feels it'd be a waste to not at least try to catch sight of it before the day is over, so he takes it in during the brief seconds it takes for the door to close.

Some of the late-night spots in the nearby shopping center are beginning to turn on their lights to let people know that they're open for business, and that casts more light upwards in bursts of technicolor. Molten gold and pear-cut sapphire melt into one another in front of a barely-there haze, and birds sparsely dot the horizon like sesame seeds on a red bean bun. Brushstrokes of red, violet, and pink chase each other against a pale canvas of blues and silver, and rays of sunlight burst through to form a halo over the earth. The underside of the clouds are burnt umber and golden brown, flaky and crisp like a pastry sitting neatly in a display case, and they frame the sky like its a painting.

It doesn't take a genius to know that the sight is beautiful—a snapshot of the world from a corner of it that only he knows in this very moment. The faint spring breeze certainly does help in painting the picture, pushing his outgrown bangs out of his face and kissing him with the gentleness of the zephyr.

It's too bad, then, that it's a sight that Nanami still ultimately doesn't care much for, because instead of basking in the light, he winces at it with worn, tired eyes. He puts his free hand over his eyes to rub the weariness from them, and he keeps them closed as he turns back in towards the shop.

Must the sun always be so bright, so "in-your-face?"

Checking his watch, he sees that if he finishes a bit earlier than usual with the bookkeeping today, he should have enough time to make it to the bakery right off the freeway on his way home before they close. He'd been meaning to try the quaint little bakery for so long now, having been recommended it by an older woman in his building he'd helped carry in her groceries when he first moved to the city three long years ago, but between his job, leaving said previous job, and getting adjusted to his current... arrangements, there hasn't really been a good time to go.

Truthfully, he's memorized their menu, front-to-back, and he thinks about making the drive over often, but he just... doesn't. There's always something in the way: work that needs to be done before the end of the day, personal errands he needs to run, a bad mood that won't let him go. Instead, their hours of operation are taped onto the walls of his heart and left to peel with the paint, but they've still always functioned as a loose guide as to whether or not Nanami's doing a good job keeping track of his time at work.

Clearly, he hasn't ever done that.

But, if he gets out on time today, it'd be a nice milestone gift, he tells himself.

Besides, today marks the third month of him working here—it wouldn't hurt to treat himself to a little trip over to the storefront.

There's not much else in his life that he has to celebrate anyway, so he'll just make it up as it goes. He didn't even realize three months had passed, just taking things day-by-day to keep the dread of the future at bay for as long as he could, but a younger high school-aged boy, Itadori, had started at the shop on the same day as him, and Nanami'd overheard him telling a customer that he hit the quarter-year mark at the job (a miracle, apparently, because his grades demand much more attention than work should; still, Nanami helps him and one of the other coworkers, Kugisaki, with their maths homework when it's not too busy at the shop).

Yeah. Today can be the day.

He can play it by ear. He's made peace with the fact that this is about as good as it gets, and there's no better time than the present when he's so sorely reminded of the fact now that he's left behind nearly everything he'd ever known in his professional career for... whatever he's made of his life thus far.

He'll make it special.

He's said that a million times before, but, today, he really means it.

After blinking a few times to get the sun out of his eyes, Nanami puts the stool in its usual spot right next to the door. With his hands now free, he unties the back of his apron, walks over to hang it up at the hook right at the curtain between the two areas of the shop. He pushes through the half-height fabric curtains as he tugs his sleeves back to his wrists, and he buttons his cuffs back up as he's making himself comfortable at the florist's counter.

With his cabinet key, Nanami opens up the side drawer where the accounting materials are, and he pulls them out to lay next to the shop's computer. It's a bit outdated, clunky beige keyboard and all, but he doesn't mind it. He types in the passcode for the admin account with his right hand on the number pad whilst putting on his reading glasses, kept in his shirt's breast pocket at all times, and he gets to work. Having had so much practice in the trade, he gets through all the bookkeeping tasks quickly enough. There's a few hiccups because the shop is still in the process of changing their payroll system and Nanami's in charge of getting that all sorted out, but that's nothing out of the ordinary for any business going through the same procedures.

It's a bore to remember what it is that he's even doing, lost in the flurry as tabs are closed and new ones are opened, but at least he's only doing this for a couple hours every week as opposed to his entire working day. His face is completely stoic as he types, clicks, and flips through the logbook for delivery dates and other miscellaneous information. Nanami keeps track of what he's finished with and what data he'll need for his next bookkeeping session for Yaga to pick up whilst he's dropping off papers later, and the older man will know to then drop those notes off with his parents—the owners of the store.

They're nice people. He knew them as clients when they outsourced their accounting to his firm (and, thusly, him), and they'd been generous enough to offer him a full-time position in the shop, especially considering he had absolutely no experience in any sort of floristry. Nanami wished they'd come around more often as it's a bit hard to express his gratitude to them through emails and in the in-between of the margins of the papers they have him sign, but he's glad to know they're able to spend most of their time doing things more typical for a couple their age. 

He doesn't mind it, though—the work. Inputting numbers, cleaning buckets, double-checking financial records, dethorning roses, calculating the budget, putting together bouquets and other arrangements—all of it. Really, he doesn't. He's obviously more... adept at some things more than others, but he's learned to enjoy what he's learned in his time working here. But, while his hands move methodically and his eyes trace the screen from left to right, he can't help but be reminded of how he'd used to do this for a living. He supposes that he still does, but being a general florist who helps out with the bookkeeping for a small family-owned flower shop is quite a far step away from being the top financial analyst at the region's most prestigious accounting firm.

He really shouldn't be thinking about it. He's already spent enough time contemplating whether or not the pay cut was worth whatever sanity he'd scraped away for himself when he left, and he should be happy he's content where he is.

He's not happy here. It's as simple as that.

After he locks up the cabinet and clocks out for the day, he exhales deeply, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter and rubbing at his temples with his hands. His head doesn't hurt like how it used to, but it's still not exactly raring for more to do. Sitting here, he has a clear enough view of the sidewalk in front of the shop, if only blocked by towers of flowers and gift displays.

He sees that the sun has set, and he won't have to worry about it blinding him from the horizon as he's driving home. That's nice.

After taking another few deep breaths, he gets up from the seat, and he grabs his coat and other personal belongings before locking up shop, getting into his car, and starting the drive home. Glancing at the clock now, there's still about an hour or so before the bakery closes, so he decides he'll make the quick detour over there. As he maneuvers through the highway, sure-as-steel that he's obeying all traffic laws despite the ache in his feet and the dreariness of his morale, his mind drifts slightly to the long-awaited sweets he's been fantasizing about for years. 

Has it really been so long since he's moved to this city?

Regardless, whatever'd been keeping him from going over to the little bakery for so long, he'll conquer it today. There's still enough time to make it comfortably before closing; he checks and there's forty-five minutes for him to make it there comfortably, and he's nearing his exit anyway.

He wonders what he'll get. It'd always been a faraway thought—that he'd ever make the time to go to the bakery on the off-road—so he always just figured he'd order whatever gets recommended to him. He's done his fair share of looking at their menu, though. He remembers, in the very beginnings of his time at that... horrendous job, back before he'd been overworked and overloaded with the tasks of more than a hundred men, he'd look up pictures and reviews and transcripts of their offerings online when the workday got slow enough for him to take his phone out of his bag and steal time. Back then, he truthfully did have the time to go and try it out, maybe even reach out to a friend and invite him to come along, but he supposes he'd figured he'd have time for it in the future.

"Save it for another time," he remembers telling himself. "It'll taste better if you wait for it—if you have something to celebrate."

Next thing he knows, three years and three months have passed, and he's never so much as driven past the place.

But, amidst the blooming angst, his mind conjures up those fond memories of himself using his old work computer to look at online reviews for the place. Thinking of them again now after so long, he

All those pastries, all those sweets, all those breads. It'd been so easy for him to forget that such a simple thing brought him joy; that anything at all brought him any kind of peace. He feels it in the pit of his stomach right now—the quiet little spark of excitement he hasn't felt in ages. If he'd known he'd be so worked up over the mere prospect of enjoying something sweet there, or maybe even something savory, he'd have quit his corporate job so, so long ago.

A new match lit in his chest, he smiles to himself slightly as he's driving through the wind. He rests his elbow just beneath the side window and props his head on that hand, and he moves his other hand to the top of the wheel to steer with a bit more panache. There's not much light out anymore and he still has to be careful he's driving safely in the dark, but he gets cozy against his seat cushion and lets himself sink deeply into the plush. His window's rolled up because he's not sure his senses can take much more overload after a day spent near wet flowers and loud, crinkling cellophane, but he'd like to think there's another version of himself out there whose able to feel the breeze through his hair.

Then, just as suddenly, the fire's put out by an inevitable wind, because just as he's beginning to merge into the exit lane he's meant to take to get to the bakery, a car cuts in front of him, forcing Nanami to slam his brakes and grip the steering wheel harder to avoid hitting the vehicle in front of him. Just barely able to check his mirrors, he swerves back into the faster, continuing lane and pushes on the gas to keep the car behind him from driving into him. Nanami's seatbelt saves him from launching forward, but, now looking over at the center console as he's checking for the time, the same can't be said for the cup of coffee he'd forgotten in his car's cupholder from yesterday morning.

Great. Coffee all over the center console and even more of it starting to soak into his passenger seat.

He's forced to just sigh and look ahead, now only ready to go home and get started on cleaning his car. He raises his hand for the driver behind him to know that he's sorry he had to swerve in front of them, his heart still beating out of his chest, and he blows anger out through his nose as he's forced to think about whether or not he's going to reroute to still get to the bakery or just resign for the day and go home. Looking at the clock again, there's only about thirty minutes left for until closing, and, even then, it'd be cutting it so close if he were to get there in the twenty-something minutes it'd take to figure out how to get there, park, and find something to order or choose from the display case.

If working at the flower shop has taught him nothing else thus far, it's that coming in that close to closing is enough to ruin everyone's evening, and Nanami'd rather not put any of the closers through more than they already have to deal with.

Quite unfortunate, all things considered, but there's nothing he can do about it now. Most he can do is frown about it while he's brushing his teeth later, maybe even curse the universe after he's gone through the apartment and made sure all the lights are off.

Maybe another time, then. There's more important things to do than try out some bread that's probably not as great as he's made it out to be in his head.

🔅

With a heavy heart (and a trash bag filled with coffee-soaked napkins and a now-barely damp washcloth), Nanami pulls his keys from out of his pocket, finds the one he needs to open his apartment door, and steps through. He hangs his keys up on a red push pin that's stuck into the drywall immediately to his right, courtesy of an old friend who'd helped him move into the place way back when, and he holds himself upright using the doorframe.

"I'm home," he says to the walls, taking off his shoes and leaving them near the welcome mat by the entrance. He's lived alone for a long time now, but he supposes he never really grew out of the habit of greeting the house when he's home. He leaves the trash bag by the door to take out with the rest of the trash later, dreading the eventual long walk he has to take to get to the dumpster, but, other than that, everything else about his routine tonight is the same.

There's nothing important about today, so there's nothing new for him to do.

After changing into something comfortable enough to lounge around in, Nanami drags his feet as he walks back out to the kitchen to see what he can make himself for dinner. His socks create enough static that he's shocked when he grazes the metal of his bedroom's doorframe, but he can't be much more bothered than he already is, so he just ignores it.

His fridge is exactly how he'd left it that same morning, with more than enough ingredients to put together a decent meal for himself, and he moves around aimlessly to do so. Today, it's a quick short rib stew with rice, and he lets a shuffled mix of songs he doesn't quite enjoy play from his phone to keep himself awake enough to not burn himself as he's cooking.

He eats at the dining table with a book propped up on an empty vase and held open with the pinky and thumb of his left hand, chewing while mindlessly reading about the development of various computer types, and he lets the dishes soak in the sink while he sits across the television and watches today's rerun of the Great British Bake-Off. He still hates watching the technical bake, but he's just being a hypocrite; not like he can do any of that either.

Once he's tired of watching yet another person underwhip their soufflé batter, he runs his hands down his face lethargically and gets up to do the dishes, very much aware of the ache in his feet after hours standing up on the shop. The hurt's caught up with him by now and he has to hold onto the counter to keep his legs from shaking, but maybe he's just being dramatic for the sake of it because he's able to bear it just fine when he has scalding hot water burning his hands as he scrubs away stubborn stains.

After that's done and dealt with, he takes out the trash, cleans up around the apartment, makes sure to pay for the water bill that's finally reached him from the previous month. He makes sure to appreciate how low it is right now because he knows it's only going to get higher with the rising temperature.

He takes a shower to wash all the loose petals and leaves that've snuck between his work clothes and his body, brushes his teeth (fully remembering to fume to himself about having to miss going to that bakery), and after making sure that all his lights are off and no appliances are left running, he lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with his hands laced over his sternum.

Well, that's it.

That's his day, full and complete.

Get up, go to work, work, go home, go to sleep. There's some other steps along the way, and, sure, there's other things he could be doing, but it is what it is

It isn't quite the life he'd dreamed of when he left his hometown—that was what he had before his quit his corporate job—so, if he ignores the pay cut, the loss of prestige, and the shame of being somewhere he'd never planned for himself, then this is the next best thing.

And sleep comes to him quickly, he's grateful for that.

Still, in the very brief and very quiet minutes it takes for the dull ache in his muscles and the even more faint one in his heart to settle enough for him to drift off into dreamless sleep, he wonders if this is really all life has to offer.

It has to be.

...

Right?

🔅

Nanami wakes up before his alarm has the chance to ring.

His body rises with the sun, its rays bleeding in through the fabric curtains at the window in his bedroom, and he rolls over onto his side to feel around for his cell phone, unplugs it, and checks for the time. He doesn't trust himself to be able to wake up a second time with only a few minutes until he's meant to actually get up, so with a yawn, he slips out of bed, puts on his house slippers, and drags himself to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth.

As he's brushing, he lets his mind drift until a swipe of toothpaste slips out of his mouth and falls onto the floor. He frowns, toothbrush still between his lips, and he reaches down with a paper towel to clean it. He's not allowed to move around lethargically anymore, acutely aware of the need to keep things clean so he doesn't have to come home to a mess at the end of the day, so instead of dreaming about the perfect breads he'd pair with the most perfect jams and the most perfect butters, he plans out his day.

What day of the week is it, again?

Maybe today's Monday? Tuesday, even?

Probably Monday. The weekend rush was noticeable enough yesterday.

He supposes it's hardly relevant, though, so he'll just figure it out later. It'd only matter if it were a Wednesday or a Thursday because those are his days off, but he knows it's not either of those days because he usually has to do laundry by then, and, right now, the bin's only three-fourths of the way full with clothes stained by cell sap.

No matter, he has to get to work soon, then get home after work, then make himself dinner, tidy up again, go to sleep again.

After gathering his bearings, he stands over the sink and spits out the pale blue mix of toothpaste suds and morning mouth grime. He runs his hands underneath the running water quickly, flicks his wrists to help dry them, and he runs his cold hands over his face to help keep himself awake as he gets ready. After he's made sure everything's been locked up properly and just as he likes it in the morning, he puts on a dress shirt, dress pants, dress socks, his watch, the non-slip deck shoes Yaga practically shoved Nanami's feet into when he found out he had been wearing oxfords to the shop up until that point, and he's on his way out the door with a cup of peach yogurt in one hand and his keys in the other. In his bag is a tupperware container with last night's leftovers and his wallet, and that's about all he needs for his day.

The route from his apartment to work is one that's fully planned and practiced by now: get on the highway, get on the ramp to the eastward route, exit, drive extra slow to not startle the elderly woman who owns the laundromat right next to the shop, and park directly underneath a tree that keeps his car cool for the duration of its stay there. By now, he's gotten pretty good at remembering which stoplights give him enough time to spoon himself some yogurt without spilling any of it, so once he's parked and collected all the things he needs for the day, he gets out of the car, unlocks the door because he's almost always the first person to arrive, and rushes to clock in and rinse the container to use as a seedling pot for the many greens they need growing in the back room.

Well, that's it.

That's his morning.

He'll spend the rest of it restocking the arrangement area because nobody else that works mornings here is tall enough to safely reach the cellophane rolls that they keep on top of the cabinets. He's the newest person at the shop so he's left with the grunt work most of the time, but he doesn't mind it—it's easy enough, and he knows he's not artistic enough to really be trusted with arrangements (on his own, at least; some of the younger associates will ask him for his help when making bouquets with "old people" in mind, and he doesn't have the heart to, one, turn them down, and, two, tell them that twenty-seven really isn't old at all).

He checks the schedule as he passes by to get his apron, seeing that it's Monday, and that Yaga's posted up a checklist of the things they need done for the week. There's also a longer list naming all the people who'll come and go throughout the week (which isn't really what Nanami expected when he first started working here, but he's picked up fairly quickly that it takes a village and more to keep a flower shop running, so doesn't really give it much thought anymore). There's a few names he recognizes, others that he doesn't, but he should know everyone that's coming in today, at least.

While Nanami's filling up a smaller bucket at the sink to have a well to draw from and water the greens, someone comes in through the back door, and Nanami looks over his shoulder to see Ino, arms full with coffee for himself, his laptop, and a few other miscellaneous gadgets. He's probably the person Nanami's worked the most with here (at least, if he excludes the time he spends trying to explain derivatives to Itadori; the boy is hopeless, but Nanami admires his determination regardless).

"Ah, good morning, Nanami!" Ino exclaims, rushing to put his things down anywhere he can.

Nanami lifts his hand to greet the younger man back. "Morning."

"Closing go okay yesterday?"

He nods, leaning over to turn off the faucet. "It was fine."

Ino doesn’t ask any other questions and just puts on his own apron, comes over to the sink, and offers to help take out the bucket so Nanami doesn’t spill it while it’s full. The blonde gives him a tight-lipped smile as he grabs onto the opposite end so Ino can hold onto the other side, and the two near effortlessly lift it out of the tub. After that and another smile, Ino leaves him to himself to go check for any orders that might've been placed during last night's non-working hours. Nanami isn't anywhere near the level of floristry where he can accurately fulfill an order like that anyway, so he's just glad that Ino's there and can handle them while Nanami does the grunt work and waits for more people to come in.

Regardless, there’s no real rush to get a move-on, seeing as nobody’s exactly rushing to get flowers on a Monday at seven in the morning, so the two men work in silence while more people cycle in through the door and get clocked in. Ordered arrangements ranging from personal bouquets to larger fulfillments of wedding orders and funeral flowers are put together at the designing stations while Nanami works in the background, picking up phone calls, updating order statuses, making sure customers are tended to.

Even though it's hardly peak times, there's still far too much to do, though, and Nanami finds himself running around earlier than he'd expected himself to be. It's really a blur of things that happen once the initial line gets built up at the front of the store: foam needs to be presoaked practically every other minute, people keep needing help at the register, someone needs to sign off on a delivery, and it's usually the blonde sent off to do those things.

And, just like that, the morning has eclipsed.

Like clockwork (because, well, it is clocked work), the morning workers swap out with those who come later in the day, and this is usually when Nanami takes his lunch because there's not really any other time that's going to work. Any earlier, and there's going to be so many people coming in and out of the break room that the ambiance he needs to enjoy his meal is ruined, and any later, he'll be too full for dinner in the evening and his whole routine will be pushed back.

After grabbing his lunch from the minifridge in the break room and heating it up in the barely-working microwave, Nanami sits by himself and soaks in the quiet that's barely given to him with the thin walls and the loud chatter between some of the younger, high school-aged employees that've just clocked in after coming out of class. He almost always takes his lunch alone because everyone else orders out and Nanami doesn't quite have the budget to get takeout five days a week, but, occasionally, Ino will invite him out, and even though Nanami will only come along if there's the promise of a comfy booth to sit in and ease the pain in his feet, he usually has it in him to do that every once in a while.

Ino has class on Mondays, though, so Nanami's taking it alone today.

Again.

But that's par for the course.

He'd eat lunch alone in his old cubicle, too, and he supposes not much has changed about him in the three months since he's swapped work environments.

As he pokes at the broth-soaked rice, he leans against his palm. He hasn't got much of an appetite, what with the smell of fertilizer and sap in just the next room over, but he eats anyway because he hasn't got much of a choice in the matter. He'll get off work a bit earlier today than he did yesterday because he doesn't need to handle the bookkeeping every single day, but he knows he'll be just as tired and that he'll have to at least stay energized enough to survive the early-evening rush of less-than-respectable men who want to buy the cheapest flowers they can for their wives at home—he'd envy them if he didn't find them so deplorable.

Just as he's putting the tupperware lid over his now-emptied container, someone comes through the fabric curtain after knocking on the doorframe.

"Hey, stopping by to ask if you'd like us to bring anything back for you," Kugisaki chimes in. "We're getting dumplings from the place down the street!"

Nanami looks up at the girl from his seat and raises his hand in gentle refusal. "It's alright, thank you for offering."

"You sure? We don't mind paying, you help us with our homework all the time."

"'Us,' as in, 'you and Itadori,' don't include me in this," the younger Fushiguro scolds, passing through the break room to refill his water bottle. "Good afternoon, Nanami."

Nanami waves at him with a gentle smile. "Afternoon to you too, Fushiguro."

"Yeah, yeah, nerd, me and Itadori've got it covered," Kugisaki rolls her eyes at her friend, then turning back to address Nanami. "C'mon, you really don't want anything? They have great gyoza!"

"I'm fine, I already ate. You kids go ahead and-"

"Are we ready to go yet? I'm starving-" the pink-haired boy pauses, eyes landing on Nanami as he gets up to put his lunch container away. "Oh, hi Nanamin! Sorry I didn't greet you when I clocked in, I had to help out someone in the front."

"No worries, good afternoon."

"Hey, what'd you get on the bio test earlier?"

"Better than you, that's for sure."

"Hey! How's that possible, we used the same study guide!"

"I got help from Maki during lunch."

"No fair! I had a club meeting!"

Itadori and Kugisaki bicker between themselves as Nanami joins Fushiguro at the sink to wash his dishes, and the younger ravenette passes him the bottle of dish soap. "Here."

"Oh, thank you."

Fushiguro grabs a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe the run-off from his water bottle, frowning slightly with what looks like embarrassment. "Sorry, we'll be on our way out soon."

Nanami hums as he scrubs at the tupperware. "No rush." Not that he minds their presence in the first place, they're good kids, even if two of the three are a bit... scatterbrained.

After he gets all the leftover suds off, Nanami flicks his wrist to get off the excess water and leave it on the drying rack, and his eyes follow Fushiguro as he joins his friends at the door.

"Well, see you in a bit!"

The young man smiles gently while waving goodbye to the trio, then turning back to the sink to wash his hands. Their voices, loud and chipper as they talk amongst themselves, fade out as they leave through the back door, which closes loudly behind them.

It must be nice to be so... carefree.

Nanami dries his hands with the last bit of clean fabric of his apron, and he gets back to work.

Now that it's later in the afternoon, his tasks shift from prep and phone calls to helping out more at the front. Famously, he's never been a man of many words, but that hardly matters when customers seem to flock to him anyway for help picking out bouquets and other miscellaneous gifts to buy and bring home. He still does his fair share of running around, trying to make himself useful, but, nevertheless, to keep the rest of his colleagues from having to direct their attention to the more run-of-the-mill business when they have other, more pressing projects to take care of, Nanami keeps a smile on his face as he directs people to what he can only guess they're looking for. The younger trio come back from their meal somewhere in-between all that, and the day passes by both quickly and slowly with how much has to be done to keep the place running. He has more than enough breaks throughout the day to decompress in the freezing cold quarters, but somehow his legs are still screaming at him and he's hardly got a second to breathe meaningfully.

But, thankfully, he's not closing today, so as soon as the clock strikes a modest six in the evening, Nanami's hanging up his apron and reaching for his keys in his pocket. He waves goodbye to anyone awake enough to realize he's even leaving (which, truthfully, isn't that many people because closing really is draining enough on its own, even if it isn't so late that nobody ever really ends up staying past eight or so), and he sits in his car until he's sure he's confident enough he can drive safely and with enough feeling in his feet that he'll be able to feel the pedals.

As he's driving home, his hands drift to the twelve and seven, too lazy to keep themselves at the disciplined two and ten. His mind drifts off to think about the routine he's grown into over the past three years, more-so because there's not much else to think about, less-so because it's too daunting to think of much else while he's behind the wheel, until, just as the sun's hitting his pupils, he wonders if it'd be worth the effort to try again today—to make the quick, quiet drive over to the bakery, step out of the car, and pick out something sweet to bring home and eat with what's going to inevitably be a boring, tasteless meal.

Would it really be worth the effort?

...

Would it?

It's hard to tell. Between all the other decisions he'll have to make today, choosing from the mundane and the even more meaningless, this one thing seems to hang over him, taunting him with the promise of something too good for him and something equally not good enough for him.

He'd already been let down yesterday. His car still faintly smells of the coffee that marred his chance at something that'd make him a tiny bit happier, and he doesn't know how much more dull heartbreak he can endure. His body aches enough with the burden of work and the surreal, sinking feeling that he's doing nothing worthwhile with his life, even after putting everything on the line to change that.

At the same time, he's taken a lot; a moment more of it isn't going to hurt him anymore than not doing anything at all. He's a third of a decade into desire, and he's survived keeping the one thing he can depend on actually making him happy away at arm's length for this long.

...

Sure, then.

It'd be worth the effort.

And, just like that, as soon as he's made the decision to make the tiny detour on the way home to stop by a bakery that has no more promise than what his own imagination has given itself, that feeling is back.

He feels like he's breathing in cinnamon as he follows the curve of the road, cautious to not take such deep breaths but unable to keep in the quiet excitement. The sun glares at him through his windshield, but he can hardly feel bothered by it—he'll rue it later as he's biting into a bread bun in about a half-hour's time. The moon, present in the sky in time to kiss the sun across the clouds, looks like an almond wedding cookie, dusted and deepened with craters marked like dimples. His mouth is starting to water, and as he kisses his teeth, he can feel himself smiling.

It's almost maddening, how... easy it seems to feel happy.

Is that the right way to describe this feeling? Happiness?

It's such a fickle feeling, so easy to pull out of thin air. Practically a figment of his imagination as it stitches itself into a quilt quietly in his passenger seat.

And, like the universe wants to teach him a lesson, it's taken away from him just as suddenly.

His phone starts ringing, and, already connected to the car's sound system, Nanami sees no reason not to answer as he pulls into the adjacent parking lot for the bakery. The call's coming from his landlord, but he 

"Hello?"

The voice on the other line belongs to someone he doesn't know. "Good evening, is this Nanami?"

No reason to expect that his landlord has his contact saved when there's dozens of other tenants. "Yes, any particular reason you're calling?"

"Yes, just phoning you to let you know that your unit won't have water in about two hours or so. There's an issue with the plumbing on your floor and we have people coming to fix that soon, but it shouldn't take too long to get it resolved."

Great. That's exactly what Nanami wants to hear right now. "How long do you think it'll be out?"

"A couple hours, at most. Maybe three or four? We're really sorry, but we'll be covering the repair fee and as much of the floor's utility bill as we can for the month, so we hope it isn't too much of an inconvenience."

Well, if anything at all, at least his landlord's reasonable enough to provide adequate compensation.

He sighs as he weighs out the options he has in his head.

He can either stay here, spend the next half-hour or so getting a few pastries and breads to take home and eat in an otherwise soulless apartment, twiddling his thumbs until the water comes back on so he can shower and get the infinite layers of dirt and plantwater off his skin while he fights off sleep and exhaustion long enough to make it back to a clean bed, or, he can rush home, make dinner quickly enough to be able to have running water to even wash the dishes with before the food dries onto them, shower, and go to bed earlier than he usually does.

It's not a hard decision to make. He knows he has to choose the latter; he's too tired to wait out the repair time, and he'll just end up spread out on the floor to keep the furniture from sullying anyway and tomorrow will be made that much worse with the knowledge that he's choosing a chance at happiness over the convenience of what he knows will always work.

Still, it doesn't make it any easier.

"Hello?"

Nanami blinks himself out of his thoughts, and he clears his throat while looking around his car to make sure it's safe to back out. "Yes, I'm still here. Thank you for letting me know."

"Again, so sorry for the inconvenience, but it should be resolved soon. Let us know if you need any further assistance."

"Sure. Thank you, have a good evening."

"Thank you, you-"

Nanami hangs up before the other line can finish, and he frowns as he turns the engine back on again and puts his hand on the gear shift.

Maybe another day, then.

Maybe, then, he can forget this faint pinch at his heart that's begging to be taken care of.

🔅

Third time's the charm, people say. That, on the third go-around at something, it'll work out all fine and dandy.

Well, they're just plain wrong.

Nanami groans into the palm of his hand, head downturned and elbow digging into his chest.

"What do you mean 'closed for repairs?'" He whispers to himself.

He'd waited. He'd been patient. He'd been easy on himself. It's been three years, three months, and three days of trying to get something from this small, out-of-the-way bakery.

And, still, somehow, all that waiting has amounted to nothing.

He can feel the stares of people passing by, slowing their paces to watch him wallow in the small self-afforded agony he's ended up in. People walk around him, but he's very self-aware of the fact that he's so tall that he'll attract attention no matter what situation he's in, so he just stands firm where he is and accepts that his shame is palpable enough to be seen by strangers who've caught him in such an unfortunate state. He can't really bring himself to move out of the way, feet already at the foot of the ramp leading up to the door, so he just breathes slowly as disappoint seeps from his veins.

The sticky note hung up on the walls of his heart falls with the realization that it's about as useful as a whisk for water. It's a simple affair, one that starts and ends immediately with the event unfolding at his feet, but one that still pains him all the same.

He supposes that he can't really even be mad at anyone but himself for making it all the way out here without checking if it was even open. He'd made the decision to come out here on his day off, all other errands accounted for and completed, on a complete whim, so it's really his fault that he wasn't careful enough in planning the one thing he's actually been trying to do for the last 

He's not even sure why he's so fixated on making this happen right soon. It seems like, for so long, it'd escaped his mind—the desire to explore the bare remnants of what he remembers making him happy—and, now, he can't find himself to commit to anything else.

Is he such a failure that he can't even do this one thing right?

He knows he'll have to move out of the way and go home at some point. There's nothing he can do other than admit defeat.

There's no fanfare. No parade to tell him that he's at least tried. Not like he even really wants there to be one, but what's there to even accompany the effort he's put into the very simple, asinine. meaningless desire to get something from this bakery?

...

Can he really even call it effort?

All he has to show for this desire is a spilled coffee stain on his car console, a new stitch on his shirt, and uncomfortably pitiful looks from what feels like the entire population of this wretched city.

...

Well, that's alright.

He hasn't got much to show for anything else, anyway. This can't shake him; he won't let it.

If nothing else, he has enough hope that things will sort themselves out, and he'll get what he wants one day. That's what he's banking on with every other aspect of his life, anyway.

That, maybe, one day, he'll get to try something from here.

His feet move on their own, dragging him back to his car and through a sea of bodies he know are judging him. But he'll find himself here again, under better circumstances, someday later. Even if it isn't true, he has to tell himself that to keep at least something in his life worth moving on for.

That, maybe, one day, he'll change enough to be okay with disruptions to his routine.

He clicks on the ignition in his car after gingerly putting on his seatbelt, and he hooks his arm over onto the backside of his passenger side headrest to back out the parking space. His foot hovers over the brake pedal until he's fully matched up with the mirrors of the cars next to him, and he just about runs off when he's shifted into drive. He isn't sure how to get to the next place he needs to go to avoid traffic and construction work on the road, and it's working up enough of a sweat to think that this is yet another thing that's off about his day, as if it isn't already enough as it is. But, someday later, he'll be better at not feeling this way. Even if isn't true, he has to tell himself that to not let the feeling regress into a scarier apathy towards change.

That, maybe, one day, he'll be able to face himself at the end of the day with the thought that what he's doing with his life is worth not being able to enjoy a piece of bread he can't be sure is even good until then.

He makes it back to the apartment, cleans up around the place, makes a tasteless dinner for one, takes a shower that's too long. He's worked all day today, so it's fine that he stands under the running, steaming water for a near-hour, wishing he could be anyone else, anywhere else. He slips into bed, hair still wet because he doesn't care enough to wait for it to dry, and he stares up at the ceiling to pray that sleep will come fast enough to give him an out in having to think about what he's really doing with his life. But, someday later, this won't be the case, and he knows he can finally watch the stars without shame on his balcony. Even if it isn't true, he has to tell himself that to not feel so ashamed about not being able to have the one thing in life he thinks could complete him.

That, maybe, one day, he'll be happy.

He'll come home at the end of the day to a home, well-loved and filled with pastries afforded by the wealth of a career he knows he's allowed to be proud of. His feet will not ache, he won't wish for something he doesn't know he wants, and he can sleep at night knowing that there's more to life than the mundane and the meaningless. Even if it isn't true, he has to tell himself this so he has something to hold onto. What else is there to drive him? He's already trialed the life he dreamt of, and that wasn't enough, so this lie has to be.

Yeah, one day he'll have the world, and he'll be content.

One day.

🔅

(next update will be sep 14! thank you for reading :D)

[9x07]

PLEASE TELL ME MORE

Honestly Kayla, finding this in my inbox is the highlight of my week, one of my favourite blogs on here @nilefreemans

I honestly have so many thoughts about bucktommy overall but tommy kinard is such an enigma in many ways and it’s kind of like sudoku where it’s a fun puzzle to play around with headcanons based on intentional and unintentional canon information and i have so many thoughts whenever i see gifs

cause like yeah it’s very easy to just be like yeah i’ve seen pics of lou with earrings but choosing to interpret it as an intentional character element adds so much to tommy’s character

cause yeah ear piercings are way less gendered now but i know i certainly grew up hearing so many gendered rules about who could or couldn’t get their ears pieced and the “gay earring”, and i imagine that would have been so much more amplified for Tommy, just the layers of pressure and closeting he is seemingly under prior to chimney begins— which makes the pierced ears even more interesting because jt means in universe that there was some point in time that tommy felt like he could step out of those confines and take what looks like this tiny little step but in reality is profound for him but only temporarily since we don’t see him wear them even outside of work iirc.

and i’m just fascinated by these little pockets of liberation for characters like tommy —like for ref. I watched spn and one of my favourite fic tropes is Stanford Era Dean where for a brief moment he doesn’t have to be hunter nobody is perceiving him and he gets to just be himself a queer man— which just feels very Tommy

like i don’t have hard or fast ideas and tommy doesn’t seems like the most traditionally impulsive (like buck) but more of a measured impulsivity where maybe he doesn’t seek things out but he’ll eagerly engage when it’s there- i mean see every time chimney has ‘dragged’ him into things/information out of him

So while I could easily see it being a throwaway line of like “oh yeah I forget about em, I got them when I lost a bet” or as a more active rebellious move of like hey I can't do something grander but I can do this and the kind of people who would see this as gay are the people I'm looking to spite right now

But my personal favourite is (again a lot of this is me just wanting an version of the stanford era dean segment of A Thousand Lives fic but Tommy pre-buck) I really enjoyed the idea that Tommy got his ears pieced because he wanted to just sincerely, even more so if in a bitter sweet way it’s in this blip of tommy’s life prior to coming out when he’s out to himself and dating men, going to queer spaces etc. and one of them is some queer man with the patience of a saint who one evening in a moment of calm intimacy probably brushing their hands through tommy’s hair and when noticing his ears ask tommy if he’s ever thought about getting them pierced- and at this window of post army and either pre LAFD entirely or just pre-buck 118- he has just enough courage to say yes and agree to getting them pierced, and like eventually this partner would somehow convince him to do some level of gender bending expression or drag like a Halloween costume (like please can somebody draw Tommy doing rock horror) and then bittersweet it’d probably link back to tommy being just not being ready for or in the right environment to be really fully out and a mutual break out as the other guy looking for a more visible relationship

i really wasn’t expecting this to be this long i had to fully delete a tangent i had about my thoughts on tommy and love actually but that’s for a different post lmao, again really honoured that you enjoyed my rambly tags enough to want to hear more, i wish i wrote fic so i could put these ideas together better but at least it’s there

[typingatlightspeed]

TF2 Big Bang 2024 - A Proper Proposal

Demoman is sure Sniper is everything he could want in this world, so he's decided to propose to him. The problem is, he can't think of a proposal grand and impressive enough to properly express just how he feels, and how much Sniper means to him. Luckily, he has seven other teammates ready and willing to help him make this proposal something Sniper will never forget.

Part of the 2024 @tf2bigbang! <3 Ao3 Link!

I'm honoured to have been asked by the wonderful @boimann to team up for this event, my first big bang, and I'm over the moon at how lovely their piece (also included in the body of this fic) is! I had a lot of fun brainstorming this story, and when I asked boimann if there's anything they wanted to be sure I included, they said "mercs covered in blood". :D Not sure they meant chunky salsa gibs, but what can I say? The spirit moved me lmao. Canon-typical violence herein, nothing graphically described or anything. Bon appetit!

---------

One thing Demoman found himself forever grateful for was the fact that in spite of their overall shoddy accommodations, the base had central air conditioning. Otherwise, he'd have sweat to death by now.

As Demoman nuzzled into the fluff at the middle of Sniper's chest, a soft laugh puffed out of his nose, the Scot's muttonchops tickling at him. The man was wrapped around him, arms and legs encircling his body and holding him close in a death grip of a snuggle from which there was no escape. There was little cause for Sniper to make the attempt, of course. He lifted a hand to Demoman's chin and tilted his face up so that he could look into his bright brown eye, worry crossing his brow when he saw that it shined with unshed tears welling over its surface. "You okay?"

"Aye," Demoman said, his voice soft, like if he spoke too loud he'd shatter their moment of peace. "Just love ye so bloody much."

What a sap. An absolute softie. A complete and utter gooey romantic.

God, he was amazing.

"Get up here," Sniper teased, pulling Demoman up for a kiss, laughing against his lips. "Love you too, pup."

Demoman's grip only tightened as their lips met, one hand sneaking up to the back of Sniper's head to thread through his hair and scritch him gently. Their kisses were lazy and slow, tasting terrible with morning breath, but neither could bring himself to care as their tongues met and caressed one another. It was soft, gentle, so unlike every other aspect of their lives. Here, they could be sweet, and quiet, and warm, unlike the explosions and bloodshed and heat that awaited them in their workday.

They wouldn't give that part for the world, either. It was that balance that thrilled Demoman. That Sniper would take the bombast and the bomb blasts just as readily as the gentle touches and sweet nothings with equal amounts of enthusiasm, murmured words of adoration as natural as the report of a rifle for the rangy assassin. It set Demoman's heart aflutter, this perfect man, this mirror presenting an equal and opposite view of a life lived, so different yet loving him so much the same.

Demoman kissed a line from Sniper's lips to his cheek, then across his nose to the other, then craned up to peck one kiss to his forehead for good measure. He sighed, utterly smitten with the handsome bushman wrapped in him and the sheets they were tangled in.

Resting at the back of one of the drawers of his work desk, strewn with bomb-making materials, empty beer bottles, and full ashtrays, sat a receipt for a jeweler's shop in Teufort, for a ring. Demoman had the owner holding onto the thing for him, a custom creation that came at a pretty penny and couldn't afford to be found by clever eyes.

It had been agony, letting the ring sit unattended, unused, unpresented to the man it had been created specifically for. But as much as Demoman wanted to bring it home, to simply slot himself against Sniper's back one morning, spooning him with gentle kisses to the nape of his neck, and set the box down on his pillow in front of his face with the question unspoken but obvious, he knew Sniper deserved better. Sure, it was a sweet thought, but if there was one thing he knew about Sniper, it was that even though he'd come from a loving home, it was a decidedly lowkey one. Never had a big deal been made about him, a thorough to-do, a full-on fuss and hullabaloo, and if there were ever anyone who deserved such a splore, it was Mick Mundy.

Either way, Demoman had long since decided that these mornings, sleepy and cuddly and perfect in his man's arms, were how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. And God willing, Sniper felt the same.

Bells rang, breaking the quiet with their piercing shriek, and Demoman growled as he half-leaned away and flailed at the night stand, trying to find the damned alarm clock and murder the bloody thing.

He succeeded in knocking it to the floor where it continued to ring, now slowly vibrating in a loose circle from the force of its hammer hitting the bells atop it. Deflated, he flopped to the bed in misery. For once they'd gotten up before the alarm and had some time for themselves in the morning, and this is how the universe rewards him for such diligence? A long-suffering sigh left him as Sniper began to untangle himself.

"Right, it was lovely while it lasted," the bushman grunted, pulling himself into a half-seated position. "Contract calls."

Swatting around blindly, Demoman eventually gave up trying to find the clock on the floor without rolling over and harrumphed, wrapping his arms back around Sniper. "Nae."

"Look at you, Mr. Work Ethic 'imself fightin' the alarm. You've gotten too cozy, looks like," Sniper teased, scritching at his lover's scalp through his short curls.

"Cannae help it. I've got ye in me arms. How's a lad supposed tae let go o' that?"

"For a big fat paycheck," Sniper teased. "Come on, love. That bloody alarm's not going to shut up anyway." Demoman pouted. "Fine," he grumbled, finally letting Sniper go to roll over and snatch the clock from the floor and shut off its ringing bells. The room seemed deafeningly quiet in its sudden absence.

"There, much better—wagh!" Sniper squawked as he was tugged back down onto the bed by Demoman's strong arms, crushing him to his chest. "Oi! We've gotta be on the field in an hour! Tav! Come on, let me up! Tav! Let go! Tav you cunt!"

Demoman merely closed his eye and held on tight, a faked snore leaving his nose as Sniper struggled and cursed.

*

"So have you asked him yet?" Soldier asked, digging some residual moisture from his shower out of his ear with his pinky finger.

Demoman sighed, scrubbing a hand through his still-damp hair, a little annoyed that he still couldn't comfortably put a hat on yet. The dry desert air always made water evaporate off of skin quickly once the team had their post-work showers and filtered through the base for their afternoon business, but his hair always took forever to dry out. And he just knew if he put his hat on before it was fully, completely dry it would end up squished down against his head like he'd pomaded it there, and Sniper would tease him mercilessly about it the moment his hat came back off.

As much as he loved the man he was not about to give him craic ammunition. Handsome bastard would have to do that legwork for himself.

"Nae yet," Demoman said finally, earning a look of surprise from his friend.

"You paid for that ring last week! Don't tell me you're getting cold feet, Cyclops!"

"Never! I want tae spend the rest o' me life with Mickey!" A heavy sigh left Demoman's nose as he gathered his thoughts. "I just... I want tae make it right. Perfect, ye ken? I want it tae be big, meaningful, a real monumental sort o' proposal. Mickey's family loves him, but they're quiet, reserved folk. No one's ever made a big to-do about him, and he deserves that. Somethin' grand and special! A proper DeGroot proposal!"

"You're going to blind him?"

Demoman leveled a withering look at his friend, who smiled broadly in reply, fully aware of how much of a little shit he was being. "Nae, ye cheeky wee cunt! Look, when me da proposed tae me mum? Was on a job. They were the demolitions team contracted for an operation. Standard sort o' job, but Da always had a flair for the dramatic. They set up the buildin' the rest o' the team was heistin' tae blow, and while he was at it, Da added an extra little touch. He set the timin' in a specific pattern. So once the team's out and they're at distance, Mum hits the detonator, and instead o' it all goin' up at once, they blow up in a pattern, tae the rhythm o' the first song they ever danced tae. When she realized, he was already takin' her hand and slippin' a ring on her finger as he knelt and asked her tae marry him." With a wistful sigh, Demoman shook his head. "Bloody romantic."

"How'd she react?"

"She tore him a new arsehole for spendin' money on a ring!" Demoman laughed. "Then she said yes. That's Mum for ye."

"So you wanna give Sniper the same kind of proposal?"

"Nae the same, but somethin' with that sort o' spirit, aye. Just need tae figure out what is the problem. Once I've got the What, the When'll fall intae place."

"And you haven't come up with anything?"

"Nothin' seems grand enough. He deserves the bloody world."

Soldier shook his head, smiling all the same. His friend was so smitten it was almost pathetic, but what red-blooded American wouldn't want to show the one he loves how much they matter using explosives? It was what they did every July fourth, after all. "I'm going to help you. If you can't come up with an idea on your own, that ring's going to sit at the jeweler's and the receipt in your desk until Sniper stumbles on it someday and you'll look like a coward. I know you are not a coward, son! So we're going to assemble the greatest team in America to conduct this operation, and make it a crushing success!"

"The team? Ye think they'd help?"

"Why wouldn't they? We're a team, Tavish! And what's a marriage if not the most powerful kind of team there is? If marriage is sure to result in happiness, then you must marry!" Soldier nodded sagely. "Sun Tzu said that."

Demoman couldn't help but grin at Soldier's enthusiasm. And who knew? Maybe the team would be able to help him figure something out. A good group brainstorming session might be just the trick! "Couldn't hurt, I suppose. Mickey and Scout are on a beer run tae town on account o' Engie's doin' a software update on the teleporters today, so that gives us plenty o' time tae ask around."

Soldier nodded, the straps of his helmet wobbling with the motion. "So who do we talk to first?"

"Who else but the one bloke on this team that loves gettin' a crew together tae pull some barmy stunt only we can pull off?"

*

"A proposal?" Spy hummed, watching the whiskey in his rocks glass swirl, a light coating clinging to the glass and slowly breaking away as its surface tension was dispelled by gravity. He smiled warmly. "Possibly the most noble task I've been approached for in a long time."

"So will ye help me?" Demoman asked, crossing his arms, fidgeting with nervous energy. It drove him mad how Spy played so coy about every damned thing.

The smoking room was quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment, carefully calculated to provide the pause with proper pregnancy before Spy finally met Demoman's eye and nodded. "But of course. Far be it for me to deny romance, mon ami! While I don't particularly understand what you see in the bushman, it's abundantly clear how utterly smitten you are with him." Spy took a sip. "And he with you, muted as his reactions can be."

"I assure ye, nothin' about the lad's muted behind closed doors," Demoman said with a wag of his eyebrows.

"I am, tragically, also very aware of that, as well. These walls aren't soundproofed."

Soldier chuckled and elbowed Demoman who couldn't exactly deny it, his cheeks reddening a bit.

Spy smirked, then set his glass down atop his minibar. He cleared his throat, and tapped a bright red button on the top of his bar cabinet, a microphone popping out of a hidden compartment. The public address system across the base squealed gently with the slightest ring of feedback before clearing, and resounding with Spy's voice as he spoke.

"Attention, gentlemen. Report to the briefing room in thirty minutes for an emergency meeting. Thank you."

A second tap of the button pulled the microphone back into its compartment, and Spy lifted his glass once again and took a sip. "I will meet you there, gentlemen. If there are any preparations you need to make before that, now is your time."

"Half an hour? Why not now?" Soldier asked.

"Because I have my own preparations to attend to as well," Spy hummed. He downed the last of his drink and gestured to the door. "The clock is ticking, gentlemen."

Getting the hint, Demoman tossed Spy a salute and grabbed Soldier by the elbow. "Aye, thanks, Spy. See ye then."

Once the door had shut, Spy lifted the receiver of his phone, and dialed a number on its rotary. A moment of ringing later, a voice answered on the other end of the line, flanked by the popping of gunfire, "Pauling here!"

"Good afternoon, Miss Pauling. I hope I'm not interrupting anything..."

*

When at last every mercenary on base had filed into the briefing room, Spy shut the door gently, its soft click seeming portentous in the curious hush of the room. The fact that Soldier wasn't making a racket was already making everyone else a little nervous.

"Gentlemen," Spy said warmly, beatific and genteel as he stepped the the centre of their gaze across the table, his arms folded behind his back and a smile playing at his lips. His eyes fairly sparkled.

Everyone realized at once that Spy was about to launch into a speech. Engineer trundled over to the coffee maker and set about doling out cups.

"I bring you here today for a mission of great importance. We men of murder and malevolence are not often called upon to serve the more noble motivations of mankind. Rarely are soldiers of fortune such as we tasked with more than violence, destruction, skulduggery, and far more sinister things, living weapons to be wielded against our neighbour, to accomplish whatever dark deeds our benefactors demand." Spy withdrew a cigarette from his case and held it between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it for a moment before turning his eyes back to the team. "Today, if only for a fleeting moment, we break the chains of servitude to the almighty dollar that we have willingly wrapped around our necks, cast off the yoke of deception and cruelty, and emerge as men, with clear eyes and open hearts, our hands, stained though they may be, ready to serve the greatest, most worthy cause that exists in this world." He snapped his cigarette case shut and tucked it into his jacket pocket. "Love, gentlemen."

Spy lit his cigarette and took a drag. "It is no secret that we here at BLU have seen love bloom on our battlefield. Our Demoman," he gestured to the man in question, "and Sniper have found comfort in one another's arms, romance blossoming between the bullets and bombs, taking root so deep, that our dear DeGroot seeks to formalize their bond as matrimony."

Medic gasped, grinning giddily as he turned to look at Demoman, lightly clapping his gloved hands together in delight. Pyro mirrored the action on his other side, and Demoman quickly found the entire team's eyes on him instead of the man speaking. He shrank in his seat, a little embarrassed.

"But what proposal could possibly suffice for the prince of the Highland Demomen? What proposal could ever truly illustrate just how impossibly important Mick Mundy is in this man's heart? That, gentlemen, is why we are here today."

Taking another puff from his cigarette, Spy began to pace slowly, the motion catching the team's attention and bringing it back to him. "We are men of violence, yes, but we are also men of action." He gestured to Soldier. "Men of science." His hand swept to Medic, Engineer, and Demoman in turn. "Men of art." Heavy and Pyro. "And men of passion!" He spread both arms wide, to present the team to themselves, his cigarette tucked between two fingers and making an arc with its smoke. "We, gentlemen, are a team, and as a team, we can accomplish anything. And on this day, we will devise a proposal so grand, so powerful, so explosive, that it will shake the very foundations of romance itself, and leave it forever changed in its wake!"

Silence fell over the room. Softly, Pyro clapped his gloved fingertips together, to which Spy nodded appreciatively.

"Er, right. So, I wannae propose tae Mickey," Demoman said, fingers digging under his knit cap to scratch at the back of his head. Spy always had to make things so bloody dramatic. "And I want it tae be big, meaningful, ye ken? He deserves tae feel special with it, made a big deal 'o."

"Ach, that is so sweet, Demo! Do you have a ring?"

"It's been ordered, but it's still at the jeweler's in town. He's holdin' it so Mickey disnae find it."

"When you plannin' on poppin' the question?"

"Soon, but I dinnae have a specific date."

"You have location?"

"Nae."

"That is precisely why we've assembled a brain trust of sorts, to work out the best possible proposal," Spy said, taking a seat at the table.

Pyro hopped to his feet and trundled over to the blackboard, snatching up a piece of chalk. "You said you wanted it to be explosive, right?"

"Aye. Ye thinkin' fireworks?"

"Better." Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Pyro drew a vague approximation of the RED base on the board, as seen from BLU's battlements. "What does Sniper love more than anything in the world?"

"Demoman!" Soldier announced, looking to his teammates proudly for having gotten the answer right.

"After Demo," Pyro corrected with a laugh.

"Work," Heavy said simply. "Sniper never shut up about job."

"His professional standards, the merits of his work's flexibility," Medic added.

"Get too close to the feller you realize he talks an awful lot 'o' shit 'bout poppin' heads when he's lookin' down the scope, too," Engineer chuckled. "Real joy in what he does."

"He loves shooting people from far away," Soldier agreed.

"Exactly!" Pyro turned to the board and drew a few dead stick figures around the base, with head wounds. "So how about surprising him at work?"

"What do you recommend?" Spy asked, intrigued.

"He's always going to be looking at the RED base, so let's give him something to look at. Write it out across the REDs' walls for him to see."

"In blood!" Soldier said, slamming his fist into his palm.

"With bombs!" Pyro corrected. "Blood won't show up; the base is red."

"How? And when? Nae like I can sneak out there at the start o' the match," Demoman hummed, thoughtfully.

"What about settin' up those bombs on remote, like a sticky trap meant to deliver a message?" Engineer asked. "Maybe a bunch o' real careful shaped charges?"

"Hard to make letters with just shrapnel and burn marks," Heavy countered.

"What about paint?" Pyro asked. "You'd need a lot more than just your usual sticky setup, but a bunch of specially-made miniature stickies filled with paint? You know the geometry and physics on this better than anyone, but I bet Engie could help with it, too! Set 'em all up and when they're in place, let 'em rip and splash Marry Me Mundy over the front of the RED base where everyone—especially Sniper—can see!" He turned the chalk sideways to write the letters in broad strokes on his drawing of the base.

"That could work!" Demoman said, perking up with excitement. "But how am I tae set this up? Durin' a match?"

"Perhaps not," Spy hummed, stubbing his cigarette out in the ash tray. "Before coming to this meeting, I placed a call. Miss Pauling owes me a large favour from some very important, very last-minute contract work I did for her recently. I informed her that I was calling it in. I have arranged for her to establish a sudden ceasefire day in three days' time, with a falsified cover story about emergency respawn maintenance, and find a contract for Sniper that can fill his time that day to keep him away from base. Then, we will be free to place the explosives properly and at our leisure, to prepare for the next day. Then, when the shutters open and we take the field, you can detonate the paint bombs for a proper proposal."

"Then once the match is over, I can greet him in the locker room with the ring."

"What if we lose match? Will ruin mood," Heavy hummed.

"Then we must make sure we win! We will be fighting not just for victory, but for love!" Soldier demanded, slamming a fist on the table. "We cannot lose, men!"

"No pressure, right fellas?" Engineer chuckled.

"You said the ring is still with your jeweler?" Spy asked.

"Aye. Didnae trust meself tae hide it well enough."

"Fair. Sniper is observant by trade, after all. Then it will have to be fetched. Is it at Enrique's, perchance?"

"Spy, there's only one jeweler in Teufort. 'Course it's at Enrique's."

"Then allow me to fetch it for you. One less activity for you to hide from your fiance-to-be. I will be joining Miss Pauling and Sniper on their contract, and will keep in communication with you regarding our estimated times of arrival. I can easily slink away for the ring during such."

"Thank ye, Spy."

"Any time," Spy hummed, lighting another cigarette. "So, we have myself and Miss Pauling on jewelry and distraction team. Pyro, I assume you can help with the paints."

"Sure, I've got a bunch we can test to make sure it can stand up to explosives and get good coverage. And show up against RED's wall."

"I can help as well," Medic chirped. "Viscosity is going to be a concern as well as pigment when it comes to coverage, and I have quite a bit of knowledge in comparative viscosity of fluids in relation to their aerodynamic properties!"

Everyone's faces soured a moment, imagining what horrors that knowledge entailed.

Spy shook it off. "Demoman, you and Engineer can manufacture the bombs, yes?"

"Aye, should be nae danger. Construction and placement."

"It'll be fun figurin' out the angles on this, if I'm honest," Engineer chuckled. "Plus who don't love blowin' things all to hell?"

"Heavy—"

"I will handle Scout," Heavy announced, preemptively weary.

That gave Spy pause. "Yes, he will be a concern. The sooner he finds out about this plan the longer we have to be concerned he will let the information slip and spoil the surprise." "He does not keep secrets well," Heavy agreed. "Strange," he added, giving Spy a long, knowing look. The corner of his lip twitched upward just barely, and the rogue gave him a hard, unamused stare in reply.

"So you running interference with him is a good idea, thank you, Heavy," Spy continued brusquely.

Medic elbowed Heavy, who cracked into a full smirk in spite of himself. "Schatz. Don't antagonize him, he's doing a sweet thing." "Yes, Doktor." Heavy looked away from Spy, trying to tamp down his own amusement.

"When we do let Scout in on it though, he could be good for setting up a few bombs if we need to put any in weird spots that might need hand-placement," Pyro said, turning his darkened lenses at Heavy as a threat. "Since he can jump and climb better than any of us."

"And I will make sure we win this match, come hell or high water! We will not let a loss ruin this, as God is my witness!" Soldier barked. He clapped a hand on Demoman's shoulder. "You have my word as an American that your man is gonna get the best proposal in the history of our great country! You're gonna propose the pants right off him!"

A wobbly smile crept across the Scot's lips as he looked at the helmet that covered where his friend's eyes were. "Aye, thank ye, Soldier. Thank ye all. Ye dinnae ken what it means tae me—"

Everyone shifted uneasily. They could hear the telltale quaver in their teammate's voice.

"We do, mon ami. Now, please, let us adjourn so that we can begin preparations," Spy interrupted hurriedly, trying to derail the emotional outpouring followed by likely crying jag that was mounting already, earnest though it may be. "Save your tears for when you are holding you new fiance."

Demoman sniffled, a deep breath following it at he forced back tears. "Aye, let's get tae it, lads. We've a plan, now let's put it intae action." "Ready?" Soldier asked, hopping from his seat. "Ready!" Demoman echoed, grinning as he rose in turn.

"CHARGE!"

*

Three days of preparation felt like no time at all, but as paints were mixed and loaded into custom-machined sticky bombs and tested in a small blast chamber in Engineer's workshop, Demoman found himself growing more and more impatient for the day to arrive.

"This is takin' forever," he grumbled, going over his notes with a frown.

"Wish we had a little more time to test and iterate," Engineer grumbled. He scratched at his chin. "We ain't gettin' the kind 'o' power we need to cover the distance between the bridge and the buildin'. At this rate it ain't gonna say nothin' on the side 'o' RED's base, let alone 'Marry Me Mundy'."

Demoman pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed at it. "Aye, but there's only so much power we can put in these we bastards with a shaped charge inside, let alone nae just vaporizin' the paint on detonation, nae matter how thick the stuff is. Tae keep it goin' in a direction with the power we need, we either need bigger bombs, which means it'll be harder tae get the angles we need tae spell anythin'."

"Maybe we're comin' at this all wrong. What about if we put the bombs on the buildin' itself, make 'em splatter in place."

"We'd only need squibs for that," Demoman hummed. "Would be a right pain settin' em up, but we wouldn't need tae bring protractors out there tae get everythin' in place the right way."

Engineer chuckled at that. "I dunno about squibs, though. After all, we still want a nice big kaboom to get Sniper's attention, after all."

"Aye, yer nae wrong there. Right now we've got enough bloody kaboom tae turn the REDs tae paste if they stumbled intae the blast zone!" Demoman grinned at that. "Alright, we'll focus on the power behind 'em later. Now we've a better plan, we should focus on designin' a better housin' for the bombs, first. Since we're puttin' 'em on the buildin' now, we could build a launcher tae speed up the process."

"No monotaskers," Engineer said firmly, a knife-hand gesture emphasizing his point. "We're already on a time crunch; I ain't about to start R&D on a mini-sticky launcher you're gonna use once."

"Aye, aye, nae danger," Demoman hummed, disappointed. "Right, let's get back tae the drawin' board on these hand-set stickies, then."

Engineer grabbed a new sheet of blueprint paper and a compass. "Sounds like a plan. You see my pencil anywhere?" he asked, forgetting for the third time in an hour that he'd tucked it behind his ear.

Medic giggled excitedly as Pyro pried the lid off of one of the paint cans he'd hauled back from the hardware store. Inside, the paint was a cool, saturated azure that almost matched Sniper's uniform shirt. "Oh, this colour is perfect!" he cooed, dipping a stir-stick into the goop and withdrawing it, watching the paint run off of it in thick rivulets.

"I went for an exterior paint made with latex," Pyro said. "They said it could thicken a little if we left it open so the water inside evaporates."

"Ah, that's true, but with latex, I know of an additive we can use to further increase its viscosity!" Medic declared, thrusting a finger into the air. "I should still have some hydroxyethyl cellulose somewhere in my lab, and that can thicken anything water-soluble!"

Pyro clapped his hands together. "That's perfect! We need to make sure this paint is nice and goopy so the guys can really launch it!"

"I'll go dig around for it. I'll get my Zahn cups too, so we can get actual measurements for Demo and Engie's purposes. They're going to want the math on this, I'm sure."

"Good thing you know how to calculate that kind of stuff. When I build it's usually based on feel alone," Pyro chuckled.

Medic merely replied with an impish grin in lieu of admitting that he operated much the same.

Heavy wasn't nearly as excited or feeling as industrious with his assigned task: distracting Scout. Keeping Sniper out of the loop was easy. After all, the man was generally easygoing and content to hang out with Scout outside or do some light hunting and let people have their space. Sometimes projects came up, and he was rarely involved in his teammates' R&D, so it wasn't anything terribly out of the ordinary for him.

Scout, on the other hand was nosy. And dogged in his determination to find out when something was being kept from him. His little brother instincts were honed to a razor's edge, which none of the team wanted turned on them. Heavy, having suffered the slings and arrows of helping raise three little sisters, had the best chance to weather the storm.

"Surprised you wanted me to work out with you," Scout said, hands splayed on the gym wall as he leaned in and stretched his hamstrings. "Doc finally get on you about your cardio?"

"No," Heavy grunted, then half-shrugged. "Yes. But is not reason. Doktor is working on something with Pyro this week, and I am waiting for new book to come in mail. I want to do something... eh," he rolled his hand in the air, trying to find the right word, "useful? Producing?"

"Productive?"

"This," Heavy said, nodding gratefully. "Something productive to do with time until then." He tugged his hooded sweatshirt off and set it aside, taking a seat on the workout bench. The fluffy hair on his shoulders, chest, and belly danced lightly in the breeze of the box fan that sat at one edge of the gym.

"So workin' out with me is productive?"

"Tiny Scout flex often, but no muscles show. You are not weak man, but you are lean. Want to show you how to lift to build muscle that is visible."

Scout's eyebrow lifted, and he turned to face Heavy, his fists coming to rest on his narrow hips. "Yeah? Why you feelin' so charitable all of a sudden?" Suspicion had his nostrils flaring, like he could sniff out some kind of misdirection.

"Boredom." With a tilt of his head to the side, Heavy sighed and worked Scout's ego with an offer of exchange, "And maybe then you help Heavy with cardio so Doktor give me less trouble. Mega baboon hearts are expensive, he always tell me."

Scout snorted a laugh at that. "Fuckin' a! If the guy's costs weren't covered by 'is contract, 'e'd give us a freakin' invoice after every match!"

Heavy barked a laugh at that, slapping his thigh.

In three days' time, Miss Pauling arrived on base with a clipboard, a few manila folders, and a knowing glance to Spy before gathering the team in the briefing room and informing them of a ceasefire being abruptly called because of emergency respawn maintenance. She handed one to Engineer, and he grumbled that he'd get right on it and left to go get a drink, thumbing through the Mann Co catalog she'd tucked inside to give it believable bulk.

"The rest of you are on liberty for the rest of the day," she said, shuffling through her papers. "Except Sniper, and you, Spy. You two stay here."

Everyone else filed out, leaving her with the two mercenaries. She closed the door with a light click, and tossed two manila folders onto the table. "I have work for you two."

*

Scout skidded to a halt in front of the rec-room door, snatching hold of the jamb to stabilize himself. "Miss P's truck just pulled out. We're go, guys!"

"Lookout says we're go, so let's go, ladies! Up and at 'em! Move out! Go! Go! Go!" Soldier whooped, hopping to his feet and ushering the others out.

The mercenaries rushed out, Demoman and Engineer grabbing the bombs and plans from the workshop, the rest of the team mustering at the gate to the battlefield. Once everyone arrived, they threw the gate open and spilled onto the field, making a bee-line for the end of the covered bridge that separated BLU from RED, and would make their staging point.

"So, where will we be placing these bombs to get the paint on the building?" Medic asked. "Is the bridge enough surface area for them all?"

"Naw, we ran the numbers and did some control tests, and the amount of propulsion we'd need to get the paint from here to there'd end up just splatterin' it everywhere. Instead, we cut out the middle man. Bombs get planted on the wall itself, and explode outward in all directions. We just gotta make sure we ain't in the line 'o' fire when they go off, since they're still gonna fire off spikes, shrapnel, and a whole hell of a lot 'o' kinetic energy."

"Shouldnae be too bad, since we dialed down the explosives inside tae compensate."

Engineer froze in place, thinking for a moment. "...Did we?"

"O' course we did, we talked about it."

"...but did we actually do it? I remember talkin' about doin' it, but did we actually change the measurements when we loaded these puppies?" Engineer asked, biting at his lip as he realized a sudden massive hiccup in their process.

Demoman shrugged. "Too late tae double-guess it now. Important thing is it'll still write the words, which is all that matters." He set down the toolbox full of bombs, flipping it open to reveal a pile of small, palm-sized blue bombs bearing long, thin spikes designed to wedge deep into the wood and hold the bombs in place overnight. "Right, time we get tae work, lads. Plenty 'o bombs, and it's all by hand. Take a few, pick a spot, and get tae work. Scout, ye and Heavy're on the high spots."

"Aye aye!"

*

"What the hell?"

The RED Spy narrowed his eye as he looked down the rifle scope, watching the amassment of BLUs at their battlefield doorstep. He lowered the rifle and looked to the RED Sniper beside him, who nodded, satisfied that he'd seen the same thing. "It looks as though they're attaching something to the wall. It is hard to tell from this angle."

"Saw 'em totin' out a toolbox filled with little miniature stickies with longer spikes on 'em, and some sort of schematic. Got me wonderin' if they're usin' this little respawn outage as an excuse to do some impromptu demolitions on our base."

"But that would be madness," Spy said, handing Sniper back his rifle. "Surely their contracts are as ironclad as ours are. Base offensives during downtime aren't just a breach of contract, it forfeits one's life!"

"Grounds for termination," Sniper echoed with a dark laugh. "Right, but then if it's not that, then what the hell is it? A nasty little surprise for the start of the work day tomorrow? Not bloody sportin', is it?"

"I suppose it's a clever way to gain a short-term advantage," Spy conceded.

"Underhanded way, more like it. Fair dinkum clever but there's a difference between bein' a bunch of mad cunts and bein' a bunch of dog cunts."

Spy stared at Sniper for a long moment. "Your people have such an elegant way with the English language."

"Oh piss off."

"Regardless, we should alert the rest of the team. This cannot go unchallenged. I suspect if nothing else, coming running to our front porch like a horde of irritated pensioners, threatening them to get off of our lawns, may suffice to spoil their fun."

"If you can get Soldier to not go full-on offensive. Or worse, Demo. After all, they're plantin' stickies, and 'is ex is out there."

*

"I have completed the letter M!" Soldier barked, stepping back from what—thankfully—actually was a fully-set letter M on the wall of the RED base.

"Grand, lad," Demoman replied, jamming another sticky into the wood. "Yer all doin' grand!"

"Yeah, we gotchu, Demo," Scout said, eyeing up a jump. "Can't have Snipes gettin' a normal borin' ol' proposal." He grabbed a sticky and took a few steps back. "Still can't believe you guys didn't tell me til this mornin', though."

"Couldnae risk it, lad. Ye two are mates. Could've let it slip."

"Psh, yeah sure. Like I'd ruin somethin' this important." Scout ran and leapt, slapping the sticky onto the wall and kicking off to land in the gravel with a crunch.

"Like you ruin Doktor's surprise party last month?" Heavy asked, wedging another bomb into the wall.

"It was not that big a deal," Medic sighed, trying to defuse things.

"Man, you ain't never gonna let me forget about—hey wait is that why you had me in the gym all week? Were you runnin' interference to keep me in the dark? Ohh pally, you slimy—man I thought we were bondin' an' shit! I thought oh hey maybe the big guy forgives me for the party thing finally an' wants to just go back to bein' buddies an' all along you were just keepin' me busy so I didn't find out about all the paint mixin' an' bomb makin' an' proposal plannin'?" Scout threw his arms wide. "What the hell?!"

"Lay off him, son," Engineer chastised, clapping a hand on Scout's shoulder. "We assigned him the job. Last thing any one of us wanted was this gettin' out too soon, and as you showed with Doc's birthday, when you get excited, sometimes this," he pointed to Scout's mouth, "moves faster'n this," he tapped Scout's head. "Don't mean you ain't tryin', or that you don't care. We just all know how hyped up you get, so we wanted to keep the anticipation to a dull roar, is all."

Scout's scowl slowly morphed into a pout, and he turned his eyes back to Heavy, who was staring at him evenly, waiting to see his response. "Yeah, okay. I guess. Whatever. Let's get this done before Miss P gets back with Spy an' Snipes." It was as good a result as they could have hoped for, and Heavy and Engineer shared a look as they went back to work, knowing full well that within ten minutes Scout would be over it and chattering merrily again.

"How are you so good at that?" Medic leaned in to ask as Engineer trotted past him.

"Just gotta know how to massage a fella's ego the right way so it don't bruise too much, is all," Engineer replied with a chuckle. "Same as negotiatin' a contract."

Medic nodded, understanding that all too well. "Ah, a fair point!"

"How much longer do you think we have, anyway?" Pyro asked, one arm full of stickies as he worked at the bottom of the Y in 'Mundy'.

Demoman checked his watch. "Nae as long as I'd like. We need tae get on it, lads. They should be on their way back already."

"Awright, time to knock this into high gear! Hey, Heavy, boost me up! If I climb up the battlement I can get on the awnin' an' put the 'marry' up there!"

"That's a lot for one person," Engineer said.

"Soldier, you wanna grab the Rocket Jumper from resupply real quick? You land like a freakin' cat off those jumps. Between the two of us we should be able to get it done."

"Roger!" Soldier hollered, charging back across the bridge into the BLU base.

"It does deviate from the plan," Engineer hummed, scratching at his chin, "but it does increase visibility."

"Aye, good idea! Nae way it disnae catch his eye now." Demoman grinned broadly as he watched Soldier hustling back with his launcher, Scout already climbing onto Heavy's shoulders and beginning to scale the building proper. He imagined Sniper's voice crackling through the radio when the bombs went off, disbelief and excitement all blended together as he choked out his answer amid a hail of paint and shrapnel.

*

The drive to and from the job site probably doubled the time of the actual job itself, possibly including the stopover in Teufort for Spy to gather additional recon. All the same, it had been an easy job, a nice paycheck, and Sniper couldn't complain about that. It had almost been too easy.

"Surprised you didn't just do this one yourself," Sniper mused, catching his hat as an errant breeze through the open window of Miss Pauling's beater of a truck threatened to steal it. "Was a piece of piss, really."

"It was the range, if I'm honest," Miss Pauling lied, her eyes never leaving the empty, open road. "I'm better up-close, and this guy has a habit of keeping his perimeter pretty secure, hence the need to strike from outside of it."

"S'pose you do work mostly in pistols and shotguns," Sniper conceded.

"I own a few rifles, but I've got an astigmatism so scopes are kind of weird for my eyes. Plus if I'm doing the wetwork it's generally because nobody can find out. Full blackout kind of stuff, and sniping's pretty public." She chuckled a little, thinking of the screams and sudden scramble of everyone around when Sniper had taken the shot.

"Yes, they cannot all be week-long stakeouts or risky shots taken in the middle of firefights," Spy said with a sigh, trying his hardest to narrow his body to avoid physical contact as he sat between Miss Pauling and Sniper. He was aching for a cigarette, but in spite of the open windows (thanks to a very broken AC unit), Miss Pauling had made it clear that he would have to ride in the truck bed if he wanted to smoke.

He almost wished he'd taken her up on that, now.

"Either way, a short day's not so bad. Strewth, might turn in early and get a good night's sleep for once," Sniper chuckled. "Get dinner, skull a couple of tinnies with the lads, grab Demo and drag 'im to bed."

"Sniper!" Miss Pauling teased, playing at being scandalized.

"For a lie down!" Sniper drawled, glaring at her in mock-defensiveness. "Dunno what you've got on your mind, but I was just thinkin' of how much of a bloody cuddle-monster Demo is. Coziest night's sleep you can imagine, 'long as you like sleepin' with a bloke wrapped around you like a koala." He chuckled at that.

Spy made a show of rolling his eyes. "Yes, that is all you two do."

"Never said that."

Miss Pauling snorted a little laugh as Sniper turned his attention out the window and the passing desert, a smile playing at his lips as he thought back to their mornings, Demoman pulling him back into bed for just a few more minutes, just another snuggle, just another kiss, just a little bit longer in the quiet of morning, wrapped in one another's arms.

It made his chest feel full, his heart feel light as he reflected on the memory of that gentle moment of giddy love, and how lucky he was to have it.

If you'd told him when he'd taken this contract that the guy chugging cider and shooting bombs at people would turn out to be the love of his life, he'd have called you an outright galah, talking complete nonsense just to hear your own voice. He and Demoman couldn't have been more different!

Demoman was everything Sniper wasn't. He was loud, excitable, unpredictable, and from a home that told him his occupation was worth more than he was as a person.

Sniper was everything Demoman wasn't. He was quiet, patient, stable, and from a loving home with parents who only wanted safety and prosperity for their son.

And yet, there was so much about them that matched. A mirror image, opposite but the same. Both of them were passionate about their work. Both of them stuck out like sore thumbs among their countrymen, in spite of their own immense national pride. Demoman was a Highlander through and through, and you'd not find a more true blue Aussie than Sniper. Both of them knew what it was like to never be enough, to be an outsider in their own homes, to doubt themselves because of it. Both of them wanted someone to just accept them for who they were, all of it, and more than that, love them for it.

For all of Demoman's grins and laughter. For all of Sniper's smirks and stories.

For all of Demoman's tears and tragedies. For all of Sniper's doubts and isolation.

He'd have called you an outright galah, and he couldn't have been more wrong if he'd tried. God help him he'd never been happier to be proven wrong.

Demoman made him feel wanted. Appreciated. Adored. He made him feel like he fit in ways he hadn't since he first left his parents' arms as a child. He made him happy in ways he wasn't sure he'd ever felt or could even conceive of. Demoman felt like part of him, not a missing piece or something so cliche, but like vines that had grown into the brick of an ancient building, so intertwined that they may as well be one whole structure. He never felt more peace than when he could feel his weight on his chest, his muttonchops gently tickling his skin, his strong arms wrapped tightly around his narrow middle; when Demoman could hear his heartbeat and would smile against him as the sound lulled him to sleep, fingers twitching lightly in his dreams. Even when he snored.

A soft laugh left Sniper's nose. He fancied he'd be fine with it if he heard that snore every night for the rest of his life.

*

"They're climbin' the freakin' base?" RED Scout asked, narrowing his eyes as he looked out onto the field. The RED team had assembled atop one of their gravel silos.

"See? Plantin' bloody explosives. Fuckin' oath, just like I said."

RED Demoman sneered at the sight of Soldier rocket jumping onto the metal awning beside Scout, nimbly landing and motioning for Heavy to throw the toolbox filled with the remaining bombs. "Plantin' bombs in the off hours. Just like that soulless bloody monster tae set traps like the coward he is."

"This aggression cannot stand, boys!" RED Soldier barked, stomping his foot. "We are not about to let those maggots dance up to our doorstep and take a big fat crap on the welcome mat! They are not welcome at all!"

"To arms!" Demoman declared, storming into the base.

*

"Thanks again, guys," Miss Pauling called as the passenger door shut, Sniper and Spy stretching in the evening sun after the long drive. "Money should be in your accounts by tomorrow. And I'll try to get that new hat you were after, Sniper."

"Aces. Have a good one, Miss Paulin'."

The truck roared to life, and with a final wave, Miss Pauling sped off, kicking up a cloud of dust in her wake as she pulled out of the lot and onto the dirt road that led from the base.

"Now that that's done and over with, let's get back inside where the air conditioning actually works," Spy grumbled, fussing with his jacket. "I wish she would take Engineer up on his offers to fix that rolling heap she calls a truck."

"She's gonna run that thing until it stops rolling before she actually lets 'im look at it," Sniper chuckled, slinging his rifle across his back and heading for the base. "Means she'd 'ave to plan for downtime otherwise, and Miss Paulin' don't rightly know the meanin' of downtime."

"In spite of having one job she's managed to be an even bigger workaholic than your dear partner," Spy snorted, falling in step beside him.

The jaunt from the end of the lot to the base wasn't a particularly long one, but it did afford a view of the battlefield between buildings. Spy caught himself craning a bit to see if the team had finished, eyes widening as he saw Scout and Soldier at work, standing precariously atop the shoddy metal awning that sat over the RED base's central sniper's nest. All of that time, and they still weren't finished, and being super obvious about it. What's worse, they were going to get the attention of—

"Holy dooley!" Sniper tipped his sunglasses down as he stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide as he looked through the gap between buildings out at the field. "Is that the team? The bloody 'ell are they doin' out there?" His eye was drawn by a blur of red, and he choked on his breath. The RED team were atop one of the silos, and their Demoman was leading a charge inside, likely to get weapons. "REDs! We've gotta warn 'em; they're gonna get killed!"

"What—"

"Respawn's off, Spy! The maintenance! They're gonna get killed! Tav's out there!" Terror choked Sniper's voice as panic rose in his gut and seized his heart. He took off at a sprint for the base, gravel crunching like the churning of a runaway train with each step.

"Mundy!" Spy called, giving chase. Merde, this could not have possibly taken a worse turn.

"There, that's the last one," Scout announced, wedging the final sticky into place and clapping his hands. "Comin' down!" he called, and began to slowly hop from ledge to ledge to reach the ground. Soldier followed less elegantly, landing with a grunt beside him.

Demoman checked his watch. "Just in bloody time, too. Let's get off this field before they get back and catch us—"

"TAV!" Sniper's voice ripped across the battlefield, making the BLUs turn as he tore out of the entrance to the base, sprinting for the bridge, Spy hot on his heels. "REDs INCOMING! RESPAWN'S OFF, TAV!"

"Mickey?!"

"Catch you doin' what, ye prancin' dandies? Sneakin' ontae the field durin' a ceasefire tae set a trap like a bunch o' bloody cowards?!" From the woodwork, RED mercenaries emerged in force, weapons at the ready, their Demoman coming into view at the battlement window.

Demoman froze. None of them were armed, and if the REDs killed them, it would reveal that Respawn was still live, which would make Sniper start asking a lot of questions. And the bombs being discovered already meant they wouldn't remain until morning anyway. Everything was going tits up and panic began to simmer in his brain as Sniper crossed the bridge.

Before he could say a word, he felt a weight at his belt. He turned to see Soldier yank the detonator from his pouch with a broad grin, eyes glinting as he beheld his mortal enemy at the middle of the battlement. "See you in hell, traitor," he growled.

"CHARGE!"

"GET DOWN!"

As the REDs leapt to action, the BLUs leapt to the ground, and Soldier flipped the switch on Demoman's detonator, stopping Sniper in his tracks in the middle of the bridge, a scream ripping from his throat. Spy skidded to a stop at his side, jaw dropping open.

The bombs exploded in a deafening cacophony, rocketing paint, shrapnel, and concussive force in every direction, covering the RED base in a mixture of azure and bright crimson. Heat passed as a wave that sliced through the air with a breeze in its wake, and Sniper fell to his knees in horror.

There was blood everywhere. There was gore everywhere. Body parts, bare giblets left of what they once were, showered to the ground and splattered every surface, which dripped just as thickly with blue paint. A hopeless wail forced itself from Sniper's throat as tears flooded his eyes, his body buckling forward to support himself on his hands. Gone. They were gone. Respawn was off, there was no way that—

"Mundy," Spy murmured, laying a hand on his teammate's shoulder. "Mundy, it's fine."

"What the fuck do you mean it's fi—"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Scout groaned, dragging himself to his hands and knees, covered head to toe in a mixture of paint and viscera.

"Maybe make bombs too strong," Heavy groaned.

"Just a little," Medic grunted, almost colliding with Heavy's chin as he lifted his head, the giant having thrown himself mostly atop him to shield him. All the same, his glasses were a complete loss, one lens fully blue, one lens smeared red.

"I was right; we forgot to change the formula after all. Too much mustard on those babies," Engineer grumbled, shoving what was likely half of the RED Scout's torso off of himself and sitting up. "Everybody alright?"

A thumbs-up surged out of a heap of gore, and Pyro's muffled, "I'm okay!" sounded from beneath it.

Soldier shot to his feet, laughing. "Hell of a show, Cyclops!" he cheered, bending over to dig through some rubble and meat and tugging Demoman out of it, helping him up.

"Tavish!" Sniper gasped, scrambling to his feet. He fairly dove out of the bridge onto him, wrapping his arms around the man as he nearly tackled him right back to the ground, squeezing him hard enough to hurt. "You're okay! I thought I'd lost you! I thought—" his voice choked out, and he buried his face in the mess of blood and paint on his lover's chest, holding back a sob. "God, I thought I'd lost you."

"Takes more'n that tae be rid o' me," Demoman soothed him, rubbing circles on his back, his heart breaking for the agony he'd put Sniper through.

Sniper responded by clinging all the harder, and kissing him until they were both out of breath, unable to summon any words but a desperate, terrified, relieved whimper.

Pyro burrowed his way out of the mess of body parts he'd been buried in, wiping the lenses of his mask clean enough to see. Catching sight of his teammates' embrace, he hummed out a soft little, "Aww."

Heavy climbed to his feet and helped Medic up, giving his hand a squeeze as they looked over as well. Medic squeezed back, a fond little sound leaving him.

When at last they parted, Sniper caressed Demoman's cheek, his hand shaking, his whole body quaking with residual adrenaline. "Well. We're out of a bloody job now, aren't we though?"

"Nae danger, they'll be back soon enough," Demoman chuckled, leaning into the touch.

"No they won't. Respawn maintenance, remember? We've just killed the other team!"

Engineer let out a nervous chuckle. "Well, y'see, about that, Stretch..."

Sniper looked to Engineer in confusion. "Wait, Truckie? Aren't you supposed to be—"

"Pff, and you guys thought I was gonna ruin the surprise," Scout scoffed, getting up and casting about to find his hat.

"Surprise?" Sniper sighed. "Tav, what the hell is goin' on?"

"Er, well, y'see... we sort 'o... set this all up. The ceasefire, the alleged respawn maintenance, Miss Pauling takin' ye out for a contract..."

Sniper looked back to Spy, who simply smiled and shrugged, then slunk past them to hand Demoman a small, black box.

"Was plannin' tae paint it on the RED base so ye'd see it first thing when we started the match tomorrow. Even built special paint bombs for it so I could do it with a bang, ye ken. But I guess it didnae turn out."

"Paint what? Tav..."

Demoman took a breath and straightened up, looking Sniper in the eye with purpose, the sudden change in his bearing taking the assassin aback. "I guess this'll have tae be as explosive as it gets." He dropped to one knee and opened the box, holding it out to Sniper. Inside of it rested a gold ring inset with a sapphire surrounded by small diamond chips in the shape of a crosshairs. "Mickey, I've made a right mess o' everythin', and I never meant tae scare ye like that. If ye can forgive me, I promise tae do everythin' in me power tae never make ye fear, or cry, or hurt again. I promise tae fill yer life with nae but joy and love, like ye deserve. I'd give ye everythin', anythin', the whole bloody world if ye wanted. Ye deserve it all and more. And I hope I'm worth deservin' ye." He took the ring from the box, and slipped it onto Sniper's finger. "Michael Mundy, will ye marry me?"

A relieved sound left Sniper, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and for a second time, he crashed into Demoman, bowling him over into the sodden muck of blue and red gravel. He kissed him giddily, gleeful laughter bubbling in his throat, and when he could finally bring himself to stop kissing him long enough to speak, he pressed his forehead to Demoman's, looking into his eye. "Yes. Of course I will you beautiful idiot!"

Demoman crushed Sniper to his chest with a kiss, tears beginning to run from his eye.

"HE SAID YES!" Soldier whooped, and the team let out a cheer.

[sunflowerdigs]

But truly, as a person who hasn't really been all that comfortable in her own skin until recently and who has typically felt like she didn't fit in, it's been a real treat watching Loki find that one person who knows all of his shit but loves him in spite of (because of) it. And I think that's why it's so hard for me to understand why anyone would be clinging to Sylki at this point because Lokius is this wonderful, warm, accepting safe space. And, heck, if you only have that with your platonic friends and not your romantic partners, I don't know what to tell you. Lokius seems like the pinnacle of human connection between two people in that sense, what we're all looking for - someone who knows us because they've taken the time to learn us, and who greets every day that they get to keep knowing and learning us with delight and deep fascination.

Loki can give that gift to Sylvie, I guess, if the writers want him to. But she doesn't have the capacity to give it back yet - she's still very much in fear mode, there's no room for anybody but herself in her heart and mind right now. And that's fine, it makes total sense. But it's...illogical and unfair to say that Loki needs to wait for her to get to the point where she has the capacity to love him when there's someone else right there, right now able and willing to love him in that way. And that person is also very lonely and looking for someone to love. This isn't Sylvie's story after all - it's Loki's. It's his journey to love and acceptance, not her's.

Additionally, I think Loki wants to be the one to "fix" Sylvie in the way that Mobius "fixed" him but it doesn't really work because they're too similar, there's no room for that empathy and fascination with a different set of flaws and fears that leads to growth.

Idk. I'm fairly sure that the finale is going to be a disappointment to Lokius shippers and I'm struggling to accept that because it's been such a lovely and honest ride so far with these two. Loki literally turning to the camera in 2x05 and saying he's going to rewrite the story (so, in a meta sense, fix the flaws of the story that's been told) has given me a bit of hope, but, eh - it's Marvel. Heteronormativity will likely win out in the end. But I've had so much fun reading the reactions of other people and collecting the fic and the art. We're not wrong, we're just ahead of our time. I've gotta believe that, at some point in the future, a character as popular and beloved as Loki could get with another man without that heavy-handed, hand-holding, "this is gay, turn away now if you don't like it" kind of storytelling. Maybe not on Thursday. But someday.

[nasuversekinkmeme]

Weekly Roundup: Prompts

FSN

My most cringe prompt: Instead of modern age, the FSN Servants (somehow) got summoned in the Paleothilic, where their Masters are "UNGA BUNGA" people. Like imagine if Saber can't understand what Shirog (Caveboy Shirou) saying. Only Heracles understands caveman language.

(WARNING: MAJOR FSN SPOILERS for people just reading it now) So according to Nasu & Co., Shirou has a very low chance of becoming Archer in any route, the least in HF, with future installments implying that he could become EMIYA Alter instead via Mind of Steel ending in that route. But that does mean it's theoretically possible somewhere in the multiverse. Therefore, I'd like to see an UBW "Bad Ending" where Shirou, after years in spite of Rin at his side, becomes Archer. (Saber can be there too if you want but please keep emphasis on Shirou and Rin's dynamic.) Shirou: Become everything you swore to never be. Question if destiny can truly not be overcome. Your girlfriend begins to recognize parts of the man you never wanted to be in you and her treatment of you shifts accordingly. How do you handle any of that? How do you live with yourself and with knowing what fate awaits you? How does Rin cope with everything? What are the first signs, how well does she handle seeing Shirou slowly turn into her former servant? Knowing Archer asked her to help him and she failed? Is maybe a part of her even happy about it because she misses Archer? Just... Post-UBW Shirou turning into Archer.

(Kinda take in the HF route) Shirou Emiya just arrives at the Gate of Hell after his death due to destroy the Grail. His body was the same as the day he was born (no clothes). Shirou, like many other naked souls just arrived at Lake Acheron, waiting for Charon the ferryman to ferry them. While Shirou has ignore the cries of the souls from the Vestibule of Hell and the ones on the same boat with him. There is one cry that he heard: It was Shinji, who was punished in the 3rd ring of the 7th Circle. (Basically a Shirou meets Shinji again in Hell). Kirei Kotomine is Hell's tour guide, and Shirou gets to beat Shinji up for what he did to Sakura.

EXTRAVERSE

M!Hakuno/Nameless (EMIYA, Archer, insert your name of choice here) Something. Please. (If NSFW, bonus points for Top Hakuno, but I'm not picky)

APOCRYPHA

Fate Apocrypha but everyone has a mustache.

FGO

Achilles and Odysseus having a very romantic day at an amusement park.

Gudako/Mashu cuddle?

Woodwose and Boggart screams because they're slept together on the same bed at the morning. (Mainly due to the wines they drank last night)

Middle school Guda and Mori Nagayoshi meeting for the first time in an All Boys' Only MIddle School. (OC2 prompt)

smut, yakudou cnc/ntr play. One of them gets tied up in a corner and is forced to watch while the other "assault" the third one, bragging about how good it feels to fuck them, how the other clearly WISHES they could partake, making fun of both the "assaulted" and the rope bunny for getting turned on by the situation, ect. No preference as to who plays which part.

age gap, mash/roman as a ship. can be anything from "mash has a one-sided crush that roman gently turns down" to "roman being the only person to show affection to this homunculus is taken to its logical grooming extreme." All I ask of you is to not make it a sweet unproblematic ship. It's a fucked up dynamic I wanna see the fucked up dynamic.

nsfw, Ritsuka sandwiched between both Dantes (NSFW) (preferred if ritsuka was gender neutral)

I reaaally want to see a fic where gudao and mash end up in a romantic relationship... because that's the natural course of action, right? A boy and a girl, as close as they are, surely it HAS to be for romance reasons, right? What they're feeling for each other MUST be romantic love, right??? (you get an extra kiss on the forehead if you make one/both of them realize they're queer along the way. Could be they're both gays. Could be that Mash is straight but Gudao realizes she's a trans girl. Could be that one of them is aro. Whatever you want!)

age gap, Mash and Goredolf. Stuck in a room you can't leave unless you have sex. (You don't actually have to include sex if you don't want to, mostly I REALLY want to see those two grappling with the whole "I wouldn't in a million year consider you a romantic option and yet here we are.")

Olga Marie going through the Grand Order with Ritsuka and Mash and getting hit on by at least one Servant per Singularity. Yes that includes the events.

SAMREM

Iori realizes theyre trans. I dunno what this would change, if anything, but it happens and at the very least it results in a thumbs up from Rogue Berserker.

ANY

Nasuversekinkmeme as a Master. (The entire blog, obviosuly)

The nasukinkmeme mod as a fate servant

My request is... self inserts!! I want you guys to draw/write yourselves as servants. What's your class ? Whose servant would be your homies? How well would you fair in a holy grail war? Cringe culture is dead, go buckwild!!

[askstevella]

Steve & The Body Pillow // Stevella Fic

- Steve Rogers x Wife!OC

As of late Stella has been obsessed with her new Instagram account since she started posting pictures on there. She wasn’t much of a social media person but currently posting on her story and sharing pictures has become her favorite thing after noticing a couple of their friends do it.

Meanwhile Steve is not.

He could care less about social media platforms. However, he does use them for plenty of reasons himself such as posting pictures of events he’s at, announcements about things like getting a dog or building something for himself and videos of his friends and family members.

Of course he found it nice that his wife wanted to showcase her life on the internet and know what others are up to.

He liked it and told her if he liked a photo or not in her comment section with a remark about it.

One day he decided to have a little fun with his wife’s new tendency toward her phone.

After a long day of working, taking Astro for a walk with the family and helping their friends with dinner, Stella wanted nothing more than to cuddle up with her husband.

As her head hit the pillow, she lets out a content sigh. She smiles to herself and cozies up under the blankets.

Steve joins her a few minutes later and so does an obnoxiously large pillow. Stella has seen a couple versions of that pillow being past around the gang plenty of times before. Steve insisted it could help with his sleep and seeing how popular it was with blogs posts he saw in the group chat with the heroes.

Mia got it for Rochelle who later on gave it to Liane then it pasted onto Rick and so forth. Soon enough everyone was using it to sleep!

It got to a point where they had to buy a couple hundred more of the damn pillow.

Here Stella was staring at the thing. She didn’t think it would end up taking up half of the bed and keeping Steve away from her. She’s been so used to cuddling Steve for years, and now that damn pillow was preventing her from getting close.

Steve rolled his eyes, “I swear you’re someone else sometimes.”

“This isn’t fair. I wanted cuddles with my hunk of a man after a long day!” She complains.

“And I want to be able to sleep without my back hurting but here we are.”

“I’ll give you a back massage.”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll be the big pillow you need instead of that thing.”

“Nope.”

She huffed with her arms cross, “How am I gonna get any sleep now?”

“Close your eyes and count some sheep.” Steve curls up around his body pillow, his eyes closing and a soft smile of contentment appearing over his face.

However she was still pouting.

“What now?” Steve asks, his eyes still shut and a heavy sigh leaving his lips.

“How do you do that?” She sits up and leans in to wave her hand in front of Steve’s face. “Do you have an extra pair of eyes?”

He chuckled, “Stop babe. I want some sleep.”

“I wanted to be your body pillow and have some cuddles. That’s all I ask..”

“Why? So you can post more about it? No thanks.”

Stella’s eyebrow furrowed a bit as she let that sink in and scoffed, “Oh! So that’s what this is all about? You brought that damn pillow out of spite.”

“I knew you would figure it out. Why are you being so annoying?” He said as he sassed her and shoot his eyes open.

“And why you being so mean?”

“What! I am not being mean.”

“Oh right, no, you’re being petty.”

“Babe.”

“…okay fine, I can be annoying.”

“Try a lot.”

“Okay, I’ve been very annoying lately with my posting phase. I’m sorry.”

“I just wish you wouldn’t document every single thing we do.”

“But you said that you found it nice and I can post stuff about our lives—”

“I know what I said! But sometimes I want you to put the phone down and focus on what’s happening in front of you instead of experiencing it all through the phone.”

Stella felt slightly uncomfortable by his words, she knew he was right, but she hated that he had to go out and say it like that. She huffed and pouted, crossing her arms.

“Don’t even give me that look.” Steve said.

“What look?” She replied.

“You know the look. Sorry, sweetheart, but it’s the truth. Let me ask you something.”

“Mhm..”

“Why are you here being obsessed with this?”

“Uh…I don’t know, I fell in love with sharing our stories instead of the press releasing stuff about our experiences..”

That caused Steve to paused and rested his head against the pillow to face her better. He knew Stella enjoy the game of social media but hated the press coverage with great passion, hell they were the ones who told the world about them and their relationship first. Not them!

She didn’t get a say in what happened or could be said. He didn’t like it either—he hated it, he wasn’t one to be the news outlets dancing monkey.

He then asked, “So your doing this, for fans, friends and whatnot could get to know us better..? Not to have pressure of the press on our backs..”

She just nodded and covered her face. She sniffled chuckling at how easy and silly it sounded, yet it looked like a whole bunch of other things.

“Babe, I get it.” Steve said after a brief silence before letting out a sigh, “But I do want you to experience things in the moment and not across a phone. Not post about every single thing, okay?”

“It’s getting kinda annoying, isn’t it?” She muttered.

“Yeah. It is. Next time tell me what you’re doing or what you’re going to post.”

“Why? So you can have a piece of all the action too?”

Steve nodded and smirked, “I mean, yeah! I want to have a say in this.”

“Fair, you should.” She replied chuckling a bit, “I will let you know what happens and you can have a say in all of it.”

“And I was always the better photographer anyway.”

“Hey!”

“Just stating the facts!”

Stella playfully glares at him meanwhile Steve just laughed and snorted.

“Can I have my husband please?” She pleaded chuckling.

“Let me think.” He stated and then smirked, “No.”

“Excuse me?! We made up, this is part where we get to kiss and cuddle.”

“You need a tiny punishment, for at least a little while longer.”

“Steve…”

“You’ll get your cuddles in the morning instead.”

“I—!”

He suddenly looped his finger underneath her chin and pressed a soft kiss against her lips. She made a soft noise at the action then smiled pressing a kiss in return.

//

And we’re done! ✔️ Let me know what you think 💭

Tags 🏷️ @rickb-chaos @purpleprincessonfyre @marvelsfavoriteuncle @therealdaydreamstark @ask-missparker @ask-starrk @askstevella @sci-fi-lexcon @luna-d-marsh @ethan-lensherr @wizzzardofoz z @thechoooooosenone @jackiequick @gcthvile @cherrysft @blueboirick @meiramel @elzabeth-stark @missstrawbs2001 @trulysummersprivate @yetanotherwells @gaminggirlsstuff @fluffystevefest

[queen0fm0nsterz]

Love Seafarers. 10/10 concept, wish more people would explore it.

AHHHHH every time I get asks like these I giggle and kick my feet hehe... thank you so much! I'm glad peeps are enjoying Seafarers just as much as I am. It is a concept I'm surprised no one has tackled before -- to my knowledge at least... I've seen many AUs tied to Thin Dad, how it would have gone differently if he and the kids teamed up during the final battle, but never something similar tied to the Lady. Honestly it doesn't surprise me all that much. Thin Man is easier to empathize with, I suppose.

Back when it was just LN I the general belief had people believe Six and the Lady were already related anyway, rendering a "Lady Mom AU" sort of the default. There was no need to explore what it'd be like if the Lady survived, and if she and Six were forced to live side by side: it was already assumed that they had. Plus, people were never super interested in delving into the Lady anyway. (Banging my head against the wall so loud you can hear it through the post) However, me being me, I always thought she was an interesting enough character to make for a protagonist. An incredibly unlikeable one, obviously, but I've seen peeps say her inner monologues are fun to read because of how awful she is, so I guess introducing her POV before Six's was the right decision after all?

Truth be told, I think this kind of story would not work if it was soley from Six's point of view - or soley from the Lady's. You need both. The few fics I've read where the two interact are usually from Six's pov, which I like, so I tried considering it but when I was planning for Seafarers it just didn't hit the same without the Lady. Likewise, I considered leaving the POV soley on the Lady (as you could see in the first chapters where I was experimenting with it), and while I was satisfied with what she had going on, her inability to put herself in Six's shoes was a serious drawback. I think reading their back and forth is a lot more entrataining than just sticking to one of them permanently.

Writing them is fun because they are similar, but different enough that they can never see eye to eye (LMFAOOOOO). They're both prideful and spiteful, they both would rather do things by themselves as lone wolves, and they both will not concede to the other no matter what. I love them, personally.

I'm SUPER excited to start introducing... the others.

[epickiya722]

6,7,9,10 for the choose violence ask for both MHA and JJK

6. Which ship fans are the most annoying?

For both fandoms, I can find anyone annoying no matter specifically what they ship. Now, if I had to be specific, it has to be people who hate on a ship who are clearly just homophobic.

I recently had been called an "imbecile" by someone over an innocent ItaFushi post and found out they found the ship "diabolical".

Twice, one for each fandom, I made a post about F/F ships and someone had to bring up a M/F ship. Honey, please, I don't care. BEGONE, HEATHEN!

But again, no matter what they ship, if they annoy me, they annoy me.

7. What character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because of how the fandom acts about them?

Okay, for MHA, I don't actually hate Hawks. I'm more so indifferent with him even when he did appear. However, sometimes in fandom, I find his presence annoying. Especially, whenever Miruko is involved. I was recently salty for a week because for the Miruko tags, it his face there and the artwork centered around him.

Like, no, last time I checked Miruko was a bunny woman. Not a blond bird man whose jacket I have a disdain for.

I even once wrote a fic out of spite because someone said something about Miruko and hyped up Hawks and I'm like "She didn't do anything to warrant this slander but alright". Ever since then, Hawks would sometimes be the butt monkey in my fics. I actually was thinking about doing a sequel to that fic, too.

For JJK, it only recently became Yuta. Now, unlike Hawks, I don't actually not feel anything towards Yuta. I do like him.

However, I have a deep seething hatred for those who constantly bash Yuji to hype him up. Yuta is cool, but he is not that fucking cool to bash Yuji. Come on now. I hate it whenever I go on a post anywhere and someone will talk about Yuji's accomplishments or just only mention Yuji and some assholes will be like "well, Yuta this" and "Yuta that". Yuta is rocking the teenage boy version of Yuji's mom's haircut, so stop.

9. Worst part of canon?

Okay, did Miruko have to lose 3 of her limbs? Her arm? I was fine with that. A leg, I was actually confused for a while as to how she even lost it until I went back and saw what happened but I don't think she should have completely cut it off. 😭 Her other arm? Okay... her and Edgeshot are definitely the Heroes who lost the most in the final war. Mind you, Miruko's Quirk has her use her limbs. I'm glad she got her a little bazooka in the end, but she low-key sacrificed a lot more than other Heroes.

I actually wrote a fic addressing that because I'm salty about it. It was my recent Miruko-centric fic.

Okay, for JJK... do I have anything? Nothing really actually aggravated me... okay, I think Choso shouldn't have died. Or Yuki. I think about them and start punching the air.

10. Worst part of fanon?

Where to begin here? I feel like there are so many things.

For JJK, I low-key have a disdain for the first person who misinterpreted Gojo would be a fucking playboy. Like, no he wouldn't be in a committed relationship because he can't be loyal because "he's a man, he has needs" or whatever bullshit reason. It's because he's a jujutsu sorcerer! And one of the busiest ones in top of that! Hell, we just found out what his schedule looks like, he wouldn't have time to commit!

There's also how dumb some people tend to make Yuji. Like... he's dumb, he even admits it but I think it's just more so that he's not motivated to learn certain things and he just thinks he is. He's smarter than what he (and the fandom) gives him credit for.

And some of the memes? Don't find funny at all. I actually got tired of the "Nah, I'd win" memes I kept seeing. And how Yuta would make fun of someone for having "No bitches". That's stupid, I hate it.

For MHA, again some memes I just don't find funny. Recently any meme I see about "Midoriya being a fast food worker", who makes them instantly has me wishing they step on a Lego. And just saying, fast food workers have probably done more for anybody than certain people. Or that "Katsuki stole Ochako" from him is definitely a case of "those are OCs with the same name" because we know damn well canon Katsuki ain't touching Ochako like that with even a ten foot long pole and vice versa on her end.

Playboy Katsuki? Yeah, not really my favorite portrayal of him in fiction like that. I can see him being very popular and having a lot of girl fans because that's canon, it makes sense. But hooking up with a lot of people? And using it as some "escape" or whatever? Yeah... eh...

Also, sometimes I feel like folks want to use that "Black Best Friend" trope on Miruko whenever it comes to Hawks and DabiHawks. Like, she got to be his hype man or something. The idea doesn't appeal to me really.

Choose Violence Ask Game

[shi-daisy]

Surprise self-rec time! Pick 3 of your favorite things you’ve written and share them here, then put this in the inbox (anonymously or not) of your fellow writers to spread the positivity and help celebrate already written fics

(First of all, TUMBLR STRIKES AGAIN I HAVE NO IDEA WHY IT UNFOLLOWED YOU WHAT IS HAPPENING)

(Second of all, little side quest from me, tell me what inspired your fics, why you love them so much, how they came to be, etc etc, I wanna know ALL!!)

Absjkwk Tumblr is crazy don't worry about it this happens all the time. Okay time to gush!

I'll start with the oldest fic since I got a comment on it today and I was like 'oh right, I wrote you in 2018!'

Road to Redemption (Bleach)- This was spite concentrated basically. Bleach was my favorite anime until the abysmal final arc and the atrocious ending we got. So this was me rewriting it with every single thing I wanted and never got, getting all my pairs together and most importantly giving my favorite characters the endings I feel they deserved. It's been 8 years since the story's end and four since this fic was finished and while I still hate what went down in canon I am happy to have given my faves some peace in fanfic world. That's enough for me to take a break from this Fandom though I have two more sequels with the cast since I've loved them from 2010 onwards and that's probably gonna stick with me into old age. I just want them all to be happy.

Road to Ruin (Bleach)- Same as Road to Redemption but for the villians. Bleach has some of the best and most sympathetic villians you'll find. But the writer doesn't do much with them, so I said it f it and gave them all time to shine. You know how I love Tamlin? Well the same goes for Sosuke Aizen. That man owns my soul and if his writer won't hype him up then I shall. This is my favorite fic in terms of writing because is pure self indulgence and I adore the protagonist. I miss writing it so so much!

Five Missed Calls (Disventure Camp) - Not much to say here, it was mostly feels and headcanons that fueled this fic and for once the gods answer my prayers we might get a spinoff with the couple in question but back when I wrote it I was just angst ridden and needed some content to comfort me. Loads of people liked it tho, so I'm happy the sadness fueled headcanons were enjoyable.

A Court of Threads & Daisies (A Court of Thorns & Roses)- IF SJM WONT GIVE TAMLIN A HAPPY END ILL DO IT MYSELF ALSO FUCK YOU RHYSAND GO DIE IN A FIRE! Okay I'm calm now.

This was just meant to be fluff. It spiraled into more because this darn universe is so fun to play with and I really wanted everyone to find joy. (Not just Tamlin) So like with the Bleach fics I said 'Fuck it! Self indulgent rewrite it is!' It's been so fun to write this fic, the characters that became my favorites very quickly (Nemesis & Lazarus Ily ♥) the fluff, the headcanons, getting everyone to have their proper arcs and mostly spreading joy it's been a delight. More than the fic itself I love the people I've met and befriended because of it. As I hadn't thought of Acotar since 2017 but now it's rotting my mind again 😂 Most of all you and your support made this a delight for me to write and while I love the fic and will forever be glad I made it, what I love most about it it's that got me to meet you. Love you buddy!

A Court of Emerald & Sapphire (A Court of Thrones & Roses)- Like Road to Ruin it's a self indulgent prequel to the main fic that you can skip if you don't want the extra info but man do I love it. I'm thinking of editing and rewriting it to have more chapters because these ocs of mine have stolen my heart. They're baby and it's so much fun to plan a revolution with them against Rhysand. I wrote it as just extra info but it was a delight to make and I love my ocs so much. (Also my proud ass is thriving as the only Keir/Oc Acotar fic. That man is mine and mine alone 😈)

The Running Free (Danganronpa: Despair Time) - For as much as I love Danganronpa I don't often write for it as it's one of the rare fandoms where I don't take issue with the writing at all. This is just a one-shot with my crackship for this Fandom but it was fun to write and I love how despite it being super niche people seemed to enjoy it. Probably will be rendered null by canon if either of the characters involved is guilty when Chapter 2 concludes but hey, I have a sequel planned if that's the case 😉

A Court of Blaze & Sorrow (A Court of Thorns & Roses).- Acotad was meant to be 10 chapters of fluff and calling the IC out at the end...Why does it have two sequels?!?!? Anywho, the short story, I wanted to include Autumn in acotad but it was Tamlin's story so I gave Nesta and the Autumn Court their own fic. The long story, this fic is therpahy. Many things delved in it are there not just because I want to do the themes and characters justice but because they help me heal. Particularly addressing a though relationship with an abusive parent or a neglectful parent. In my case, mine's dead but even if it's been two years the struggles haven't fully left me and it's been therapeutic to handle that while tackling these characters who also have one parent who loves them yet (unwittingly) neglected them and one parent who limited their self expression, was physically and emotionally abusive, and in some cases even ignored the mental illnesses he himself exacerbated. It's not over yet but I feel really comforted by it and confident that I'll make everyone proud by the end.

The Jeweled Dragon (A Song of Ice & Fire)- Look you give me a rebellious princess that escapes and disowns her abusive family and becomes a badass sex worker plus she also never married had a bisexual polycule and refused the throne/ spat on the legacy of the fucker who abused her and I am yours baby! Saera Targaryen you are mother! Okay jokes aside her story fascinates me and while I love GRRM's attention to detail and meticulous planning I'm sad he didn't tell us more of what happened to her. So this is just my take on it. Also I loved some other characters here that deserved some love and more than to be a footnote in Westerosi history. They'll get their just desserts too but Saera is my star and I'm forever salty at HOTD for daring to sully her name. (Season 2 sucks and on behalf of Team Green I'm making a sequel and rescuing the babies from the TV writers!)

Heart to Heart (Disventure Camp)- It was gonna be a spite fueled one-shot. Then the season got so bad I had to rewrite (common theme here) also FUCK YOU CONNOR BLAKE, AND FUCK WHOEVER DECIDED TO BREAK UP THE BEST DUO OF THE SEASON ALEC AND RIYA ARE PEAK! End scream.

I don't wanna spoil much since you told me you want to get into this Fandom soon but I'll just say it's been such a delight to write this and to meet like minded people who wanted better for these characters and to give them better ends. (Also making my fave ship canon and running laps around the writers in the official show server has given me a fucking ego) It's so much fun to write. I love making angst romance and I am exicted to give my villianess girlie a befitting end.

Bonus:

Transformers fic (Transformers) with @maplesamurai - What's better than writing? Writing with your beloved bf!

Now this was just us being silly and coming up with goofy ocs but given the flexibility of the Transformers Fandom we chose to make our own story and it's been a blast, it's still a bunch of drafts but I am exited for it to be done and to share it with everyone because it has so much effort and love put into it that I am certain it will be beloved. Decepticon centric fic lets go we will give our badies their day in the sun! Also Maple is a freaking genius and a delight to write with, love you babe this has been so much fun!

Those are all the fics so far so I hope this has made you as giddy as me. Love ya bud!

[kellycataclysm]

B

C

D

I

W

M

Ooooo! Thank you! Such good letters here! You didn't say sweet or spicy so I did a mix of the two. Settle in as this is a long one!

D is for Domestic. Both Lyra and Harvey were ready to settle down, even if she didn’t really know it until she met him. He comes from a loving home, an only child to supportive parents, so it was something he wanted for himself. While the valley is a lot quieter than the outer suburbs of the city where he grew up, he wanted the kind of family life where his children could have a dog, play outside. Porch swing and white picket fence, the whole nine yards. She also comes from a supportive family, also hoping to find that in a relationship. They’re both working so hard to have that now. In spite of their problems, which were about intimacy and communication, both of them take an equal share in running the home. Harvey enjoys his routine and loves making family breakfast on the weekends. Both of them are tidy people, but their home often has books everywhere, as they are avid readers. Let’s also remember that they have a child and there are toys around the place, but they would rather see toys on the floor than not as it means Evie is having fun. 

C was answered here and here.

I is for I Love You. Anyone who has read the long fic and Ask Me Anything (which might one of my favourite things I’ve written) would know that even though Lyra and Harvey started as friends, they were attracted to each other from the start. Slowly, as they spent more time together they began to develop real feelings for each other. By the time of AMA they were clearly head over heels. But they had been hurt before and definitely saw value in having a good friend in the valley, both having left their entire lives behind to start again. So rather than jeopardise that, it took them a while to make a move. Once they did, they fell hard and fast. (Yes, they slept together after their first date, just a week after their first kiss.) However, it took them a little longer to say those three little words. Lyra, being a little more spontaneous and a little less cautious asked Harvey to kiss her and then was also the first one to say the words. They first kissed around seven months after first meeting and around two months later said ‘I love you’. Harvey proposed just a few weeks later. After those first cautious months, they very much rushed in to everything else, almost afraid of letting the other slip away. 

B is for Body Part. Lyra has freckly skin and Harvey absolutely loves to brush her hair behind her ear, very delicately and slowly trace his fingertip along her ear, pausing at those star earrings, down her neck, following the action with featherlight kisses along to her shoulders. He also can’t get enough of the soft skin on her back, running his fingertips up and down her spine. He is borderline obsessed with her back and shoulders. She knows all of this, so being the flirtatious tease that she is, often chooses clothes that will show off her shoulders and back, like the beautiful green silk dress she wore for their New Years Eve in the city.

Harvey is tall with broad shoulders and a delicious hairy chest. Lyra is a swooning mess at the sight of him without a shirt, immediately coming in close to lightly scratch her fingernails through his chest hair and down the little happy trail that runs south from his belly button… 

Is Harvey a boob or an ass man? He’s both. Lyra is relatively slim but has some curves, so he loves to smooth his hands over her hips before going in for a quick squeeze of her ass. He is spectacularly handsy, so you can be sure that he’s going in for a boob grab when they’re all snuggled up under the covers. 

M is for Motivation - what turns them on? Many things. Physical touch. Those gentle caresses, a fingertip running over soft skin. A deep and passionate kiss that makes their head spin. A spark in the eye that says exactly what they’re thinking. Flirtatious banter, which in the case of these two is often the most dorky humour that makes them both laugh, followed by the sweetest praise and the dirtiest talk. A romantic setting. A special outfit. Lyra and Harvey, you can both go straight to horny jail. (No it’s fine, I’ll let them keep having some fun.)

W is for Wild Card - Praise kink. He calls her a ‘Good Girl’ she all but disintegrates. She would let him do almost anything. Which leads to his voice. Harvey is polite, smart and well-spoken. He will whisper praise as sweet as honey, his lips pressed gently to her skin, almost writing poetry on her body with his words. He also has a delightful tone of authority that he will use from time to time and hoo boy, her cheeks will become dusted pink and she will listen. Read Mirror Mirror for the moment he says the words ‘Eyes on me’ and you’ll see how she feels. As for Harvey, he loves to hear that he is giving her what she needs. At her words, he will become so flustered, so eager to please. Don’t worry, he knows what he’s doing, so there’s no problem there.

(Side note - I am really feeling that I want to write something where Lyra is the one in control. How do we feel about that? Maybe after I write Harvey’s Birthday?)

Thank you so much for sending these in. I had so much fun writing them!

[darl-ingfics]

Hello! So excited to see a K-pop sickfic page with love for older groups!!!

May I request of you a shinee fic for Key or Taemin (no preference tbh) but with something snz related if you would mind 😊

Thank you! Love your posts 🫶

Oh boy!!! So happy to have another older group lover here, and it was so fun to write this for you, if you can't tell from the word count. I decided to just include both Key and Taemin cause why not? Sincerely hope you enjoy!!!

Finish Your Glass of Whine

Fandom: SHINee

Sickie: Key/Kibum, Taemin

Caregiver(s): Onew/Jinki

Word Count: 2,102

Notes: Title comes from Dua Lipa's "Blow Your Mind (Mwah)." It just feels like it fits, because there is a fever-induced, stream-of-consciousness rant section towards the ends.

Kibum did not feel good, and that a tragic reality he was struggling to deal with. When Taemin had called him crying two days ago, sick as a dog and unable to get ahold of his mom or Jinki, he hadn’t expected to end up just as ill in less than 48 hours. He’d been so safe about it too: always masked up, constantly cleaning things, drinking extra water. The one thing he was refusing to acknowledge, however, was how Taemin basically clung to him the entire time so all of those precautions were null and void. But what was he supposed to do? 

So here they were, confined to Taemin’s apartment, wasting away together.

When Kibum had woken up on the couch an hour ago, coughing like his life depended on it, unable to sit up at first because his legs were tangled with Taemin’s, he’d seriously considered crying. He wanted to just snap his fingers and be well again. No more fever, no more coughing, no more sneezing and sniffling. Just healthy. But he wasn’t a wizard, so he’d just have to suffer it out. Kibum had decided he had the energy to take a shower, and prayed that would relieve some of the awfulness. And the shower had helped him feel marginally less congested, but he still overall felt icky, and that just made him even more upset. 

While deep in his self pity hole, Kibum trudged back into the living room and nearly screamed at the sight of a man turning the corner from the kitchen. His sharp gasp caught in this throat, triggering a coughing fit that had him bent at the waist. Warm hands surrounded him, one holding onto his arm and the other supporting his back until he was finally able the fit subsided. Standing back up, breathing steadily, Kibum made eye contact with Jinki and nearly melted on the spot. He had entirely forgotten that Taemin had put in another call to both Jinki and Minho, and the older of the two had promised to stop over later, finally free from the solo schedules that had kept him away from his phone over the past 48 hours.

“Hyung,” he whined in spite of himself, shoulders slumping as he was pulled into a hug. Kibum closed his eyes, attempted to breathe in the familiar scent of his friend’s clothes, but coming up short. 

“Kibummie,” Jinki replied, running a soothing hand up and down the younger man’s back. “Tell me how you’re feeling. What can I do for you?” 

“I feel like shit,” Kibum answered. He tightened his hold on Jinki’s waist, deepening the hug. This was what he needed, someone to take care of him. Not that Taemin hadn’t been doing that, but it was hard to really do much when you were both so out of it. 

When he didn’t say anything else, Jinki laughed, the vibration of his chest coursing through Kibum too. “I’m gonna need a bit more than that, bud. Why don’t we get you back to the couch first?” Kibum nodded against Jinki’s shoulder, and reluctantly released him from the hug. He scrubbed at his nose, lurching away from the older man with a violent, “Iitchou! H-ikt-choo!” 

“Bless you.” Jinki snatched a few tissues from the box on the side table, passing them to Kibum before moving towards the couch. “Aw, Minnie,” he sighed at the sight of the youngest curled up there, a tangle of blankets, one of Kibum’s hoodies, and ridiculous bedhead. He instinctively moved towards him, but was startled back when Kibum grabbed him by the shoulders. 

“Don’t wake him! He’s sick!” Kibum hissed, physically trying to pull him away from Taemin. The youngest was by far the lightest sleeper in the group, but had the ability to sleep through an earthquake when he didn’t feel well. A simple tap to his forehead wasn’t going to wake him up by a long shot. But now that Jinki was focused on Taemin, Kibum was too, and his fever-addled brain had switched itself back into caretaker mode, so that wasn’t a battle Jinki was willing to fight right now. 

“Yes, I know, and so are you.” Jinki pressed a hand to Kibum’s forehead as if to check the fever he’d already felt earlier. “And you’re burning up, my friend. Which is why you both need to be medicated.”

Kibum huffed, stepping back so he could petulantly fold his arms over his chest. “I’m fine compared to him.” The sneeze that bent him at the waist after that statement said otherwise. 

Jinki rolled his eyes. One crisis at a time. “Whatever you say.” The leader turned his back on Kibum for the moment, kneeling next to the couch and gently shaking Taemin’s shoulder. The younger man groaned quietly. “Taeminnie? You gotta wake up for a minute, buddy.” Bleary eyes cracked open. 

“Hyung?” His voice was rough, hoarse and gravelly from sleep and sickness. 

Jinki pushed his bangs away from his face, unmoved by how sweaty they were. “Hey there, love.” 

“When did you get here?” 

“You called me this morning, remember?” Taemin just blinked at him, his brain still waking up. “I got here maybe fifteen minutes ago? I brought food, meds, and tea’s already steeping for you both. You should definitely drink that and take more medicine before falling back asleep.”

Taemin nodded. “Okay.” He rubbed at his eyes and started to wriggle into a sitting position as Jinki ruffled his hair. The older man got back to his feet and headed for the kitchen. 

“Sit.” He pushed Kibum gently towards the couch. The other man pouted. Sure, he wanted to be taken care of more than anything, but he also hated being told what to do. Especially when his head was hazy with fever. It was a conundrum his members were, fortunately, familiar with.

“Hyungie, sit,” Taemin repeated, patting the couch next to him. Kibum huffed, opting to slump into the recliner instead, pulling his knees to his chest. There: he was sitting, but on his own terms. 

“Okay, it’s been sitting for a few minutes so it should be perfect to drink,” Jinki announced, carefully carrying in two steaming mugs. He placed them both on the coffee table, then turned back to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Taemin asked. 

“To get mine, silly,” Jinki answered with a smile. “I’ve learned not to try to carry three mugs at once.”

“I’m genuinely shocked you got two without spilling,” Kibum replied, reaching for his mug and savoring the heat of it between his palms. He took a careful sip, and felt tears spring to his eyes at how good the hot liquid felt on his sore throat. Jinki had always had a way of making tea exactly how people needed it; extra sweet on a lazy morning, cozy and creamy before bed, honeyed and fruity when sick. “It’s like a superpower,” Kibum declared, unaware he was speaking aloud. 

“Huh?” Taemin blinked at him, taking a sip from his own tea.

Kibum blinked back, totally confused. “What?” But he was saved from having to explain himself as Taemin pitched towards his left arm with a desperate “Ht’choo!”as he thrust his right arm holding the mug away, trying not to spill. Kibum instinctively grabbed the mug from him. “Ht’choo! Hah-ETchu!” 

“Bless you.” Jinki settled onto the floor in front of the coffee table, creating a triangle. 

“Can’t even enjoy tea,” Taemin moaned, collapsing back against the couch. He accepted the mug back from Kibum, sniffling miserably. “I hate this.”

“Me too.” Kibum raised his mug in solidarity. 

“I hate it for you both,” Jinki added, mimicking Kibum’s toast with his own mug. 

“Tell us about your project,” Taemin prompted, eager to think about something else for a while. Jinki happily obliged, explaining the concept for his next mini album, the ideas for the title track MV, and all of the recordings he’d been working on the past week. Taemin was entirely focused on Jinki’s stories, and while Kibum was also listening, he found his mind beginning to wander as he reached the bottom of his mug. 

Their current situation, Kibum had decided (and was now unknowingly explaining aloud to his suddenly captive audience of two,) was not Taemin’s fault. No. Their current situation was entirely Minho’s fault. As most things were when one really thought about it. (Jinki and Taemin exchanged a glance, one Kibum didn’t notice at all as he was currently sporting the miles-long stare reserved for the deeply drunk or terribly feverish. They opted to let Kibum continue rather than interrupt him like he’d interrupted Jinki). 

Taemin had been spending majority of his time this month practicing and promoting with the SuperM boys, so obviously he’d caught this cold from one of them, probably Mark, cause that kid was sick all the time, but that was a conversation for another day. Regardless, Taemin gets sick from SuperM, and then he has two days of solo filming, much of it outside, in this weather, only making things worse. And when he’d spiked a fever and tried to call his mom at 1:30am two days ago, she didn’t answer. And then Jinki, his next call, hadn’t answered either, which they knew was because Jinki himself had been up and busy working on his own solo filming, thankfully inside. So Taemin had called Kibum, now significantly more worked up, and how was Kibum supposed to ignore his dongsaeng when he was crying? So obviously, the blame fell entirely on one person. Choi Minho. Because where even was he? Their maknae was in trouble and was he anywhere to be found? No. Because he was ashamed to show his face after causing them such strife in the first place. 

Jinki, who had been listening with the patience of an absolute saint as Kibum narrated all of this, smiled to himself as he nodded along. The line of logic had completely dropped off, but Kibum was still going, waxing poetic on all of Minho’s supposed cirmes. The leader decided a while ago to let Kibum talk himself into exhaustion,  questioning if the cold medicine he’d slipped into the tea earlier was actually the drowsy kind or not, considering that it seemed to be having the opposite effect on Kibum. 

Which couldn’t be said for Taemin, who was already falling back asleep sitting up when he innocently asked, “Are you done?” Kibum paused. Taemin didn’t look annoyed, but genuinely curious. 

“What?” the older man asked, confused. 

“Talking. Are you done talking?” Taemin clarified, completely unaffected. There was something so genuine and harmless about the question that even Kibum couldn’t snap at him. 

“I mean… I guess,” the older man shrugged. “Why?”

Taemin held out an arm. “Come cuddle with me?” Kibum blinked, suddenly aware that he was extremely tired. His throat hurt a little less, his head felt a bit less stuffy, but the desire to sleep was immediately overpowering. Without a word, he stood and practically fell forward onto the couch, latching onto Taemin. He could never deny Taemin anything. 

“Hyung, will you come cuddle with us too?” Taemin asked as he shifted to more comfortably accommodate Kibum’s presence on the couch. 

“Maybe later. It’s probably best if one of us stays healthy,” Jinki smiled back at him. 

“Minho would cuddle with us,” Kibum grumbled in response. It took everything in Jinki not to burst out laughing at that. “And you have a better immune system than him anyway.”

“Minho really lives rent free in your brain, doesn’t he?” Jinki asked back. Kibum tried to hit him despite the presence of an entire coffee table’s length between them. Jinki laughed, grabbing a blanket that had fallen to the floor and carefully wrapping it around the pair on the couch. “Get some sleep, and we can call Minho so you can nag him when you wake up.” 

“Ooo, Minho-hyung would love that,” Taemin sighed, only retaining the part about calling Minho. Jinki chuckled again, patting each of them on the head.

As the leader collected the now empty mugs, Kibum pointed out, “Hey, you never gave us medicine.”

“Oh no, I did. It was in the tea.”

Kibum blinked. “What?”

“I mixed the extra strength cold medicine I knew you were gonna fight me on into the tea.” Jinki shrugged. “I’ve been doing it for years. You and Minho fought me too much early on, so I adapted.”

Despite his eyes dropping closed, Kibum pouted. “You bastard.” 

“Love you too, Ki. Now get some sleep.” 

[ohgodimafraud]

hollister

lmao here is my attempt at a j/jk fic

post-canon au

about 1k words,

characters: goj/o, me//gumi, yu/ji, no/bara

set in future au they're all 21+

The last thing Gojo had expected when passing by a department store with youthful beach attire was to have his mind zip back to another time. That Hawaiian shirt on display is the same one he’d seen on Geto over a decade ago in the “before times,” back when they’d spent the weekend at the beach. It’d been unbuttoned, revealing the abs from all of his training, his smile burned into Gojo’s memory. His lips had tasted like seawater, and the shirt had stayed on as they'd explored each other for the first and last time, the first and last time he’d truly felt human. A bittersweet taste forms in his mouth as he tries to walk past the store.

Could it be that the old style is coming back? Maybe he’d been ahead of his time in fashion. 

Gojo’s reflection stares back at him as he decides to head in. A lot of these clothes are his style, and he’s wondering how he’s never been in this store before. 

Immediately, his question is answered as he walks in. The store is dimly lit and music blasts like he���s in some sort of nightclub, but even that doesn’t bother him. No, it’s the strong scent—scratch that—many strong scents that flood his nostrils that’s absolutely unbearable. 

“Hh’gxtch!” he stifles a sneeze into his wrist. It’s going to be the first of many, but it’d be ideal if he could buy the shirt before the rest of the impending fit takes over. “hmPHT’chh! Ihh’gxxt!” Wishful thinking.

He fixes his sunglasses that’ve traveled nearly an inch down his nose from the jerking motions. Okay, he’s found the display. The rest of the shirts have to be nearby somewhere. He sniffles and scrubs at his nose before putting his infinity up.

“GXTtt’chh!” That had actually hurt. Even now that he’s put up his infinity barrier, it’s too late. The damage is done. “ehh’Gxxtchh’iew!” 

Damn, there don’t seem to be any of these shirts left. His shoulders sag, but then he realizes that the one on the mannequin seems to be the right size. He’s already causing a scene, he might as well take it. 

12,000 yen? For a Hawaiin shirt? It’s not like money is a concern to Gojo, but damn, what a rip off. Geto would be laughing his ass off right now at him. He smiles at the joke and heads over to the register, barrier down for now for ease of payment. It’s all fun and games until he realizes that the deeper into the store he goes, the more obnoxious the smell becomes. Do they just dump bottles of their cologne all over the floor?  

“Ngt’chh! hptt’CH!” A woman presumably here with her teenage daughter gives him a nod. Now he feels really old. 

He manages to stifle the next three into near-silence, but apparently not silent enough since the man in front of him in line turns to give him a wary look. 

“It’s rude to stare,” Gojo points out nasally before sniffling noisily and sighing dramatically afterwards.

The man scoffs and turns away. 

Gojo sneezes again into his elbow, but allows it to be louder this time out of spite.

When it’s Gojo’s turn to pay, the cashier looks relieved when he says he’s paying with card. (How is this not a more common occurrence in this store? How is he the only one sneezing his fucking head off?). He manages to only sneeze another three times during the interaction, and the teenager leaves the receipt on the counter to avoid touching his hand. 

Gojo makes it to the nearby bench before he gives into his allergic fit, uncaring of any passerbyers, just absolutely desperate to get some sort of relief, even if he’s basically in the middle of the mall. He puts the bag down between his shoes and buries his nose into the collar of his shirt since he lacks any tissues. 

“hehh-hhIHhgSCHh’iew! hhRSHHH’hiiu! Hahh…hhh…” He sniffles. Spray has coated his collar bone and he’s nowhere near done. “ihhSHHHiew! Hhh’...hhhDjttshhh! Ishhiew! Ihhpshhu!-schh!-TSHHh! Kssh!” 

He can barely get a breath between sneezes and it leaves him panting and coughing dryly before it starts back up. 

“hh’SHhhh! KSshh!-Tchh!-TSchh! hh’IHHSHh’ihh…huhhhh….”

How far was the nearest bathroom? Can he just get up and—

“Gojo-sensei?” Never mind.

“hh’KSHHh’hieww!” 

“Bless you, Gojo-sensei, um, are you alright?”

“Gross.”

“What did you do now?”

Gojo looks up at the trio of his former students who had happened to run into him an hour before their meeting time at the fountain. “F-Finde,” he says, holding up a finger, “IhhxSHHhu! hh’KZtt’schhhiu! Guhh…” 

“Are you catching a cold?” Yuji asks, concern obvious in his voice. 

“Allergy attack,” Megumi answers for him. Gojo points at him in confirmation before sneezing again. 

“Gross,” Nobara repeats with a disgusted sigh. She fishes out something from her bag and throws a pack of tissues on his lap. “Here, stop ruining your shirt.” 

If it wouldn’t cause an absolute flood of disgusting mess, Gojo would snicker at her, but instead he quickly accepts the offering and folds a few tissues over his nose. He could moan with relief, but refrains from doing so as he blows his nose. 

Yuji pats his shoulder encouragingly as if Gojo isn’t his former teacher and the strongest human being in existence. “Maybe we should get some fresh air.”

“Didn’t want to be here anyway,” Megumi mutters.

“Oh? Fushiguro! That’s not true, you looked so excited to get the—” Yuji gasps in pain as Megumi elbows him in the ribs.

“I already spent the card anyway,” Nobara agrees. Gojo’s not surprised she’d already spent the prepaid gift card. 

“I already texted Ijichi,” Megumi mutters.

“hh’KXXtsh’chhu!” 

“Let’s sit outside for a bit,” Yuji says, tugging on Gojo’s free hand. He drops his barrier to allow the contact and is shocked when his former students attempt to support his weight. Unnecessary, but he surprisingly allows it.

Satoru, you’ve been using your technique nonstop since yesterday, haven’t you?

What an odd memory to surface. What an odd time for his eyes to start watering again. 

[teafangirl]

Greetings, who’s ready for part three of my first reader X fan fic! I am proud of this story! This parts a longer one so get comfortable! ….(picture if from google)

Welcome, too …..

Reader X Edwin Payne

Chapter three— Cat Kings Deal

It seemed like an hour or more, you didn't want to open your eyes afraid of what you would see, afraid of Esther. You found yourself worried about what she had done to Edwin, you felt some deeper connection to him. You went over the events in your head, the smoke that had fully covered the building you and Edwin facing Esther who was about to suck you into that device, it felt dreadful. Then what happened, you don't know maybe you don't want to, in your mind you know you're doomed.

Just then your mind became a confused mess, when you felt a finger run across your cheek, you felt a bit of pain, as if this finger had scratched your skin. Your eyes shot open hoping to confront Esther, but instead of her you were confronted with bright yellow cat eyes, the eyes belonged to a man who was kneeling down at your side. He looks to be in his late 20s, muscular and was wearing a black outfit, the grin on his face looked devilish as he spoke.

“Well Well well look who's finally awake, Edwin's new toy!” his voice somehow sent shivers down your spine, it made you a little angry he called you Edwin's toy ,you were clearly so much more to each other. Ignoring the man for a second, you looked around, seeing you were still in the same place, where Ester last was, u saw no signs of her, just a few other cats. As you looked, you grew more worried as you didn't see Edwin. You hastily looked back at the man and spoke with determination in your voice.

’D.. Did you see what happened? Where's Edwin? I have to go save him!” you tried to push past the man and stand up, but he forced you back onto the ground, it hurt as he was clearly stronger than you at this moment. He then waved a finger as he spoke,

“Not so fast, yes my cats saw Edwin push you out of the way sacrificing himself, Esther saw no need in you so she left, my god your so fun, you think you can outrun the Cat King!” you struggled, but wondered why Esther left you there was something this King wasn't saying or so u thought. Your thoughts were cut off as he spoke once more. “ Now what should I do with you? I could make you my slave” he licked his lips at his own words, making you feel very uncomfortable you thought quickly to say something, and just like that words slipped out of your mouth, “No, Esther's about to hurt Edwin you must let me go NOW!”

The Cat King looked shocked but gained, and moved closer to your face, as he spoke softly it was not the sweet kind of soft more like unsettling.

“I know your terrified of Esther, my cat told me all about the interaction you and Edwin had in the forest, you should know something, I don't like competition but any competition I am in … I win!” you looked away as he came closer, then after he could tell he intimidated you he moved back a tiny bit, letting you breathe, even tho as a gost that was not an action that you needed to do.. You couldn't help but look him in the eyes, he had you pinned down, if you tried something you were sure he would stop you again.

“If you cared about Edwin, you would let me go!” that seemed like a good thing to say, and it did catch the king's attention, he smirked it oddly unsettled you only a tiny bit tho.

“I don't care about him, but you, on the other hand… I could have fun with you.. Tell you what I will let you go and in return you do whatever I want, whenever I say”

The thought of what this man could make you do, scared you, but you had no choice, and you were itching to get to Edwin as soon as possible. “F.. Fine, deal” you spited out .

Just like that, the Cat King released you and told you two of Edwin's friends had visited him, and they had what was needed to kill Esther. He also answered a question you had been wondering, that being,, “if he would help?”. He simply said no because Esther already killed him once, causing him to lose one of his lives. This made it clear he was more than a man.

You quickly got out of there, a bit angry he told you some of that information only after you made a deal. A deal that terrified you, sent chills down your spin as the thought of what you would have to do, and he made it clear you couldn't just not comply with his demands. You started feeling a pair of eyes watches you as you neared the house, you looked around seeing a cat nearby. “I bet he wants to make sure I survive this, so I can be his slave or something… Oh god, what have I gotten myself into with this creep.!”

You thought as you reached the door, you took a heavy breath as you walked through. In truth, you were doing this for Edwin Payne the ghost you liked or took a particular liking to, not sure if he felt the same. You were ready to face the woman who killed you, at least you would face her to save Edwin, and his friend.

As you pass through the door, you hear a blood boiling scream and quickly hide and watch as Edwin screams from a device that's doing something to him. You go into the kitchen and see Edwin's friend Charles has already escaped, you figure he's killing that big snake u remember Esther having. You run into the room where Esther has Edwin, and are able to stop the device as it stops, Edwin's eyes lock onto yours.

Edwin looks at you with worry as he's able to spit out,” How are you here?”.

You decide not to mention the Cat King for not, you simply answer. “Uh..that's not important now I am here to save you!”

You gently place a hand on his, and hold his hand like he once did to you, you watch him take a deep breath as you use your other hand to unlatch him from the device. As you look at each other. Time seems to slow, you seem to forget about the surrounding room, you forget about the moment to you, it's just the two of you now. “Edwin, I L….” Your interrupted by Edwin shouting your name, as you turn around, you see Esther, who wraps a glowing yellow rope around your neck, Edwin who's sat up watches as you fall and Esther laughs as she says “You should not have escaped from that mushroom, you have no Idea what you have wandered into fool!”

You feel the world go blurry, and everything goes black soon after. However, you do hear Esther scream, perhaps Charles killed the snake, you have this feeling Esther's dead, if your dead for good at least you parish knowing you saved the boy you liked. But you could feel you were not gone, soon you heard someone calling your name, you let your eyes open, it was a boy with short dark hair, two earrings, and a kind face, kneeling one one side of you, on the other side a girl with curly black hair, darker skin, they introduced themselves as Crystal and Charles, they helped you sit up and explained they took care of Esther just as she was about to finish you. In a shaky tone, you express your appreciation and ask to see Edwin, they comply and help you stand up. Charles tells you, he's happy for you and Edwin, you can guess Edwin filled them in on whom u were while u were out. They lead you into Esther's kitchen when Edwin and a girl with white hair who introduced herself as Niko who hugged you as soon as you entered. Edwin however, who had been talking to Niko before you walked in, when he saw you, a smile broke on his face, he stood up and came to you as Charles, Crystal, and Niko let you two have a moment.

“Are you alright?” Edwin asked as he looked into your eyes, about a few minutes ago he was in so much pain, strapped to a machine that turned his pain into power. He had thought he was doomed, re living his death, being in hell, over and over! then he saw you, and for a second the pain stopped! Yet before he could ask you anything Esther took you. To him, he watched you fall to the floor, in pain, unable to stop Esther himself, he had felt like he broke his promise that she wouldn't hurt you again. TO Edwin at that moment, it seemed he couldn't save you.. Nor his best mate in the whole world, Charles. They had been best mates for so long, and he had only met you a few days ago, yet he felt something for you.

His hopes had been restored, however, when crystal used her powers and summoned the goddess that Esther had gotten her immortality from. The goddess who once summoned, dragged the witch away by the foot, and a little before that Charles had returned from killing the snake. He held out little hope you were okay. Here you were right in front of him, he thought he knew what you had been about to say earlier, he also thought he had fully admitted to himself how much he liked or found you attractive!

You stared at him, liking the sparkle he had in his eye, you opened your mouth to answer his question, as you held each other's hands!

“Well…yes now I am alright” you wondered if you should tell him about the Cat King.

However, you had no time to ponder that question, as Edwin leaned closer and gave you a small kiss on the cheek, you couldn't physically feel it but in your head it felt amazing.

You smiled and gently placed your hand on his cheek. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a cat in a nearby window, and you knew it was not long before the Cat King came to claim your part of the deal. His words echoed in your mind “in return you do whatever I want, whenever I ask” his voice sounded as unsetting as ever even in your own mind he seemed to send a chill down your spin. All you could do now was enjoy the moment with Edwin Payne!

—————————

Enjoy!☕️

I am curious to hear any thoughts u have on the story, any suggestions on what Cat King should make reader (your character) do?

And I changed some events in episode 8, Nikos alive because I couldn’t bring myself to write her death ! Anyway again enjoy!!!☕️