#I should get to posting all the fucked up miserable stuff. it's been in my docs for ages

[ehlnofay]

Travelling with Martin the second time is more an ordeal than it was the first.

There’s the Blades tagging along with them, now, with their elaborate plans and zealous concern; every time any one of them takes a step they rattle like tin cans, so loudly that if any of the cult is trying to track them down it’s a wonder they’re not all gutted already. Then there’s all the extra bits the Blades insist on – like tents, which Pax is by no means opposed to but slows them down ridiculously, always needing to be set up at night and taken down first thing in the morning, or the horses, which speed them up but Pax resents, all the same. (They always need breaks to rest or eat or what have you, and riding for too long sets them aching to hell, their legs and hips and stomach all quavering with exertion. Pax rides the same horse they found halfway through their first journey with Martin, and she is getting more familiar than she ever wanted to be with its little snorts and stomping gestures. Martin keeps patting it on the nose whenever they’re down on the ground again. Martin rides the paint horse, too – it’s two to a steed, plus bags, which Pax knows would be enough to snap their spines like dried-out twigs but of course the Blades have spelled saddles. Feathered, Martin says, like Pax has any idea what that means.) They all spend as much of the day riding as they can without the horses withering away and dropping dead, unable to divert at all from the roads without riding face-first into a tree branch, the Blades getting all serious and severe at any passing glimpse of another traveller, or the edge of a town, or a suspicious-looking boulder. It’s fucking exhausting. Maybe if they’d dressed Martin in something less impractically fancy, and left their glittering armour behind, they wouldn’t all be so conspicuous. Pax is the only one here with any sense.

In Blackwood, the trees don’t sprawl so low down; you can ride horses well off the road as long as you’re careful of the muck. For the first leg of the first trip with Martin, they didn’t have horses at all – they both just walked, past razed fields and empty buildings, the span of land around Kvatch near entirely abandoned, scrounging what they could and sleeping wherever they wanted. They couldn’t proper restock on supplies until they hit Skingrad – certainly didn’t have tents or armour that reflects every whisper of starlight so bright it blazes, and they were fine. It all feels unnecessary. And annoying. This close to the end, all the little extra things to pay attention to make Pax want to jump out of his skin.

Because they are close to the end. They’re in the denouement, now.

The Blades set up a watch routine, too – everyone crawls into their superfluous tents and leave one person up to keep an eye out, until they wake the next person for their turn, and so forth. Pax hasn’t done watch shifts like this since he left Blackwood. (It doesn’t really work, when you’re alone. Besides, he wakes easy, and he goes to sleep quick. Martin’s bad at it, so swapping watch back and forth when they were together just would have left him confused or lethargic the next day. Not worth the bother.) Pax gets watch shifts, most nights, set in the dark hours just before the sun rises; Martin, though he asks, doesn’t get any. Pax usually wakes him up, instead of whoever else she’s supposed to. It isn’t like he has anything he needs to be especially well-rested for – just sitting on a horse in an enchanted double saddle, same as the rest of them, his too-long hair getting in his face, careful arms loops around Pax’s middle. He won’t even take a turn to direct the bloody thing, because he still hasn’t learned how – the fact that he’s never managed to fall off is a damned miracle, honestly.

So she wakes him up, if the Blades won’t – and she doesn’t usually go back to sleep, right after, because there doesn’t seem all that much point. They both stay up, around whatever burnt-down firepit was constructed in the night, the small tents arrayed around them; the leaves of the trees rustle, flickered through by some small animal, owl or bat or squirrel living in a hollow. Crickets chirp, loud and endless.  It would probably be peaceful, if it could be, but Pax is keyed up, taut as a bowstring ready to snap, and he can’t really remember how to feel peaceful anymore. They’re getting ever-closer to the capital and the temple and the end of this whole strange, terrifying thing, and he wants it over and done with instead of lurking in this strange in-between space. They’ve all done so much to fix this and none of it will feel like any kind of accomplishment until the fires are lit and the Gates closed and sealed beyond reopening. It’s almost, almost, almost done – but it’s not the end yet, and in the quiet night all there is to do is waiting, and Pax, antsy, irritable, is very, very bad at waiting.

Martin’s better at it. Which isn’t to say he’s not nervous – he’s all nerves, even more than normal, which is really saying something – but he’s patient, and doesn’t complain, even though Pax knows he wants it over just as much as they do. Probably more. (Definitely more.) He just sits, in the dark and the dew, all quiet and watchful in just his undershirt and warm wool trousers, and even those are fancy, all fine-sewn and slippery as water to the touch. They wear oddly on him. He keeps the Amulet tucked under his clothes, cold metal setting against bare skin, and the red gleam beneath his shirt makes it look, at certain angles, like his heart is glowing.

The fire is well out; no owls call. Pax lies, in their own much less swish sleeping-things, in the dirt and grass, all of it wet so thoroughly with dew that it soaks the back of their tunic. Through the silhouettes of leaves and branches, they can just make out the lustre of the stars.

The old Emperor talked an awful lot about stars, when Pax met him; she wonders, vaguely, what he’d make of these ones.

There’s a shifting, up nearer the firepit; and, “Pax?” Martin whispers, sound half-swallowed by the still, drifting night. “Are you awake?”

“It’s sopping wet,” Pax replies. He props himself up on his elbow and turns his head; Martin’s got a lantern lit, and it’s just enough to make out his face by. “Even I’ve got my limits.”

Martin exhales; Pax knows he’s smiling because they can see the dim white gleam of his teeth. It’s not too cold a night – they’ve travelled far enough from Bruma to be clear of its sodden snow and ice and winds – but it’s not warm, and the wet fabric plastered to their back is chill enough to make them shiver. The stars, up above, shine cold and clear.

“I was wondering,” Martin says, voice still hushed; his eyes flicker up to the snatches of sky between the tree branches, too. “What will you do, when all this is done?”

It’s a perfectly reasonable question; Pax realises, quite abruptly, that doesn’t have an answer. She sits up, shuffles awkwardly over the dewy grass. “I don’t know,” she says slowly; she shrugs. “Go back to the roads, I s’pose. Get some venturing work. Join a guild, maybe, if I get bored.”

(They haven’t thought about it; they’ve been busy. A part of them – quite a large part, if they’re being honest – kind of wishes the Crisis would never end, one way or the other. Wishes it would keep on in this sort of suspended state forever. But it won’t, and it can’t, and it would be ridiculous to say as much. Just – they’ve never done anything this exciting, before. And they don’t really know anything that could measure up, once it’s done.)

(Pax has never really been one to plan for the future. Back in Blackwood, he didn’t have to; he knew he’d just run with the same crew he always had, and he learned only from them. Learned letters and archery and what dregs of mage-craft he had any aptitude for – learned to scamp on the roads and crack locks reasonably well. And then he left, and became a hero, and that’s a good occupation in itself, but it’s not going to last forever. He’s not sure what his other options are – he could try to work square, but he doesn’t think it would last. He’s not one suited to an apprenticeship, or an honest job, or much of anything, really. The only thing he really knows is this.)

In the lanternlight, the shadows are so stark that Martin’s face looks creased with ink. “Oh? What guild? Fighters? Thieves?”

“Thieves’ Guild wouldn’t take me,” Pax tells him loftily; they wriggle a bit closer, goose-pimples rising on their shins. “They don’t like independent operators, and I’ve been one since I was born.”

Martin clucks his tongue. “You can’t say things like that around me, Pax. I’ll have to have you arrested.”

“Like you could,” Pax tells him, grinning, and leans over about as far as she can reach to elbow him. She has to lever herself back up, afterwards. The watery-pale stars are winking at her.

Martin is looking up at them again. “There’s always work for a hero, I’m sure,” he says, and waves a hand. “You’ll have endless people to save and feats of derring-do to perform. Perhaps you could write an autobiography.”

“Ha.” Martin’s received their letters, sent on longer stretches away from Cloud Ruler; he’s read their writing, their chicken-scratch hand and the less than delicate way they pick their words. Pax is fine enough as a communicator; they get to the point quickly and clearly. But metaphor and flowery prose is rather beyond them. And they’ve seen the speech Martin gave in Bruma, the endless editing of his drafts, debate over this word or that. “You know you’re the better writer of the two of us, Martin Priest. Reckon you should pen our book.”

Martin tips his head further back. “I wasn’t even there for most of the interesting parts,” he points out, “and I’m sure to be far too busy, besides.” His eyes are closed. Pax shunts themself another bit across the grass.

“Oh, I’m sure you can take a half-hour every evening to scribble out a few paragraphs in your four-poster bed and your kingliest pyjamas,” he says, unsympathetic, and flicks him in the shoulder. “With a silk canopy, and duckling-down blankets, and a pen nib of solid gold.”

“All right, all right.” Martin opens his eyes; they look grey, in the dim light, the orange lanternlight flickering off their whites. He reaches out an arm, and Pax rolls his eyes but shuffles damply into it all the same. “I suppose I have no choice.”

His arm, settled around their shoulders, is heavy-warm. Pax leans their shoulder into his ribs, under his armpit. This close, they can see the faint gleam of the Amulet through his undershirt. Quiet, they ask, “Still nervous?”

Without missing a beat, Martin replies, “Excruciatingly.”

He’s always nervous. But on this, Pax can’t even really make fun of him for it – if someone told her that she was the heir to the whole Empire, and tried to thrust her into court to take it all over, she’d tell them to eat shit. If the fate of the world depended on it, though, that wouldn’t really be an option anymore. And Martin’s too nice, most of the time, to tell anyone to eat shit. And Martin’s too nervous not to take every bit of it so painfully seriously. Not just the world-ending bit, but all the etiquette and legalese, too. Jauffre gave him some books to read to try to acquaint himself with it all; none of them seemed to help much.

“You’ll be fine,” Pax says, and leans their head on his shoulder, the post of their earring jabbing into the skin behind their ear. They gesture out at the silhouetted tents. “You’ve got all this lot, and the Elder Council – they’ll help you out. If they won’t let you take a piss by yourself they’ll definitely be there to assist with the stuff that’s actually important.” Martin exhales; it’s almost a laugh. The earring is beginning to hurt quite badly, so Pax lifts their head. “Besides, you’re trying. You want to get it all right. That’s more than some would do.”

“Thank you, Pax,” Martin says, and then they’re both quiet.

The stars above look watery-dim. The silhouettes of trees have slightly more dimension. Martin is pressing his palm, fingers splayed, to the smooth-cut bump of the Amulet under his shirt. Pax is still shivering, a bit – lying her whole back down in the dew was a bad idea. Now she’ll have to wear her one other tunic and hope this one dries out in time not to wet everything else in the bags.

“I hope,” Martin says, voice silver-soft in the dark, “that when you’re out roaming, shocking everyone with your valour and intrepidity, you’ll come to visit a great deal. You won’t have the excuse of being out saving the world anymore.”

Pax leans her shoulder harder into his ribs. “Only if you’re not boring when I’m there,” she replies. “You won’t have the excuse of saving the world either.”

“No,” Martin says. “I’ll be running it instead.”

Already, the stars are beginning to snuff themselves out, like candle-lights; in half an hour or so, the sky will start to lighten properly. The Blades will all wake, springing up like little clockwork puppets, and the tents will be packed up, and the horses saddled – they’re tied on slack ropes to trees down the other end of the clearing, and now, if Pax squints, he can just make them out – and then the day will begin, the timer trickling down.

Pax wets his lips. “Three more days,” he says. “Thereabouts.”

Then they’ll reach the city.

Martin breathes out, slow. “Then I’ll really be Martin Septim.”

The Amulet glows under his shirt, royal-red, rising and dimming like a heartbeat. If Pax hadn’t been arrested, that day – by chance, for one of the few robberies they actually didn’t commit – then they wouldn’t have been taken to the gaol, dribbling blood all over the floors, antagonising the guards trying to mark them down in the records, and they wouldn’t have ended up in that dust-coated cell with the shitty neighbour across the way, and the old Emperor would never have glanced at them twice, and the door never would have opened, and they wouldn’t be here.

Pax is not one for gratitude, generally, but they have never been so thankful to be falsely imprisoned in their life.

“My census name’s Camilla Patesco,” he says.

He’s looking at the first watery dregs of dawn in the sky, not at Martin’s face; but he can hear the smile in his voice when he replies, “I won’t tell anyone.”

#FAY WRITING JUMPSCARE. #I don't know if this is any good honestly - it's a rewrite of an old piece and I wrote it too recently to be able to judge #but it's been forever since I posted anything so. I'll toss it up regardless #because I have been thinking about them a great deal #I should get to posting all the fucked up miserable stuff. it's been in my docs for ages #I need to get on that #anyway #hope you enjoy! #the elder scrolls #tesblr #tes #oc tag #pax #martin septim #oblivion #microfic #my writing #fay writes #two weirdos. sitting in the dewy dark. what weird little conversations will they have

[allwaswell16]

🔔 It's December! That means it's One Direction Advent fic season! Advent fics are generally posted daily from December 1 to December 24/25. Don't forget you can subscribe to the author to get a daily email reminder to read their Advent fic! 🔔

🌟 Baking In December by Itstilliswhatitis

Louis can't believe it! His sisters signed him up for a competition at some bakery and they won! Now he has to spend every day of December baking something with a random dude. Except, the random dude is named Harry and he's hot! Louis realises that this Christmas might be extra special!

🎁 Be Merry All by @justanothershadeofblue {Fic post}

there is a specific sort of oppression that comes with a miserable so-cal christmas, when it’s dark and dirty and rainy or else it's too hot and too bright and everyone’s hustling, and your family is all far away and the laundry machines in your building are broken and you’ve eaten too much take-out and all you want is two seconds of quiet and maybe a morsel of holiday joy.

🕯️ Can I Fly Home by @sadaveniren {Fic post}

“Nothing? A seventy-eight year old woman just gave birth. It’s clearly supernatural stuff at work. How could you say no?” “No.” “Come on, the mystery has to be getting to you just a little.” “Granny being horny isn’t a mystery, Lou. We’re supposed to be on a break until the new year. The real mystery is why you aren’t content to just stay in one place. We’ve hunted everything imaginable to hunt.” “And yet weird shit still ends up happening, fancy that.” He saw Louis change tactics, sticking out his lower lip, pleading. “Please? Check it out with me and then maybe we’ll come back here for Christmas.” AKA Louis and Harry have been hunting together since they were teenagers and it's beginning to take a toll. Harry wants to retire. Louis plans to die hunting. Maybe a "Christmas Miracle" is just what they need. An advent fic.

🦌 Christmas Advent Calendar by enchantedlandcoffee / @alarrylittlechristmas {Fic post}

A collection of holiday drabbles written and posted leading up to Christmas. One posted per day.

🥁 Heart Beat by @allwaswell16 {Fic post}

Hideaway Haven is the place that Louis has always called home. It's also the place that Harry had tried to leave behind him. When Harry returns to start a music academy in his hometown, he finds himself face to face with his high school crush—and his charming daughter who wants to learn to play the drums.

⛄ the holiday remix - choose ur adventure advent series by warmcuppatea / @hlplease {Fic post}

“I love you so much, yeah? And we’ve talked about moving in together when my lease ends. And we’ll be spending so much time together for the holidays, and you know, we get on so smashingly-” “Louis-” Harry laughed. “Spit it out!” “-So I was thinking,” Louis laughed, rubbing his face. “Fuck, I don’t know why I’m so nervous!” He laughed. “I was thinking we should test-run living together this month.” Harry and Louis are very in love, but moving in together feels huge. So, naturally, Louis has the idea to do a holiday test-run.

🔔I'll Be Home For Christmas by lovelarry10 / @chloehl10 {Fic post}

Harry's life seems to be going well. He has a great job working at Festive Furnishings, he has an amazing three year old son called Danny, and his favourite time of the year is approaching. Just as Harry thinks everything is finally going to plan, he finds out that he is going to be losing his home just before Christmas. Louis Tomlinson is happy enough with his lot. He's the CEO of a company he started years ago, Festive Furnishings, he has great colleagues, especially his assistant Harry, and he has the best nephew in the world. But the thing is, Louis is lonely. He has a beautiful house but it's too quiet, especially at this time of year. Not that he'd admit that to anyone. While struggling to find somewhere warm and safe for himself and Danny to stay, Harry makes a decision that might just change the course of everything... and bring himself and Louis closer together as well...

🍪 I Really Like Your Styles: The Baking Advent-ure by @homosociallyyours {Fic post}

Louis isn't much for frills, and the coffee shop he co-owns with his best friend Liam is evidence of that. Yes, it's got a decent sized, well-kept industrial kitchen, but Louis insists that people come to coffee shops for coffee, not mediocre pastry and plastic wrapped cookies. When Liam's campaign for serving treats turns into watching a few baking accounts on whichever popular app he's on now, there's one that really gets on Louis' nerves: "I Like Your Styles." With his chipper demeanor and over the top descriptions of the food he makes, Louis is sure that the (unfortunately cute) baker is full of it. Nothing that adorable could possibly be worth the hype. It doesn't actually take much for him to eat his words...and some quality baked goods, while he's at it.

 🎄 kay's 25 days of smutmas by shiptattou / @wecantalktomorrow {Fic post}

Starting on December 1st, I will be posting a new smut fic everyday until Christmas! These are all one shots of varying lengths and content. As they are posted, I will add the links to this post, summaries and lengths will be included under the break! All fics will be Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson.

💌 Lonely Cards Club by @hellolovers13 {Fic post}

Harry's life in Cardiff is rather uneventful. Until he receives a strange Christmas postcard. It gets even stranger when he finds another one the next day. An Advent story about missed opportunities and second chances.

❤️ Love Actually [L.S.] by @louisthiccsexyglitteryass {Fic post}

Louis Tomlinson has just became Prime Minister of the UK. Harry Styles is a housekeeper at 10 Downing Street. Louis can't help but be enthralled with Harry. But, unfortunately, love has a funny of fucking punching you in the gut.

🎅 Neondiamond's 2023 Christmas Ficlet Party {Fic post}

If you know me at all, you’ll know that two of the things I enjoy most are writing fluffy ficlets, and Christmas. This year, I decided to combine the two and create my own little Christmas ficlet party all throughout December! 8 ficlets, 4 different pairings, many different tropes—all short, fluffy and festive! Perfect for a quick reading break with a warm drink!

☃️ Snow In Love by @lululawrence {Fic post}

Harry and Louis are best friends and have been for basically as long as they can remember. For the first time since middle school, they are both single for the holidays leaving them with the brilliant idea to take each other as their dates to work events. To make things easier they will pretend like they’re dating. But then they learn something funny. People thought they were already dating. Weird. An advent fic featuring childhood friends, fake dating turned actual dating, really horrible secret keeping, and a winter weather surprise.

🌲 'tis the damn season by YesIsAWorld / @louandhazaf {Fic post}

Harry returns to her small hometown over the holiday season and starts to think about the road not taken.

��� they're singing 'deck the halls' (but it's not like christmas at all) by doesanyonehearrunningwotah

Louis Tomlinson is no fan of Christmas. Between his douchebag ex-husband/co-parent, his two teenage kids, and the awful fact of his torn-apart family, the holiday season isn't looking to be all that festive. But maybe a boy's trip with his closest friends will lead him to something that'll make the season a little more bearable. Or the one where Louis' a bit of a grinch, Harry's a gorgeous present, and there's more weight to the past than either of them would like.

❄️ We Can Roll in the Darkness by LetTheMusicMoveYou / @letthemusicmoveyou28 {Fic post}

Top and Bottom Construction Co. - “We’ll get the job done, however you prefer it!” Louis looks up from the flyer, and back at Niall. “You must be joking?” Niall shakes his head, his mischievous grin only going wider. “Nope! I already researched them. They have glowing reviews AND they’re affordable. It’s perfect!” He pauses then to give Louis a cheeky wink. “Besides their website says they’re full service.” (Or the one where Louis and his best mate Niall decide to take the plunge and open a pub. The goal is to open Christmas Day, but the building renovations are proving trickier than expected. Insert: a construction company with a questionable name, a certain curly haired builder who catches Louis’ attention, and a little festive chaos along the way).

✨ You Ain’t Gotta Feel Fear Just Mingle by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup {Fic post}

Harry has been at his dream job for less than three months, and he knows two things for sure; first, his project manager doesn't know what he's doing, and second, someone in the office is apparently pure evil, and no one will tell Harry who it is. Oh, and the guy who works in conservation at the other end of the building is the most beautiful man Harry's ever seen, even when wielding a hot iron as a weapon. Happy Christmas, here's to many more.

#these are in alphabetical order because that's how I roll #adventfics #advent2023 #hlcreators #hljournal #trackinghome #trackinghappily #1dficvillage #ficsfor4am

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

Wild Horses

Part 3

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Doctor!Reader, other characters x reader

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 4

A/N: Part 3 is finally here y’all! Sorry it took such a while to finally upload, I have been extremely burnt out and needed some time to recharge after completing my semester. Therefore I have made this chapter extra long! Also sorry if it in any way feels rushed, I tried to get this posted as soon as possible since it has long been due. Let me know if you would like some more dynamics between the reader and the other characters. As always, comments and reblogs are much appreciated, I love hearing y'alls thoughts and things that you enjoyed! (Also this chapter contains a surprise guest!) 💜💜💜

Summary: Imagine being the new physician assigned to the team and a certain masked individual takes a new keen concealed interest in you. The two of you are too awkward to function.

Warnings and notes: language, violence, blood and gore, fluff, angst, slow-burn, slight implication of past abuse.

(Quick Disclaimer: I am not a doctor nor have any professional knowledge or experience involving surgical procedures. I am just a student studying in the medical field who has just started taking courses that are more degree-related. So I apologize if some of the stuff may be inaccurate.)

🍂That night, the same night Ghost saw you on that roof, your face illuminated by the stars and the moon that seemed to pale in comparison to you, he had returned to his own quarters as stealthily as he had came. His presence had always gone unnoticed both to you and the others at this time of night, a time of night when even the nightingales had laid down to rest, exhausted from their song. When he settled himself in bed that night, his torso covered by his blanket and his arm propped up on the pillow to rest under his head, he could not sleep, staring at the ceiling just as he did the night before. His body begged for a moment’s rest, anything to let his consciousness slip away in order to escape the reality of this world in which only sleep could provide. But in spite of the efforts of his nervous system, his mind contested for a few more minutes of wakefulness, moments that would only turn into hours.

🍂There was always this unspoken battle within Simon Riley, a battle of peace and conflict, a constant struggle between giving in to the comforts of life and leaving everything behind, or preoccupying himself with his current line of work that seemed to be the only thing that kept his thoughts at bay. But starting a new life? That was something that was not cut out for him. His past was and will always be his present and his future. Society had no place for people like Simon Riley, and he it. I’m telling you, this man needs therapy, bad. And one hell of a vacation.

Never in a day of his miserable life did he know you would be thrown into the mix. You, a woman of better upbringing, a woman so delicate and blinded with hope, a woman who shared the warmth of her spirit with all whom she knew. And yet, here she was, wasting her time away in a place with the likes of them, where war consumed every living soul that ever crossed its path. God were you naïve, and completely fucking daft, he had thought to himself many times, a doctor like you leaving the hospital in the city for a place like this. Jesus. Either you were a complete fool or the military offered you a shit ton of money. Or perhaps it was your youth. After all, you were younger than the rest of them. He believed a woman of your degree should not be here amongst men like them. You were soft, tried too hard to see the good in people, and one day, one day, that might be your downfall.

Sometimes he’d find himself hoping you would transfer somewhere else. And the more he thought on the subject, the more he came to despise you being here, part of the reason why he avoided you in the first place. And yet, as the days went by, the man had developed a bit of a soft spot for you as they might say. But don’t tell him that or else he might just loose another one of his knives. Truth of the matter was, he had seen what war had done, even to the best of people. And with no disrespect, a young woman like you would get eaten up alive in a place like this.

And as much as he hated to admit it, he did not want to see you wound up in this chaos. So what would he do? He'd often times monitor your activity, and by that I mean he would on some occasions check up on you, in his own avoidant way of course, whether it be making sure you woke up by standing around the corner to see you trudge along to the coffee maker in your white coat, or catching you finish your shift when you left your office in the evening. By this time, you'd be surprised to know that he has grown familiar with part of your schedule, from when you leave your room and make yourself a cup of coffee in the morning before heading into your office, to what time you have your little lunch, down to the hour of the evening when you leave your office after your shift has ended. He calls it "running a constructive operation", but you and I both know what it is. Despite his cold, masked exterior, he's not completely heartless and does want to make sure you're safe, as with the rest of his teammates.

At the same time, your safety also depends on your environment, and there is only so much a few men can do. Perhaps it would be best if you were somehow convinced to go back to the states and leave, lest this place will end up devouring every last bit of vibrancy that radiated in you. And if that meant being callous towards you and making your time here a living hell, as if you did not belong, so be it. I know it sounds like he absolutely loathes you but I promise it only seems that way.

The man obviously has trouble sleeping, which was nothing new to him, a good nights rest was something of a rarity in his case. But now it was you he found inhabiting the walls of his mind, and frankly, he found it to be quite a nuisance. And as if to make matters worse, tonight it was your voice that haunted his thoughts, that siren-like voice that rung out softly underneath the pale moonlight as if he were a sailor awaiting to plummet to his death down into the abyss of the deep indigo waters below.

He needed sleep, desperately, and if he did not get it soon he might just go insane. That’s to say he isn’t already. And despite finding you to be the cause of the whole ordeal behind it, behind him not being able to shut his eyes and fall into a short-lived coma, you were still the only doctor here and just how was he supposed to go about that. Usually people go to doctors if they have trouble sleeping, but how the fuck was he supposed to go to you. He couldn’t just walk in your office and ask if you had anything strong enough to knock him out. Sure there was always alcohol but that meant dealing with a hangover and you most likely sending him a pamphlet about the dangers of alcoholism without even knowing like some kind of psychic. On the other hand, knowing how you were, if he were to mention his symptoms you would just ask him a bunch of questions. And then what was he supposed to say? That he couldn’t sleep because you tormented and occupied his thoughts??? Never. He decides it’s better to just deal with it.

And boy oh boy your singing did not help. You reminded him of the nightingales that used to nest in the tree outside his bedroom window in his childhood home. You and your guitar, singing your song out into the night for someone out there, whomever and wherever they were. The song and your voice an empty promise, a false hope for the things that never were and never might come. And yet, despite his slight demurral towards you, in the days to come, he came to find comfort in your voice, his feet finding their way to the rooftop to see if you would be there.

On the nights that you were there, he would sit against the wall away from your line of sight, hidden in the shadows and listening to your voice, the only thing that kept him sane and dare say, even bring him an ounce of peace. He would say it was to make sure you don’t pull anything stupid or draw unnecessary attention towards yourself. But truth was, though he could not see it within himself, maybe he was watching over you, making sure no harm came your way. Little would he know, that your voice and the serenity of your aura would soon come to remind him of home, of the days where it was just him and his mother and the nightingales perched on the tree outside his bedroom window, the sound of your voice lulling him to a much needed sleep that his body craved.

Now back to the current.

That next morning you had woken up from the sun shining down on your face, its rays hot against your cheeks as you squinted against the bright light, pulling your blanket over your head with a groan before bolting upright, eyes widened with alarm. Oh shit, what time was it? You look at the watch on your wrist, eyes widening even more to see that it was NOON????? It's fucking noon?

"Fucking shit." You let out a string of curses between your teeth, grabbing your things off the floor only to get up with a gasped groan from the sharp needle-like sensations that shot up your spine, your back hunched over like a shrimp with kyphosis. You wince, hissing as you attempt to straighten yourself out, letting out a couple ows from the cracking sound that came out from between your vertebrae. Boy were you an idiot. Never sleep on cement, now your hips and back feel like they were broken in by the Hulk and you're willing to bet there would be bruises.

You could have sworn you looked like one of those grandmas depicted in the cartoons, wincing almost each time you took a step. A frown pulled on your lips as you headed towards the door that led back to the building, opening it up and nearly whining at the sight of the stairs spanning out below you. "Fuck my life."

You make sure to take your time going down, not wanting to tumble down the steps and risk a broken limb or concussion only to have one of the men patch you up and risk getting an infection. It's not that you don't trust their handiwork......but you don’t. And the thought of having your prefrontal cortex accidentally removed shakes you to your core. Don't tell them that though, you'd probably hurt their feelings.

"Y/n." You hear someone calling your name in the distance, turning your head to see Price heading in your direction.

God damn it, out of all the people to see you in this state. Don't tell anyone but Price is your workplace crush. I mean if we're being honest the whole team is fine as hell. But you loved his snarky sense of humor, his kind eyes and smile, and the way his eyes seemed to disappear into these curved crescent-shaped lines whenever he smiled or laughed. And now as he stood in front of you, his bulky frame towering over yours. You're praying there aren’t any spots of snot on your face from the way you bawled your eyes out last night.

"Oh fuck me." You inaudibly curse under your breath, knowing damn well that to hope he doesn't notice how you literally look a sleep-deprived Quasimodo would be damn near impossible.

"Where've you been? I was beginning to get worried." Price asks, looking over your hunched state that oddly paired with your puffy eyes and face. "Jesus Mary Joseph. Are you alright?"

"Yup, it's just allergies." You nod your head with a strained smile. "Perfectly peachy."

"Do you need any help?"

"Nope! I'm fine." You hurry past him. "I'm going to take a shower so whoever is in there right now tell them to hurry up."

Price watches you go with furrowed brows, wondering whatever the hell happened to you before shaking his head with a shrug and heading towards the showers to make sure it was empty for you. During your time there, the team had sorted out to give you a designated time slot for when you preferred to bathe, wanting to ensure that you received your privacy because of there only being shared showers, something which was common with being in the military. They had even given your own designated shower head. But even then, you always went in and came out fully dressed with both your towels and your clothes, terrified with the idea of the men seeing you in nothing but a towel once you stepped out. Luckily for you, no one was in there when you had arrived. When you hurried in there with your fresh pair of clothes and towels bundled in your arms, that had to be the quickest shower you had ever taken, other than the times you almost slept through your alarms and missed your exams back in med school.

So by the time you step out of your room with your white coat, empty coffee mug in hand and your hair barely brushed through looking like Dr. Emmet Brown, you don't even bother to put on any makeup or concealer to hide the fact that you had been crying last night, you already had a late start to the day as it was.

Going over to the kitchen, you groggily place your mug on the counter, staring at the pasty tiles for a good minute to gather your thoughts and remember just what it was your were doing in the first place before turning on the coffee maker only to see that it isn't working. "You have got to be kidding me." Honest to god if I don't have coffee in the morning I will commit a felony.

"There's no use meddling with that." Price comes up beside you, watching the way you moved the small machine around and smacked the sides with your palms. "I'm afraid it's broken."

"Broken?" You turn to the older gentleman, trying your best to mask your annoyance at yet another misfortune to add to your list of shit that happened today so you don't get written up for having an attitude or whatever it is they do here for uncompliant personnel. "What do you mean it's broken?" What you mean to say is, how the hell are you going to get through the day without your daily dose of caffeine? You were not in the mood for a caffeine withdrawal, not now.

"You'll have to blame MacTavish for that." Damn this man just threw him under the bus no hesitation.

"Soap? How?”

"Bloke put the coffee grounds where the water is supposed to go."

"He put the.......what?" You squint with a scrunch of your nose, trying to picture the young Scotsman mixing up the steps for the coffee grounds and water before pinching the bridge of your nose with a shake of your head. It's too damn early for this. Bitch it's literally the afternoon.

“You look like shite.” Price teases you of your completely disheveled appearance. Honestly he thinks you look pretty cute in a I just had 15 shots of espresso and forgone a whole week’s worth of sleep kind of way. Price is the type of man to see you at your worst looking like a corpse from the grave and dig it, with some concern for your overall health and well-being of course.

“Gee thanks.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Happier than a kid at Disneyland.” You roll your eyes before slipping out a small groan, burying your head in your arms upon the counter and muttering something along the lines of how you’re going to euthanize yourself.

“Oi. There’ll be none of that, you hear?”

“Wait and see.” You mumble to yourself but Price hears it anyway.

“Cheer up. I got you something.” You hear Price say to you before hearing something being placed on the counter.

"Is it benzoylmethylecgonine?" You mumble out.

"What?"

"Benzoylmethylecgonine." Your voice is louder this time but still muffled from your arms.

"The fuck is that?"

".................cocaine."

"Jesus Mary Joseph." Price rolls his eyes. “You’re a character, you. Why don’t you give it a look eh?”

You slightly lift your head from your arms, peering over to see a cup next to you.

"For ya." Price smiles as he pushes the cup towards you, watching you stare at the thing with skepticism.

"Well. Go on."

"Is that-?"

"Coffee.”

"Yeah I know that but-“ you lift yourself up to stare at the thing with a tilt of your head. “where the hell did you get it?”

"From a small coffee shop down a couple blocks."

Right. "What kind is it?”

"Iced caramel macchiato. Heard you mentioning it the other day."

"Oh. You did?” You blink. "You didn't have to do all that."

"Eh it's nothin, my treat. The men and I needed our caffeine too, and well, since Soap broke the machine, we needed to get it one way or another.” All but Simon of course. Dude hates coffee.

“What, did you tell him he's buying?"

“No.” Price leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as he stares off into the distance in thought. “Now that I think about it I should’ve, aye?”

"Poor Soap." You shake your head with a chuckle, grabbing the cup to take a sip. “Oh......oh that hit the spot.”

Okay remember when the boys were competing with giving you little gifts and I said that Price showed his appreciation for you in other ways? This is what I mean. He makes sure you’re taken care of and that your little needs and requests are met. Though rare as composed to Soap's little visits, he likes to stop in your office at times, peeking his head through your cracked door and asking if there is anything you need. This man’s love language is acts of service, I’m sure of it.

“Proper innit.” Price chuckles at your blissed expression.

“Hm. Chef’s kiss.” You take another sip of your coffee as you lean back against the counter, savoring in the cold, smokey, buttery liquid as it went down your throat.

“The hell is on your feet.” Price nods towards your shoes.

“They’re my crocs.” You give a hurt look, the ends of your lips pulled into a frown.

“They’re downright hideous.”

“They’re comfortable!!!” You defend. “I even put little buttons on it.” You lift one of your feet up to show him.

“Doesn’t make it any less hideous.”

"You should try looking in a mirror first before you come talking to me about what's hideous and what's not." You snark, a teasing tone in your voice that catches the older man off guard.

Price is stunned, mouth slightly agape as he is surprised to see such a statement come from a person as demure as you, and dare say even aroused, at being affronted by someone smaller than him. "You cheeky girl." Price shifts his weight, pressing his tongue against his molars before tightening his jaw. "You've got a sharp tongue on you."

"Don't insult my crocs." You lift your chin with a raised brow, a smug expression on your face as you lift your coffee cup to your lips.

As Price and you talked, Ghost had appeared in the far corner, his eyes lowered to the ground and not a single thought behind them before hearing the sound of Price's voice. Stopping in his tracks, he peers around the corner, not wanting to look conspicuous but also curious to see who it was the captain was speaking to, looking over to see the two of you together engaged in a conversation looking a bit too comfy.

The soldier froze, tensing at the sound of you laughing and Price……flirting? Was the man flirting with you? Ghost watched the way Price leaned in ever so slightly in your direction, a slight yet noticeable shift in his demeanor as he told you a joke, the way your cheeks swelled as you snorted, your smile hidden behind the cup held in your hands in an attempt to hold back a laugh, and the way he reached a hand out to adjust the collar of your white coat. He is not jealous he is not jealous he his not jealous. Once again, HE IS NOT JEALOUS. Looking away from the scene, he turned back around and headed back to where he came. He had no reason to feel threatened by the situation, it’s not like he felt anything towards you or if you meant anything to him. And yet, why did it irk him to see you laughing with Price like that.

That was the first he had heard you laugh, though as light and brief as it was. He could tell it wasn’t your true full-hearted laugh, the ones that left you gasping for air as tears welled up at the corner of your eyes. He had seen those laughs many times at the pub from the groups of friends that gathered together after a long day of work or when they had just left from a futbol match, times when he craved a glass of whisky. The laugh you had let out right now wasn’t one of those full chested laughs, this one was different, more timid, like fresh rain in the middle of spring, where fog blanketed and seeped through the meadows and trees, where dewdrops patterned themselves like mosaics upon the blades of grass and the petals of roses. This laugh was light and airy, crisp to his ears, and it had sent a slight shiver down the stone-hearted soldier that he had never once felt before.

He convinces himself that what he saw between the two of you was none of his concern and that who you fancy is none of his business, and yet why did he find your little interaction with Price to bother him? Better yet, why does he find himself wishing he had made you laugh instead?

It should also be mentioned that Ghost did not fulfill the task he had promised himself when he said he would throw away the Dum Dum lollipops you had given him last night, thinking your little form of bribery to be quite inane. What did you take him for, a child? Regardless of the many times he stared at those two pieces of candy with your little note next to them, your graceful and sophisticated handwriting a strange polarity to the bright and colorful wrapped candy often meant for children, curiosity had gotten the best of him, as well as midnight cravings.

And alas, with numerous stealing glances toward the lollipops and his mouth watering for just a quick sample, the man had given in. And let’s just say, he’s addicted. I mean, I was not lying when I said this man has the sweet tooth of Augustus Gloop. Also, he may or may not have snuck into your office the next morning to steal a lollipop or two, or three, before rushing out the door. So you should probably hide the those things before you walk in on an empty tray one day.

"Also, I wanted to let you know that Alejandro, Ghost, and Soap and I will be heading out on a mission later today. Gaz will be staying behind just to make sure nothing happens here while we're away." Price informs you.

"What time will you be back?"

"Not till late. If everything runs smoothly, there's no need to wait up for us."

“Geez. Will it be dangerous?” Your brows furrow at the center. You knew what their job entailed, but that didn’t stop you from worrying.

“Well that’s part of our job now innit.” Price smirks.

"Just………make sure to come back in one piece alright. I'm not trying to perform any amputations today." You scrunch your nose in a teasing manner, though your words mean more than what your voice gives away.

"Don't you worry that pretty little head of yours. We'll be back like before aye.” Price gives you a comforting smile, bringing his hand up to brush his thumb and forefinger against the bottom of your chin before dropping it back down at his side. Though the action was small and brief, an informal unveiling of the captain’s fondness towards you, that didn’t stop your face from heating up faster than a hot pocket in the microwave. You were sure one would burn their hands if they grazed your cheek.

The others had soon cluttered into the area where you were, chatting amongst themselves before turning towards you and price, the sudden group of movement causing you to clear your throat and step just the slightest inch away.

"Hey doc." The men greeted you, their faces brightening upon seeing you before glancing down at your bright crocs.

"The fuck are those?"

"Oh my god. Don't tell me you guys have never seen crocs before." You exhale, your voice coming out in a scoff.

"Why are they called crocs?" Soap questions, brows furrowed with confusion. You and me both Soap, I don't have a clue either.

"Looks like something my abuela would wear." Alejandro comments, a mischievous glint in his eyes at teasing you.

“Que te folle un pez (get fucked by a fish).”

Alejandra is stunned from the words that just came out from your lips, cocking his head back and tilting it as he looked at you with surprised amusement. He never knew you spoke Spanish. Maybe it came with being a doctor and being around people all the time. On top of that, was this the first time he had heard you curse? Was that a stroke of confidence he heard from your mouth? Was he offended? Was he turned on? He couldn’t tell.

But as Alejandro still stood there, silent against your remark, the others begin to wonder just what it was that you said that had him like this.

“Uh what’d she say?” Soap leans over to whisper to Alejandro, his eyes darting between the two of you as did the other men.

“Ahora, ¿dónde aprendiste una cosa así, eh? (Now where did you learn such a thing, huh?)” Alejandro nods his head towards you, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Conoces gente de todo tipo cuando eres médico. Y además, el idioma era parte de mi plan de estudios de todos modos. (You meet all kinds of people when you're a doctor. And besides, language was part of my curriculum anyway.)” You shrug your shoulders, taking a sip of your coffee as your eyes meet Alejandro’s dark ones over the lid of your cup.

Alejandro chuckles, pointing at you with a smirk. “Bueno, será mejor que tengas cuidado cariño. Palabras como esa pueden meterte en problemas. (Well, you'd better be careful, sweetheart. Words like that can get you in trouble.)”

“No te preocupes por mí. Soy una niña grande Me licencié y todo. (Do not worry about me. I'm a big girl. I’ve got a degree and all.)”

“What are they saying?” Soap asks again, this time to Gaz.

“How would I know?” Gaz hisses, obviously annoyed with not knowing what the two of you were conversing about. Were the two of you planning a date? Were you plotting a scheme? Were you making fun of the rest of the team? The boys definitely didn't like being left out from a conversation, especially from you.

“I didn’t know you can speak Spanish.” Soap turns to you.

“Well it seems here that our little doctora is full of surprises.” Alejandro comments, making you roll your eyes with a shake of your head.

“Right.” Gaz squints at you in a jest, adding on to the men poking fun at you. “Now really doc, what the fuck is on your feet?”

"Oh screw y'all, they're comfy for my feet alright." You roll your eyes at the way they tease you about your choice of footwear, though in all honesty, you're not able to hide the smile that tugs at the ends of your lips, that is until a certain someone appears.

Ghost is the last one to show up, hoping to have avoided your presence. But when he sees you still there leaning against the counter, his eyes lock with yours before looking away as if you had never even existed in the first place.

You're almost sure he hates you, chewing on the inside of your cheek from the way he looked you over like a speck of dirt on his boot before completely ignoring your being. You have no clue why he is the way he is around you, wondering if he had seen the note you left on his door. He has to have seen it right? He’s got to. And then it hits you, at least you think. Maybe your little detail of adding the lollipops had offended him, and you’re almost terrified to think what he thought of them. On top of that, he still had never bothered to show up for his blood results. So he truly was avoiding you on purpose, wasn’t he. You wish you knew the reason behind his avoidant behavior. Did he find you disgusting? Was that a possible reason? Had you somehow at some point offended him? Were you going to end up on his hit list? Maybe. Were you going to die some mysterious death by his hands tonight? Sounds likely.

“Alright you lot. Let’s get moving.” Price gestures the men to follow him before turning back to you. “We won’t be long. Gaz, you know the rules.”

“Yessir.” Gaz nods his head before stepping over to you, looking down at you drinking your coffee with a soft smile on his face. “I’m sure this day will go by smoothly.”

“Oof. Don’t jinx it.”

You wish he had not said those last words.

You had spent most of the day relaxing as Price had suggested when the men left, their gear strapped to their forms and their guns locked and loaded. A strange scene I might add, if one were to walk into the area of the building and see a group of bulky hardened soldiers and then you, a young woman in a white coat and scrubs and her special decorated crocs along with her vintage Donald Duck watch. You almost looked out of place with the war-ridden atmosphere.

When you had stepped into your office the first time that day, you were surprised to see a slight change in your usual environment, the lack of an apple at your desk. This absence, though small and what one might call insignificant, had saddened you to a certain degree. Though at first you found the little act to be annoying, of finding the red fruit there every morning placed upon your desk, as time went by, you had grown accustomed to it a bit. So when you noticed the absence of the apple after expecting to see it just like the days before, it had lowered your spirits. Though you did not know the meaning or intention behind the gesture or the person directly involved behind it, it had come to bring you a sense of security, a slight token of someone’s watchful eye over you. Or at least that’s what you believed it to be. Little did you it was just a simple act involving the confusion of idioms.

But imagine your confusion when in place of the lack of an apple, you instead find your tray of lollipops looking a little less full than it was yesterday. Had someone broken into your office or were you just loosing your mind. And as you inspect the little tray, you're even more surprised to find a distinct black, powdery substance smeared against the side of it, right on the edge. Using your thumb, you wipe it off the side of the tray, raising your hand to further inspect the foreign substance to see that it looks a lot like eyeshadow.

"Huh. That's strange."

Ooooooo someone just got caught.

With the men gone, all except Gaz of course, you went about reading more chapters of your book, lounging about on the couch in the common area before your nerves got the better of you and you decided to do some cleaning around the area, to which Gaz had offered some help, with much eagerness in his end. Gaz of course had kept watch, letting you lead the conversations as the two of you made small talk every once in a while before going back to your little tasks, you with your paperwork and inventory of medical supplies and Gaz with his patrol.

During the moments where the two of you did talk, you began to unravel little details about each other, details mostly involving Gaz since you still preferred to keep your walls up. You called it being professional, but those who were close to you would call it a fear to let others in. Perhaps they were right. After your father’s death, you had rarely let anyone in, sometimes not even your own self. And Gaz, being the sweet soul that he was, never pressured you to reveal anything you did not want to. He wouldn’t ask about your personal life or your past unless you offered to.

The more the two of you talked, the more you learned little things about the soldier that you never knew, like his love of the ocean and how he had wanted to become a marine biologist when he was a little boy, as well as how his favorite sea creatures were, and still are, sea otters and sea turtles. He had even mentioned how his favorite movie was Nemo growing up, with Crush being his favorite character. In fact, the movie was what inspired him to study in that field in the first place. He was extremely almost embarrassed to release that bit of info to you, scared that you might pass it on to the team and that he’d never hear the end of it. When that little bit of information slipped from his tongue, he practically begged you not to tell the others. So imagine his relief when you stick your pinky out in an offer to make a pinky promise on it. You honestly find it kind of cute.

As time dragged on and when the day had become night, when the sun had long passed the horizon to lay to rest, you had grown quite weary waiting for the men to return, and oh was there a sight waiting for them to behold once they did. Your little act of cleaning around the house had drained a good amount of your energy, eventually causing you to crash out on the couch with your head resting against Gaz’s shoulder. Your legs were curled up on the cushion of the sofa, your book placed open on your lap after Gaz had asked if you could read to him, curious about the story within the binding. But the late hour combined with the cleaning around had pulled a yawn from your chest as you read the pages out loud, your voice low and muzzy and your words drawling out as your eyes scanned the printed letters before another yawn escaped your lips, and another, then another, before everything became blurry and you slowly drifted off to a deep sleep.

Even Gaz, who was supposed to stay watch, had fallen asleep beside you, his head thrown back on the back of the couch and his mouth slightly parted as soft little snores escaped it. He was never one to fall asleep on duty, known for his control over his mental fortitude. But the poor soldier had soon followed suit, infected by by your fatigue as he too yawned after each time you did. In that time, he smiled down softly as he watched you grow tired next to him, resting your head unconsciously on his shoulder and chuckling at the sight of the thin line of drool that slipped from the corner of your mouth.

He almost felt relieved, and comforted to see this side of you, after having seen you do nothing but shove your nose into paperwork and files on top of staying on guard to take care of them and make sure no serious injury happens on your watch. And as he watched you, making sure to stay as still as possible as to not wake you, your soft breathing and the warmth radiating off your body had finally pulled him in, until eventually, his state of alertness fell limp, his head rolling back as he too drifted off shortly after you.

You don’t know long you had been asleep, nor did you know you had your face smushed up against Gaz’s shoulder, your lips parted slightly and your drool pooling into a wet spot on the fabric of his jacket. If you did, you don’t think you’d be able to look him in the eye from how embarrassed you’d be. Not only did you most likely cause his arm to cramp up and fall asleep under your weight, but you had also marked his shoulder with your saliva. And if the others were to see this, they would have a kick out of it, with Soap taking multiple pictures at unflattering angles and teasing the two of you for the days to follow. And in a short matter of time, they would have seen it, stumbling upon the scene if they had not burst through the front door like a team of SWAT.

The sound of the door slamming open and their shouts had startled you awake, their voices echoing through the front of the building and making you sit up in your seat.

“What the-“ you mutter out groggily, squinting against the dryness of your eyes and not even paying mind to how you had completely crashed out. Where they back?

“Sounds like trouble.” Gaz had also woken up next to you, quickly getting up from the sofa and rushing towards the commotion as you followed closely behind.

You almost froze at the scene, watching the men come into the area with their faces worn out and beaded with sweat and spots of blood. You knew what they were getting into, what their job required of them, yet seeing them return from the mission first hand had in some way unsettled you. Sure, you had worked in the ER during your residency. You had seen conditions far worse than this, patients suffering from injuries ranging of a varying degree as they were wheeled around, gruesome wounds that still at times scarred your memories till this day. And yet, why did this seem to daunt you far worse than anything you had seen in the emergency department. It's almost as if you forgot these men were killers, and you didn't quite know how to feel about that.

Alejandro had been the first to step into the area, carrying an injured Soap under his arm and helping the Scot walk next to him as he muttered some words of encouragement in Spanish.

“What-what happened?”

“Nada serio querida. No te preocupes. (Nothing serious love. Don't worry.)” Alejandro answers simply, groaning under Soap's weight and from his own injuries.

“Nada serio querida.” Soap copies what Alejandro had said with a limp in each of his steps, his face pale from the loss of blood from his wound as he gives you a smile to assure you that everything was in fact fine, though we all know this isn’t the case.

“Well it sure as damn well looks serious to me Alejandro.” You remark as you hurry over to help the man set Soap down carefully on a chair, your voice slipping the hint of your father’s accent, a small habit that revealed itself whenever you got upset over something. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to tread carefully around me, I'm not made of glass you know."

Alejandro fell quiet as he watched you try to examine Soap, taken aback by this more....authoritative side of you, not that he had any reason to be surprised, you were a physician after all and this sort of conduct was necessary especially since people's lives were in your hands. He had not intended to alarm or offend you, the reason why he said those words in the first place, but the situation itself had managed to speak much louder than his words could ever manage. And in this moment, maybe it's best to let you be in charge.

Your eyes scattered about the area as the others soon came through, focusing on each and every one of them to try to gauge both their mental and physical state. Ghost was the next to enter right after Price, his blackened eyes from behind his mask meeting your concerned ones for a brief and fleeting moment before looking away. The skull-masked soldier was supporting another man, another masked soldier you had not seen before, one whose stature towered over everyone around him, even Simon Riley himself, whom you have thought to be tall enough already. Y'all already know who it is.

“Sir-“ you spoke up to the troubled-looking captain as he walked up to you, your eyes studying the wounded and bloodied scene behind him. You don't know what the hell happened back there, but you didn't need to hear the details to know it wasn't good. “Is everything alright? The hell happened?”

“Y/n.” Price finally stood in front of you, his hand placed on your shoulder as means of reassurance, or even a way to steady his exhausted body as he turned back to his men, running his fingers through his beard before looking you in the eye. “We were ambushed. Suffered a few injuries but we got the most of em.”

“You sure? Y’all look like you took quite the beating.” You state lightheartedly but more so from a place of worry and sympathy. “Listen Captain, if you don't mind, I need to take a look at these men."

“Right. Right.” Price nods his head, breathless from the mission. His countenance was masked behind an aura of composure as he looked over his injured soldiers, but one look at his eyes told you otherwise. He was tense, nonetheless, and you could clearly see the restlessness behind them from the way he held responsibility over the lives of his men, believing himself to be accountable if any harm should come to them.

“Do you have any wounds I need to take a look at sir? Any trauma to the head? Any lacerations or punctures?"

“No. No, I’m fine.”

"It'll be alright." You give the man a comforting smile, placing a hand on his arm to provide the only means of consolation you can give him in a moment like this.

“Thank you.” Price returns your smile, placing his hand over yours and giving it a soft squeeze. Though he felt contrite for throwing such a burden on your shoulders, he knew that you were the only person qualified enough around here given the circumstances, and he could not be more grateful for your presence. "Just....let me know if you need any help."

"Of course."

The men were badly beaten from what you observed as you examined them. A few fresh bruises marked their bodies, nothing terribly serious, but Soap, Alejandro, and the new guy were the only ones who had sustained more serious injuries. MacTavish had taken a bullet to the thigh, but luckily for him, the bullet had missed his femoral artery as well as any major nerves in the area. The poor Scotsman had felt bad for disturbing you at such a late hour such as this. But you had reassured him time and time again that this was part of your job, and that you had read over the part of the contract that said you would mostly be on-call when you signed your name at the bottom.

Soap doesn't know why he was so on edge as you operated on him. He’s nervous, extremely nervous. And what does Soap do when he’s nervous? He talks, like a lot, like a lot a lot and I don’t mean that lightly. I mean this man just talks your ear off while you’re wiping away any excess blood on his thigh and practically knuckles deep into his bullet wound. This man had been shot before so why should this be any different. Was it the local anesthetic you had injected into him? Or was it because you were a practicing physician and therefore would be able to pinpoint the finer details and eventually break some kind of devastating news to him like "I hate to break this to you Soap but I'm afraid I'm going to need to perform an amputation." Also I genuinely believe this man is afraid of needles. Don't ask me how I know. I just know.

"Y/n." Soap speaks up, gulping from the question that is about to spill from his lips as he watches you disinfect his wound.

"Hm?" You hum, focused on cleaning the area where the bullet had lodged itself.

"Am I gonna loose my leg?"

"What?" You stop, raising your head to give him a weird look. "Where'd you get that idea?"

"Don' know. Ye look pretty serious..........................ya sure I'm not gonna loose my leg?" He asks again, the panic in his voice more evident this time as an image is generated in his mind of him having a wooden pegleg like some kind of pirate.

"No. No you're not going to loose your leg Soap. You're just fine.” You go back to mending his bullet wound. “If anything, you're just going to get a few stitches. I am going to have to leave the bullet in place though, so don’t fret.”

"Yer leavin the bullet in there?" Soap's face pales after hearing your statement, eyes wide as he stares at you like you’re some kind of lunatic.

“Don’t look at me like that. I can feel you staring at me like I’m crazy. The reason I’m leaving the bullet in your leg is because it’s not in a fatal area that needs removal, and it's going to do more damage than good if I take it out. And besides, your body will build a sort of......wall of scar tissue around it so you'll be fine.” You try to explain to him in a way he can understand.

“I will?”

"I promise. Now once I’m done here I'm going to prescribe you some antibiotics and pain relievers as well as an ointment to help with the healing process and keeping away infections. Just make sure to get some rest and go easy on that leg of yours and you'll be up and running in no time."

"Oh.....okay."

Poor Soap is still nervous, despite your words of consolation. So in order to ease the tension he decides to crack a few jokes, a trait that has become familiar with his teammates, much to their annoyance, whenever he's out on the field. Whether it's for his own welfare or yours, we may never know. Perhaps it’s for both, but let's just say it’s more so for his own sanity. And the way he jumps from one joke to another only makes you question how the previous medics ever sat through it.

"Did you hear about the restaurant on the moon?"

"No."

"Great food. No atmosphere."

"Jesus."

"..............Hey y/n."

"Yes Soap?" You’re pretty sure this is the 45th joke he’s told you so far and now you’re just concerned for his mental well-being. But you also want to know where the hell he got all of these jokes in the first place.

"Why do seagulls fly over the ocean?"

Oh god. "Why?" You ask, bracing yourself for whatever was about to come next.

"Because if they flew over the bay, we'd call them bagels."

Jesus fucking christ. At this point you're positive your eyes are going to pop out from your sockets from how hard you are trying to stop yourself from rolling them. "Soap-"

"Yeah?"

"Please hold still."

Alejandro on the other hand was especially quiet while you tended to his wound, a gash on the proximal part of his arm on the lateral end, just below the acromial region, left from the bullet that grazed it. If he did speak, it would be small little words of motivation, sprinkled with terms of endearment in Spanish as he told you how good of a job you were doing, which you thought to be a risky thing to do considering you were sticking a needle in his flesh to sew his wound shut. He'd even tell you short little stories about his life before here, some of which may have elicited a soft chuckle from your frowning lips, a stern look that always unconsciously formed on your face whenever you were focused on something. He finds your little look of concentration quite cute honestly, the way you'd sometimes pout and squint your eyes. But most of all, he admired how calm and collected you were at such a task, as if you were doing something as simple as stitching the seams of fabric together.

He tried his best to soothe you, seeing the strained look on your face and imagining the stress you must be under, knowing when it would be best to offer you silence so that you may focus on the work at hand. And when you were done suturing his wound and wrapping fresh gauze around his arm, he pulls you in to give you a warm hug, which catches you off guard since you’re still wearing nitrile surgical gloves spotted with his blood and practically reek of alcohol-based solutions and the bleach-like scent of antiseptics. Regardless of how you look and smell like chemicals, the man only pulls you in tighter, wrapping his uninjured arm around the top of your back with his hand squeezing the back of your shoulder as he thanks you in his native tongue.

The two of you stand there for a moment in this sort of half-embrace, Alejandro with just a single arm around you and you with your hands held out behind him with your face pressed up against his chest. Next thing you know he presses a kiss to the side of your head, which takes you even more by surprise. This man really does not care how you look or smell. You could be covered in saline solution and antibiotic ointment and he’d still think you were the most stunning woman to walk the earth.

Also, speaking of smell, Alejandro smells really good, despite the hint of gunpowder from the mission he just returned from. But to say you are obsessed with his cologne is an understatement. This man smells AMAZING. His scent is woodsy, and spicy, like tequila mixed in with cardamom and bergamot, with sharp hints of clove and peppers balancing over velvety floral notes. He smells like something out one of those cheesy racy romance novels where the romantic interest climbs up your balcony during a hot summer night to hand you a single rose before whisking you away under the stars for a night of passionate-cough cough-you know what I mean. It's almost sinful, erotic, luring you in to perform acts that would make Satan and the Pope seek counsel with each other. This sudden emotion causes this stir in the pit of your stomach, lighting your whole body in flames and you almost feel ashamed for wanting him to stay a while longer just so you can get another and longer whiff of him.

“You know chica, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a really good machaca." Alejandro pulls away from the embrace, looking down at you with a slight smirk.

“Why don’t you go get one?”

“Only if you agree to come along.”

You’re stunned, caught off guard, and you better come quick with a witty response or else you’re just going to look like a fool standing there blinking at him. "Are you asking me out on a date Vargas?" Wow. I haven’t heard that one before.

"Mm, maybe. There'll be good food."

Speak no more. I am bringing the church and a marriage license. “You know, now that you've mentioned it, I suppose I have been craving some spicy food for a while."

The new guy, who’s name you found to be König, was surprisingly polite, despite his intimidating size and aura. He was a bit reserved around you at first, the blues of his eyes from behind the loose fabric of his mask studying your features to try to get a sense of your character as a person. He had heard quite a lot about you from the others, mostly the way you were gentle and kind in nature. Yet he had trouble understanding how a person could be capable of providing peace, as the others explained it, but one word from your lips and a benevolent smile in his direction was enough to convince him.

Telling from his body language, you made sure to inform him about every measure you were going to perform for the procedure, wanting to ensure he was as relaxed as possible with what you were doing, something you took seriously with every one of the patients you ever had. And the more you spoke, asking him simple questions like beginning with his name and asking where he was from and what his hometown was like and how he was currently feeling, he eventually warmed up to you, partly because he thought you were really pretty, but also because you made him feel comfortable in a place he usually did not find comfort in. I mean this man is still a killing machine despite his social anxiety. Not to mention, this was the first time he had met you. So the fact that you look out for his own wellness first really puts him at ease.

The tall Austrian had suffered a gunshot wound to his abdomen, an area that would usually require more serious care. But thanks to his bulletproof vest, the bullet was prevented from puncturing any organs or cavities or any major blood vessels or nerves, passing through his layers of skin and reaching the adipose tissue and barely imbedding into the muscle of his abdomen. You of course were able to extract the piece of metal, injecting some anesthetic for the pain and disinfecting the area beforehand before using a pair of forceps to carefully pull the bullet out.

Though the man was slightly anxious around you, he didn’t want to pry to much on your behalf and end up offending you in any manner, especially with how quiet you were, minus the little questions you’d ask him of course. Instead, he is fascinated by your steady hands and your precision, wondering how hands as small and delicate as yours were capable of performing such complex labor as he asks questions about every step that you take into the procedure and every tool that you have laid out on your table. By the end, he is completely starstruck by just how much you know. He even may have slipped a little compliment on how wise and pretty your eyes were. You’ve never heard anyone compliment your eyes as being wise, but you like it, not being able to hold back the small smile that pulls at the corner of your lips.

“Thank you for your help……..liebling.”

“It’s no problem.” You smile. You had heard that German term once before, a word once exchanged between an elderly couple that were once under your care. And the fact of knowing the meaning behind it warms your heart.

“Du hast sehr schöne kluge augen. (You have very beautiful, intelligent eyes)." The soldier mutters under his breath, nearly catching himself at the end of the sentence and praying you had not heard nor understood what he said.

“Sorry?”

“Oh um…….." König gulps, thinking of how to respond and deciding whether he should just lie or tell the truth to behind the meaning of his words. "It means you have really pretty wise eyes.”

“Oh……..why thank you. That's really sweet."

After handing König a bag containing his antibiotics, pain killers, and a tube of ointment, you also hand him a couple Dum-Dum lollipops to go with it. The Austrian doesn’t know how to react at first. Did you just give him a candy? Was this a common practice of doctors in your country? When he finally realizes this was just your way of showing kindness, he is more than delighted and thanks you for them in German, grasping both of your hands as he does so. Don’t ask me why or how but I just feel like he likes to hold both of your hands whenever he thanks you for something. Also the more eager he is, the more he shakes your hands in his.

This man’s crush on you has just went to the next level. König likes to collect whatever catches his attention, something he had done since he was a child from time mostly spent by himself. And it’s almost as if he has an eye for these things, picking out whatever has unique colors or patterns. So when you find some wildflowers or interesting looking leaves or a variety of colorful bird feathers or butterfly wings that had fallen to the dirt on your desk one day, just know he picked them out for you whenever he goes on a mission.

Believe it or not, the Austrian also has a secret talent of wood carving and is actually very skilled at it. During the days where his anxiety seems to overwhelm and suffocate him, he likes to sit outside in the grass surrounded by nature, covered in wood shavings with a knife in hand as he makes little wooden figurines of animals that he sees, whether it be birds, deer, foxes, bunnies, squirrels or skunks. It’s the only thing that he can fixate on that brings him total serenity and nirvana, sitting amongst the grass with his back up against the trunk of a tree, where there isn’t a single soul in sight except for himself and the ones that belong in the woods, where the only things that can judge him are the tall ancient trees and the creatures that walk it. But I won’t get further into this till later. Just know that he’s working on one especially for you.

Now, moving on.

By the time you were finished patching the three men up, you cleaned up the area and your tools, taking off your bloody gloves and throwing them into the biohazard container until you see Ghost stumble by in the corner of your eye. Little did you know he had been watching you from afar, not in a creepy way but in a ‘just want to make sure my teammates are alright’ kind of way. Not that he doubts your expertise of course. The lieutenant had not expected the mission to go sideways as it did, even though it was somewhat accomplished in the end. And seeing his team get wounded had unlocked this new fear in him that, to some degree, had always been there.

So when he stood there in the corner, leaning against the wall and hidden in the shadows like typical old Ghost, he found a sense of relief in watching how quickly and proficiently you moved about and just how composed you were, especially under the pace and pressure. Maybe it’s how quiet you are when you get really focused on something, maybe it’s how calm you are throughout it, or maybe it’s the amount of caution and supervision you take towards making sure the others are treated with the utmost care. Truth be told, you are like a remedy to Ghost, to the Simon Riley underneath, to the troubles and trauma that mold the broken man beneath the mask. If only the big dummy were to realize this instead of treating you like as if you were the plague itself.

When you lift your head towards the sound of slight shuffling in the corner, you catch him moving out of the shadows and sneaking away from the area. Usually you wouldn’t think anything of it, thinking he was just overseeing your work like a supervisor. But as you watch him walk off, you notice that something is off about him, something not quite right, and this intuition only builds this deep and heavy bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

“Ghost?”

Ghost stops abruptly at the sound of your voice, his head ever so slightly tilted to the side as he was not expecting you to have seen him, much less even say something.

“Is everything alright?”

Goddamn you and your manners. The masked soldier moves away with the slightest huff, not wanting to answer your question but you call out once more.

“You’re not hurt are you?”

“Negative.” He begins to walk off, not even looking in your direction to acknowledge you.

“Lieutenant, could I please see you for a minute?”

“Another time.”

“I insist.” Your voice is more firm this time and it catches him by surprise.

He had not heard this tone from you before, and yet, he can sense the shakiness behind it, the uncertainty. The more there is silence on his end, the more you are sure that you have reached the expiration date of your life, terrified that you had officially provoked the stone-cold soldier and that he is about to march over here and stab you in the neck with your own scalpel any second now. And as he stands there, debating on whether he should just leave, he hears your voice once again, a faint ‘please’. Heaving out a heavy sigh, the man shuts his eyes for a brief moment before turning back around and heading in your direction.

You’re not sure if you should freeze up like the fresh-caught fish on a bed of ice at the supermarket or run in the opposite direction as this man walks towards you, his mask not helping in making him look any less more pissed off than usual. When he finally stands in front of you, his bulky form towering over yours, you can only do the first thing that comes to mind, freeze up. At first the masked soldier glares down at you, the irises of his eyes only darkened by the grooves of his mask as he waits for you to speak, wishing you were the first to say something, anything, but instead you’re staring at him like a deer caught in front of headlights. Don’t worry babes, I would too.

“Well? Whadya want?”

“I just want to check to make sure you’re not injured-“

“I feel fine.” Ghost narrows his eyes at you, slowly becoming irked by your constant need to monitor his well-being and wishing you would just take his word and leave. But he knows better than to argue with someone that was literally tasked by the government to manage the sanity and wellness of task force 141. Was your etiquette a part of the job requirements as well?

“You don’t look fine.” You snark.

“Yeh?” Ghost sneers. “And who the hell are you to say that?”

“I’m a doctor.” You blink. “Or if you wanna be more specific, I'm technically your doctor. It’s my job. And telling from the dampness of the blood on your mask there that still has not dried since the moment you stepped trough the doors and god knows how long since before,” you point to the area near the bottom of the left side of his neck, more so near his shoulder. “I’m guessing it’s yours and not someone else’s.”

“The fuck are you on about? Listen here princess, there’s no-“ Ghost pulls his hand up to his neck only to feel the exact same dampness you had just mentioned. Fuck. He had been so caught up with everything around him that he had not even been aware that he had been injured. When he finally pressed his fingers to the area there, tensing from the pain, that was when he was finally able to register through that thick and stubborn skull of his that he had in fact been injured this whole time. This man probably takes the phrase ‘mind over matter’ quite literally.

“Now can I please take a look at you?” You quirk a brow up at him, waiting for a response and knowing better than to expect a quick answer. But if there’s one thing you know, if you just slightly annoy and pester him enough, he might just eventually cave in, that is if he doesn't add you to his hit list. “Look, if you wait any longer you might pass out and go into hemorrhagic shock. And depending on the class, you can suffer from organ damage and even death. So unless you want that to happen-“

Well when you put it like that- “Fine. Get on with it.” Ghost growls as he sits himself down on the chair. Bloody fucking hell you talk way more than he had ever expected from you. But you sure can keep your ground, he'll give you that. He’s just glad that none of the others are here to see him being bossed around by someone almost half his size and about a foot shorter than him.

"Thank you for cooperating." You give a short and quick smile. You may or may not have exaggerated about the last part to get him to comply. Well…….that is.........depending on the exact location of injury and the amount of blood loss of course.

Thank you for cooperating. Ghost scoffs at your statement.

“You know……I wish you wouldn’t avoid me like I were a crackhead outside your local 7-eleven.”

A what? Ghost gives you a weird look, wondering if he had heard you correctly as you go over to the sink, rolling the white sleeves of your lab coat up and turning on the faucet. The shit that comes out of your mouth, he swears makes him question your license. Then again, he’s not sure how to respond to what you had just said. It's no lie that he has indeed been going out of his way to avoid you at all costs. But the idea of you even noticing his absence had never even crossed his mind, much so that you would come to be offended by it. Noticing your lack of pressing further on the matter, he shifts in his seat, watching you wash your hands in a methodical series of steps until he notices a small marking on your inner right wrist, a small and delicate tattoo of a heartagram. It can't be.......can it? He had never listened to much of their music but.......were you a HIM fan? If so, this is certainly a detail he had never expected from you and he almost doesn't know what to think of it. What other tattoos do you have?

Once he sees you turn off the faucet, he quickly returns to his original position on the chair, not wanting to make it seem like he was watching you.

"Now I’m just going to take a quick look here." You head over to where he sat, pulling the nitrile gloves over your hands as you look down at him, reaching out towards the bottom of his balaclava before feeling him swat your hand away.

“Hey!” You yelp, more so from being startled than the actual impact. “The hell was that for?” No way in hell he just did that.

“…………….”

"I promise I won't sneak a peak at your face if that's what you're afraid of."

“……………………..”

“Listen lieutenant. I can’t check to see if you’re okay if you won’t let me.” You sigh, reaching out once more, but this time you feel his hand grab yours, his gloved fingers wrapping around the bare skin of your wrist as he eyes the ground at his feet. The loud beating in your chest reaches your ears, deafening you as you stare at the soldier who could practically fracture your wrist if he tightened his grip. At this point most would be petrified, bracing themselves for the number of possibilities that can take place just from under his control. Most would either try not to glance over at the scalpel that lays out on the table just beside within arms reach, not wanting to instigate anything further in fear of the soldier catching the movement of their eyes, or some would dare to do so anyways as part of their fight or flight response.

Maybe you should be scared of him, of this soldier who has more blood on his hands than you can count. And yet, somehow, as you finally regain control of your thoughts after being startled from the sudden motion, you can’t seem to find yourself to. If he wanted to kill you, you’d already have been dead, you tell yourself, because here you are, well and unharmed. Despite the calloused disposition of the man notorious for his ruthlessness and merciless on the field and just the sheer size of his hand around your wrist, you’re surprised at the gentleness he handles you with, the carefulness of his hold a stark contrast to the rough fabric of his gloves that rub against the sensitive skin there.

Ghost can feel you tremble ever so slightly under his grasp, feeling your racing pulse through his gloves from under his palm, not to mention the peculiar coldness of your limb, but he can also feel the severity behind your eyes as you stare him down, as if you were just waiting for him to meet them. For a flicker of a moment, you have him wondering just how much more there is to you than the Dr. Y/n y/l/n that you put on stage only for others to see. Just what else lies beyond the pristine white lab coat, those neatly pressed scrubs and your observant orbs.

“Ghost-“ Your voice is firm but heedful. “Please let go of my wri-“

"I'll do it."

“What-“

“I said I’ll do it. You’re not touching the mask.”

“Alrigh-”

“I mean it.” He lets go of your wrist as quickly as he grabbed it.

"Okay." You throw your hands up in defeat, taking a step back to give him some room. "Fine by me."

Ghost can't help but huff at your behavior, hesitating for a moment before finally lifting the bottom of his balaclava, peeling away the fabric that had become sticky with blood to expose his neck. Damn you.

"Let's see here." You lean in closer to inspect the area before cursing under your breath. “Jesus fucking christ.”

Ghost side-eyes you with a raised brow at the words that came out of your mouth. Did he just hear you cuss? Better yet, just what the hell did you see to make you say those words. You almost don’t even have to hear him say anything to know what he is thinking.

“See this is why it’s important you come to me.” There’s that same strictness in your voice, and yet, this one is different. Is that a slight hint of genuine concern he hears? Realizing how you might have sounded to a man who has probably dealt with far worse, you straighten up, clearing your throat as you did so and fluttering your eyes away from his forbidding gaze. Pushing away whatever emotions that managed to rile you up like that, you clear your throat once more. “So, looks like there’s a laceration, along the inferior portion of your neck here, proximal to your acromial region. But lucky for you, your brachial plexus is still intact. The bullet, or whatever the hell you've been hit by, narrowly missed your suprascapular artery and nerve. Though I will have to perform some sutures to reconstruct your trapezius muscle."

"English, for fucks sake." Ghost grumbles at your rapid speech involving words he finds incoherent. But you and I both know it’s only because he finds it to be a turn on. That's why he let you ramble on in the first place.

"What I meant was, good news is, your nerves and blood vessels are okay. Bad news is, your trapezius muscle, which is the muscle that runs along the curve of your neck here and a portion of your back has a slight gash here at the top. So you are going to need stitches. And a lot of rest afterwards of course, to make sure it's properly healed."

"Fuckin hell." Ghost mutters under his breath.

"Now if you'll let me-"

"Yeh yeh. Just make it quick."

What had been a short amount of time had instead felt like hours for the masked soldier, for Ghost, for the wounded Simon Riley beneath all those layers as he remained in his seat like a statue, ensuring that he stayed as still as possible while you worked on him. He had not uttered a single word during the whole duration, not even the slightest grunt. And if it hadn't been for his steady breathing, you would have presumed him to be dead. He had to be the quietest patient you have ever dealt with, not to mention the most stubborn, and you found yourself wishing he would say something, anything. But to expect such from a man such as him would be a fool's errand, a fruitless endeavor.

And even if he chose to speak, what the hell would he even talk about? His fucking trauma?The man wouldn't even look at you, his eyes wandering everywhere but your face. In spite of his grievances towards you, his reluctance to ever establish any form of association with you, he'd find himself slowly stealing glances in your direction from time to time when you weren't looking directly at him. He'd find himself studying your features as he once did the first time he met you. You were wearing that same perfume, that deep woodsy and floral perfume that reminded him of an old bookstore, of one of those metaphysical shops scattered with different fragrances of the smokey incense, the unmistakable scent of you that had been ingrained in his mind ever since.

"So, what kind of a name is Ghost anyways?"

".................."

"Right. I forget you don't speak."

Ghost gives you a quick and sharp glare before staring straight ahead. Damn that sharp tongue of yours.

"You seem tired." You remark, picking on him just a tad bit to make a reference to when he commented on your dark circles, but also because he actually did genuinely seem tired.

"............."

A cock-up, no thanks to you, Ghost thinks to himself, knowing damn well the only reason he could not sleep was because of you, though he senses the only reason you said that was because he had mentioned to you how you looked tired.

More minutes pass, and he has yet to even snide at you. You'd almost prefer a huff of irritation directed at you over nothing.

"You know," you utter, "I went to medical school with an incredibly ambitious guy who was obsessed with collecting skulls. He'd do anything to get a head."

You what? Ghost looks at you just the slightest with a single blink. What the bloody fuck are you talking about? Oh wait.

“What is a sleeping brain’s favorite rock band?”

“……………….”

Oh no. It looks like Soap’s habit has taken hold of you.

“REM.”

“……………….”

Okay maybe that was a bad idea. The look that Ghost just gave you makes you want to never say another joke again. He actually thinks the first one wasn't too bad.

“You know, you’re lucky the bullet grazed you where it did.” You lean in a bit closer as you suture his wound. “Any more to the left and you would’ve have been in some serious shit.”

Your little movement manages to catch Ghost’s attention, and if you weren’t shoving a needle through his flesh he would have moved away. Instead he glances just the slightest over in your direction, his breath hitching in his throat at the close proximity between you both. His eyes trace over the details of your face as if he were studying a map, going over every one of the little characteristics that make you you. If only you could see the way he looked at you, you would have been able to see the subtlest change, the tiniest, sliver of a crack in the hardened shell that surrounded Simon Riley, of that shell that is Ghost.

There is a moment when your thigh brushes against the side of his as you turn away to move on to the next step after stitching his wound, a moment that goes by unnoticed to you, but not to him. The small contact, though brief, had managed to send a jolt of warmth through the soldier’s body, a feeling that is completely foreign to him, prompting him to tense up and bury whatever it is that has him reacting this way. It isn’t until you sense him shift beside you that you turn back to him, gauze and ointment in hand just as you catch him transfer his line of focus somewhere else. The faint alter of movement had you raising your brow, knowing well what you saw but unsure of the motive behind it.

While you went over to him, studying whatever you could gather from his body language and just his eyes due to the obstruction of his face, you noticed that his eyes were quite expressive for a man known for lacking any basic human emotion. While dressing his wound, you picked out the way his blonde lashes fluttered against his deep mahogany irises as they focused on anything but you, the black color smeared around the exposed area of his balaclava accentuating the blondes of his hairs. This had to be the first time you had actually taken a good look at him.

You would have complimented him on his eyes and lashes, but you thought against it, not wanting to embarrass yourself, or more importantly, the last thing you needed was to dig yourself deeper on his bad side and end up as a dusty file to be brushed under the rug. Speaking of. Now that you mention it, the stuff he wore around his eyes looked awfully similar to the stuff you found on your candy tray. Couldn’t be him could it? No, it can’t possibly be. The man avoids you way too much to even think about taking something that is even associated with you. Maybe you’re just overthinking like you always do and what you found was just from your own eyeshadow palette. After all, this wouldn’t be the first time you’ve accidentally smeared remnants of eyeshadow from your fingers to other things. If only you could ask him, but this man hates you enough as it is. You could casually bring it up one day, although now definitely isn’t the time.

When you were finally finished tending to him, getting up to gather some pain relievers, antibiotics, and some ointment for him to take with him, Ghost had noticed something that he had not spotted before, a small pitted and circular mark that sat at the left side of your neck. As he stared at it, trying to decipher just what it could be, it looked to be a scar of some sort, though a bit faded with time, it’s shade slightly darker than your skin tone. Where had he seen a mark like that before? And then it hit him.

“There you go.” You came back around to hand him his treatments in a brown paper bag, your voice causing him to quickly avert his gaze. “You’re all set.”

Taking the brown paper bag from your hands, Ghost couldn’t stop thinking about what it is that he saw marking the skin of your neck. Something in the back of his mind knew just exactly what that scar belonged to, what it meant. But Ghost, or Simon Riley, knew better than to delve into something that wasn’t his business, knowing well the cost. He could just be over-analyzing it all, mistaking it for something completely different. But why was he even bothering to do so in the first place. He had better things to do, duties that were assigned specifically to him, and trying to figure out that mark on your neck wasn’t one of them.

Ghost is quick to get up from his seat as he ushers you a quick thanks, the hardened wall once again building up to the masked soldier who had dared to even let it down just the slightest around you.

“Ghost wait.” You call out to him as he walks away, watching him stop in his tracks. “……before you go………next time you’re injured………promise you’ll at least come to me.”

“….I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Look,” you sigh, “I get it if you think I’m annoying……..or if you hate my guts, whatever, I don’t care. Just….at least let me help you.”

“Don' bother.” Ghost tightens his jaw as he tilts his head towards you, the brusque in his deep voice evident before he regains his steps, disappearing from your line of sight.

“What an asshole.” You breathe out with a shake of your head. You swear this man has you testing your Hippocratic Oath. You don’t know what it is that makes him despise you. Maybe it’s just him and that’s just the way he is, something you might have to ask the others about. Usually words like that would have you lying in bed awake thinking what you did wrong, but you are much too tired for that.

As Ghost went back to his room, shutting the door behind him, he opened up the paper bag you had given him, spilling out the pill bottles and ointment tube onto the table until he heard something roll off the edge of the table and fall onto the floor. Furrowing his brows, the soldier looked at the ground at his feet to where the mysterious item had fallen only to see a single Dum-Dum lollipop, sour apple flavor. Bloody fuckin hell.

Part 4

Tag List: @swissy23 @sualocin @kristalhi @deakyspuff @sometimes-i-write-good @hamilfanyu @princessranch @ig-you-idiot @obitoshotaf @cavern-creature @at0mschutzbunker @eddiesbixch696 @souls-rain @euovennia @i-wish-we-could-stay @depressedacidtest @gh0stm3g @thequeenofbigmacs @k1llerch4n @abbiesxox @feraltiddies @wand-erer5 @1redheaded3dragon @anisa269 @jocecymoo @mango-corner @classickook @trueee33 @sockertop @lupskelly @chxbits @kuwizo @sluxm3ozt @tobybestupid @anarchygoose @lez-zuha @thatoneautor0123 @aloudplace @ella-error505 @awkward-0 @ariessux @kermitdefroghere @urloverx @alldaysdreamers @rat-elbows @watersquirtpewpewboomm @izzyisstuff @notabotiswear @thecraziestcrayon @lilwingedwolfy @sprkthere @shyyxzi @bookmark-anon @simplecole18 @itsourkisses-blog @here4thespice @sunndust @josephquinnswhore @spooniscute @xghostyx666 @nikolai-m-s @he4rtbloss0m @classifiedtoe @killergoddessmm @sm8th0p @lunarayx @iwannabeazoldyck @butterflypillows @lobeliaaaaaa @mxtokko

#simon ghost riley #ghost fanfiction #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x oc #simon riley angst #simon ghost riley x you #soap x reader #soap x you #soap x oc #soap mactavish #soap imagine #john mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #john soap mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x you #john price x reader #gaz x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #konig x reader #konig x y/n #john price x y/n #john price x you #gaz x you #konig x oc

[dreamofbecoming]

yeah alright this got away from me. posting in pieces, part one is just stobin, no shippy stuff. steddie and rockie to follow. i'll drop it on ao3 once all 3 parts are done

now on ao3!

platonic stobin

rating: t

wc: 3.5k

---

Robin stopped being surprised by Steve Harrington showing up at her bedroom window months ago. Jesus, there's a sentence her 16 year old self wouldn't fucking believe for a second. The Hair, climbing up the trellis her dad built for the roses her mom planted and then forgot about three months later? Yeah right, as if. But it turns out alternate dimensions and sci-fi movie monsters and Russian conspiracies in Bumfuck, Nowhere, USA are all real, so how surprising really is The King himself, collapsing through her window with all the grace of a baby giraffe, out of breath like he- holy shit, did he fucking run here?

"Dingus, did you run here? What the hell?"

"Had to- hang on, Jesus. Holy shit." He bends over, hands on his knees, panting like he just ran a marathon. Which, she guesses, he almost did.

"You have a car, you lunatic, what could possibly be so important?"

"Didn't think about it. Had to get here."

"Is someone dead?!" Oh fuck, Is the Upside Down back? Oh shit, oh no, it can't be back, right? Superhero girl closed the gates! Right?! Oh god, oh no, oh fuck, it's back, the Russians are back, they realized they couldn't let her live after what she's seen, her parents will never even know what happened to her, and they'll kill Dingus too, and dorky little Henderson, and that menace Erica, oh god, they're gonna die, and Hopper's gone and superhero girl is far away and she doesn't have superpowers anymore anyway, which is frankly bogus because what the hell, Robin never even got to hang out with a real live magic person before, which, ok, that's a selfish thought, but that's ok, we can think selfish thoughts and then set them aside and not act on them, thoughts are not actions, thoughts happen all the time without our consent, they don't determine our character-

"Bobs, you're spiraling. Nothing bad happened, I just realized something and I freaked out and I had to talk to you right away. Forgot to call. Sorry, I should have called. Ran straight out of the house. I don't even think my shoes match, what the fuck?"

She's gonna kill him, she really is.

She loves him so much.

"Jesus, you're insane. Sit, you absolute dweeb. I'm getting you some water, when I get back you can tell me what the hell is going on."

He's sitting on her bed when she gets back upstairs, staring at something in his hands. Christ, his hands are shaking. What the fuck, Dingus?

He takes the water and downs it in one go- ugh, sports guys- then flops onto his back and covers his eyes with a miserable groan.

"I know we've got the whole twin telepathy thing going on, bubba, but I'm gonna need at least a little bit to work with here. Give me something. Is it your parents? The kids? Uh, what was her name? From Thursday? Janice?"

"Janine, and no. Ugh. Here." The arm not covering his eyes flops out towards her, holding- ah. A zine. He had promised to drive up to Indy last weekend to the secret bookshop she told him about and get her some new ones, even though she couldn't go with him because her cousin Randy got caught cheating on his fiancée and her parents made her come with the rest of the family to help him move. Fucking Randy. Maybe he should make better choices, so the rest of them wouldn't have to clean up his messes. Jerk.

Anyway.

"Marked the page." Which, yep, there's a purple paper clip stuck to a page near the middle, because Steve knows how much she hates people who dogear books, even books that aren't really books at all, so he's been training himself out of it, because he's sort of the best. Again, 16 year old Robin would have her committed for thinking that, but here we are.

The pamphlet isn't one of the periodicals she sent him for, so he must have picked it up on his own. It looks handmade, just some folded sheets that look like they came out of a typewriter, bound with the kind of twine you can buy at the hardware store. It's called Awakenings. The page he's marked looks like a personal essay, no title, no real signature, just a pair of initials at the end of the page and a half of writing. She starts reading, trying to figure out what the hell spooked Steve so bad.

"I've always been normal. I've always had crushes on men, just like the other girls. There was never a feeling of "I'm different," or "Oh, this is wrong." There was never anything to think very hard about. I'd giggle and blush when the boys looked over at us on the playground, same as everyone else. Later on when I was older I looked at my poster of Harrison Ford, shirtless and hairy and sweating, and I touched myself, and it felt good, just like it was supposed to. I didn't mind thinking of my future husband, and our future kids, and the pretty house with the pretty garden we'd have, just like my parents have, just like they wanted for me. I was normal. Everything was fine.

I thought everything about me was normal. So I didn't understand why the other girls at sleepover parties would giggle and stop and say "Ew, gross!" when we practiced kissing. It felt nice! I wanted to keep going! But it seemed like no one else did. I didn't understand why none of them talked about getting butterflies in their stomach when Laura, who was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen, transferred in our senior year, why they seemed so angry at her. Those butterflies were what jealousy felt like, right? So why did the other girls seem to feel so different?

I made my first lesbian friend in college, on the very first day, right across the hall in my dorm. We sat next to each other at Orientation and I thought I'd never have another best friend that wonderful in my whole life, so I'd hold on to her with everything I had. She came out to me the night before Christmas break, hiding under the blankets in my dorm room with the twinkling lights glowing. She was so scared. I held her and told her I loved her no matter what, and she seemed so glad, to have someone to talk to.

When she talked about falling in love with girls, I was so confused. The way she described it sounded like what it felt like to have girlfriends, I was sure. I felt that all the time. I asked her if she was sure she was gay, and she looked so shocked and angry and hurt, and I didn't know how to fix it, so I tried to explain. That what she felt couldn't be liking girls, because I felt that too, and I was normal. I liked boys, so I couldn't be gay. I couldn't be.

I'm glad it was her I said all that to. If someone else had told me about being bisexual, I think I would have hated them. I would have cried, and screamed, and said horrible things. Because I wasn't gay, I was normal, and it was so scary to think that might be a lie. Thank God it was her, my best friend in the world, who I never want to lose. Thank God I listened.

Because I'm not normal. I'm queer. I like men, and I like women. I can love them both the same, but it doesn't matter anymore, because I love her. I love her, and she loves me, and I don't need to be normal anymore."

Robin's face feels wet, which probably means she's crying. She cries a lot, reading these sorts of stories, in the zines she has to keep hidden under her bed, or, these days, at Steve's house. It's never going to be her, she knows. Not here in Hawkins, but it still makes something ache deep inside her, like pressing on a bruise, but in a good way, seeing love happen to other people. People like her. Seeing that it can.

"So?"

Oh shit. Right, Dingus. They're about him right now. Something about this essay in particular freaked him out.

"Uh. It's. A nice essay? I'm glad things worked out for them?"

Stevie lets out a pathetic whine, sort of like back at Scoops when he earned a particularly bad tally on the You Suck board. "Robbiiiiiiieeeee!"

"I'm sorry! I think I'm missing something, what's wrong with this essay? I don't get it, bubba, I'm sorry. I need some context." She does feel bad. Usually she can pluck whatever's bothering him right out of his brain and into the light, where it almost never looks as bad, but she's at a loss right now.

He's got both hands over his face again, and his response is so muffled she can't make out a word.

"Try again in human sounds, please."

"Ugh! I thought everyone felt like that!"

Huh? "Felt like...what, exactly?"

"Like that!" He flails wildly at the pamphlet in her hands. He's sitting up now, hair all askew from tugging at it, and there's a vaguely worrying crazed look in his eye, like right before he tackled that guard. "Like kissing boys and girls both feel nice, and like seeing a handsome guy and feeling jealous of him makes my stomach flutter, and like having friends feels the same as having crushes! I thought that was just how everyone felt all the time!"

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no.

Poor Dingus! No wonder he panicked and ran here like a crazy person!

"Stevie, can I hug you? Please?" She's not much for physical touch most of the time, but Steve is, and also she's found in the last few months that she doesn't mind so much when it's him. She sort of understands why other people like hugs so much, if they always feel like hugging Steve feels for her. And she really thinks he needs to be hugged, right now.

He nods miserably. She drapes her arms around his shoulders and holds on as tight as she can, hauling him sideways until he's practically laying down on her. He clutches her back and buries his face in her shoulder. She can feel her neck getting wet with tears, a sensation that would normally make her want to claw off her own skin, but this isn't about her. Dingus needs her.

"It's ok, bubba. I'm so sorry. I know how scary this is. When I first figured out I had a crush on Linda Sanderson I cried so hard I threw up, you know? I get it. It's gonna be ok, I promise. We'll make it ok. We faced down evil Russians and giant meat monsters, what's a little sexuality crisis, huh? We got this! We're the goddamn Wonder Twins!"

He snorts at that, which she's pretty sure leaves snot on her neck, which. Ew. Still. Problems for Later Robin.

"We are not, Will and El are the Wonder Twins."

"Uh, nope, no chance, I barely even met them so therefore I am vetoing their application. Sorry kiddos, better luck next time! Find your own nickname, losers!"

Steve sits back, laughing, and she preens a little at being able to bring him back from the brink so easily. She loves him so much she feels like she's glowing with it, sometimes. It almost makes her wish she was straight, because what girl is she ever going to find who loves her this much? But only almost, because. Well. Girls, amiright? Phew.

"So what now, Stevie? You wanna say it out loud? That helps, sometimes. You wanna not say it out loud? You wanna go to a gay bar and find you a boy? You wanna never think about it again? It's totally your call."

"Say it out loud, huh?"

"Hm. It took me like a month, and then the first time I could only say it sitting in the back of my closet with the bedroom door locked and the closet door closed, and I could only whisper it. Just "I'm a lesbian," to myself, like the world's most ironic little goblin. And I had to throw up again after. But it did feel good, once I rinsed my mouth out, anyway. Cleansing, you know? And it gets easier every time." Steve's eyebrows are raised and he's chuckling again, so that's a win. She's not lying, but it is sort of funny, she supposes. In hindsight, anyway.

"Ok. Ok, I can do that. I think. Yeah, I can do that."

She's so proud of him. He's the bravest person she's ever met, she thinks. "You wanna get in the closet?"

"Isn't the whole point to come out of the closet, Robs?" He's smirking at her. Bastard. She whacks him in the shoulder on principle. He may be having a crisis, but he's still a jackass. Her favorite jackass in the whole world, but still.

"Har har, you're a regular Bob Hope. Alright then, bigshot, let's hear it."

A little of that fear creeps back onto his face, and she wishes she could wipe it off, but that's not how this works. They can't make the scary things less scary. He couldn't make the Russians less terrifying, but he could hold her hand and make her laugh and carry some of that fear with her. She can do that for him now, too.

She grabs his hand, and he clutches back tightly. He takes a deep breath.

"I'm...fuck. Ok. Ok, I can do this. I'm...bisexual." The air leaves him in a big whoosh, and he laughs a little. "Yeah, ok, fuck. I'm bisexual. Holy shit, Robbie, I'm bisexual!"

"Hell yeah you are!" She's grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. She's so fucking proud of him.

He's laughing again, a little hysterically, and he hugs her tight again, and she holds him back just as close and thinks oh, he's like me. I'm not alone. I have Steve, and he's like me, and he's mine forever and ever.

When they separate, she looks at him seriously.

"So do you, like, want this to be a thing? Because we can totally make it a thing, and like, get me a fake ID and go to a gay bar and do all kinds of wild shit if you want, but we don't have to, you know? If you need to just, like. Digest this, for a while. It's totally up to you, I just know it took me a while to feel ok with it, and I have no idea if it's different for you but I just want to be what you need, you know? You've been so good with me, and I've never had a queer friend before, so I don't know how, but I want to be just as good to you. You're my Dingus and I love you and I don't know how much of a gay guru I can be on account of, you know, I've never met any gay people besides me and the pretty lady at the bookstore but I couldn't even get real human words to come out of my mouth when I tried to talk to her so I don't think that counts, you know? But I still wanna help! Let me help!"

"Bobbie! Bobbie breathe, you're gonna pass out. I don't think I need a gay guru, I just need a gay best friend, and I have that, so I promise I'm good, ok? Promise. Also I love you too.”

She takes a deep breath, following his lead the way they worked out in the horrible days after Starcourt, when she couldn't sleep without him next to her, warm and alive and breathing, and even then she would wake up in the night with her breath coming short and her vision tunneling and Steve would hold her hand against his chest and breathe slowly, in and out, until she could follow him, and the world wasn't so terrible and scary and loud anymore.

She still thinks about that awful hour underground, thinking she was strapped to the corpse of a boy she never let become her friend, but Steve is always there now when she needs him, and he never complains when she grabs his wrist or puts her head on his chest to make absolutely sure that big, stupid heart is still beating.

When she's breathing normally again, he drops their joined hands down between them, toying idly with the chain linking her ring to her bracelet. "I think...I think I'm glad I said it, and I'm glad we talked about it, but can we maybe just...put it away, for a while? Like it's not...ugh. I guess this is kind of shitty to say, so like, hit me if you want, I guess, but I kind of don't think it matters right now?"

"No no, that makes perfect sense! Like, you still like girls, right?" He nods. "And you don't like. Have a crush on any boys right now. Or do you? Oh man if you do you have to tell me though, it's platonic soulmate law. It's in the bylaws, Steve, don't make me soulmate fine you!"

He laughs and shoves her face away. "Jesus, Rob, no! I don't have a crush on any guys, who would I even crush on in this town? We're not exactly swimming in eligible bachelors. I don't have a crush on anybody at all, I'd tell you, I swear. I know the rules!"

"Oh phew, good. You have to tell me when you do, though, I'm way excited to get you back for making fun of Tammy."

"It was the God's honest truth, Bobbie! She sings like a muppet!"

"Oh my god, shut up, Dingus! Ugh! As I was saying, you super duper have to tell me when you do, but for now, I think maybe you don't have to think about it really at all if you don't want. I mean, practically speaking, it's not really relevant to your everyday life, so we can totally revisit when that changes, but you don't have to like. Join a pride parade tomorrow, you know? You are you who are no matter what. You don't have to prove anything to anyone, especially not to me, not ever."

He leans his head on her shoulder, and she scritches her nails through his hair. It really has no right being as soft as it is, with the amount of hairspray he uses. It's frankly rude, is what it is.

"Thanks, Bobs. I think I'm just gonna put it away for now. It just...another thing to know about me, you know? Like, I'm bad at fighting people but good at fighting monsters, all my best friends are kids except you, I'm bi but it doesn't matter because there aren't any boys to date in Hawkins anyway. Plus my dad would kill me if he found out. Like actually kill me, not "oh geez I missed curfew, my dad's gonna kill me" type kill me, like I think he'd actually try and beat me to death. So there's really no reason to talk about it right now, you know?"

There's a pit of ice in her stomach, and she tightens her arm around him like she can keep him safe just by holding on tight enough. She hates how casually he said that, just like she hates how casually he always talks about how his parents treat him, like he honestly believes it's normal. "Jesus, Dingus. You know you can come here if you need, right? My parents love you, they already think we're getting married. They'd make you sleep in the guest room, but I could sneak you in here easy."

He snorts again. "We're totally gonna end up married for tax reasons anyway, we're never beating the rumors." That makes her snort, too. He's not wrong, though. She isn't going to be allowed to have a wife anytime soon, and if she has to choose someone to be her next of kin, it's always gonna be him. They're planning to move in together when she goes to school next year anyway. No one is ever gonna believe them that they aren't dating, but that's...fine. Honestly, there are worse things. Better to have Steve by her side than not, and if no one else understands them, well, they understand each other, don't they? That's more than enough.

"Yeah, I know I can come here if I need, Robs. It's fine mostly, I swear. They're not home until Christmas anyway."

He takes another deep breath, like he's settling himself. "I'm just glad we talked about it. I feel better now."

She cards her fingers through his hair again, basking in the feeling of her favorite person so close, and so content. "I'm glad, Dingus."

They're alive, and they're together, and they're queer, and neither of them is ever going to have to be alone again.

"Hang on, did you say you've kissed girls and boys?!"

part 2 part 3

#stranger things #platonic stobin #steve harrington & robin buckley #steve harrington #robin buckley #bisexual steve harrington #steve's bi awakening #my writing #robin calls steve bubba and steve calls her bobbie and i will die on both those hills #you can pry their weird nicknames from my cold dead hands #autistic robin buckley #it’s subtle but it’s there and it’s important to me #also her parents are therapists i’m sure of it

[not-goldy]

OMG GOLDY, your post where you mention catching a grenade for the one you love. I can't stop thinking about a few months back when Jk was going through his missing Jimin spiral & during one of those lives, he sang Bruno Mars Grenade. Its so painful to listen to him. He wanted Jimin so bad while he was super duper busy & now we know Jikook have had this planned out for a while, enlisting and going through the process for a while. He really meant that song, every fucking word of it.

Also Jikook are fucking geniuses. Some said they thought they were laying low publicly cause of MS & now it seems true. They didn't want added attention cause they were going through the process behind the scenes. They weren't about to gay out. Taking separate planes to meet up. Smart as fuck. Jk however, couldn't keep his emotions in check & kept going rogue on their plan & started doing his Jimin lives. Doing online stuff Just enough to let us know everything was great, even if we weren't seeing them together. Jk timing his lives when JM leaves & posting pics for Jimin to comment. You sneaky little shits. Its all deliberate. Jikook keeping it online, even though we know they were meeting up behind closed doors, due to things they were saying and things they were working on, that was picked up by k-army. Like Jimin talking about them drinking together or Jk mentioning Jimin moving his stuff. Never underestimate queers in the closet. They always get their message across. Now that the process is over and it seems to be a done deal for them. Now look. Jikook took that plane TOGETHER to Tokyo (no more separate planes) and went on one last vacation together. No more worries cause it's most likely set in stone them enlisting together and the hard part is over and now nothing can hinder it now. Damn, that must have killed Jikook having to watch people claim they weren't close after Chapter 2. Don't those people feel stupid.

I also wonder if this is why Jk tried to say that J on his finger above the M is for Jk, cause its too obvious going into Military with a big ass J M on his wedding ring finger, knowing he is enlisting with JM. Interesting.

😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢😢

The closet can feel so safe and miserable at the same time. Imagine the source of your security also being the one thing chipping away at your mental health and sanity.

I don't wish that on anyone.

But it's also the safest place we could ever be.

Jungkook should have been more creative than he was coming up with that cock and bull story about the JM.

When you think about how Jimin had to fight Namjoon on stage when he called him JM the whole Jm on his hand start to feel even more sus than it already is.

Like how did that conversation go?

Jk: Guys look, I tattooed my initial on my ring finger above Army. It's J for Jungkook. Not Jeon. Jungkook.

Bts: wait a damn mininute that spells..... JM not JK

JK: HOLD ON IT DOES? HUH.... THAT'S WEIRD

Jimin: don't look at me my name is J.I.M.I.N not JM

Those two are accomplices 😭😭😭😭🤣🤣🤣🤣

I want the interview where someone asks them about the JM thingy again cos it's too in our faces not to notice and surely he's seen it, noticed it- like did the thought never occur to him his hand makes so much sense if it was attached to Jimin's wrist? Cos I swear if people didn't know him and you showed them that hand they'd assume that was Jimin's hand since it had his initials on there.

If I were a director at Hybe, I'd set them up and let them talk about it head on and make a joke out of it with Jimin stating for the camera- Jungkook is obsessed with me he even has my name on his finger.

I mean he said he's always thought Jk was his copy cat it would make so much if he escalates it into obsession cos that's where we at now🤧

Imagine people start calling him JM instead of JK because they think that's his name🥲💀

[perryavenue]

rainjoy Has A New Post. It's Personal

rainjoy is one of my favorite Klaine fanfic authors. Their first Klaine fanfic was published on LiveJournal in 2011, their last in 2021. Health issues have become more intense over time. Their most famous works, All The Other Ghosts and Grey, were published in 2012 and 2013. So those who've joined the fandom fairly recently may not even know about their other fics, the most recent one being from 2021. rainjoy has written Klaine in every genre: high school!Klaine, college!Klaine, married!Klaine, supernatural!Klaine, fantasy!Klaine, and even superhero!Klaine.

Here is a link to rainjoy's works on Live Journal

Here's a link for Dreamwidth

I hope that you'll help boost it by re-blogging. Thanks in advance, @klaineccfanficlibrary and @todaydreambelieversfic

This is rainjoy's post from today (October 27, 2023).

"Hello, I’m still alive.

Hello, I do mean it, hello anybody around to see this, I really hope you’ve been well, I’m sorry I haven’t been around, I *haven’t* been well. But I have, over a course of fucking months, actually written something, so I’m writing *this* here so I don’t need to leave a novel-length author’s note on it, as some kind of explanation of where I’ve been.

Largely, I’ve been in bed, I’m likely going there again after posting this, they need to invent new words for how tired I am so much of the time, my upgraded wheelchair is worth about as much as my *laptop*, my life revolves around Can I? Probably not. and lots and lots and lots of ‘resting’. I’ve not been well, but please don’t worry, I’ve not been unhappy. This is the golden age of being ill, the sheer quantity of stuff out there to amuse the bedbound – I have books and podcasts, all of Netflix, I practically live on Sky: Children of the Light, when I’m too dopey even for that I have Animal Crossing, when I am genuinely such a puddle of not-human lethargy that all I need is for time to pass until I feel just slightly better again I have videos of other people playing video games on YouTube and I’m sorry my darling baby moths I will pick you up and help you every single time but it will never not be funny watching someone go through Eden for the first time on YouTube, it just never will not make me laugh, oh my gods I’m so *sorry* my loves <3

So anyway, there’s all that, that’s where I’ve been, life really does not work out the way you planned it to, huh? Because outside of my bed, I know I have messages and emails and someone got a tattoo?? You got a tattoo and I’m just really sorry I haven’t been in touch, my energy has to be paid out like a miser, if I want to wash my hair then wow the world is really not getting anything else out of me, you know? But I am still here, and I do still love the things I love. I still think all of it is worth it. I think the world is a *lot* of fun, though I bear in mind that still, and always, we live through very frightening and distressing times. Which actually makes me think we need to cling to the things we love *more*, not less, love makes better people of us, when we let it.

So I did watch the new season of Good Omens when it came out, and safe to say I was not impressed, but it did jog in me the memory that didn’t I write a sequel to it? Yes I did, and it involved *all* that blood. But I reread it – it’s like reading a stranger’s writing after so long – and that jogged the memory: Didn’t you start a sequel to *this*?

Yes I did! Two thirds written, actually, hurrah for my past self. The last third took, I don’t know, when did the new season come out, it took that long. I used to sneeze out this sort of thing. This, now, is getting at my arms, it’ll be another lie down soon. But anyway, the point of all this: I live yet. In the next few days I *hope* I will be formatting and posting a sequel to But Thou Readst Black because of course everyone wants *that* back in their heads again, my gods. And I hope hope hope you’ve been well, I do think of people while I’m stuck doing nothing but pooling my brain out of my ears on YouTube. Look after yourselves, take care of each other, my gods you tattooed yourself I mean more power to you but it alarms me when things I make turn out to be *permanent*, you know? It feels like I barely touch the world anymore, my circumference has become so small, but it makes the world seem only more precious. Take good care of it, and of yourself as part of it. And very, very much love, to anyone remaining to see this, much love <3"

#rainjoy #klaine fanfic #rainjoys writing

[writers-hes]

“get out.” - s. harrington x reader (OLD VERSION)

Steve tells you to get out of the car because of a disagreement. (asshole!steve, best friend!eddie, a bit of stancy) —just a blurb blurb

NEW VERSION NOW POSTED!

“It’s the same fucking thing all the time with you,” you complained. 

You didn’t know how you landed yourself in this again. When you agreed to date Steve for the first

time many months ago, he promised that you had nothing to worry about; that he was loyal to you and that you will both work on communication.

“And it’s the same shit with you. You’re always fucking—complaining about things that I can’t control,” he replied, swerving away from the trashbin that he almost hit. “Fuck!”

It was just some party, some stupid party that you both agreed to go to. Well, Steve wanted to go because his friends will be there. Robin, Eddie, and Nancy. The thing was, Nancy didn’t do anything. She just needed a friend because Jonathan had been dodgy and Steve was there. In fact, you love Nancy but Steve and her together in the bedroom of Phil Newton’s house? Not so much.

The worst part is, Steve had no plans to tell you. It wasn’t until you asked Robin where your boyfriend was that she answered, “I’m not supposed to tell you this so, please don’t tell Steve. He’s in Phil’s bedroom with Nancy.”

God, it filled you with dread. Worst case scenario—Nancy and Steve were fucking after professing that they still have feelings for each other.  But still, Steve promised. Right? So, you went upstairs and knocked on the door multiple times. Steve opened it with guilt written all over his face. Guilt dissolves into annoyance and you braced yourself.

“What,” he asked, his face tight. He was annoyed with Robin, really. She was the only one who knew where he was. He needed to comfort Nancy because Jonathan isn’t coming back to Hawkins for the break. You were taken aback by his snarky attitude.

“I, is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Do you need anything?”

“Can we go home?” you asked. You hated tonight. You didn’t want to come here and Eddie left you for Nancy as soon as she areived with Robin. You were left to drink some lukewarm punch by the sofa. You saw Eddie but he was too busy dealing and you didn’t want to be a bother.

“Sure. Here are the keys. Go start the car and I’ll be down in ten minutes,” he replied, giving you the key before closing the door again.

You stood there, dumbfounded before stomping your way to his car. You would’ve left but you didn’t know where you were. Phil lived in the outskirts of Hawkins and Steve was supposed to be your ride. You slammed the door of Steve’s BMW when Eddie

“I can hear you stomping from the pool,” Eddie teased, leaning on the passenger window. “What’s wrong?”

“Steve is wrong,” you frowned. “He dragged me all the way here and ditched me as soon as he found Nancy. They’re upstairs,”

“Damn,” Eddie replied. Even he couldn’t provide comforting words. “Well, you’re with me. Super cool, super nice me,”

“Didn’t you sell me double the price when we first met?” you asked. True but it was an old gag that you shared with him. “I still haven’t received my rebates,”

“I give you enough free stuff, sweets. I should be the one getting rebates. I’m thinking of milkshakes,” he said, eyes widening. “I could just taste it! Oh, chocolate milkshake and because you’re so nice, burgers. I’ll pick you up tomorrow,”

“Eddie! I didn’t agree—“

“Yeah, yeah but you owe me.” he replied. “Also, did you know? I went to Lover's Lake the other day, right? Guess who I saw fucking in the woods. That

cheerleader with blonde hair and that kid from English? The one that reads loudly to himself,”

“No way,”

“Yes, way. I saw them! With my own eyes!” he exclaimed, making you chuckle loudly. Steve was frowning from behind Eddie. You looked so miserable when you talked to him earlier and now that you’re with Eddie you’re fucking laughing? Steve watched your smile fade away as he neared, his frown deepening. Eddie looked back, and whistled. “Hey, Steve,”

“Munson,” Steve replied. “Girlfriend and I are leaving,”

“Oh,” Eddie replied, nodding. He looks at you and mouths “scary”, making you laugh and Eddie leaves, jogging back to the pool for business.

That was how you found yourself in this situation, eyes and knees away from Steve, watching the dark trees blur at the speed of his car.

“Can’t control? I told you that your relationship with Nancy is bothering me and I find you alone in a room together?” you asked.

“It’s not like I can just say ‘Sorry, Nance. My girlfriend is so jealous of you, she doesn’t want us spending time together. Or should I?” Steve asked, venom dripping in his voice. “It’s the same shit with you and Eddie,”

“No, it isn’t. Eddie and I are friends. You weren’t there when everyone knows you were with Nancy in Phil’s fucking bedroom. Everyone except for me!” you replied, your voice raising in volume. “Same fucking shit, Steve. Same shit and I’m so tired of fighting.”

“You shouldn’t have come to the party, then,” he mutters and you pause, counting to ten to calm yourself down.

“It was you who wanted me there, remember? I didn’t want to attend that party but you dragged me. You ditched me the moment Nancy arrived. Do you remember? I don’t…I’m nit even sure if I want to be in the same soace with you right now.” you heaved, tears springing up your eyes. Steve could only hear how you didn’t want to be with him. Slowing down some street, you looked at him in confusion. You just really wanted to go home.

“Get the fuck out,” he mutters, looking at anywhere but you.

“Wh-what?”

“Get the fuck out,” he repeated. “You don’t want to be with me right? So get out.”

You stilled, looking at your surroundings. There was nothing but harrowing trees and a lone light. You nodded, rushing out of the door and watching as Steve sped away from you. When he was far enough, you let your shoulders deflate and sobbed. Where did it all go wrong? Steve was never like this with anyone. Why did he…dislike you so much? You walked back to the party, trying to remember the way.

It was so dark and Steve knew how much you hated walking in it. You didn’t know where you were and Steve knew how much you hated being lost. There were no sounds but the creek and the hooting of the owls and Steve knew how much you hated the silence.

Wrapping your arms to protect you from the darkness and the silence, you walked. You were rushing back because you didn’t know where you were and you were scared; so fucking scared of the night. You’ve been walking for how many minutes now and you could’ve called but there were no payphones anywhere. It was just the occasional street lamp and nothing else. Would you even risk hitching a ride if a car passes by?

“Fuck!” you cried, sobbing uncontrollably when your arm hung itself on some stray wire by the abandoned bus stop. The sting rips through your whole body, limping until the trees looked somewhat familiar.

Soon, you followed the loud bass of the speakers. Kids your age spilled out of the house and you followed from where they came from. The party. You were back from where you started. You shuddered, hoping to God that Eddie was there. Or maybe Robin. Fuck, Nancy, if she was the last resort. You just really wanted to go home.

It was Robin and Eddie who found you by the door. Apparently, there was some chick by the pool who was crying to herself. Descriptions matched what you wore that night and how you looked; there was no other choice than to rush to you. Sure enough, when they ran to the pool, you were there siyting by the edge. Black tears ran down your face, a scowl settled on your lips as you shielded yourself away from the world. Robin noticed the red on your arm, rushing towards your hunched figure.

Eddie was hot on her tails, hiding you under  his arms to quiet you down. They led you to Eddie’s van without any words; what should be explained anyway? Isn’t it enough? Your friends looked at each other while your body shook with sadness and frustration.

“S-sorry,” you managed, and you felt Eddie’s grim on your shoulder tighten.

“It’s okay,” Robin replied, opening the door for you. You curled into her when they were settled, Eddie starting his van to drive you back home.

“What happened?” Robin asked. Eddie’s eyes snapped towards you and she was about to say sorry when you replied.

“Steve told me to get out of his car in the middle of nowhere and left me,” you managed between sobs. Their hearts broke. You looked so small and forlorn; so defeated and empty. “I just wanted to go home. I don’t even want to anymore because he might be there.”

“It’s okay. We can go back to the trailer. You can share the bed with Robin and I’ll sleep on the couch.” Eddie assured before driving the trailer park with a crying girl on the passenger seat.

#get out!steve #old version #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst

[gyuzpurizzn]

it was better to let you go than me hurting you more - c.yj

pairing: yeonjun x reader

warning: exes to ??

wc: 844

a/n: im not sure about this guys…. ERRR THIS IS KINDA BAD. its ok. YOLO! but anyways omg. THIS YEONJUN POST. you guys know i had to.

note: listen to talk by beabadoobee!

part 1.

four years later.

holy shit.

you see your ex, yeonjun.

he’s down the street, with his friends, beomgyu and taehyun if you remember clearly.

he looks different, his hair wasn’t green anymore, it’s now ginger.

you see him walking towards the cafe you were at, you prayed and prayed that him and his friends turn their feet around and go to another place.

the cafe’s bell ding, notifying that a customer walked in.

lord, you wanted to bury yourself ten feet underground.

you hoped that he doesn’t see you, unfortunately for you, his friend taehyun saw you.

“dude, isn’t that yn?” taehyun asked yeonjun.

“where?” yeonjun asked taehyun, shocked.

clearly not expecting to hear that name in so long.

he didn’t like how you two ended, sure he had a lot on his plate at that time, but he shouldn’t have been that harsh to you.

the biggest thing he regretted was not fighting harder enough for your relationship.

few months after the breakup, he was miserable and he missed you like crazy.

he lost the one thing that helped him get through life.

—

taehyun pointed to where you were sitting.

you tried to act like you hadn’t just heard taehyun and went on your phone and just started blasting music.

you looked up for a moment and see that yeonjun was walking towards you.

you started freaking out.

what were you supposed to say to him?

fuck. fuck. fuck.

yeonjun tapped your shoulders.

you then took out your airpods and looked up at him.

“yeonjun?” you asked, pretending that you didn’t see him come in.

“hi, yn i haven’t seen you in so long.”

you wonder why.

“yeonjun, hi how are you?”

“i’m good, how about you?”

“im fantastic” forcing out a fake smile.

“mind if i sit down?”

“no, not at all. go ahead.”

when in fact, you did mind.

it was silent for a minute or two, before yeonjun started speaking.

he takes a deep breathe and started.

“i wasn’t expecting to do this today, but i just wanted to apologize. for what happened between us two. i hated the way i handled things. my biggest regret was not fighting for you, but at that time i let the insecurities and thoughts get the best of me. i did not know what i was thinking, i was young and immature back then. and i also had a lot of stuff going on in my life at that moment, and i didn’t wanna burden you with my problems. i know that is not an excuse for the way i treated you, but i hope you can understand. i didn’t mean to hurt you the way i did yn, you didn’t deserve that.”

you didn’t know what to say.

you were left speechless.

you didn’t even know where to begin.

you felt a tear slid down your face.

yeonjun leaning over the table to wipe it.

“sorry, did i go over the boundaries?” he asked

“no, it’s okay. it’s just that this was very unexpected” you let out a laugh.

“i know and im sorry, you don’t have to say anything.”

“don’t be sorry, yeonjun. it’s okay, really. i appreciate the apology.”

“of course, yn. like i said you didn’t deserve the way i treated you four years ago.”

“i just have one comment, yeonjun.”

“what is it?” yeonjun asked curiously.

“you should have told me you were going through something, i know that you didn’t want me to feel burdened by your problems, but i wouldn’t have cared. we could have gone through it together, like we always did.” you said as your voice begins to break.

yeonjun sucks in a breath and responded, “ it was better to let you go than me hurting you more. i wasn’t in the right mind back then. i didn’t want you to keep hurting because i saw the way you looked whenever we fought. i couldn’t stand it.”

“that’s the thing yeonjun. you were hurting more than me, you needed someone to help you. and i wasn’t there to do that, if only, you talked to me about your problems. then maybe we didn’t have to end the way we ended. maybe just maybe we would have still been together.”

“i know yn, and i regretted everything. i swear, i wanted to run right back in your arms the second we broke up.”

you thought about it. long and hard.

“yeonjun. i’m willing to give us a second chance.”

“are you serious right now, yn?”

“so serious. but let’s take things slow.”

“oh my god, you just made me the happiest man on earth. i do not deserve you, yn. i promise to be better for you.” yeonjun said smiling like he won a lottery.

“another thing, yeonjun.”

“hmm?”

“promise to talk to me when you’re having problems or any thoughts at all. i want to help you.”

“same goes for you, okay?”

“okay.”

yeonjun pulling out his pinky.

you laughed at his silliness.

you then bring out your pinky, interlocking them.

“i promise.”

©️ gyuzpurizzn. all right reserved 2023. please do not copy, translate, nor repost my post unless asked and have given perms.

#kpop #kpop imagines #tomorrow x together #choi yeonjun #yeonjun #txt imagines #yeonjun imagines #yeonjun angst #txt angst #fanfics #exes

[aliasrocket]

I’m probably not gonna be back for a long while so I thought I should probably post this before disappearing. It’s on my Rocket victorian au fic but this is the one snippet I’m confident of posting until more stuff happens. Mainly contains some premise on the status/vibe of Rocket’s relationship with you (let’s just say this is going outside my brand a bit but that’s a good thing for Rocket and you) but also a lot of world building, I’d say.

Gold melts at a much faster rate than silver.

But it’s all that surrounds him when he’s tapping his foot to the lackadaisical sway of the cello music that entranced the crowd into hypnotic unison. Every corner of the shining gold ballroom was another few pieces of thick frills sewn together to make dress skirts the size of escape pods on ships.

Everything on him touched him, groped him and squeezed him, and each breath he took to his ribs, it served as a reminder of how it had been encased in a pretty little bow—yet everything hung from him like a large flag.

Fuck the puffy sleeves. Fuck the waist fitted vest. The white glimmering on the tips of chandeliers were a simulation, a mere illusion for these so called ‘aristocrats’ who demonize leaving the planet and honestly think they’re better off.

There is nothing more divine than tasting bliss in a sole person at the tip of your tongue and severing the limb only to keep the writhing flesh in your pocket.

Rocket gets it now; yes, he looks up at the hypocrisy, piano keys pressing into the gaps of his head, and he knows there are gaps, he thinks about it all the time—and in the blinding glow of gold and artificially carved wealth and satisfaction, lies this; when blind to your own capabilities it is you who causes utter destruction.

These people were blind to their own true capabilities; so far behind on technology that could cultivate a better society, a society not built off the backs of their own people—that they’re unable to progress at all. Just as Rocket had been blind to just how far he could dig a knee in the puddle of blood soaked tears if it meant witnessing you give the sun the will to rise.

And suddenly, the gold chandeliers don’t look like gold chandeliers at all. No, they’re yellow-lit lanterns hanging above a sweaty, miserable bar, something born out of a scene he’d recognized on Knowhere—only these people button a corset over their shame and wear a coat over their guilt-ridden sleeves.

Rocket thought about the comm device in his pocket when the trumpets swayed along to a soft tune, though it was really a phone—nonetheless, you were a few clicks away.

The image of you was a few clicks away.

Groot had somehow learnt to waltz along to the frilly crowds of women watching him in a circle. Kraglin was talking to another lady with a ridiculous hat and a cream dress by the side. Any one word Adam uttered picked up a swoon from the dames and a ‘tsk’ from the gentlemen. Well, they’re not really gentlemen now that Rocket had thought about that.

He remembered why he was here. Right. He had impressions to keep up. People to please. But it’s better than being a broke bounty hunter alone and starving.

It’s better than being alone period.

His hands warmed up in the loose fit of his pockets. His blunt nails tapped against the metal of his comm. That’s great.

“You’re entirely underdressed, Rocket.”

A younger girl dressed like a woman nudged him in the slightest, though Rocket had honestly been amused by the fact that she had been able to determine where his arm rested when it was veiled by his large, almost inflated sleeve.

“Well, I’m sorry.”

Yep, he was stopping there. No way was that word sitting patiently on his tongue, nope. This isn’t who the name was made for.

“Well, you ought to be, but not for me; my mother had done something you’re not going to enjoy,” she encased her lower lip with the upper one, making it curl into a cheeky smile.

“What—”

“My beloved guests.”

It was almost like a large gear had shifted in the ballroom, all heads rigidly turning towards the high balcony, some imaginary spotlight coming around to a dress that somehow held onto the thousands of layers of frills, all a different shade of white and brown. The lady was a pile of walking clothes with earrings and probably a necklace.

Rocket was beginning to think the waist fitted vest that unfortunately accentuated his figure hadn’t only been squeezing his guts into a corner—but apparently some of his brain juice too. Even though his head and his vest hadn’t been remotely touching.

A gentle stream of violin music completely breaks the rest of the sounds to silence. How many instruments do these people have? Do they use them to travel too?

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the acceptance of our commission to the guardians of the galaxy. We very rarely welcome guests into our planet but they will be bringing down our biggest enemy; I shall not speak of them during such a joyous occasion and instead announce my welcoming gift to the guardians!”

The queen lifts her skinny glass of champagne and the crowd turns to the guardians nearest to them, clapping and tipping their hats off in polite greeting.

“My only daughter, the princess, Taine Alphonsene Villin—”

“That’s a bit much.”

She giggled, almost hiding in Rocket’s neck when she covered her mouth. He felt her breath in his fur and it occurred to him just how close she was.

“—shall dance with the leader of the guardians to commemorate our alliance!” The queen declared, lifting her chin in Rocket’s direction.

Rocket’s chest gave a low croak as the ballroom’s gears shifted to him. Beady eyes blinked back and forth between you and her. The …

Nope. Still hate it. Tastes like his own betrayal in his mouth. Or was that the gold corroding at the toxicity of this planet’s societal system?

He couldn’t stop the hand rising to meet hers halfway. She took it, of course she did, but after the five minutes Rocket had gotten to spend with her since he got here his mind had already tricked him into thinking maybe she would see that he was stretching to the far corners of his face for a smile, that maybe she cared enough to notice his hand shook under the weight of air.

“It’ll be over soon,” she whispered, and Rocket’s eyes flickered over, his head almost following suit but instead settled for a very slight pivot towards her.

His eyes lined her lips, her chin. A smile curled on her face but only a little, one edge of it being bitten down like her smile was something forbidden.

Her eyes were intent on his own. He saw it in his periphery. Their heads were almost touching. The corners of his mouth were still strained back against the sides of his muzzle.

The crowd paved a way for them in the center, everyone pushing back to form the straightest line Rocket had ever seen people make, like they were used to this kind of thing. Minions in a row all lining up for their nightly dose of delusion.

“I don’t think I can do this—”

“I know, but I had no say in it.”

Her response was immediate, and for a split second Rocket saw her the way he saw the synthetic glint of the gold that had been shoved up his corneas since his arrival; fake wasn’t the right word, no. He observed the palace long enough to know it’s all real gold, heavy and dense, but he remembered a quote from some brain dead poet you introduced him to.

All that glitters is not gold.

Will Shakes? Doesn’t matter. If he’d told you what he’d thought you might laugh and go, Rocket, you just said it was real gold. It’s confusing, and he’d tell you you’re insane for idolizing some great poets and still missing the life support of poetry; subtext.

Not that he cared about all this art stuff anyway. He was just a good listener, and you happened to be his favorite radio to tune into.

Wealth and beauty was synonymous but Rocket disagreed. He found the princess disagreed too.

Until he found that maybe she didn’t.

The center was the brightest point in the entire room; generally the planet had the fortune of cold weather but tonight had been the most heat he’d been under since leaving Knowhere. Now the lack of color showered him and the girl who’s hand he still held.

It didn’t help that her fur was white already as it is. It helped a little that she had curly back hair, though he doubted the curls were real.

His right hand, like a logged program, moved down to the dip of her waist, the smallest point, she was only eighteen, after all—and her hand slid over his shoulder, with the other meeting his own in the assumed ballroom stance.

Locked into place, with just one remaining requirement; his eyes.

When he finally looked up to meet her bright green ones, he gave the crowd one last scan, and the very first person his eyes meet—

No.

No no no no no no—that can’t be right.

His eyes tunneled onto the beautiful woman standing first in the crowd, some eyed her with annoyance and rolled their eyes, but she was unmistakably beautiful—she had been the only woman in the ball to have the brown skirt just fall to her ankles, no inner structure to widen it. Rocket was sure black boots weren’t even allowed to the ball, and just like him, she wore a puffy-sleeved dress shirt and a large brown bow to match. Frills still laced the outfit, but it hadn’t been nearly as sickening as the others. She became a blur almost instantly, and he turned back to the princess only to find she was blurry too.

His vision struggled to refocus, like a light flickering on and off, so he looked back at the woman in the crowd again.

That face.

He’d only seen it in his comm for days on end, monotone and flickering under the static lines. You were a flat image, a call and a lightyear away. Now you were the beautiful woman holding Rocket’s gaze hostage.

His head ran into all the corners in his skull, his heart using his brain as a punching bag as it continued to bruise. His jaw wouldn’t close. Eyes began to look like cells under a microscope, moving, alive, squirming at him.

#rocket raccoon #guardians of the galaxy #gotg #rocket gotg #gotg vol 3 #rocket raccoon x you #gotg fanfiction #rocket raccoon x reader #rocket raccoon fanfic #rocket raccoon fanfiction #rocket raccoon imagine #gotg v2 #gotg3 #gotg rocket #gotg vol 2 #.alias.ao3.updates. #.alias.drabbles.imagines.

[strawberrybyers]

idc hailey bieber has my full support. the amount of hate she’s been getting for the past 5 years has been insane and the vile stuff that’s being said to her right now is a disgrace. people get their info from tiktok and just run with it and think it gives them justification to harass people or wish death upon them. also, selena commenting on those tiktoks was instigating shit. she’s done stuff like that before and it’s weird. i truly do not understand why her or her fans continue to post things or are liking/sharing stuff that has to do with justin and hailey. its fucking weird. they’ve been married for 5 years now. they used to date back in 2015/16. clearly they’re in love and are just minding their business. this hate campaign that’s happening towards hailey in the name of selena is sick in the head behavior. i thought selena promoted about taking care of your mental health, supporting women, and being kind?? harassing someone, bashing their looks, shaming them, bullying them, and saying they should die doesn’t fall in line with anything your so-called fave promotes.

i truly believe society loves any opportunity to shame and harass women. female celebrities get harassed more than male celebrities who have actually caused harm to people. people love to find any way to make women miserable and hurt them. they love to revel in their trauma and misery. they also love being the cause of it. and because there’s this belief that social media isn’t a “big deal” because everything’s online, people don’t care about any of the repercussions of their actions or words. they don’t see the hurt or trauma someone experiences from what happens online, and when that person comes out to express how they feel, they’re told they deserve it or should suck it up because they’re in the spotlight and that’s just life for them. why are we tolerable towards spreading hate to others? why are people so comfortable with finding gratification in that? in my opinion, this hailey/selena situation is much bigger than some celebrity drama. the conversation we need to be having is why are people willing to say and do the most extreme things on the behalf of celebrities, the harm of parasocial relationships and worship culture, and how tearing down women is a hobby of many men and women.

all in all, i don’t give a fuck whether you like hailey or not. there’s something seriously wrong with you if you believe someone, a HUMAN BEING, should receive hate in this way. if you don’t like her, don’t pay attention to her! it’s very easy! but just something i think everyone should think about is if you would feel comfortable if people associated with your partner’s ex was constantly harassing you? probably not!! i actually think you would be quite fed the fuck up!! so why put someone else through that??

#people only care about kindness when they’re on the receiving end of it #i truly believe social media has damaged the way people interact with others #the acceptance of being hateful is terrifying #people are worried about mean girl behavior when the only ones commenting mean shit is YOU! #projection at its finest smh #justin bieber #hailey bieber #hailey baldwin #jailey

[blood-mocha-latte]

happy post-holidays and part three to @ep6bastogne, the finale is here!! have a happy new year and whatever coms next :)

find part one HERE, and part two HERE

OR read on ao3 all in one go :)

iii.  turn on the laugh track we'll see if it changes the scene maybe this is just the funniest version of us that we've ever been

15 December

The longer that time stretches between what’s become present and when Gene had shown up at the apartment, the more certain Babe becomes that Gene’s avoiding him.

The longer that time stretches on, Babe thinks he might be avoiding Gene right back.

The TV is murmuring absently in the background, Babe thinks it might be Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. 

“‘M going out,” He says vaguely, fumbling with the buttons of his coat. He’s getting better, at wearing it. It no longer feels like it’s too heavy, like he needs to get it off before he starts to burn.

Bill doesn’t look up from the TV, dead-eyed in their singular sofa chair. Luz and Toye are out cold on the couch. 

“Aight.” Bill says. “Say hi to Doc, for me.”

Babe’s chest hurts.

“Me and Gene aren’t…” He says, and trails off. Bill drags his eyes away from the TV to look up, eyebrows raised. Babe shrugs, awkward. “Bye.” He says. Bill looks unsure of something. Babe doesn’t really care to know what.

“Okay.” Bill tells him back. “Be… careful, right?”

Babe pauses.

“Yeah.” He says. “I’ll see ya later, Bill.”

—

He doesn’t know what happened, which seems to be the root of all of Babe’s problems. 

He thinks, maybe, that he might not be friends with Gene anymore. He thinks, maybe, he’s fucked up.

The ingredients for maque-choux are in the back of his fridge, still, and he hasn’t texted Gene. Gene hasn’t texted him, either.

Babe’s not sure what the taboo is that seems to be so prevalent to him. Why he can't seem to text Gene if Gene doesn't text him, and why it makes him so miserable. He wonders who has more issues than him, and if they'd be open to giving advice.

“Babe!”

He hears a voice bounce off of the buildings and streets, and almost swears. 

It's like he's summoned him.

“Hey, Web.” He says, after a brief moment of wondering if he should just begin running away at full speed. He turns around and waves awkwardly. “How's it going?”

David Webster, who crosses the street quickly, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car, waves at him brightly. He’s wearing black gloves, and Babe would make fun of him if he wasn’t certain that Web had already been bullied mercilessly about them and had decided to wear them, anyways.

“Hi.” Web greets him as soon as he hops up onto the pavement. He sounds a bit breathless, weighed down by approximately forty shopping bags, all in one hand as he reaches out his free one to Babe, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. “How are you? I haven’t seen you since, uh…” 

Web trails off, waving a hand absently before shifting the bags more evenly. He blinks at Babe, as if willing him to get what he’s saying, so Babe just nods, hands in his pockets.

“Yeah.” He agrees. “It’s been busy, lately.”

“Uh huh.” Web says. He looks rather distracted, and starts walking side by side with Babe almost absently. “Did Joe say anything to you, recently?” He asks, out of pocket, then pauses. “Uh, when… when you saw him. He said something about going shopping…?” Babe wonders, vaguely, if this is a trap.

“About what?” He asks. The pavement is scraped pretty clean of snow, but there’s a build-up of slush against the curve and he kind of wants to step in it. “We mostly just talked about, like, hockey.” Web huffs through his nose.

“He’s being weird,” He tells Babe, and Babe in turn regrets his choice to not run away. “He’s like… asking about my family, and stuff. It’s weird. He’s being weird.” 

“You’re saying weird too much,” Babe informs him, and thinks about Liebgott’s thing with the present. “And I dunno. Maybe you should just, like. Talk to him.”

He’s not really one to talk, though. He thinks about Gene and his chest hurts. Web just huffs.

“Yeah.” He agrees. “We don’t really do that, though.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Yeah.” Web says again. He scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth. “Hey, I need to go to a bookshop. Do you, uh—”

“Sure.” Babe says, before he can think about it. “Do you need help with your whole…?” He gestures vaguely to the shopping bags, which look heavy, and Web blinks at him like he doesn’t realise that he’s holding all of them, and blinks a second time after a split second, eyes lighting up.

“Oh! Yes, please, could you actually—” He pauses, coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the pavement, and Babe quickly ducks out of foot traffic to lean against the closest building. Web follows absently after him, searching through the bags. He offers one up to Babe without looking at the contents, busy rooting through a silver paper bag.

“I don’t know if I’ll see you again before Christmas, so I’ll just…” Web keeps muttering about something or the other, so Babe shifts the bag that he’d collected to his other hand distractedly. “Ha!” Web exclaims, straightening back up triumphantly.

He holds out a small box to Babe, eyes bright, and Babe blinks at him, taking it. “I — thanks?” Babe says, still rather confused, and Web nods, straightening back up and gesturing for Babe to give him back the bag. 

“Merry Christmas.” He says, and Babe stares at him. Web stares back, eyes pinned to Babe, which is a bit uncomfortable. “It, uh. I’m trying to get presents for everyone, this year. New thing.”

Babe would ask questions, but he’s learned it’s best not to. Webster’s sort of a wild card, in his books. “Uh,” He says again, patting down his jeans with his free hand. He unearths a stick of gum from his back pocket, cringing slightly, and holds it out to Web. “Yeah. Happy Christmas?” 

Web laughs and takes it, shifting all of his bags once more. “Thanks,” He says, and it sounds genuine. Babe wonders where Liebgott is and, if on the offhand, he would be willing to come and drag Webster to wherever it is they both are when they’re not bothering Babe.

Vaguely worried that the streets are getting more crowded, Babe turns on his heel and starts walking again, trying to remember where the bookstore is. There's roughly eight of them in the general area, but Bill made him go to one two days ago to find a book he’d found for Fran on their website because apparently Bill’s too good to order it online like a normal person, but also didn’t want to leave the apartment.

“Anyways,” Web says casually, and Babe blinks at him blankly. “He’s being weird. Joe is, I mean. Insanely weird. He asked me what my favourite colour was yesterday.” He wrinkles his nose, and Babe shrugs. That seems normal, to him, but what does he know. Maybe Liebgott’s secretly dying. Or it’s still about the present thing.

Oh.

“Wait,” Babe says, “Did you get something for Liebgott, too?” 

“Well, yeah.” Webster tells him. He shifts his grip on the bags, and something in one of them jingles. “But at the beginning of the month. When Hanukkah started.”

Babe laughs. “You’re an idiot.” He says, and Web’s mouth drops open, affronted.

“Well, I—” He starts to say, and Babe turns a corner. He can see the sign to the bookstore, now, and exhales, relieved.

“He’s trying to find you a present,” He tells Web, turning the box over in his hands. “‘Cause he feels bad. Because apparently, he’s only ninety-nine percent an asshole, and the other one percent is reserved for making me look through shops for shit you’d like.”

He’d figured that Liebgott would have been fine with the copy of Moby Dick he’d finally found, but Babe guesses that Liebgott was probably just as sick with Babe as Babe was with him and decided to go it solo, instead. Next to him, Web’s mouth is still open.

“Oh.” Web says. “I… that makes sense.”

“Yeah.” Babe says. Web sighs. 

“Well, at least I know why he’s acting so strange now,” He says, shifting his bags again. Finally upon the bookstore, Babe opens the door and lets Web go in first. A bell at the top of the door jingles. “I mean, I’ll just tell him to tie me up or something—”

“Too much information, Web,” Babe says over him, probably too loudly. A woman at the cash register raises an eyebrow at them. Web waves at her. “Too much information.”

“Do you need a book?” Web asks him, rather absently, shifting his bags again. Babe turns the box over in his hands again.

“Nah.” He says. He’s not a big reader. “Hey, should I—?” He begins to ask, holding up the box.

“Oh, yeah.” Web says, waving a hand dismissively. “Open it whenever. I’m not great with stuff like this, so I got Perco to help me. The note’s from me, though, but I don’t remember what I wrote. Excuse me, ma’am—” He turns on his heel, asking an employee for directions to a section on something about art history.

Babe turns the box over in his hands one more time, wandering absently over to an empty armchair in the corner of the shop and dropping into it.

The box is small, and black, and he tugs it open and blinks.

It’s a watch, and the thin notecard inside has Web’s handwriting on it, neatly scratched in pen. 

Dear Babe,

This is a brew metric, and I got the retro version because of the colours. I don’t know if you’re a watch person, but Joe made the mistake of saying that he doesn’t care, so I had to buy it so here you go.

Merry Christmas!

Babe blinks. The note takes on a rather aggressive tone towards the end of it, but he guesses it’s rather nice. 

He looks up, and Web is in the art history section, so he takes the watch out of the box, puts it on, and is wondering if he should throw away the box or not when—

“Babe?”

Babe jolts, startled, and looks over his shoulder. He almost doesn’t recognise the girl that blinks back at them, but he clears his throat and shifts to see her better.

“Renée.” He says, sticking up two fingers in an awkward wave. “Uh. Hey. How are you?”

Renée Lemaire’s hair is tied back on top of her head, her coat a light blue. She has her hands tucked into the pockets of it, and walks around the chair that Babe’s sitting in to perch in the one opposite him. Her eyes are doing… something, that Babe can’t read, and Babe wonders what Gene told her.

“How are you doing?” She asks him, maybe politely, hands clasped together in her lap. Babe blinks. Whatever he was expecting her to say, that wasn’t it.

“Uh.” He says. “Good?” He’s not sure if this is a trap or not. He doesn’t think it is, because he doesn’t think that Renée is the type of person to do something like that, but, well. He’s not sure if he’s thinking right. Renée nods.

She’s freaking him out, a little bit — Babe wonders if she’s looking for something, the way she stares at him. He shifts in the chair.

“Hey, do you—” He starts to say.

“How much do you—” Renée says at the same time, and they both lapse back into silence. 

Renée speaks up again before Babe can say anything. “How much do you read?” She asks him. Babe blinks. 

“Uh.” He says. He’d expected her to ask about Gene, or something else. Small talk… rather unexpected. Renée shifts in her own seat.

“I think that reading can help us figure out things in our life that have nothing to do with books.” She says, leaning forward in her own chair. She brushes her hands against her knees as she does. “Do you have your phone?” Babe blinks again.

“Yeah.” He says.

“Could I recommend some things for you to read?” Renée asks him, and Babe thinks that this is Web’s fault. He’s walked right out of normal and right into the world of strange people he’s met maybe three times in bookshops.

“I don’t, uh.” He says. “I don’t really read, you know? Books just aren’t…” Renée waves her hand.

“Books are fine, but I was thinking more of poems. Shorter things.” She says. “You know?”

“No.” Babe tells her, but shifts in his seat to fish his phone out of his pocket. He’s not sure why he does, but. She hasn’t mentioned Eugene and Webster is taking forever and Babe doesn’t want to leave him in the bookstore because he thinks that Web will emerge with too many things and might die immediately without any assistance.

He unlocks his phone and gestures with it, clearing his throat. “Where do I, uh…?” Renée shrugs. 

“Write them in your notes.” She says, matter-of-fact. Babe huffs.

“Right.” He mutters. 

—

Franz Kafka, Haruki Murakami, and Hanif Abdurraqib.

Babe stares at the names, and doesn't think he knows how to pronounce any of them.

“Hey,” Web says, and Babe jolts slightly, turning off his phone and looking up. “Ready to go?”

“Yep,” Babe says back, shoving his phone into his pocket and standing up at the same time. “Get what you were looking for?”

“Yeah.” Web tells him, but looks slightly lost. He holds up his new bag, which is accompanied by another five bags, so Babe steps forward to take a few before calamity strikes. “Uh, a book, for an old college friend. He lives…” Webster gestures vaguely, which could mean on the moon for all Babe knows. “...and I haven’t talked to him in forever, but. Might as well, you know?”

“Sure.” Babe says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He slides a few bags onto his arm and up to his elbow like he’s sliding coat hangers onto a rack. Noticing Web’s gaze, down at Babe’s pocket, he wonders if Webster saw the list and scrambles to say something else before he does something Babe doesn’t want him to do, like ask about it. “What’s that guy doing now, anyways?”

Web waves his hand again. The bags more evenly distributed between the two of them (Babe’s arms may just fall off), he has the freedom to sweep an arm out airily, an absent Webster-ism. “Oh, you know.” He says, because Babe doesn’t. “Things. I think he writes for a sports journal, now.” Web wrinkles his nose.

Webster writes for a literary journal, which could be the same thing as a sports journal in Babe’s book, except for Babe would actually read a sports journal, but he doesn’t say that, mainly because he doesn’t want to accidentally step on a mine and blow up the entirety of Pennsylvania.

He can’t do that, yet, anyways. 

He wonders where Gene is. His head is starting to hurt.

Webster, thank god, ends up not accompanying Babe all the way back to his apartment or needing Babe’s help to get back to his own; Web had apparently texted Liebgott whilst they were still in the store about picking him up.

“I’ll tell him that he doesn’t need to go through the guilt spiral of doom when we get back to his place,” Web tells him, fidgeting with the wrists of his gloves, “But I figure that one last favour, first, helps more than it hurts.”

Babe, who doesn’t want to have to carry the sixty million bags that Web had given him to the other side of the city, just nods. He could have always just left Web at any time, but with this much shit weighing Webster down, he thinks that there may be more than a fifty percent chance that he would just immediately be killed on his own.

“Wait,” He says, after a moment, thoughts slightly delayed by the amusing ponderings of how, exactly, Webster could die in a fatal shopping accident. “You mean you and Liebgott aren’t living together?” Web shrugs.

“No.” He says. “I mean, we’re ‘living together’ but we’re not actually living together.”

Babe just blinks at him. Web shrugs again, as if to clarify.

“We’re living together, but not actually living together, because I still have my place, and I don’t want to move out, but Lieb still has his place, which is nicer, so he doesn’t want to move out, and if we were gonna live together, we’re gonna live at his place, so we’re ‘living together’, but, again, we’re not actually living together.” He says.

Babe’s starting to think that he should maybe just buy a treadmill to go on walks.

—

16 December

Babe unearths his laptop from underneath his dresser. It has dust on the cover of it and the ‘R’ key doesn’t work, but it functions well enough and he drags it out to the living room, dropping down into the sofa chair with a huff.

Bill’s sitting on the couch, and he raises an eyebrow at Babe, but doesn’t say anything.

“What.” Babe says, anyways, because when Bill’s not saying anything he’s saying more than he does when he won’t shut up.

“Uh.” Bill says, like he’s trying to think. “You seen the Doc, recently?”

“Nope.” Babe says, not thinking about Gene. Gene’s probably at work, anyways, so he’s not thinking of Babe, so why would Babe be thinking of Gene? “Why would I?”

He can feel Bill staring at him.

“Well.” Bill says, shifting against the couch. He’s wearing his knee brace, again, because his leg had started to bother him enough for him to give in to wearing it. He holds up a hand, counting off on his fingers. “He came over here, was upset, you two went into your room, and this place has thin fucking walls, Babe, so I’m very well aware that—”

“Oh my God,” Interrupts Babe, because he can. The back of his neck feels hot. Bill waves a hand impatiently.

“And then he’s gone before anyone else wakes up and you’re sulking and that’s weird. Henceforth, have you seen the Doc, recently?”

Babe powers on his laptop. He’s trying to ignore Bill, or, at the very least, appear haughtily indignant. He’s thinking he’s falling somewhat short of that. “We didn’t fight.” He says, rather defensively, because they didn’t. “We talked about Eugene going down to Louisiana and everyone from Pittsburgh maybe going down there sometime and that’s it. We’re friends, Bill, friends sometimes don’t see each other recently, When was the last time you saw Bull?”

He can feel Bill still staring at him, but he seems to relent when Babe just hikes the laptop up closer to his face and keeps not looking at him.

“Alright, Babe.” Bill says, after a moment, and sounds resigned. “Sounds like you’ve got it sorted.”

Babe wonders if Gene’s still wearing the yellow scarf.

—

Babe starts with Hanif Abdurraqib, because that’s the name he can’t figure out how to spell for the first few go-arounds, and he finds a poem on a poetry website that he hesitantly bookmarks.

He chooses one titled I Was Told the Sunlight Was a Cure, because the cure part makes him think of Gene, and then he remembers he’s not thinking about Gene at all.

—

—  I declare on the days I want to be alive I might drag

my drummer & my singer to your doorstep & ask you to dance

yes, you, who also survived the groaning machinery of darkness

you who, despite this, do not want to be perceived in an empire

awash with light in the sinning hours & we will dance — 

Babe blinks at that part for a moment, shifting against the sofa chair when he feels his leg start to fall asleep. Maybe the machinery of darkness could be like the Mustang.

He wonders if Gene dances. He wonders if Gene would agree to dance if Babe asked him to.

—

December 17

Babe finds another poem by Hanif Abdurraqib called The Prestige before dawn has even broken through the sky and clicks on it for no reason whatsoever. He tries to remember to print out the other poem when he has the time. He’d like to keep it for a while.

—

— No one will bury their kin when desire becomes a fugitive between us. — 

Babe blinks and has to look away from the words because his eyes are starting to hurt. He’s laying on his back, on his bed, with his hoodie pulled up over his forehead.

He wonders what fugitive means in this. Then he wonders if it means rotten.

He misses Gene.

—

He reads more and more Abdurraqib until his eyes start to burn and then he takes a break to eat and get some fresh air.

It’s cold, outside the apartment, and snow turned to sludge kicks up under his feet as he walks, walks. He’s not sure where he’s going.

—

He ends up at the bookstore, again (Renée isn’t there, but Babe didn’t think she would be. His chair is unoccupied and he drops into it gracelessly, tugging his phone out of his pocket.)

—

He looks up Haruki Murakumi but can’t find any poems, like Abdurraqib had, but he finds quotes, instead, and wonders if that’s the same thing. He slouches down in the chair in the bookstore.

—

— Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart. — 

It’s from something called Norwegian Wood, or so it says, and Babe blinks at it and looks up from his phone and looks up at the ceiling and wonders why Gene left, after he’d gotten stuck.

Babe had had a nightmare, after that. He’d torn everything off of his bed.

He wonders if maybe he should have asked Gene why. They never even talked about it.

—

— And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about. — 

Is the storm when he got trapped under the Mustang? 

Or would the storm be not sleeping with blankets, or going on walks everyday, or whatever else?

Babe has to leave the bookstore because Bill starts lighting up his phone about getting back to the apartment so everyone else can watch a movie.

The quote is from something called Kafka on the Shore, and Babe realises that Kafka is on the list in his notes app, too.

—

Kafka doesn’t really have poems, either, and Babe’s beginning to feel lied to, but he finds more quotes, and he begins to wonder if there’s any true difference.

His roommates are bickering happily again, and Babe sits on the floor where the recliner used to be, bent over his laptop. 

Toye swings around him on the crutches and drops down onto the couch next to Luz, kissing his temple absently, offering up a slice of pizza in one hand and throwing the other one around his waist. Bill groans, like the entire interaction had killed him.

Babe has a whole page of bookmarks, now, and a list of things he wants to print off because the one in his head was getting too big.

—

— Don't feel sorry for yourself. Only assholes do that. —

That’s another Murakami one, and Babe snorts so hard his throat kind of hurts, and Toye looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. They’re still all out in the living room, but it’s dark outside, and Bill is engrossed in a rerun of Elf and Luz is out cold, face squished against Toye’s shoulder, legs thrown over his lap.

“Nothing.” Babe murmurs, and Toye goes back to doing whatever on his phone, resting his own cheek absently on top of Luz’s head. Bill lets out a bleating laugh at whatever gimmick Will Ferrell prances through.

Babe feels… okay. 

He closes the computer when the back of his mind starts to get rather cloudy, and even manages to get invested in Elf. 

—

Elf ends and Luz is still asleep, and Babe is cleaning out everything piled up in the sink and trying not to grin as Toye tries to get him off the couch.

“Can’t carry you, right now, doll, you gotta get up,” He’s muttering, absently, as Luz groans, overly dramatic, arms around his neck. 

Babe goes back to drying out cups, shaking his head. Bill’s leaning against the counter next to him, doing absolutely nothing helpful, but he lets out another stupid bleating laugh. Babe kind of wants to laugh, too.

—

20 December

He goes to the corner shop he went to to get the maque-choux ingredients — they’d eaten most of the vegetables, because Babe thinks that him and Gene might not make the recipe, anymore — because they actually have pretty good food.

He runs into Eugene in the food aisle.

Gene doesn’t see him, because Babe had come up almost behind him, and Babe’s plan is to make a quick getaway so Gene won’t see him but when he turns on his heel the corner of his basket catches on one of the cans on the lower shelves of the aisle and clatters to the floor like a gunshot.

Gene turns around, and sees Babe, and Babe sees him, and Babe wonders what fancy words he could use to describe the expression on Eugene’s face. 

“Hey,” Gene says, accent drawing out the word. His shopping basket is tucked underneath his elbow, Babe catches sight of catfish and wonders if he’s making courtbouillon. 

“Hi.” Babe says back, and hopes he sounds like a normal person. Gene’s hair is the same black shock it always is, eyes just as dark as ever, and Babe doesn’t know what he wants to do but he knows it isn’t enough.

They’re friends, and they haven’t seen each other in days, and that’s why it’s awkward. Babe crosses his arms over his sternum – basket sticking out from his own elbow awkwardly – and lets himself believe that.

“How are you?” Gene asks him, and Babe responds with good and asks the same question in kind.

Crackly Mariah Carey plays over the speakers of the shop because of course it does, and Babe blinks at Gene and Gene blinks back and then Gene says “I’m leaving, to go to Louisiana. On the twenty-second.” 

It’s like a hole opens in Babe’s chest, and it’s not painful, and it’s not surprising, but it’s there and Babe wonders if Gene can hear the wind whistling through it.

“Oh.” Babe says. “That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Gene says back. “I think I’ll stay for as long as they’ll let me.”

“I’m happy for you.” Babe says, and Gene nods, eyes dark. He’s twisting his lower lip through his teeth, like he’s thinking, and Babe still doesn’t know what the expression on his face is. “Uh, I’ll… see you later?”

“Yeah—” Gene starts to say, and stops to pick up the can that Babe had knocked over what seemed like heartbeats ago. “Yes. Yeah, I’ll, uh. I’ll see you, Edward.”

Babe’s chest hurts, again.

“Yeah.” He says. “Bye, Gene.”

—

So Gene is leaving Philadelphia. And will stay away for as long as he can.

—

Babe starts reading Kafka quotes more.

—

— Youth is happy because it has the capacity to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old. —

Babe lays on his back in his bed with the blinds open to midnight. He thinks of Gene’s eyes and his chapped lips and his hair.

—

21 December

— I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly. —

Eugene Roe is the only friend that Babe has ever had whose lack of presence makes the hole in his heart seem bigger.

—

22 December

“‘Lo?”

“Hey, it’s Spina.”

“Ugh, fuck, man, it’s, like, seven thirty in the morning, why are you—”

“Shut up, that’s plenty early.” Ralph Spina seems to be in a good mood. Babe wonders what Gene is doing. If Spina can see him. “Hey, Gene has this present for you, that he got, like, at the beginning of the month, I was wondering if you want to drop by and grab it?”

Huh. So Babe guesses Gene’s not wherever Spina is, then.

“Uh.” Babe says. “He got me something?”

“Yeah,” Spina says, oblivious to the complicated whatever of emotions that Babe’s going through. “A book, I guess. Something about Kafka?”

The hole in Babe’s chest whistles. “Huh.” He says. “Like, something he wrote, or—”

“No, it’s by someone else… I think a Japanese guy? Ah, here it is. Kafka on the Shore.” 

Babe’s been in his room, getting ready, and he drops down heavily at the corner of his bed. “Oh.” He says. Spina huffs.

“Yeah.” He says. “Something about you liking it, or something. He got it on, like, the third, man.”

“Oh.” Babe says again, not really listening. Spina hums his vague agreement and keeps talking, and Babe tunes him out, staring at his comforter in the corner of the room. (He’d tugged the other sheets back onto his bed. He was too cold at night.)

He thinks about Eugene, and then thinks about thinking about Eugene, and then blinks.

They go days without seeing each other, without texting each other, but Babe thinks that he makes up for that time, possibly every minute that fills the gap since he was born and since he met Eugene, with thinking about him.

He thinks about Gene’s chapped lips, and his dark hair, and his eyes, and his smile, and everything else, and suddenly feels very, very warm.

“—’sides, it could be worse, because—”

“Spina?” Babe interrupts him, pushing himself up off his bed. He can feel his heart in his chest, and it almost hurts. “Where’s Gene?”

“Uh.” Spina says, and it’s enough hesitation for Babe’s blood to start to go cold with realisation. He pulls his phone away from his year to check the time and date. “He’s packing. He’s leaving in, like, ten minutes, man. Already ordered an Uber and everything.”

Something that isn’t panic but a close relative to it lights up the inside of Babe’s head all sorts of warning colours, and he swears and almost hangs up, stumbling over his carpet in his haste to get out to the living room. 

“Spina, I gotta go.” He says, almost jogging over to the front door, jamming his shoes into his feet. Bill’s sitting on the couch, because of course he is, and he looks up from his phone with a raised eyebrow. “Just… don’t let Gene leave early, okay?”

He doesn’t hear Spina’s reply, too busy shoving his phone into his pocket and wrestling the door open. 

“Gene, huh?” Bill starts to ask, but Babe’s already out the hall and slamming the apartment door shut behind him.

He skips down the steps of their apartment quickly, careful not to slip, and realises as the cold bites into his arms that he forgot his coat.

He elects it unimportant, stares down the street as soon as his feet hit it, and starts running.

—

14 November

“No, see, it’s—”

Babe interrupts himself, grinning too hard to see Gene’s trembling hand properly. “You’re not taking this seriously!” He accuses Gene, turning his cheek against the pillow to nose at Gene’s temple, the others hand still tight between both of his. “I’m doing you a huge favour, reading your future for free, and you’re not taking it seriously!”

Gene laughs again, as quiet and warm as he ever is, and turns his lips against the shell of Babe’s ear. “I’m takin’ this seriously,” He says, “but there’s not a lotta ways of me responding seriously when you tell me I have ‘attractive palms’.”

He says the last two words like he’s making fun of Babe, but Babe knows he isn’t and huffs, affronted, anyways.

“I said that you have the most aesthetically-pleasing hands I’ve ever had the honour of staring at.” He says, matter-of-fact, and Gene hums like he doesn’t believe him. “‘Course, you’re just a very aesthetically-pleasing person.”

The hand not at Babe’s face is running over his bare hip, fingers tapping out absent melodies against the skin there, and Babe leans into the touch as Gene regards him, eyes serious and lips chapped and quirked up in a smile. “Not so much as you are.” He says, so close to Babe that he’s slightly blurry.

Babe hums and gives up on reading his palm to roll over on top of him.

—

22 December

Almost a month ago he got trapped under a car, almost a month ago he nearly died, almost a month ago Gene kissed him and promised he wouldn’t get lost and then left him alone in the dark and a week ago Babe fucked up and he just realised how.

He’d grabbed his sneakers, because they were the first things he saw, and they’re filled with ice water and heavy and soggy and he’s sure he’s running like an idiot and it’s fucking freezing outside and he doesn’t care because Gene is only a few blocks away and Babe has to tell him this in person, has to get to him before he gets out into the Uber.

His heart both soars and crashes into the pavement when he sees carefully Eugene pulling a suitcase down the staircase; wound through with twinkling lights and burnt out bulbs.

“Gene!” Babe shouts, chest burning. 

Gene looks up, eyes wide, and when he sees Babe, his face does the same exact thing that it’s done the last few times that Babe’s seen him.

“Gene!” He yells again, and speeds up.

Gene leaves his suitcase on the stairs and moves down the rest of the way, and his feet hit the pavement at the same time that Babe starts slowing down, icy sludge spraying from under his feet as he slides to a dragging stop in front of the staircase, staggering against it. He looks up, and is finally close enough to see Gene, and Gene looks radiant and… well. 

“What the fuck.” Gene says, and Babe realises he’s in a t-shirt and sneakers and sweatpants in 30 degree weather and waves it off to stand up straight, taking a deep breath.

“I have to tell you some stuff,” He says, “and it’s not gonna make a lot of sense, and I need you to stick with me, here.”

Gene shifts away from him, like he’s going to grab his suitcase. “Edward,” he says, and the frustration that bolts through Babe at his given name almost warms him up. “I’ve got a car coming any minute now—”

“It won’t take long—” Babe promises over him, and realises, maybe for the first time, that the aching in his chest is something desperate. “I, just. I need to do this, and I didn’t realise that I did, and now I’m—”

“Babe.” Gene says, and Babe blinks at him and then blinks again and then suddenly can’t stop from opening his mouth.

“I’m my own drummer and my own singer and I’m asking you to dance with me, I think.” Is what comes out of it, and Gene stares at him like he’s insane so Babe shakes his head and clears his throat and tries again.

“I mean, I like you.” He says, and thinks of storms and memories and words and poems and quotes and people and the shore. “Like, not as a friend. And I thought as a friend, but you’re the only friend I have that I think about everyday, and that I go crazy for, and I like you like I want to be more than your friend, and it’s—”

“Babe—” Gene starts to say again, and Babe shakes his head, holds up a hand, because the hurting in his chest is desperation and he needs to get it out, needs to tell Gene, needs to shake it into him because it’s going to burn him alive.

“No, I just, I need to—” He says, and has to stop and huff through his nose. He tries to collect his thoughts, and takes a deep breath. “You asked me to go down to Louisiana and I thought just as friends because I thought we were just friends, but we aren’t, are we?”

Gene blinks at him. The twist of his lips looks almost imploring. “Babe,” he says, a third time. “I thought that you didn’t want to be anything but—”

“I didn’t know anything!” Babe exclaims, which is a little loud, so he winces slightly and tries again. “I didn’t know that we were friends, I didn’t know that we were more, I thought… I thought that it was just… whatever we were doing and didn’t think.”

“I thought we were just friends, too.” Gene interrupts him this time, and Babe wants to touch his jaw. “I thought we were, and then we were changing, and it scared me in November and I left, but it didn’t scare me anymore but you—”

“You left again.” Babe says, and doesn’t mean it as an accusation. “You left again, after November, and I was confused, and I thought we were friends, but we’re not, because we’re more, or — or at least I want to be more, because I like you—”

Gene’s watching him with wide eyes, wide and dark and bright and light and the tip of his nose is read and so are the shells of his ears and Babe’s chest hurts and he knows why and he opens his mouth again and doesn’t even try to stop himself from rambling.

“I like how red your nose gets when it’s cold outside.” He says, and Gene blinks and steps back half a pace, as if surprised. “I like how you refuse to call me by my goddamn name, no matter how many times I tell you that only the nuns call me Edward.” He says, even though Gene’s called him Babe now almost as much as Edward in this single conversation.

“I like how you make food that’s fully capable of killing me.” He says, and thinks of the spice in the courtbouillon and how Gene had grinned his soft, gentle grin when Babe had felt his face heating up from the spice. “I like that you always forget to bring gloves outside.” He says, and thinks of Gene’s red knuckles. 

“I like how your lips are almost always chapped, no matter what you do.” He says. “I like the colour of your eyes. I like how cold your hands are. I like that I can never stop thinking about you, no matter what, because you’re all I ever want to think about, Eugene, even before November, even before everything that happened, because you’re you and I like you.”

He takes a deep breath, and realises for the first time just how cold his feet are. He ignores it, because Gene’s staring at him again and Babe’s distracted by everything from his hair to his eyes to the way he has his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, elbows held out high, for some reason.

“Babe.” Gene says, and Babe staggers slightly against the fairy light staircase and then Gene is kissing him, and his hands are freezing and on either side of Babe’s face.

It’s a chaste kiss, as far as kisses go, because Babe’s maybe freezing to death and also so high on adrenaline he thinks he could bench press Bull, and his own hands fly up to Gene’s face and kiss him again, and again, and pull back enough to kiss the corner of his mouth, and his cheek, and back to his mouth, and—

“Uh, excuse me, are you Roe?” 

Gene pulls away from him, eyes wide and lips chapped and Babe’s chest still hurts and Gene turns to the Uber driver, hands leaving Babe to pat down his pockets, talking faster than Babe thinks he’s ever heard him talk.

“Yes, yeah, sorry about that,” He’s saying, and he sounds almost breathless, and Babe would be almost proud if he wasn’t so cold and also wanting Gene to come back over right now before he actually dies. “I, uh, could you wait, a moment? I have, like, ten dollars, if you could give me a moment to…” He trails off, and the driver takes the money and shrugs.

Babe misses the rest of the transaction because he’s shifting his feet back and forth and hoping he doesn’t lose a toe. Then Gene’s back near him again, and it’s significantly weirder because there’s an Uber driver waiting on them. But Gene kisses him again and Babe kisses back and then kisses the corner of his mouth and his cheek again and pulls back just enough to rest his freezing forehead against Gene’s, and he can’t stop smiling.

Gene is so close to him that Babe’s eyes are slightly blurry, and his smile is as gentle and as soft as it ever is and when he asks, “did Renée do the thing with the poems?” Babe’s laugh bursts out of him so warmly it’s like sunlight.

He runs his thumbs over Gene’s cheekbones and closes his eyes, their foreheads still pressed together, to say, “I’m gonna write you poems, now. She’s opened me up to a whole world of possibilities.”

Gene smiles and it seems tired, so Babe pulls back and kisses him again, and then says, hole still in his chest, “don’t stay in Louisiana until they want you to leave. I want — I want you to come back and take time off. I want to do that, like you said earlier.”

It’s Gene that pushes forward to kiss him, this time, and his breath is warm and puffs against Babe’s cheek and Babe has missed him so, so much and somehow never even realised that he did. “Yeah,” He says. “Yeah, of course—”

“And we can make the… the maque-choux—” Babe says, starting to ramble, a little bit, and Gene huffs a laugh.

“You remember that?” He asks.

Babe nods, rests his forehead against Gene’s and says, “I couldn’t forget. I couldn’t forget, the ingredients were in the fridge, I bought them the next day you texted me,” And Gene laughs and kisses him again.

“We’re gonna fuck up again.” Gene says, after that, which would be out of pocket if it wasn’t Gene and if Babe didn’t know exactly what he meant.

“I don’t care.” He said, and shifted from having his hands on either sides of Gene’s face to lock his wrists behind Gene’s neck, watching his eyes and thinking a mile a minute and saying, “I don’t care, I don’t give a shit, and we’ll fuck up and it’ll be fine and we’ll talk about it and it will be worth it because it’s you—”

“And you’re you.” Gene reminds him, his own hands having migrated to either side of Babe’s neck, and Babe laughs and bumps his nose against Gene’s.

“Yeah, and we’ll figure it out.” He says, and it suddenly feels more serious. He watches Gene’s eyes some more and lets himself feel warm. “We — it won’t be perfect, and we’ll have issues, and it won’t always be good and we’ll figure it out and it’ll be us.”

And Gene is quieter, too, like he’s also realising the solemnity, and then he’s nodding and kissing Babe again and he says, “I won’t leave again.” And it makes Babe laugh and maybe it’s a little wet because there’s an Uber driver, like, five feet away from them waiting to help Gene do just that.

“Yeah, you will.” Babe says, and wonders what poems and quotes and words there are about that. “You will, but it’s okay, ‘cause I’ll understand why, and I’ll have to leave, sometimes, but we’ll both be back and it won’t be perfect but it’ll be us and we’ll figure it out.”

Gene’s watching him, again, and the corner of his mouth is quirked up and Babe watches him and is warm, warm. “Yeah?” He asks, almost like a joke, and from behind them, the Uber driver clears his throat so Babe just nods and runs a thumb over Gene’s chapped lips and lets himself smile before kissing them.

“Yeah.” He says back, and Gene steps away and drags his suitcase off of the stairs and Gene kisses him again and then is moving towards the Uber. “Yeah, we’re gonna figure it out.” He says, and says it more to himself. He watches Gene shove his luggage into the car and turn back once more and Babe almost stumbles in his move to meet him and Gene’s hands are cold on either side of his face.

Gene pulls back and regards him seriously, face solemn, eyes warm. “I like you, too.” He says, and Babe’s laugh almost startles him.

“Oh, thank God.” He says, and Gene kisses him again. “I was a little worried.”

—

Gene eventually has to get into the Uber, and Babe eventually has to kiss him one last time, but the hurting in his chest isn’t so bad anymore and he wonders if the crushing he’d been feeling since the Mustang could maybe slowly become less. Everything is always less, when it needs to be, with Gene.

Babe scrubs a hand down his face and wonders if he can use the printer at work to print off the Harif Abdurraqib poem and turns on his heel and heads back to his own apartment.

Fuck, his feet are cold.

And… oh.

Well, he still has to find Eugene a Christmas present.

#rie writes #hbowarsanta23 #band of brothers #hbo war #eugene roe #doc roe #babe heffron #baberoe

[whoiwanttoday]

Hey guys, here is some Joey King for people because this whole morning the world has been telling me to post her. Or my brain has and has been making connections everywhere because as human beings we are excellent at finding patterns when they aren't there. I woke up thinking about her and I don't really know why but it got me thinking about her walking the picket lines fro the strike and how angry I got just reading comments online, where someone felt the need to say, "She sure is smiling a lot for someone who is unemployed". The shitty implications here are boundless and I probably don't need to explain them but it comes from this false bullshit thing where if you ask for anything better in life and you are miserable 100% of the time then you must not want it. I remember getting very angry at a coworker years ago who complained he had a neighbor who got food stamps but then bought his kids an X-Box for Christmas. You can't buy an X-Box with food stamps but that's not his point, his point is those kids should be miserable and suffer every day of their life because they are poor and poor people should hurt for being poor. The most charitable reading of this is that this will somehow motivate these children to not be poor, in the sense that most children born into poverty are born there because they didn't want money badly enough. The more accurate reading is people want to see poor people suffer because their only gauge on happiness is having more than others and thus being in a better strata. So if they have an X-Box it's that much harder to signal he's better than them. Anyway, all that aside, you can enjoy protesting and still be protesting. It's ok to have fun with it. It's ok to not be completely miserable and still want better working conditions. It's ok to think your working conditions are adequate but want improved conditions for those who are not in your situation. Anyway, I got thinking about all that and got angry and also angry at all the stuff I have seen about how it's performative for celebrities to be seen on the picket lines and like… there are lots of things I can say to that but no shit. It's a protest. It is by it's very nature performative and the reason celebrities are making sure they are being seen, at a protest they are part of because it's their union, is because there are then articles and pictures and attention. The entire point of a protest is to get attention on the issue. They are doing their part by existing. So all that, I thought I might post her, made breakfast and turned on my podcasts and it's one about the historical basis of the book of Exodus. Guys, if you don't know about Exodus know that the details aren't important but it too was a movement of the people. More importantly discussion on this have a lot to do with the origins of the Hebrews and the people of Israel and look, it's related to Joey King because antisemitism is the most socially acceptable form of bigotry out there. Some people might argue that but in my experience it's the one most people don't really take issue with too hard and people feel pretty comfortable sharing in polite society. Anyway, being a fan of Joey King i have also seen plenty of that online and that's not a reason to post her but it did feel like everything was pointing her way so I am posting her. Today I want to fuck Joey King.

#Joey King #brunette #Actress #whoiwanttofucktoday

[dulcewrites]

Aemond ends up regretting what he has done for the sake of his dream? GOOD.and the fact him and Alys fight like cats it's major KARMA.

And major karma is Alys breaking up with him😈😈😈

I have the feeling he ends up regretting not being by reader's side as she lives her dream; he's there miserable while reader is living the best life.

Fuck it. Here’s their relationship post divorce

A Dish Best Served Cold

Aemond finds you in the kitchen, tongue poking out of your mouth in concentration. The match in your hand won’t take.

“Here,” he takes a lighter out of his pocket and holds it towards the candle you were trying to light. Your shoulders relax a bit.

You two stand there in silence for a bit before you turn to him.

“Your kid has been having a fit all morning about wanting to try her cake before the party starts,” you fake a wistful sigh.

“Why is it when she does something bratty she’s just my kid?”

You grin and shrug. “Seems fitting to me.”

People carrying in food and decorations come through the back. Big red and black balloons starting to take up space

“Did you come alone?”

Aemond freezes for a moment. He did come alone, but frankly did not feel like getting into that. Not today of all days.

“Yes, Alys had family stuff to tend to and I th-,”

You cut him off with a quick wave off the hand.

“Aemond, I really don’t care for an explanation, nor do you need to give me one,” you cross something off a list in your hand. “I just need to let the caterer know how many plates to set.”

He just nods awkwardly. He supposes he should just be happy you stopped him telling whatever lie he was going to tell. The pitter patter of tiny steps gets closer.

“Daddy daddy daddy.”

“Daella Daella Daella,” Aemond picks up an enthusiastic toddler.

“Look at what Uncle Egg gave me,” she beams, tiny hand holding up a pair of keys.

Aegon comes waltzing in after her, lazy smile on his face. You survey the keys then look at him.

“What did you do,” you take the keys out of Daella’s hands. “She’s turning eight not sixteen.”

Aegon frowns. “By the time she’s old enough to drive it, it will be vintage. She would be the coolest girl at her school.”

He reaches out to poke her stomach and is met by a fit of giggles. You roll your eyes; there’s no telling Aegon anything once he gets an idea. You reach your arms out to take Daella from Aemond.

“Come on, let’s go see what grandma is doing.”

Aemond recognizes the look you give him. Handle this. Once you’re out of the kitchen, Aemond turns to his older brother.

“What,” Aegon laughs. “Oh, give me a break, you got Vhagar when you were 11.”

“That was completely different circumstances.”

His bike caused a lot of… strife within their family. Aegon just shrugs in response.

“I see you came alone,” he lowers his voice. “Did you tell her about you and Alys.”

There’s nothing to tell. Things are rocky but things are always rocky. They always manage to get through it. He is sure this time will be no different. Though missing Daella’s party was not in the cards. Aemond doesn’t say anything. He takes a quick glance towards the dining area, seeing no one but the caterers and decorators. He uses it as a green light to pull a cigarette out. Aemond can hear your voice in the back of his head - Not in the house Aemond please

“I hear she’s seeing someone.”

Aemond glares at Aegon. “Fuck off.”

“I’m being serious. I think Hel knows but she won’t tell me. Something about ‘not messing things up this time.’”

Aemond takes another hit of his cigarette. “She would tell me.”

You would tell him. He knows that because he knows you. If you were seeing some guy, especially while having Daella, you would say something.

“Would she really?”

Before Aemond can reply, you come back in the kitchen. You eye the cigarette in his hand.

“Alicent needs you two out back.”

Aegon shoot him a look before leaving the kitchen. Aemond tries to follow Aegon but you stop in front of him. He expects a lecture from you, but instead you take the cigarette from him. He watches you take a long hit. You blow the smoke back in his face. You hand it back to him.

“Make sure you put that out before your mother sees.”

And with that, you leave. Aemond brings to cigarette to his lips.

For a moment, he swears he can taste you on it.

#djats fmo au

[telesilla]

The following is an extended metaphor included in a ridiculously long letter I’m sending to my health care provider. I’m posting here because…idk, it’s writing and sharing it with y’all is probably more effective for my mental health than sending it will actually be.

You see, it’s been too long since I’ve seen anyone for my mental health so I need to go through a screening, presumably to discover if my disability (which has been diagnosed since 2000) is still real or something. Now mind you, this isn’t the government trying to cut my benefits, this is my healthcare provider (a company whose name rhymes with Miser) making me do this to get the healthcare I pay for. Thing is, there is only one way to access this screening, through phone. I can get a mammogram appointment through a phone call, the website, their surprisingly decent app or just fucking walking in on a slow day. Mental health care? Gotta be a phone call to get a screener appointment that will then pass me along the system.

Meanwhile my primary care doctor’s office keeps fucking nagging me about other health issues (which really fucking stresses me out since I know I should care but I can’t because I’m fucking crazy) and I’m like, I have one fucking major diagnosis with you people and yet, no one has ever once reached out to me about it. And since that diagnosis gets in the way of other health stuff, idk maybe we should nag me about that instead? So I wrote a letter to the patient advocacy folks asking them to tell my doctor’s office to lay off, but it’s really 1600+ words telling them that they suck. Nothing will change, but I guess I feel better?

Like a good number of people with mental illnesses, I have certain things that are hard for me to do. Simple things that ordinary people do without thinking, like making phone calls, can be impossible if your brain does not cooperate

As an example, please imagine you’re standing on the edge of a cliff, a really high drop, ten or more stories. There is a person next to you and they say, just step forward. You can’t do that because if you step forward, you’ll die. The person insists that the drop is the same as a regular stair, just a few inches, and that you just need to take the step and you’ll be fine. You ask if there’s a handrail, or maybe an alternate path, because you really do want to move forward, only there’s this cliff and your brain won’t let you take that step. The person insists that because it’s a simple step you don’t need handrails or an alternate route and kind of implies that you’re a little foolish for even asking. It’s just a step.

Now, stay with me on the edge of that cliff and imagine that instead of some random person who doesn’t know me, it’s someone who is supposed to care about me. It is, in fact, someone who I pay a fifth of my limited income to care about me. Someone who knows for certain that I have a condition that makes it hard for me to judge distances. But all they do is keep telling me it’s just a step, and it’s one I’ve stepped down before. And all I can remember is that the only reason I was able to step off it before was such severe mental pain that I was considering running from my home or possibly even killing myself. So when the only alternative to blowing up my whole life or even ending it was to leap off a cliff, yes, I was able to leap. However being able to jump off a cliff only because there’s a bear about to eat you is not a way to deal with everyday mental health issues.

#i know why they do it #because when you gatekeep #it’s easier to weed out people you don’t think need help #i also know that this letter will do nothing #but if my actual goddamn doctor’s office will leave me alone #it’ll help a little #and if the bear shows up again #i’ll make the call #but imagine what it would be like to deal with your mental health #when it’s not a fucking emergency #be cheaper for kaiser too but….

[some-triangles]

It's Portland's annual new year blizzard/ice storm, which we are unprepared for every year, because this never used to happen. It barely snowed here when I was a kid! I was a kid 30 years ago, mind you, and this has been happening pretty consistently for the last 20, but institutions are slow to change. We have been spending our money on other things.

So here I am, sitting in my own living room (my own in the sense that I rent it), in my long johns and thermals and two pairs of socks, heat on, still gradually losing feeling in my toes. This seems like a good day to write the politics post.

I belong to the category of person who expresses political and moral beliefs mostly through jokes, and only then when my personal frustration has reached a point where I can no longer make myself be quiet. The jokes are there to make the pain less raw, but lately the jokes themselves are getting dark enough that it's upsetting people. So let's proceed without the jokes.

Where to begin? In the 90s, I guess. I was brought up liberal but cynical, which is already kind of a tense balance, and I was by inclination a person who wanted things to make sense and follow understandable rules. (The answer is as always neurodivergence.) I figured out that religion wasn't real by looking at a map and realizing that the world was too big for any one group of people to be right about things. Despite this, I still thought American democracy was the correct answer, the least bad option, and that the world as a whole was heading towards where I was, a kind of tolerant, reasonable middle class existence.

In my defense, this was a belief broadly shared by my parents' generation, and I hadn't been taught a lot of the stuff that argued against it. Francis Fukuyama got up in front of people and declared the world a solved problem and nobody important even laughed at him. I bought into this to the extent that I suffered from a kind of wistful sadness that all the important battles had already been fought. In short, I was a child, and not a particularly bright one, despite what people told me. I did, however, form a belief that stays with me to this day:

I AM NOT SPECIAL. I, personally, do not deserve any more or any less than any human being. And since I think I should be safe and well fed, every other human being should also be safe and well fed. The fact that I am better off than some others is an accident which should be rectified.

This came about because I was aware that a lot of the people in the world were poor and miserable and I wasn't, and I had to decide whether luck or virtue was responsible for my safety. I went with luck. I didn't realize it at the time, but this choice put me at odds with a lot of the logic underlying the society I live in - because if I'm not special, you better believe nobody else is either, and that means no elect, no chosen, none blessed by god, none elevated by blood. I was 10, I hadn't even had a chance to fuck up my life yet, and yet there were all these other 10-year-olds worse off than me. Did they deserve that? And what about those kids who had it better?

And so, decades later, we end up with the joke about how it's a good deal to trade your life away to take out a rich person. It's the same impulse, just with a lot of broken promises and bitterness stacked on top. I work full time at a job that's officially essential (no stoppage during the pandemic), strenuous, and physically dangerous - I get paid the 1993 equivalent of a little less than $30k a year - I will never be able to afford a home in the city I grew up in. This job has to be done. I am not special, I do not "deserve" a better job. I, as a working person, watch people who do jobs that do not need to be done or who don't work at all get paid more because they are members of an invisible elect. I conclude that they must believe they are worth more than me, that they are better than me, because how else could they justify their lives? And I think if I subscribed to that worldview, it would be a net win for me to blow both of us up. Thus, the joke.

I also watch the rest of the world. My belief in liberal democracy is a pretty aerated Jenga tower by this point. Learning about America's imperial history took out a bunch of pieces, but I could still believe all that was behind us. Then we went back to war, which I could initially write off as a traumatic reaction, but as years turned into decades it became obvious that peace had been the exception, and that even that peace hadn't been that peaceful, had it? At that point it was still possible to believe that at least all of our bombing and killing had been in the interest of some kind of moral good, if you really tried. I think Gaza killed the very last part of me that could believe that. There is no atrocity we will not enable to pursue our own ends. Does it matter that much what kind of system we use to choose our leaders if this is what our leaders do?

The last thing keeping my tower standing is the need to protect the outgroups I and my friends belong to, which doesn't really rise to the level of a moral imperative. It's a moment by moment strategic thing, where you support institutions if they protect you and oppose them if they attack you, like any interest group. Right now HR culture and capitalism are trending pro-trans, so we support Disney against Florida. We will do voter suppression if the alternative is Trump. It doesn't go well with rule number one up there, but neither does the fact that I care about my friends more than I care about people I don't know.

At the end of the day it's all a joke. Moral imperatives give way to political reality one hundred percent of the time. It doesn't matter what I call myself. I hate tech culture, so why not be a Luddite? I'll smash steam looms in my mind while continuing to pay for my groceries. Just let me have my jokes. Trashfuture did a great riff about Butlerian Jihad the other day where they imagined a butler named Ian Jihad. "I've oriented sir's slippers towards Mecca, sir." That's the kind of political commentary I want, and the kind I will refrain from posting here unless my toes are really, really cold.

#in which I try to explain why black humor is the best I can do these days

[teememdee]

2023 ART SUMMARY!!!

2023 was uhhhhhhh a year! And I made art! And I’m going to talk for a long time about everything I did month by month! Yippee!!!

original individual posts can be found in my #tanner art tag!

JANUARY

Started off the year with my favorite skrunklies sleepy and snuggling. Then sleeping together while holding one another is so incredibly important to me, they’re so cute and I needed to draw it. Struggled with Kai’Sa’s face but I particularly like the drapery of the pillow behind them.

FEBRUARY

First off, just a simple Kai’Sa piece for the Vibes(TM) and background practice. I was also fairly miserable and when I get miserable I draw Kai’Sa being miserable as well. I love my favorite character of all time <3

Then a quick Valentine’s Day piece, soft gradient map stuff. Love my skrunklies, hopefully this year I can make something for the day that isn’t rushed

MARCH

In March I FINALLY finished my Star Guardian Kahri fic, be the light to carry me, and drew Kiko and Ina being adorable together to go along with it. They’re SO cute and people LOVE that fic. Chapter 3 ended up being a whole 20k words and every time I re-read I’m amazed that I wrote it.

A kiss for Kai’Sa’s birthday! This was actually two sketches mashed together because I had a good Kai’Sa and a good Ahri on separate attempts. Love Kai’Sa’s smile on this one.

NOW. Strong contender for my favorite piece of the year. Captioned “please don’t lose yourself,” my K/DA-verse Kassadin’s very dead wife’s ghost weighs on him, begging him to not get lost in his grief and lose sight of their daughter. Kassadin feels lost and broken without her. I love the emotions in this one, and I think the idea comes across even without knowledge of my headcanons. Love it so much.

APRIL

Full-body piece that took me all month. I just love this one so much. It’s just pure Kahri, pure love, pure joy. Pose inspired by Blake Belladonna from RWBY’s leg pop during the long-awaited Bumblby kiss. This piece just makes me so happy.

MAY

Oops! No art! Was too busy being on a (student) film set every weekend as well as dealing with classes and multiple other stressors. I did START a piece though, but wouldn’t finish it until the middle of June.

JUNE

I actually did the first sketch of the Evelynn piece in February, but I decided to revamp it in May, and then when school finally set me free I finished it, and it turned out exactly how I wanted it to. Her hair was a labor to render but I'm so so pleased with how it looks, as well as the blood. The first time I've finished a fully rendered Evelynn piece!

Naafiri is so fucking cool. Upon her reveal, I was seeing so much incredible fanart and I just needed to get in on it. The shapes and points are just so good. I used to draw dogs all the time as a kid, and my younger self would absolutely flip out at seeing this. I did this piece in one day, and I have no idea how I pulled that background off but hopefully I can do it again some day lol

JULY

Two drastically different vibes here. Realized it had been forever since I had drawn Kahri so I just wanted to make a cute summertime piece. Their hands should be bigger and it bugs me but this is still really cute, I missed my girls dearly.

And then my very very sad man Kassadin being very very sad about his very very dead wife. This is what I call his phase 2 design, when he's at the peak of his grief (spiraling, as emphasized by the background) and feels just so sad and alone. In my head this and the March piece are part of a series that I hope to continue.

AUGUST

Just one piece that took me all month because I was quite busy in August, and Runeterra Kahri pieces take forever, but as I always say, it's always worth it. This pose comes from mellon_soup on instagram, who makes a lot of really great pose references for artists to use, highly recommend checking them out. This piece is just so soft to me. Captioned "'you're beautiful, you know that?'" they're saying it to each other, two people that struggle with their self image finding love and confidence in the other. Also I'm so very happy with the background. I love these two so so so so much, they're my world.

SEPTEMBER

One of my goals for this year was to branch out in the fanart I made. Baldur's Gate 3 came along and I love watching my best friend play it, we love Shadowheart and I just wanted to draw her. This came after a lot of sketches of both her and our favorite Tav that ended up changing how I draw eyes. The rendering of her face here is also something I'm proud of, her nose looks great. And again, the background! This piece didn't get a lot of attention at all but that's okay, I made it for me and I'm very happy with it.

OCTOBER

STAR WARS TOXIC YURI WENT CRAZY THIS YEAR!!! Wolfwren (Sabine Wren x Shin Hati, from the Ahsoka TV series) had me by the THROAT for a solid two months or so, I haven't been that feral and deranged over a ship in a hot minute. They had me frothing at the mouth every episode even though I did not like the show overall. Anyways. First piece is a redraw of the part in episode 4 where they just have the most charged eye contact of all time, and I decided to take that in stride with inspiration from Horimiya, a favorite anime of mine, during particularly emotionally charged moments, the background changes and there's a particular color silhouette behind them. It really fits that moment of the show and I am SO proud of these faces, especially Sabine's. Drawing from a real human face reference was kinda new to me but it's taught me a lot. The file size also ended up enormous somehow idk lol

Then, my most popular piece of the year, on both tumblr and twitter. I LOVE hand imagery, I love subtle hand touches, I churned this out in I think exactly one day, it's so soft it's so cute and I totally understand the overwhelming positivity it received.

NOVEMBER

I was not doing well at this time in the year. The state of the world just had me in a horrible mental state, I wasn't taking care of myself well at all, I couldn't get myself to make art, especially something happy or cute, it just felt wrong. But then sometimes you feel something so strong and specific there's no other way to process it than to make art. To make a long story short, earlier in the year I thought a girl liked me, I liked her back, but it turned out she did indeed have a boyfriend the whole time. We didn't see or talk to each other for a few months but in November we (and the bf, lol) met up again. When she saw me at the door she smiled at me so sweetly and it was just the worst feeling ever and I just had to hide it behind a smile and a wave. Oversharing aside, this is a style I'd wanted to execute for a while and I'm really pleased with how it turned out, would love to make more like this.

DECEMBER

All of this was done / finished in the first two weeks of the month because then I got sick + was visiting family + jet lag took me out. Kinda sad I didn't get something done for Ahri's birthday or a traditional Kahri Winter piece but that's what January is for. Anyway.

Sometimes you just want to draw girls kissing and sometimes you wanna make it a little suggestive. Not much to say. Proud of the drapery on Kai'Sa's sleeve and you can always tell I love drawing hands.

Now it's time for classwork. Here I just have two pages but I've posted the whole comic on its own, this was for my "Art and Text" class, I have it printed in a booklet and my classmates + friends have responded to it so sweetly I'm really proud, I really really want to make more comics. This project was a culmination of so many inspirations from other artists and I'm really happy with the execution even if it was really rough for me to manage my time well for that class.

Then for my "Fiction and Allegory" class, two of my friends and I made a storyboard film (which I don't want to share publicly, but if I know you you can ask for a link) and during the all-nighter two of us pulled to get it done on time, I decided one scene needed music instead of diegetic sound, so I churned this out on garageband in about an hour. Would definitely love to try my hand at making more music in the future. Wish my classmates / teacher liked / understood the film more but oh well. I learned a lot and for the thousandth time, I'm proud of what I did.

IN CONCLUSION:

I ended up with less full pieces than 2022 but what I did create in 2023 are big, detailed, emotional pieces, and I'm more than satisfied. I think my skills in rendering, backgrounds, and colors really improved and I'm looking forward to how I continue to improve in 2024. This upcoming year has a lot of scary stuff ahead (namely graduating college) but I will come out the other side regardless, hopefully with just as much art I'm proud of.

If you read all of this, thank you!! If you've liked, shared, or commented on any of my art, thank you!!!!!! It means the world, always.

#2023 art review #long post #this year had some good highs but also some drastic lows so idk #but making art is always a high #happy new year! #artists on tumblr #tanner art #tanner talks