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wherethingscomebackx · 3 years

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Top 25 Larry Fics of 2020

h 2020 was HELLISH. So thank you to all the writers, and I mean ALL of them, who kept us occupied as the world continues to burn.

You may be familiar with these lists:

Top 25 Larry fics of 2016

Top 25 Larry fics of 2017

Top 25 Larry fics of 2018

Top 25 Larry fics of 2019

We’re going on our 5th year!! As always, I read a lot of fic and the majority of it is Larry. I like making lists and I like Larry so I thought I’d do some minimal research of the top 25 larry fics published/completed in 2020 in order of least to most kudos (with links). All of these fics are top notch so you should all check them out!

25.) a trail of honey through it all by @yvesaintlourent (27k)

The boy in front of him, well really, the man in front of him, was like something out of a confusing wet dream. Built, tall, tan and muscular, his skin glistened with sweat after a long day of working outdoors with his hands. He was wearing a cut up old American football shirt, the bottom hem was torn and the sleeves were cut off to the point where the t-shirt was really just a loose tank top. The shorts he had on had clearly been full length jeans at one point, and were now just crudely cut off above the knee. His white socks were pulled up too high on his calves, and the brown work boots he had on were old as fuck, the leather peeling along the edges of the soles. Curly brown hair stuck out from the edges of his backwards snapback, and there was a smudge of grease wiped along his brow bone. The smattering of hair along his jaw proved that he hadn’t shaved in a week or two, the hair growing in thicker across his upper lip and around his chin. His sinfully bowed mouth was pink and plump, and Louis was suddenly hyper-focused on the way that he chewed at the toothpick stuck between his lips. He looked like he needed a shower. Louis wanted to lick him.

Or, the TPH fic we’ve all been waiting for.

24.) even the best laid plans by @falsegoodnight (25k)

“Anyways,” Louis stresses, narrowing his eyes, “just let me say it and then rate how terrible of an idea it is on a scale from one to ten.”

“Alright,” Zayn agrees, sitting up expectantly.

“I want to ask Harry Styles to take my virginity,” Louis blurts, holding his hands out for emphasis.

The way Zayn’s eyes bulge is almost comical. “Negative infinity,” he says, voice choked. “Negative infinity times negative infinity.”

“Technically, a negative times a negative is -”

“Really negative infinity,” Zayn corrects himself, shaking his head wildly. “Louis, what the fuck?”

Or, Louis wants to have sex with someone and decides Harry is the perfect alpha for the job.

23.) A Distant Hazy Light by @greenfeelings (76k)

Life’s pretty ordinary for Harry. He lives with his best friend, got into university just like he’s planned, and manages to support himself just fine for an unbonded omega. If he sustains that lifestyle by getting paid to help alphas through their rut every now and then, that’s nothing to be hung up on. Until he’s hired by an alpha that turns everything upside down.

Or, Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down, until he builds his own up.

22.) Ghost Note Symphony by whoknows (96k)

Louis is on tour when he first hears about it. It’s all over the news – Harry Styles Attacked By Fan runs in headlines for days. It’s not even just the gossip rags, either. Actual journalists are covering the story. It would have been impossible to avoid hearing about it. Technically, Oli is the one who tells Louis about it, but it’s not exactly being covered up. Harry doesn’t answer Louis’ text asking if he’s alright, but that’s not really surprising. They haven’t spoken for months, and it’s been a lot longer than that since they’ve had a real conversation. The sting of the text going unanswered is still there, less painful than it might have been a few years ago.

It’s not that it’s easy to forget about, exactly. Louis has a whole life outside of One Direction now, though. So Louis goes on with his life, figuring that if Harry was seriously hurt he would have heard about it by now. He might currently be in the same country as Harry, but being on opposite sides of it puts enough distance between them that putting it in the back of his mind is easy. There’s nothing Louis could do, even if he thought Harry might want him to.

That’s why everything that happens next comes as a complete shock to him.

21.) Until by @allwaswell16 (38k)

Rural Eagle County, Colorado wasn’t the type of place to find a famous musician or actor. At least not until songwriter Louis Tomlinson showed up with pop star Niall Horan to visit his uncle’s horse ranch, and they just happened to find themselves next door to a reclusive former movie star.

20.) Strangers in Love by sweetums (42k)

Louis wakes up to find himself in a marriage with the last man he thought he'd ever end up with.

Prompt 51: An amnesia fic where louis and harry were enemies to lovers but after an accident, louis only remembers those memories that him and harry hated each other. now harry has to fix it. I think something like this less dark and less angsty compared to other amnesia fics and it could be funny

19.) A Long Way From The Playground by Pink_Sunsets (170k)

One Direction is broken up. They broke up five years ago. That should be the end of the story, right?

Harry is finished with One Direction. He now has a new life, one with two kids and a successful solo career. And he’s happy.

But a call one night from management flips Harry’s whole new life upside down, and he’s forced to face the life he had left behind.

As well as a certain blue eyed man who had left him behind.

18.) my love’s not simple (it’s fragile) by @falsegoodnight (27k)

“Can I take you out tomorrow?” he asks. “My shift ends at 7 but we can go for dinner at 8.”

Louis is silent for a few seconds and then, “Like… on a date?”

Harry swallows thickly. He hasn’t done this in years, hasn’t ever wanted to. “Yeah.”

He’s worried he’s misread things but then Louis raises his head to kiss Harry’s cheek. “Yeah,” he says easily. “Sure.”

Tension leaves his body swiftly. “Are you sure?” asks Harry. “I know we’re both so busy but I can’t not try with you, Lou.”

“Neither can I,” says Louis. “I think we can figure it out. I care about you a lot Harry. We’ve known each other for a week, but I already like you so much.”

Or Harry's new job is threatened by his impending rut. Desperate for a solution, he allows Niall to introduce him to Louis, an omega whose heat begins the same day. They click.

17.) Cocaine for Breakfast by @harryeatsburger (309k)

“It’s an easy job.” He continues, as if Louis wants to listen. “Like I said, a few trips. Parties, students, nothing dramatic.”

Louis gazes over to Harry. He’s looking thoughtful now, eyes on the green like he’s talking more to himself than Louis.

“Clubbing, drinks. Whatever, the business is just a side thing.”

That’s not how Louis remembers it to be, “You lying?” He honestly can’t tell.

Harry shakes his head slowly, meeting Louis' eyes.

“No,” He answers almost toneless. Harry clears his throat, “I won’t put you in any dangerous situation.” His voice is sincere, Louis can tell he means it, his jade green eyes glinting with truth.

or, - Louis Tomlinson is a drug addict, sent away from his beloved party-scene to recover. There, he discovers that small towns have just as much access to drugs as London did, plus something even better that he just can't get enough of. That something is a boy with green eyes and bouncy curls named Harry Styles. -

16.) Tastes like Strawberries by @sadaveniren (4k)

I’m stressed. I’m nesting and demand cuddles. Come over

Harry frowned and double checked who the text was from. Yup, it still said Louis - Grad, which meant it was from Louis from his grad school.

aka Louis texts Harry by mistake. It works out

15.) the way the storm blows by @rbbsbb (21k)

Louis doesn’t have a habit of thinking about Harry’s dick.

That would be weird, seeing as they’re best mates, and they share a flat, and they’ve spent holidays at each other’s family homes. Their friendship hasn’t ever risen to a point where Louis should want to see his mate’s dick, and he’s happy to keep it that way.

Except, all that Louis can think about is exactly that. The size of it. The shape. The amount of people it’s been in.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, or the fact that Louis’ just recently walked in to an eyeful of Harry taking turns on some slags that he’s never seen before, but. Louis’ mind can’t stop obsessing over the idea.

14.) bruise you like a peach by @falsegoodnight (40k)

There’s two reasons Harry despises Econ.

The first is that it’s boring as fuck. The second reason is a bit more personal, a bit more focused in a way. As in it’s focused on one specific thing, or in his case, person.

His name is Louis Tomlinson.

13.) Watching The World Fall by whoknows (11k)

This segment has been going on long enough that Louis knows what’s coming before James starts in on it, trying to sell him on something he knows that Louis wouldn’t normally be buying. But there’s four cameras surrounding him, and an audience watching him expectantly, so if Louis wants to continue convincing people that he’s doing just fine, he’s going to have to go along with it.

“We have a whole host of single men backstage waiting to meet you, Louis,” James tells him. “We want to help you find love tonight, on Late Late Live Tinder. Is this okay? Do you want to play?”

It actually kind of makes sense that his first date after the break-up is going to be just as public as said break-up. Something like coming full circle.

“Alright, James,” Louis agrees, hopping down off his stool.

“Okay, come down to the stage,” James says. Louis can’t even tell whether the excitement in his voice is genuine or not. “Right now, come on down!”

12.) Quiet People Have the Loudest Minds by @2tiedships2 (38k)

Broadway shows were one of the few things that could keep Louis’ attention for a full two hours without needing to move about. But not tonight.

The alpha next to him was both infuriating him and practically turning him on at the same time. He needed to leave. The alpha, that is. Louis was staying.

Or the one where Louis is a nonverbal omega who has accepted the fact that he will never find an alpha that will treat him as an equal. On the other hand, he’s never met anyone like Harry.

11.) The Wrath of the Emerald Eyes by @purpledandeli0n (85k)

His chin is grabbed harshly, facing the two deep green eyes that have been getting on his nerves for the past ten minutes. The smirk on the man's face does not vanish. The grip of his hand on Louis' chin does not soften, his thumb at the side of his lower lip.

His smile widens as he answers Louis' question, ''My name is Styles, but you will call me Captain."

•

Pirate AU

10.) Canyon Moon by @eeveelou (40k)

For as long as Louis has remembered, he has been promised to be mated to Harry, his best friend and the future pack alpha. But Louis’s heart belonged to the forest and to the hunt more than he could ever imagine it belonging to Harry.

Then Harry’s father dies in a violent accident, and Louis’s future alpha disappears on the wind.

An A/B/O Lion King AU

9.) We Both Got Nothing to Hide by lovelarry10 (43k)

“Talk to me, Lou.”

“I can’t,” Louis mumbled, knowing he genuinely couldn’t say it. He couldn’t admit to what he was doing. “Don’t ask me to say it, because I can’t.”

“Then… I’ll try and guess. You’ve… got some stuff of Harry’s. Something of his to make it smell like him?”

Louis just nodded, eyes fixated on the floor. This was humiliating, but he knew Zayn wouldn’t stop until he found out what was going on.

“Okay. Like… a blanket, or a comforter or something?”

“Kind of…”

Omega Louis has a secret nest. Alpha Harry keeps losing his clothes.

8.) sleeping on our problems by @falsegoodnight (67k)

I’m in love with you, Louis thinks. He feels empty, weighed down by his sadness and the loss of Harry inside him just moments ago before his knot finally went down.

There’s moments where he’s sure Harry feels the same. Like now, when he’s gazing down at Louis with so much adoration and tenderness. It’s like they’re both on the cusp of something more, but neither of them ever say a word.

His confession is on the tip of his tongue ready to slide out like honey, and yet he remains silent. They both do, looking at each other and recognizing the reluctance mirrored in each other’s eyes. It’s then that Louis realizes they’re both scared.

Or Louis sleeps with Harry and they have more than just catching feelings to worry about.

7.) like it’s a game by @soldouthaz (32k)

there is little harry hates more than truth or dare.

and louis.

6.) before we knew by @falsegoodnight (39k)

“C’mon Lou,” says Zayn after a moment, He sounds even more exasperated than before. Louis sort of has a knack for exasperating people, especially people like Zayn who aren’t usually bothered by his brattiness. “Can’t you give this guy a chance? Harry Styles? Aren’t you curious about him at all?”

Despite his best efforts, Louis still flinches at the name. He really shouldn’t be so affected after all these years. He’s seen the name printed down the curve of his waist in obnoxiously and uncommonly large loopy letters every single day since his sixteenth birthday eight years ago. He’s very familiar with the name Harry Styles.

It sounds pretentious and Louis hates it.

He hates everything about his supposed soulmate.

He hates his large handwriting that stands out like a claim on his skin whenever he’s walking around shirtless. He hates his pretentious name. And now he hates his supposed curls and green eyes and dimples.

Or Louis has been skeptical of soulmates for years so it seems like fate when he finally bumps into the owner of the obnoxiously large signature printed into his skin since age sixteen: Harry Styles, a human rights attorney who is firmly against soulmates.

5.) Mine Would Be You by @crinkle-eyed-boo (114k)

Louis blinks his eyes open, his eyelids fluttering as the room swims around him. He takes several gulps of beer once he confirms that he’s definitely not hallucinating, that the very first portrait Harry Styles ever painted of him is hanging on that wall.

Louis stares at the wall, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he realizes that there’s not just one painting of him, there’s five, the portraits lined up like they’re some sort of storyboard depicting the rise and fall of his deepest love. His greatest heartache. A pain that cut him so deep that he left the fucking country, severing all ties with his life in New York, now suddenly surrounding him as if he’d never left.

Fucking shit motherfucker fuck.

Louis returns to New York City five years after he left it – and the love of his life – behind. He didn't intend to see Harry again, but fate has a funny way of pulling them together, whether they like it or not. After making a begrudging truce, they both start to wonder: Would it be so bad if history repeated itself?

4.) You’ve Got My Devotion (Hate You Sometimes) by @harryrainbows (95k)

Harry was in the biggest boy band in the world. He was also one half of the best (or worst, depends on who you ask) kept secret relationship in the music industry.

Now, almost five years on, after One Direction has broken up, and Harry and Louis' relationship has as well, a video threatens to put everything at risk.

One determined Irishman, a massive publicity stunt and two begrudging exes are all it takes to bring One Direction back to life and maybe, just maybe, Harry and Louis' mangled love life too.

Or: Harry and Louis are forced to fake-date after an old video from when they were dating emerges.

3.) The Space Between by @lads-laddylads (39k)

Harry Styles is the alpha rockstar who can’t sleep and doesn’t know why.

Louis Tomlinson is the omega PhD student who helps him figure it out.

2.) Nothing But You On My Mind by @absoloutenonsense (83k)

Louis Tomlinson is a PR manager hired to improve the image of royal bad-boy Prince Harry Styles. Unfortunately for him, that means being faced with the Prince's constant innuendos, incessant dirty jokes, and relentless flirting. Louis just wants to make it to Princess Gemma's coronation; once she's crowned Queen, his contract is up and he never has to see the Prince again.

1.) Collision by @tequiladimples (224k)

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

(Featuring Liam, the big and not-so-bad wolf who’s got a thing for humans, Zayn, a human with supernaturally good looks, and Niall, the cupid who just wants his job to be easier.)

#larry #larry stylinson #larry fic rec #harry styles #louis tomlinson #fic rec #one direction #1d #one direction fic rec #larry fan fiction #updated because I'm an idiot and added a zarry fic

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morganaspendragonss · 3 years

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Can I ask for fingore square? As someone who broke their finger during the pandemic....can I request that with some hurt TK?

holly's august extravaganza day 28: ignoring every warning

thanks for the prompt brit! the fingore square had been requested by the time i saw this message but here's the fic anyway! hope you like it 😊

thanks to @silvarafael for the beta!

ao3 | 1.3k | minor injuries, hurt tk, big brother judd, mostly just tk being a dumbass

TK is fine.

He is absolutely, 100% fine.

And, sure, maybe he’s not supposed to be at work right now, and maybe his hand hasn’t fully healed yet, but it’s nothing. His doctor cleared him to go back to work, which means it’s healed enough, and TK is certainly not going to admit defeat no matter how much he hurts.

He mostly just wants to put the shame of it all behind him. After all, it’s not like the entire firehouse saw him get so distracted talking to Carlos on the phone that he slammed the ambulance doors shut on his hand—

Oh, wait.

It had been weeks of teasing and jokes that TK wasn’t sure were all good-natured. Even Carlos, the traitor, had joined in once or twice (or three, or four, or five times…), and it was only Carlos’s frustratingly effective cow eyes and TK’s own displeasure at the thought of sleeping alone that had kept him from the couch.

Technically, the doctor had said that he should stick to light duty and keep the hand brace on for another few weeks, which he kinda, sorta isn’t doing.

But he’s fine.

He makes a point of saying so to Nancy when she sends him the third exasperated look of the day—and they’re only two hours into shift.

“Whatever you say, dude,” she replies drily. “Just don’t come crying when you re-break that hand because you’re a dumbass who won’t admit when he’s in pain.”

The slight smirk on her lips is enough for TK to gather that she’s referring to the first time he broke it, and...maybe she has a point.

(“I’m okay, I just need to shake it out for a minute.”

“TK, none of your fingers look the way they should. I bet you anything you can’t even move that hand right now, but, by all means, go ahead and shake it.”)

(He did. It did not go well.)

“I’m fine,” he repeats, scowling, which gets him a totally unwarranted head shake and eye roll. Well… Whatever. Nancy can think what she wants; TK is going to finish his shift and he’s going to manage it perfectly well, thanks very much.

And he does. Admittedly, his hand is aching more than it probably should be, but he just needs to rest it when he gets home, which—ah.

Problem #1: He and Carlos still haven’t finished setting up the new house.

Problem #2: Today is their only joint night off for the rest of the week, which leads to,

Problem #3: They’d agreed to spend the night sorting some furniture and unpacking a few important boxes.

Logically, TK knows he should tell Carlos that he doesn’t feel up to doing any heavy lifting tonight. He’d understand, there’s no question of that; Carlos would likely spend the entire night fussing instead, probably mixed with a bit of loving exasperation at TK for having pushed himself too much. But he doesn’t want to let him down, not again. Not after the months spent fighting with the insurance companies and struggling to find a house, and especially not after Carlos had supported TK while the firehouse was closed down.

He flexes his hand experimentally. It’s a little stiff and the soreness brings a grimace to his face, but it works.

He’s got this.

TK is, maybe, just a little less than fine.

Like, 85% fine. 70% absolute minimum.

But it’s okay, because now he has a day off to ice his hands without Carlos hovering like a mother hen. Normally, he’d hate the idea of spending the day without his boyfriend, but the less Carlos knows about this situation, the better for both of them.

The ice helps, and the dull throbbing that’s become his normal for the past couple of days almost disappears. TK knows he shouldn’t push it, but his need to be busy always wins over training and common sense, so.

So.

The next shift is a little easier, and TK figures he’s probably healed enough to head to the gym for a while. Get his strength back up, and all that.

He’s very, very wrong.

Ten minutes in, and TK hits the punching bag in a way that elicits a crack from his knuckles that not even he can write it off as fine. His hand hurts and his fingers are starting to look horribly swollen, and shit, Carlos is going to fucking kill him later.

Maybe…

Maybe he can fix this. He’s a paramedic; he can strap up his own fingers. Sure, it’s his left hand that’s injured, but he can handle it. He just needs to get out of the gym, through the firehouse, loot the ambulance, and bandage himself up without running into anyone who will ask questions.

Simple.

Except, because the universe hates him, TK quite literally runs into Judd on his way out of the gym. The knock sends an unpleasant jolt through his injured hand, and TK doesn’t manage to contain his wince in time to hide it.

Judd doesn’t even bother asking what happened; he simply sighs heavily and gets out his phone, tapping away at the screen.

TK cranes his neck to try and see what he’s doing, but Judd holds his phone close to his chest, blocking his view. “What are you doing?”

“You obviously got your dumb ass in a mess again so I’m texting your boy to come get you.” Judd shoots him an unimpressed look, rolling his eyes at TK’s horrified stare. “What, you’d rather he find out about this later or something?”

“No, it’s just—I was gonna tell him!”

“Uh-huh.”

It’s a lie and they both know it, so TK doesn’t bother trying to defend himself. He huffs and folds his good arm across his chest, scowling at Judd.

“You can stop looking like that,” Judd remarks, gaze fixed back on his phone as it pings with a new message. “Carlos is on his way.”

“I hate you.”

“Shockingly, I can live with that.” He pockets his phone and takes TK’s shoulder, almost pushing him down the stairs. “Come on, kid. Let’s get some ice on that.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” TK says, though he knows Judd isn’t going to let him out of his sight until Carlos arrives.

“Yeah, that broken hand says otherwise.”

There’s a barely contained laugh in Judd’s voice, and TK has the sudden urge to punch his smirk away. Which would only really prove the point, so he has to resort to glaring at his back and ignoring the warmth at the thought of Judd taking care of him like the brother TK never had.

When Carlos shows up ten minutes later, the concern in his eyes betrays the deep exasperation painted all over his face.

“Don’t look at me like that,” TK protests anyway. “It’s not like I asked for this to happen.”

Judd snorts—rude—and Carlos grins over at him, sharing a head shake—even ruder—and TK lets out what even he can admit is a pathetic whine.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Carlos says, not sounding sorry in the least, “but you have literally ignored every single recommendation from the doctor. The only thing you haven’t done is actually ask for it.”

“They’re recommendations, Carlos.”

“And you’re a paramedic, so you should know that ‘recommendation’ is a kind way of saying ‘order’.”

For the second time, TK has no defense. He huffs and looks down at his shoes, hoping that he paints a miserable enough picture to get his boyfriend to take at least some pity on him.

Somehow, it works, as Carlos takes him in a careful side hug. “Sorry,” he repeats, more earnest this time. “Let’s get you to the ER, huh?”

TK nods reluctantly, allowing Carlos to steer him out of the firehouse. “Can’t believe I’m going to have to take even more time off,” he grumbles.

“Well, think about it this way.” Carlos rubs his arm in a soothing gesture, though his next words are anything but. “At least you’ll have more time to finish up with the house.”

TK groans. His day did not need to get any more painful.

#911 lone star #911 lone star fic #tarlos #tarlos fic #tk strand #carlos reyes #judd ryder #lone star #911ls #holly's august extravaganza #fanfiction #my fanfiction #writing #my writing #brit tag

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liloelsagranger · 3 years

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Night shift - finally a new Rocketshipping-fanfiction

My dear friends,

it’s been a while since I last posted an entry. Let me tell you why and what, besides Covid-19, made me pause from publishing fanfictions over the last couple of months. Of course, Switzerland was very affected by the pandemic and still is today. We had numerous lock-downs or as Swiss people call it “slow downs”. My mother got very sick last year, I almost lost her. The doctors said she would only live two or three more days, but my mom is a fighter. She had to stay at the hospital for months, she endured countless medical examinations, had to take meds and slowly learned to live again. I’m so proud of my mother that she was strong and determined to get better. When she turned back home, I started to take care of her and I hate to leave her on her own, even if we’re talking about half an hour or less. Right now, she’s doing quite good, actually, we’re on vacation and she makes a great effort to participate in life in Italy. She’s my role-model! She will never be the same as before, but she won’t give up, she wakes up every morning to make progress. I prayed for her and her well-being, I prayed every single night she might get another chance and now we’re here at the beach and dining in fancy restaurants. It’s been a horrible year for everyone, a year full of sorrow, tears and desperation, a year where I was constantly afraid, the hospital would call me with some bad news, but she did it! She survived and she fights for her life! So proud! Good news is: I passed my doctoral exams and I’m officially allowed to call myself Dr. phil. des. Melanie C. but that won’t ever stop me from loving Team Rocket so here it is - a brand new Rocketshipping-fanfiction for you guys. LOVE YOU! Night shift

Chapter 1:

It was past ten o’clock when that miserable looking guy entered the diner. He inconspicuously sat down in the farthest corner of the café and immediately hid his face behind the menu card. Nevertheless, Jessie the waitress could make out the pathetic expression on his face, how he was cowering like a whipped dog. She had seen quite a bit in this diner. Drunks, thugs, addicts and other needy people who asked for a sympathetic ear, compassion and understanding, but that guy was different. He suffered terribly, but did not dare to communicate, instead he hid from the world so as not to attract attention and quietly endure his fate. Jessie had to do something about it. Of course, she didn’t want to play the Good Samaritan. She knew the tricks of the men who entered this diner. Most of the time, they told the waitress tall tales, hoping to be comforted, whatever they meant by that. But this young man did not make a shady impressionHe was well dressed, looked well-groomed, and Jessie was especially struck by his bright emerald green eyes, the only thing in his face that had not yet been veiled by grief and sorrow. She decided to do something about his displeasure.

“Did you have a rough day?” she asked while disinfecting the table.

He looked briefly into her eyes and nodded. “That’s one way to put it,” he answered, the gaze immediately lowered again.

This would be a taciturn conversation, but Jessie didn’t give up easily, she was a natural at making even rocks talk.

“Listen! No matter what happened, I’ve seen or heard some things. If I can help you in any way, my name is Jessie and I’m in charge of this table today. Let me just get the gum out from under your seat and get you a cold drink. What would you like?” She pulled a spatula from her apron and rubbed away the remains of the spoiled brats that marred her diner.

‘Wow,’ the young man thought to himself. ‘A strong, self-confident woman who lends a hand herself and who’s not above cleaning up dirt.’ Their eyes met briefly, and he forced a wry smile.

“You know, kid. You can’t rely on anyone. If you want to get everything done, do it yourself and don’t trust anyone. This world doesn’t give you anything for granted!” She briefly wiped the back of his chair before disappearing behind the counter and pouring the young man an ice-cold Coke.

“I have rarely seen you so concerned about a customer. Normally you show yourself aloof and only take the order, so as not to get involved in embarrassing conversations. Must be a really great pike, this pathetic creature in the far corner. Could it be that you’ve got a tiny crush on this guy?” For Eddy, teasing his best friend was the greatest pleasure. He didn’t know her like that. Jessie usually resisted any kind of small talk. This was due to her dark past, when she had repeatedly fallen for advances from men who were never looking for a steady relationship, but for a quick fix. Eddy had witnessed this bad time of his friend, how her heart was broken, how she was badly played with, and how she was simply dropped like a hot potato. Jack was the worst example of them all. While Jessie was already hearing the wedding bells ringing, he was making love to the women of the Strip and deceiving Jessie night after night with other broads. Jessie was devastated when she found out Jack was cheating on her. She was furious, not even at her lying boyfriend, but at herself for having been so stupid as to trust a man.

Jessie gave Eddy a light pat on the head. “Don’t be silly! That time is over. I can take care of myself, I don’t need male support for that. I’m a big girl, I make my own dough, and I keep my head above water pretty well. No, not a chance, I’ve sworn off flirting.” Nevertheless, she caught herself as her gaze wandered to the young man in the corner. “Oh yes, this time is definitely over,” Eddy smirked.

“Jessie, could you bring us a side of fries, please?” Misty’s order echoed throughout the hall. The twenty-year old waved her hands. She was used to speaking loudly, almost shouting, to attract guests to her daily water Pokémon show. Sometimes she walked up and down the streets of the Strip all day in the blazing hot sun, trying to win people for her underwater attraction. As an excellent student, she could have taught at any college, but she had decided early on to get into show business and make her living doing what she really loved, joined by Dewgong and Starmie. Her parents had not agreed with this decision at all, it was wasted talent, they had claimed, and had summarily turned Misty out the door. Since then, she had been struggling through life on her own, but could always count on Jess, the diner and her two best friends, Ash and Brock, young people who were also not favoured by fate.

“Temper your voice, twerp!” Jessie couldn’t help but grin. She spread the ketchup bottles around the table, hoping Ash wouldn’t spill on himself and the diner again. His constant companion Pikachu immediately hopped on his shoulder, grabbed a fry and popped it in his mouth. Ash and his Pokémon were carnies. He had trained his friend well and attracted many spectators with his performance. Most of them felt sorry for the guy and tipped generously. That’s why Ash was able to invite his friends to the diner every night, a place that gave them hope where they could experience security. They were convinced that nothing would ever disturb this idyll and that fate, for better or worse, had taken its course.

“Who’s that guy over there?” Brock wanted to know. He had barely sold chocolate and roses tonight. The others held back, but they were certain that their friend was just too pushy with women and that’s why he only collected rejections instead of green bills.

“I’ve never seen him here before. Must be from another area. I can’t tell you for the life of me why he’s wearing a suit at theses temperatures, he looks pretty pathetic to me anyways,” Jessie replied.

“Maybe his car has stalled,” Ash suggested, “and now he was forced to wander through the desert until the tasty aromas from your diner brought him back from his delirium.”

“Or,” Brock interfered, “he had to flee his own wedding because his wife is a real pain in the ass, unlike our sweet Misty,” Brock oohed at his friend. “Forget it, Brock! You and me, this will never happen!” She gave him a gentle poke.

“Enough now with your naïve speculations! Just let him enjoy his drink. We’re closing soon, so get going,” Jessie dismissed their absurd ideas with a wave of her hand, but at this point no one knew how right Brock was.

Dark thoughts hunted the young man. He knew what he would face at home if he was late. Beatings, torture, rebuke, harassment, were just a few words to describe his failed relationship. Unconsciously, he stroked his scarred arms.

“Can I get you something to eat?” Jessie pulled him out of the maelstrom of bad thoughts, of course she had noticed the wounds, but maybe he had gotten those injuries at work. The young man rummaged some coins out of his pants and let them jingle on the table. “Is that enough for a cheese sandwich?” Jessie hated small change, but she would make an exception for him. A friendly smile, a quick nod, and she passed on the order.

“Something’s wrong with this guy,” she whispered to Eddy. “He’s scarred, bruised and pays with penny coins. Possibly a vagrant.” Eddy couldn’t help but grin. “That guy’s been keeping you busy all night, Jess. What’s the matter with you? Are you getting weak?”

The young man could not overhear the conversation between the waiters, but he was sure they were talking about him. He sure made a rather frightening impression, but that was a private matter and not something you shared with a waitress in a diner.

His gaze drifted to the daily paper, which had two faces emblazoned on it: Butch and Cassidy. He had never heard of this odd couple, but according to the news, theses two were causing quite a stir and were terrifying the Strip.

“Oh, so you’ve already spotted them, those two knuckleheads! They keep the Strip in suspense, and heads roll when the taxes don’t add up,” Jessie served him the cheese sandwich and gave him a slight smile.

“Can I get you anything else?” He thanked her and took a hearty bite of his dinner.

The last half hour flew by and the remaining guests left the diner to spend the night on the Strip, as very few had a roof over their heads. Jessie set about cleaning up and Eddy checked the register.

The young man stood up and made his way towards the door. But before he left the diner, he glanced back at Jessie for a moment. A sigh escaped him. What if…?

Jessie returned his gaze and watched him go until the young man disappeared. She walked right up to his table and found a little note on the receipt.

“Thanks for treating me like a human being, James.”

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karlnapity · 3 years

Text

(tw: derealization, panic attack)

Fundy hasn’t been doing well for a long time. That much is obvious.

It’s rather common knowledge, really. Poor Fundy, poor kid who’s lost his dad, poor kid who hasn’t recovered since, all that.

Poor kid who was given a wide berth, and has since then lost his friends from lack of attention.

Niki will be the first to admit she’s neglected her friendship, and it eats her alive. She abandoned him, when he needed her, and he still needs her, but he still scares her, just a bit, still sets her on edge.

She can remember when he first told her about Ghostbur. He was near hysterical, still unchanged from the clothes destroyed by the explosion on the Sixteenth. He burst into her home, shaking, telling her with a frightening little laugh that he’d seen him, and she thought he’d lost it, for lack of a better term.

But she let him indulge in his fantasy, because he looked terrible, and she was worried about what he’d do if he knew it wasn’t real.

So she let him rant about the arguments he had with this “ghost,” let him talk in circles about it, offered meaningless insight here and there.

But there was only so much she could take. She couldn’t tell him, but she still couldn’t just listen to him talk all day long about a man she’d rather forget.

So yes, maybe she did abandon him.

She ran far, started her own path, her own journey. Forgot about Wilbur, forgot about L’Manburg, focused on Tommy, and Jack, and tried her very, very best to ignore the nagging voice in the back of her head that told her to check up on him.

And then she met Ghostbur, and everything came crashing down.

Was Fundy right all along? Because she couldn’t have gotten it wrong, he was out of it, he was worrying her, he was fucking crazy. Did Ghostbur being real change anything?

And she knew she needed to see him again. It had been long enough, she’d gotten it together, she’d gone through her own damn breakdown, and she had to see whether he was ok, too.

So here she stands, in front of his house. When she asked around, it seems it’s been radio silent, but she won’t be deterred. She's determined when she wants to be.

She knocks, hesitantly, but when there’s no response she grows impatient, bangs harder. Still nothing. Is he not home, or something?

After yet more silence, she tries the door. Unlocked. She pushes in.

It’s a mess. Everything is scattered, furniture knocked over and paper lying on every available surface. She can smell ink in the air, almost hovering over the room.

And in the middle of it all, in bed, lies Fundy. The covers lay over him haphazardly, and a blanket sits on the ground next to the bed.

She feels an awful lot like she’s intruding, as she watches him twist and turn in a seeming nightmare. She sighs, and goes to get a mug of water for him, submitting the fact she’ll have to wait for him to wake up.

He looks terrible, she thinks, as she peers at him out of the corner of her eye. He seems to have lost weight since she last saw him, and she can’t ignore the dark circles under his eyes. His fur seems unkempt, something she’s never seen before. He’s always taken pride in it before.

She looks around the house. The papers she sees have ‘diary’ scribbled across the top, and even if she’s concerned, she won’t invade his privacy like that. Instead, she simply leaves them alone, opting to instead tidy what she can.

She throws open a window, hoping to air out the fumes and brighten up the place. It feels oppressive.

He makes a noise in his sleep, and she turns to see him curled in a ball, ears pressed flat to his head. She sympathizes.

When he lets out a whimper, she considers, briefly, waking him, but remembers how she almost lost a hand the last time, and sighs, pulls a broom from a closet.

She accidentally knocks over a pile of paper, and quickly goes to right it. The writing isn’t legible, so she doesn’t worry about reading it, but the scribbling in the margins and the vicious crossing out sets her heart pattering anxiously.

This is worse than she had feared. Anxiety creeps up her spine, leaves her biting a nail, peeking at the bed.

And he starts awake.

He’s breathing heavy, the rasps and gasps the only noise in the house.

He lifts a clawed hand to his chest, trying to catch his breath. She doesn’t dare move as he puts his hands over his face, brushing fur out of his face. His breathing slows, after what feels like hours.

She clears her throat, gently, and he jumps. They catch eyes.

Guilt settles heavy in her chest. He looks half-dead, the crazed look in his eyes incomparable to what she worried about months ago.

“Hi,” she says carefully. He tenses as she leans the broom against a wall, and yet more as she pulls a chair up to his bed and settles. “How’s it going?”

His eyes flit desperately over her face, seemingly searching for something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t find it, and he instead shifts to sit straighter. “I’m ok. Just a dream.”

She nods. Trust is a two-way street, and it’s worth being a little vulnerable. “I used to have these nightmares where I’d have to lock myself up so I didn’t do anything. I get it.”

His face pinches, and she has a feeling he didn’t absorb any of what she said. He stands, practically sprints to the doorway, peers out. He lets out an audible sigh of relief, leans against the door as he closes it.

He fixes her in the eye. “Can you go now? I need to write stuff down.”

She can’t stop a frown from appearing. “I’m sorry?”

“Can you go now?” He repeats, slower, as if she hadn’t understood.

“I, uh. I wanted to talk to you. Catch up. It’s been a while.” She stands, watches him.

“Ok, well, I need you to go. I have shit to do,” he says, gathering a quill and a few sheets of paper. He scribbles something down.

“What are you writing?” She asks. He grits his teeth.

“It’s important. I can’t tell you.” His voice grows higher with desperation.

“Fundy,” she says, quietly, pleadingly.

He whirls to face her. He’s squeezing his quill in his hand, and ink is already coating his hands and arms. He drops it, raises his hands to his hand and lets out a keen. “Stop...”

Any doubts she had have been erased. He needs help.

She steps forward, envelops him in a careful hug. He clings to her, hands roaming over her back and shoulders as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear.

“Are you really here?” He whispers, and her heart hurts.

“Yes, yes,” she murmurs in response. They sink to the floor. Fundy hiccups.

He starts to laugh. It’s broken, angry, upset, devastated, but he laughs, and he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t stop, even when he starts to sob, even when he coats Niki’s shirt with tears, even when his voice is growing rough from overuse, even when she begs him, silently, to stop, to be quiet, because he does still scare her.

But eventually, he seems to give up. He lays limply in her arms, his breath still hitching from crying. She pets his fur, working out the small mats with her fingers.

“Please talk to me,” she begs for what seems to be the hundredth time.

“I have. These dreams.” His voice stops and starts, as if he’s not sure if he should say anything, but she nods, encouraging him to continue. “I saw Wilbur, and I saw me, and these stupid fucking books keep telling me I’m in danger, and they’re from me, and there’s this person trying to get me, and. And. I don’t think I’m real, anymore.”

She shushes him as he starts to cry again. She wishes they were fucking qualified for this.

What right did this world ever have to break them this much?

“You’re real,” she promises. “They’re just dreams, ok?”

He shakes his head, desperately. His voice is hysterical. “They’re not just dreams, Niki, you have no idea what they can do, what they’ve done, you don’t know. They’re so much more than that.”

She pulls back, takes his face in her hands. His fur is wet, stained from tears, and his eyes are crazed, and she can tell he isn’t completely there. She holds his snout gently, rubs circles with her thumbs, and his eyes close a bit in comfort.

“They’re just dreams, I promise.” She presses a kiss, gently, on his forehead. “They trick you like that.”

He shakes his head. “The desert-”

“Shh. Come on.” She pulls him to his feet, looping an arm around his shoulders. She guides him to the door, and they peer out together. “There’s no desert, ok?”

He nods, hesitantly. She grins, and they drags him out on a walk.

He looks pale in the sunlight, desaturated, somehow even more unhealthy. The weather is wonderful, but he’s still almost crouched, flinching at every noise. She tells herself it’s good for him.

They walk to her new base, and he protests every step of the way. He tells her he needs to write down the dreams, he tells her that someone is still coming for him, he tells her about Wilbur and a younger Fundy and books written by him, and she tries very, very hard to convince herself he’s ok, just upset.

Grieving is an easy excuse, but it’s the only excuse she’s got.

Once inside her base, HBomb greets them, and Niki shakes her head, just a little, when he turns to Fundy. HBomb purses his lip, a concerned look already on his face at simply the sight of their friend, but lets them pass.

She’s showing him around when it happens. He’s finally relaxing a bit, his claws no longer clenched, his ears no longer flat, when he makes a sort of gasp behind her.

She turns to see him with a hand to his head, stumbling for support against the wall.

He fixes her with the most terrified look she’s seen in her life, and her blood goes cold. He reaches for her, and she grasps him.

“It’s happening,” he hisses, and his legs give out. She follows him to the ground, holds him close.

“What is?” She asks, concern tinting her voice.

“He’s coming,” he murmurs, and passes out cold.

She reminds herself, steadfast, as she and HBomb help him to a bed, that it’s just a dream, even as he twists and turns and whimpers.

It’s just a dream.

#personal #fundy #itsfundy #niki nihachu #nihachu #hbomb94 #mcyt #dream smp #dsmp #fanfic #fanfiction

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bookwyrminspiration · 3 years

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I can't remember if you've analyzed Keefitz before? If you have I can't find it but If you haven't I'd love to hear your thoughts on it!

having conveniently just updated my masterposts, I can confirm that there are no posts linked there about Keefitz!! There are ones comparing them, but none in a romantic light. but I have many thoughts and love them dearly, so lets change that!

Both Keefe and Fitz had so much in common growing up, so I would imagine that carries over into whatever relationship they have. I mean, the reason the two of them became friends in the first place was because they were the two outsiders--yea, they're attractive and people crushed on them, but they weren't part of the crowd. Fitz was always disappearing to go look for Sophie and has all the family history, and Keefe was the kid who skipped a grade and didn't exactly mix well with rules. In that sense, everyone sees them, but no one knows them. Except each other. They've been by each other's side through everything, a childhood of history between them that neither of them will ever forget. But this is all already canon, so let's look a little deeper.

I don't know exactly how to articulate this, but I'll try. When I think of Keefe, I think of someone who keeps getting hurt by the people he thought he should love (parents), and who keeps hurting the people he does love in a misguided attempt to place everything on himself (running away from all his friends). When I think of Fitz, I think of someone who keeps hurting the people he thinks he should love (namely, Sophie, but not just her), and who keeps getting hurt by the people he does love (both physically and emotionally). They're both confused and just...hurting, overall. Neither of them know what they're doing and there are consequences to that. Fitz has this idea that everything will just fall into place and work itself out, a fairytale ending where not everything needs to be fixed. Keefe has this mindset that everything is broken and he, personally, has to do something about it. And i think this distinction to how they see the world is what makes them think of themselves so different, and why they've fallen apart a little in canon. This has become so monumental that they've forgotten why they even became friends in the first place.

While this differences do exist, they're compliments to each other like berries and cream like two colors that go well together. They can each exist independent of each other, and both are perfectly fine on there own, there's just something in your mind that goes "ahh, that's nice," when you see them side by side. Fitz is very proper and refined, speaking his mind and commanding attention, clean and polished. Keefe is that, but slightly to the left. They can both navigate a conversation, but Fitz does it with poise and Keefe does it with charm. Fitz would tuck in his shirt while Keefe would leave the top couple buttons loose and push up his sleeves. Does that make sense at all?

I think they would have a more hesitant relationship that would grow into something comforting and warm. They'd need to approach this disconnect they've let fester and choose to build that bridge across it together, trusting the other won't drop their side and send them tumbling into the gap between them. Fitz would be more forward, more intense, more vocal with his wants and needs and feelings because he's more used to sharing, but Keefe can't help but take care of the people he loves, so while he learned to communicate I think he'd be more accommodating, following Fitz's lead for a while. And that's not a bad thing. i don't know why, but Keefe feels like he'd default to hugs as physical affection, the one's where your palms rest on the middle of the other's back and you're just so aware of everywhere they're touching you. meanwhile, Fitz feels like hand-holding and brief cheek kisses. I kind of have a reason tho. Keefe is a lot more of a defensive person, just seeking solace and somewhere he's home, and holding each other is an acknowledgement that this other person is someone he wants in that home. And Fitz is more of the person who likes to have others by his side and to talk to, looking for connection and support, that acknowledgement that they're holding onto you and it's the two of you putting equal effort forward, if that makes sense.

I think that's how they'd start at least, reconnecting from all those years they let their awkward feelings and difficulty talking get between them. But eventually that would start to fade and they'd have a few traits of their old friendship come back--they wouldn't return to their old selves, but there'd be that familiarity mixed with this new hesitation and softness.

there's a lot of hurt between them right now, but they're a pairing I absolute adore and I love talking about them. so thank you for this prompt!!

#y'all i accidentally wrote 'when I think of fitz‚ i think of fitz' and honestly #that's alright with me #but back to the point #keefe and fitz hold such a special place in my heart #because you can just tell they don't want things to be like they are right now #they don't like hurting each other but they just keep doing it #i'm specifically thinking of the scene in unlocked when fitz and sophie's failed relationship is mentioned and their reactions to that #they're just so good #i could talk about them forever /hyp #kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #keefe sencen #fitz vacker #keefitz #kotlc character analysis #quil's queries #nonsie #kotlc ships

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

Text

in support of Texas relief,@whiskeycherrypie donated $25, and requested Sam/Dean, very late seasons, switching. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

The second hunt, after, is when things start to feel real again.

First job was the shapeshifter and even after just a few weeks of post-almost-apocalypse vacation they were rusty, as much as they ever got rusty. Sam broke his damn finger, which Dean made fun of him for, and Dean limped around on a half-busted shin that Sam can just stop smirking about, any time now, but they felt—like what? Hard to pin down. Like they were stepping out into a strange world. Like they'd fire a gun and didn't know if it'd recoil the same way it always would, because the world was different. New. At least, Dean kept feeling that way, and he thinks he's known Sam long enough to guess Sam was feeling about the same. Every part of that job was—feeling for a step down in the dark, and then being surprised when it was there. Sam flicking through the local paper checking obits, cautious when he pointed out a possible connection, like he hadn't done the same thing a hundred, thousand, times before. Dean going through the trunk and pulling out their supplies and holding a fistful of silver bullets in his hand and thinking—is this it? Sam, getting the motel room after, when they'd been to the Urgent Care to check out Dean's stupid shin that it turns out, okay, wasn't broken after all, and the woman at the counter asking what kind of room, and Sam hesitating, and glancing back at where Dean was propped up in the office doorway.

But it was right, in the end. They did right. They saved most of a day and killed the bad thing and it turned out that after everything they were still the same guys they always were. After the world ended it was supposed to be maybe something else, but, shit, the world didn't quite end after all, and it turned out… Sam gave his stupid shin a few more days to rest up and kept his finger splinted and then after a week there was Sam, laptop open on the table when Dean came in for breakfast, and he said, "Hey, you want to work?" with every expectation that Dean would, and that—that was new, kind of, in the way that Sam wasn't trying to distract himself or Dean, and it wasn't to patch up some broken thing that couldn't be fixed, and it wasn't because they owed anything to anyone. It was because it turned out that after all this was who they were, and Dean looked at Sam over the island while he whipped up some eggs semi-capably (although he never used enough salt) and Sam glanced over his shoulder when the toaster popped and saw Dean looking, and raised his eyebrows like—what?—like this wasn't just the best hope of Dean's life being realized, finally, right here in a hole in the ground at eight in the morning, on the wrong side of forty. "What's the job?" was all Dean said, then, and then—that was it. That was that.

Second hunt's a success, too. Vetalas, in Wyoming. Dean hates Wyoming. Not for the people or the scenery or the weather, even, though the weather can be a bitch, but because you can't get anywhere with a damn mountain leaping up into the middle of the highway and having to drive three hours the wrong direction to get to where you're going. Sam has heard this argument, and rolls his eyes mostly, but this time, this second hunt, he laughs, and stretches out in the passenger seat with the window rolled down and his elbow hanging out, and it's summer and he's stripped out of his jacket and has his sleeves rolled up and he just looks—good. Dean recites his lines: "Lander to Pinedale should be, what, forty minutes, but no, we gotta drive a hundred miles out of the way to get around this stupid—" and Sam sighs and says his line, which is, "Don’t you like driving?" and Dean says, "Don't get facts in the way here, man, that is not the issue—" and it's… the same ruts, the same life, but Sam's face is all folded up in glad creases, his dimple carved in so deep it looks like it's going to set up residence there full-time, and Dean eases off the gas a little, stretches out the drive, even if it's around the same damn mountain they've circled three times, looking for the same damn vetalas. They find them, of course, and they kill them, and they find three men drained of life in the cellar at their cabin but there are two more that Sam and Dean save, and on the drive back to Kansas through the night Sam's not in that same sunshine mood but he's not anything but content, either. Dean had—he'd hoped, in some shriveled part of himself that hadn't really had much luck with hoping—and maybe the last few years he'd gotten some proof, that what he'd wanted was what Sam wanted, too—but to have the proof, right here, it's—he doesn't pray, really, but he says inside his head very clearly thank you, to whatever might be listening. It's all he's got. He hopes it's enough.

They stop for a booze restock, for stuff to make dinner, and back at the bunker Dean's slow, watching Sam unpack his half of the car. His finger's still splinted but it can probably come off, soon. He gets his backpack on his shoulder and his duffle over his arm and the twelve pack in the good hand, and glances at Dean, and says, "What?"

"Nothing," Dean says. Sam's eyes narrow in that tiny tiny way where he smooths it out so fast he must think Dean won't notice, but Dean's honest, here, and he smiles without meaning to, and Sam frowns at him but smiles back, confused. Dean claps him on the shoulder and Sam shakes his head, says, "Dude, what?" and Dean says, "Nothing, you deaf? C'mon, let's get the beer in the fridge before it gets any warmer," and Sam shakes his head again and says, "You're the weirdest person I know," and Dean looks over his shoulder and says, "Takes one, Sammy," and he's just—sure. Sure, all through his body, from gut to his heart to his stupid brain, always lurching, looking for the exits. What a thing.

Spaghetti and meatballs, for dinner. The sauce is from a jar but Dean takes his time with the meat. Half pork, half beef, the spices he likes, a bunch of garlic. Sam practically inhales it and gets sauce on his chin and Dean grins at him until Sam colors and says, "Shut up," and swipes it off with the heel of his hand, and then shrugs and licks his palm. They're on season two of Game of Thrones and they watch an episode, and Dean wants Joffrey to die and asks Sam to tell him it'll happen soon, and Sam just smiles and says, "Dude, I'm not giving you spoilers after how long I had to wait to read the books. Hold your horses." Dean mutters, "I'll hold your horses," and Sam raises his eyebrows, but Dean just waves a hand instead of getting into the bickering match they could.

They get fresh beers and Dean says, "Hey, let's—" and so they head upstairs to ground level, and Sam brought two spare bottles each, and they go around to the back side of the big abandoned power plant where there's an ugly concrete bench they hung out on, sometimes. Especially before, when the bunker was fuller than it is now. A place to be quiet, to breathe. To watch the moonrise, as they're doing now, and drink in quiet companionship, their knees touching because they both tend to sprawl, and they've never, ever minded each other's warmth. Even when they were pissed at each other, or when it hurt.

Dean holds his beer in both hands, leaning his head back against the stone wall. Sam's quiet at his side. A three-quarter moon, so it's bright enough to lay white-silver on the planes of Sam's face. His nose, a gleam of that goofy ski-slope swoop. His brow. A light shine on his hair, and brighter on the silver that's started to come out in it. Dean's always been a little entertained by that—Sam's four years and a handful of months younger than him, and it's Sam who's been going grey faster—but he never said anything about it because—well, it's just something, that's all. Sammy, with grey hair. He's so damn lucky to see it he can't really pull Sam's pigtails about it.

Everything else, though: fair game.

"Never have I ever?" Dean says, after who knows how long sitting in silence. They're on their second beers, anyway.

Sam huffs. "You're kidding," he says. He tips his head on his shoulder, looking sidelong at Dean in the dark. "Anyway, wouldn't you just get… trashed, at that game? You've done everything, right?"

"Very much underselling your weird kinky shit, brother mine," Dean says. Sam's eyebrows jump and Dean's stomach rushes hot, in a way he didn't expect, even if he's been halfway thinking, all day, about how they were going to get here. "Try this: never have I ever… ate out a chick during shark week."

Sam half-scoffs, weak. Dean raises his eyebrows back, and Sam says, "Seriously?"

Dean spreads a hand, expansive, and Sam says, quiet, "This is so stupid," but then, because Dean knows his brother very well indeed, Sam takes a drink, and Dean says "Ha!" out loud and shoves Sam's shoulder, and then says, after a second's thinking, "Dude, seriously?"

"It's just blood," he says, and it's not exactly defensive but there's a shard of it buried somewhere in there. Dean laughs, half-surprised and half-not. "Not like we don't deal with it every day. You should broaden your horizons."

"Oh, my horizons are plenty broad," Dean says. It's bubbling in his chest, now, ready to come out. This is stupid—"This is stupid," Sam says, out loud—and teenage, and dumb, but he feels… "Come on, your turn," he says, and Sam lets out this long exasperated sigh, but even in the moonlight Dean can see that he's smiling, and Sam says: "Okay, fine: never have I ever had a threesome."

Dean sits up straighter. "What, seriously?" he says, derailed, and Sam shrugs, and of course Dean has to take a drink because Sam knows that Dean—and then it's on, really.

Dancing on the edge. The things they know about each other, the things they might could guess. Dean kills his last beer on never have I ever had sex in a movie theater, and he tells Sam after that that he needs to live more, and Sam smiles at him kind of bitchy and then says, "Hang on, stay here," and Sam gets up and half-jogs away, disappears down the recessed hidden driveway that leads to the garage, and Dean sets his bottle down among the empties and rubs his palms over his thighs, letting the warm denim scratch him up, taking a deep breath. It feels too big to say. Even if he's sure. It's too big to even be true, if it's…

Sam comes back, quick, like he ran the whole way. He has two more beers and the bottle of bourbon they bought today tucked under his arm. "Okay, sucker," he says, handing Dean an open bottle and plumping back down on the bench. Their thighs are solid together. He clinks his bottle with Dean, setting the bourbon down at their feet. "Never have I ever…" He licks his lips, shine in the dark. "Slept with a demon."

Dean blinks. He takes a breath. "I don’t think that's how you're supposed to play," he says, and Sam bites his lips between his teeth and shrugs. Maybe he's a little tipsier than he seems, even if they're only three beers down. Sam takes a drink, quick, but his eyes are focused on Dean's face, the moon a little behind his shoulder, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek but drinks, too, and Sam lets out this quick short breath that—Dean doesn't know, what that means. He feels caught at something.

"Did you—" Sam starts, and cuts off. Quiet, for a second. Dean's cheeks feel hot. "I didn't mean… I meant on Earth, not in…" Awkward. The air goes out of Dean, realizing that Sam's trying to give him an out.

"Me too," he says, voice weird in this way he could be embarrassed by but—he isn't, and Sam's face turns away, and even with full moonlight Dean can't tell what that expression is.

He puts his beer down. "Never have I ever slept with a vampire," he says.

Sam's chin ducks down. Dean licks his lips and folds his hands between his knees. Sam puts his beer down, too, and braces on the edge of bench. There's barely enough room between them for his hand to fit; his knuckle presses against Dean's thigh and Dean licks his lips.

"Never have I…" Sam shakes his head, huffs. He looks up, out at the empty farmland spilling out from the back of the plant. His eyes shine, open, though Dean doesn't know what he's looking at. "I've never slept with a guy. On Earth, I haven't."

Dean bites the wet off his bottom lip, dragging, and then ducks down and gets the bourbon instead. Twist of the cap and a glug goes down—christ, hot. He coughs. "I hate the cask strength shit," he says, and Sam says, "Wuss," thin, and Dean could bicker back but it's here. Here. All this stuff he didn't know Sam was thinking about—things Dean kept secret, and things he didn't—and he didn't mean to dredge it all up at once but maybe it's better. Like this, in the dark. The night warm, smelling like grass and the weeds growing up among the fallow field, and Sam's knuckles still pressed up right there, where if Dean put his hand down he'd cover them.

"Do you remember that time in, uh," Dean starts. Swerving around the mountain, the long way through the dark. Sam's head turns towards his, a little. "Montana, I guess it was. Somewhere. You were… seventeen. That July. You got so wasted."

"Whose fault was that?" Sam says. Dean grins, makes sure it's wide and wicked, and Sam glances up at him and huffs again, more of a laugh this time than whatever the last one was. "That was when we invented beer bowling."

"Yeah, and you sucked," Dean says, and Sam shakes his head and leans back against the plant wall, tipping his head back to look at the stars. They did play, ten-pin with glass shattering because the only ball they had was a half-rounded rock. Then they sat out with Sam tipsy and Dean getting that way himself, only twenty-one and not quite as sure of what he was doing as he is now, and they just… talked. He can't even remember about what. They just sat and they were together and it was about the happiest Dean was that whole year. Like if he could just have that, forever, things would be okay. That was… god, twenty years ago.

"One more round," Dean says, now. Sam's eyes close. Dean leans the bottle on Sam's thigh so he can feel it. "Never have I ever kissed you."

Sam's eyes pop wide when Dean picks up the bottle, and takes a drink. He sits up straighter. Dean lets the burn of the swallow go all the way to his stomach, a bonfire there, and watches Sam's face as the thoughts flicker across it, limned in moonlight. Sam opens his mouth, and closes it, and he's not mad just like Dean knew he wouldn't be mad but it's still enough of a relief that Dean tips the bottle his way, says, "Technically, you did too, so—"

Sam takes it out of his hand but doesn't drink. "No, we didn't. When?"

Dean wipes his mouth, dragging his hand over his chin, and down. Sam's watching him. "After the second trial," he says, finally. Sam frowns. "Your fever was pretty bad. You kept talking about…" He shakes his head. All sorts of things Dean doesn't like remembering. About worth, and right, and being clean. Nonsense, as far as Dean was concerned, though he didn't know how to say it that way, then. With how it was. Instead he leans back against the wall and says, because it's true, and he can say it now: "I just wanted to… I guess, to prove something. How I didn't think of what you were saying the same way you did. How I didn't believe all that crap you were saying about yourself. It was bad and I didn't want you to believe it, either, and I didn't really know how else to… You didn't remember, though, so I guess it didn't do the trick. To be honest, thought I was a better kisser."

Sam doesn't smile. It was a pretty weak attempt. He stares at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder.

How it was, then. In the hotel, where Metatron was staying. When he found Sam on the floor and about had a heart attack. Sam's skin burning and ice-cold by turns. His body this huge out of control thing, being taken over by something Dean didn't understand. He woke up while Dean was trying to drag him to the bath, but he wasn't really conscious, hardly making sense. Babbling, half-frantic, trying to make Dean understand—how it was okay, how it was fine if he burned, if somehow the trials scoured the marrow out of his bones, because it was just right after all he'd done and all he hadn't, and it was a use for him, when he hadn't been worth anything in so long. Dean had told him no, over and over, and no again, and he'd slapped Sam at some point to get him to shut up, to try to shock him out of the awful monologue, but Sam didn't even register it, clinging to Dean's shirt while the tub filled, the sack of ice Dean had brought bobbing to the surface. It can mean something, Sam had said, nodding, tears in his eyes, trying to smile, and Dean wanted to throw a chair through the window but he grabbed Sam's face instead and he said it does and Sam shook his head, confused, and Dean leaned in against him, ready to cry too, and instead he…

"I thought," Sam starts, and immediately stops. His hands twist around the bourbon bottle. "I dreamed that."

Dean thinks of a joke to make, something about Snow White, but he keeps his mouth shut. He remembers it, clearly. Sam's mouth, hot and dry against his own. His hands clenched in Dean's shirt, and on the side of his neck. Weak and strong at once. If Sam dreamed it, what does he remember?

Sam looks down at the bottle for almost a minute, Dean counting it away with beats of his heart. A breeze picks up, light and warm. A cricket, somewhere, chirping and then going quiet. It could feel bad but it doesn't. It could be terrifying, but it's just—Sam, and him. Like always. Like it will be, always. He knows that, now. No matter what.

Sam smiles, eventually, for no reason Dean can tell. He wipes his thumb over the rim of the bottle and then takes a drink, two long swallows that are loud as they go down, and then he takes the bottle away from his mouth and puts his hand on Dean's jaw and leans in and kisses him. Brief, hot. Not dry. His mouth tastes like bourbon. It tastes just like Dean's.

Sam leans back. Dean takes a deep breath. Sam looks at him, very close, and Dean puts his hand on the side of Sam's neck, his fingers sliding into Sam's hair, and Sam's lips quirk and he nods and Dean leans in and kisses him, again, slower, pressing in soft with his lip plush against Sam's, tipping to make it good, and his jaw's cupped in both big mitts and Sam opens for him and it's…

He pulls away eventually. He must have been breathing, during, but he hardly sees how. Sam kisses the corner of his mouth, weirdly sweet, and his hands drag down to Dean's chest before he pushes back, blinking. "You better remember that one," Dean says, and Sam smiles briefly, but shakes his head, not letting them off the hook.

"I didn't…" What goes there? Dean could guess but he doesn't want to. Sam's thoughtful now, but his hand's on Dean's forearm, because Dean's hand is—oh, still locked there on the side of Sam's neck, holding on. Sam's still, doesn't seem to mind, and Dean lets his thumb brush over Sam's stubble. Familiar. The world new, and not-new.

Sam squeezes his arm. "Did you start the stupid game just to say that line?" Dean shrugs. Sam rolls his eyes, and detaches Dean's hand from his neck, and stands, but pulls Dean up at the same time, and this time when he kisses Dean it's—full, real, Sam holding him close and Dean lifting his face up for it and Sam getting an arm around his shoulders and Dean pressing his mouth open, just a little, licking Sam's top lip and getting a slow, deep inhale where Sam's close enough that he can feel it.

"Sammy," Dean says, and maybe there's more to say. More that should be said, if this is what—but Sam shakes his head, and says, "Come on," and scoops up the bourbon and his empty beers, and so Dean scoops his up, too, and follows Sam around the plant and down the stairs to the bunker and to the kitchen, where they drop the bottles in a rattle of glass into the recycle bin Sam insisted they get, and then Sam looks at him in the light, his hair a little rucked-up at the back from where Dean was messing with it and his mouth a little pink and his expression just… considering, open, honest, and Dean looks back, not trying to hide a thing. How can he? It's Sam.

In the morning, Dean wakes up slow, alone in his room. He has a shower, taking his time, and wraps up in his robe, and comes into the kitchen to find coffee made but no breakfast, and he pours a cup and thinks about eggs, or maybe waffles if he wants to wrestle that ancient cast-iron waffle pan down from the top of the shelf, and he's thinking mainly about the food but he's also thinking, of course, about Sam, and it's only about five minutes of him standing there with his hip against the kitchen island before the door creaks, distant, and then—Sam, in the doorway, shining with sweat.

Dean's stomach flips, very slightly. It's just Sam, soaked and gross after a run. It's every morning, like the last, except, of course—

Sam hesitates for just a second. His mouth turns up at one corner, a little rueful, and then he comes in and grabs his metal bottle from the fridge, and gulps water. Dean turns to watch him, coffee warm in both hands, and when Sam's done he leans against the fridge, breathing deep, and then says, "I don't know, it feels like it should be weirder," like he's continuing a conversation they were in the middle of without interruption.

"Nothing weird about being hot for my bod," Dean says, calm, and Sam snorts. He looks at Dean sidelong, and then turns and really looks at him. Looks, from Dean's mouth to his slippered feet, and it's not much of a view in the robe but Dean spreads his arms out, anyway, and Sam bites his bottom lip, half-smiling. Dean sets his coffee on the island, runs his thumb along the lipstick-red rim. "You know," he says. "It doesn't ever have to be more than this. Just… how we've got it. It's good, now."

"It is," Sam says, easy. He twists the cap back on to his bottle, sets it on the counter, and folds his arms over his chest, and he's still just looking but Dean feels, now, the difference in it. It's just Sam but it's also… maybe a new part, a Sam that Dean didn't really get before, and the consideration there, the curiosity, the attention, it's… He tilts his head back, looks at Sam right back. Sam smiles.

Last night they did nothing more than kiss. Dean stepped close in the kitchen and tipped his head up and Sam met him, one more time, and it was soft and a little strange and a little new, but it felt right, in a way that's been full in Dean's chest, from the first moment of Sam's hand on his face to—well, it hasn't gone away.

"I was thinking I'd make waffles," Dean says, still buoyed in it. "You want one or two?"

"Two," Sam says, and Dean nods, and Sam gets the pan down—showing off, tall bastard—and then goes off to shower, and Dean mixes up the batter and butters the pan and pours in the mix and watches for when the steam stops, eyes on the cast iron but his thoughts around the corner of two hallways and down a few doors, and when he's got four waffles stacked on two plates and he's wondering if he's gonna need to send in a rescue team, Sam comes back into the kitchen with wet hair and says, "I'm going to run a marathon," and Dean blinks at him, entirely derailed, and says, "What?"

A marathon. Apparently Sam's been thinking about it for a while. His runs, he says, in the morning, are usually five miles, but he's been running a little longer each time, and he's at seven now without much worrying about the extra distance. He wants to go the whole way. See if he can do it, he says.

Dean's busy smearing as much butter as he can feasibly fit into the squares of his waffle, but he gives Sam a look. "If I can, he says," Dean mutters, and maybe it's against usual policy to give Sam full credit but it gets a surprised blink and then Sam looking down at his own syrup-free plate with a soft curve to his mouth, so—worth it. Dean cuts a four-square bite and pauses, watching the melty puddles form on the plate. "So, what. Are you going to enter one of those city things? Am I gonna have to drive along the route with Gatorade and applaud from the sidelines? Are you dressing up as a moose for charity?"

Sam shakes his head. "I can donate to charity on my own time," he says, although to be honest Dean's now taken with the moose idea. Sam sees him thinking about it and rolls his eyes. "No. But—I can figure out a route with my phone. Just around here. Anyway, it can't hurt, for the job."

"Yeah, I'll let you chase down the next werewolf," Dean says, shaking his head. Marathons. His brother.

They finish eating about the same time. Sam sips at his coffee while Dean sucks maple from his thumb. "You want to find a job," Dean says, while Sam's piling their forks and plates together, "or do you want to go for another jog? Gotta get up to twenty-six miles somehow."

"Twenty-six point two," Sam says, standing up with the dishes in hand, and then he leans over and brushes Dean's thumb away from his mouth and kisses him, again, and Dean grips the edge of the table and Sam's shoulder, his mouth pushed open on Sam's tongue, sliding in easy like he's got the run of the place and doesn't expect an ounce of resistance. Fair enough. Dean tips his head back and tastes Sam, syrup-and-coffee, and when Sam pulls back his eyes are half-closed and he licks his lips, and his eyes drop to Dean's mouth.

"Weird?" Dean says.

"Should be," Sam says, quieter, but he stands up, and lets his thumb drag over Dean's jaw before he steps away, to the sink, and he doesn't say anything more when he puts the dishes in and stands there with hands braced on the edge for—ten seconds, twenty, thirty—before he turns the water on.

Dean could say something but there's nothing to say. It's weird. It's not. That it's not is weirder. He gets up, refreshes his coffee with the hot from the pot, says, "I'll look for a job," and goes to the library, and lets Sam think, with his hands in soapy water, and quiet to do it in.

There are odd stories—news of the weird never fails to deliver—but nothing so pressing as to drag them across the country on an urgent mission. Dean doesn't feel the need to fake anything, either, to yank out of the bunker on a long drive of not talking through the night and too-loud music and burying their thoughts into means/motive/monstrous opportunity. He sends some links to Sam's email and goes and finds clothes instead, finally, and figures—well, today's a day off. He changes the Impala's oil, washes her. Goes through the trunk, sitting on a stool dragged over from the garage's weird little office, and makes notes of what they're out of, what needs replaced. More salt. More holy oil. Or—not more holy oil, since they haven't seen hide or nor hair of angel or demon in weeks and weeks and maybe never again, and he sits, then, with the empty flask turning over and over in his hands, looking into the trunk, thinking about—how the world is, now. How there's downtime. How, incredibly, there are marathons to run.

In the library, later, Sam's reading on his laptop. "That thing in Pierre might be something," he says, without preamble, and Dean nods—it could be—but then Sam says, "I sent it to Jody, to see if she and the girls want to take a look."

Dean sets the empty flask on the table. Sam's eyes barely flick to it. "What are we gonna do, then?" he says, and Sam sits back in his chair, laptop lid half-closed. He half-smiles, looking down at nothing, and then he looks up at Dean again.

They sleep together that night. Nothing complicated. Dean's room, and the lamps all off but the one over on the table by the door, so Sam's half-haloed in amber light this time, instead of the white moon. Dean's shirt comes off but Sam's stays on, and they're still in their socks, and Sam leans over Dean on one elbow, touching his chest, curious. It's not romantic, or urgent, but Dean keeps smiling, and Sam finally catches him at it and whispers, "Shut up," and kisses him when he opens his mouth to protest that he wasn't saying anything. While they're necking Dean gets Sam's jeans open, and slides his hand inside, and Sam bites his lip but he's half-hard, and gets harder while Dean learns the shape of him. Sam rocks a warm palm over where Dean's swelling up and Dean rips at his own belt, unzips, and then rolls them over so Sam's on his back, and Sam grips his hips, looking up, his hair loose on the pillow and his face just…

After, Dean wipes his hand on Sam's shirt. "Dick," Sam says, and Dean says, "Hey, it was already a disaster, I just added to the general—" and Sam rolls his eyes and nudges Dean off, and pulls the shirt over his head, tugging it off careful from the back. Dean rolls onto his side, looking. Sam's shoulders, and his back. Muscle and, miraculously, no scars. His skin that same all-over bronze, like he's immune somehow to farmer tan. Sam tosses the shirt in the same vague direction that Dean's went and then looks over his shoulder, finds Dean looking. Half-smiles. He lays back, his head on the pillow, and tucks a hand underneath it, looking up at the ceiling. Dean just keeps looking at Sam.

"It should be weird," Sam says, after a second.

"It's a little weird," Dean says. Sam snorts, one corner of his mouth turning up. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Sam's head tips, on the pillow. He looks into Dean's eyes, then at his lips. He reaches over and presses his thumb against Dean's bottom lip, and Dean lets Sam dent it, pulling, and then he flicks his tongue against Sam's skin. Faint salt, faint bitter. Sam drags his thumb down, wet trail over Dean's chin, and then settles his hand on Dean's chest.

This. This is weird. Sam looking at him, quiet. Sweat's still drying in the middle of Dean's back and he has the sense of what it feels like to have his brother's hand on his dick full in his head. The body part, though, that—matters, of course it matters, but it feels secondary to Sam just... fully present. That they're both in the same weird, weird boat, and that it could go on like this forever, and it wouldn't change a thing.

"I don't want to wonder about it anymore," Dean says. He gets his hand on Sam's wrist, squeezes. "There's—I don't know, man. There's a bunch of crap we should probably be talking about, freaking about. But it's…"

"Beside the point?" Sam offers, and Dean nods. That's it. Sam nods, too, and closes his eyes, and maybe that makes it easier.

Dean closes his, too, and it's just the amber-colored haze of dark, and the kinda-too-warm of the bed, and his hand sticky and needing to be washed, and vaguely wanting a shower. And he's an adult, and he's fucked before, and so it's also that one article about that disappearance in Winston-Salem that he's been half-thinking about all day, wondering if there's more—and then remembering that they're out of milk—and then, when Sam's thumb drags over his pec, under his nipple, the vague jolt of: Sam, and maybe that should be all that fills his head but Sam suffuses every other thought. Dean can't make any more room in himself than he already has.

"Did that woman in North Carolina disappear at night?" Sam says, after another minute.

Dean's eyes fly open. "Shit," he says, to Sam's frown, and they sit up at the same time, and then—it's them, and the job, and nothing's really, in the end, that different.

Sam keeps running. He tracks his step count with an app, figures out mile by mile how far he can push it, how fast he can go. Dean goes into Lebanon by himself one day, hitting the post office and the market and just getting some air, and then he rolls to a stop at the single stop sign and checks his odometer, and then drives—a square, basically, twenty-six miles around the farm-fields both worked and fallow, and he imagines what it would be like to run the whole way. He's run for his life, and he's run for the lives of others, but just to do it for himself—no. He gets Sam, most every way, but this one is gonna stay a mystery, he thinks.

"What took so long?" Sam says, when he gets home.

The milk's still mostly-cold. "Estelle wouldn't stop hitting on me, man," Dean says, hauling in his half of the load, and Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean slots the barely-frozen pizza into the freezer and stocks the eggs into their holder and then, when Sam's done putting the cans onto their spot on the shelf, tugs at Sam's belt-loop and gets Sam surprised and then leans up and kisses him, pressing him against the dry goods, and Sam kisses back good and pleased and open and then, when Dean sets back down on his heels, touches the back of Dean's ear and murmurs, soft, "If I knew angry old ladies got you hot I would have tried something different, last night," and gets Dean laughing, unexpected, tucked into the corner of their kitchen.

They've been slow with each other. Dean has more experience but he didn't realize how much more. Sam's not uncertain, not nervous—incredible, how not-nervous Sam is, and Dean got finger-shaped bruises on his triceps one day when Sam just held him down and kissed and kissed and kissed him, body-confident and knowing, smiling pleased and half-smug when he pulled back and Dean was nearly dazed with wanting him. Little shit. Still: Sam's not a virgin, not by half, but he was being honest when he said he'd never screwed a guy—on Earth, that is, and Dean knows exactly what he meant by that qualification, and it was a very very brief conversation afterward ("It doesn't count," Sam had said, firm and honest there too, and Dean had nodded because, after everything, he trusts Sam to be honest), and they left it at that.

It's Sam who brings up more. Dean's content to follow. It's Sam who gets Dean's jeans open one night, petting at the base of his dick and sliding down to cup his balls, long fingers and big broad palm, and it's good but it's Sam who hmms, and then says, "Mind if I—" and crawls backwards down the bed—Sam's bed, the mattress tipping with Sam's weight—and Sam who bolsters Dean's dick up out of the split of his fly and breathes there, eyes flicking up the length of Dean's body where he's propped on his elbows, briefly dazed. "Go ahead," Dean says, voice coming from somewhere approximately at the center of the earth, and Sam snorts, and fists Dean capably from root to tip, and then leans in and licks, flat and deliberate up the spine of it, a wet warmth that shocks in Dean's thighs and between his shoulders and sparking in his hands, making him fist into the blanket. Sam's eyes are closed, like he's concentrating. Dean tips his knee out wide and touches Sam's cheek, and Sam's mouth tips up at the corners, and he shifts forward and takes the head in his mouth and—oh, that. He doesn't quite know how to get his mouth around it at first but he figures it out quick, and he sucks the tip and licks under the crown and fists the rest and when Dean's close, clenching, Dean says, "Come up here," and Sam opens his eyes after who knows how long and they're black, practically, and he crawls up over Dean's body still jerking and Dean kisses him, licks the taste of himself out, and Sam breathes hot into his mouth and groans when Dean comes, looking down at the spill over his fist, and he says, "Fuck, that's good," rough and true. Dean pants through it for a few selfish seconds before he squirms down to return the favor, and Sam's mostly-hard just from sucking Dean, and he's weirdly a gentleman when Dean goes down on him, hands off and careful until Dean lifts off, gulping, and says, "Like you mean it, dude," and Sam laughs and then grips him and that's how they learn that Sam likes dick just fine, in fact, and that Dean likes even more how much Sam likes it.

Sam runs farther. Dean paces him, one day, when they fell asleep in the same bed and mostly managed to sleep through the night together, except for some moment around three a.m. when Sam kicked too hard and Dean threatened blurrily to murder him or dump him out of the bed, one or the other—and way too early after that, Sam nudged him awake, lacing up his running shoes, said, "Come on," and Dean groaned and pulled the pillow over his head and then, well, he came on.

Seven in the morning, autumn settling over the farms. Cold enough that Sam's breath fogs and Dean rubs his hands together, sitting in the idling car with the window down while Sam stretches his hamstrings. "You look ridiculous," Dean says, just to say something. Sam ignores him, of course. "How far are we going?" he says, instead, and Sam says, "Thirteen," and Dean checks the odometer and says, "Okay, Speedy Gonzalez, you just say—" and Sam says, "Go," and takes off, and Dean rolls his eyes and lets off the brake, and the Impala rolls forward, chasing Sam down the farm road, the sun glinting behind them so the whole damp stretch of gravel sparks silver. Nine miles per hour is the pace Sam asked for and Dean keeps it going, on the far side of the road while Sam lopes along on the left shoulder, and it's boring but not as boring as he thought it would be. He keeps an eye on the speedometer, makes the turns just behind Sam as the roads weave around the cornfields, the soy beans, the farm that's just gone to dead-dry grass that waves in undulating strange patterns in the morning breeze. He goes through Zepp one side one, side two, switches to AC/DC and cranks it during Big Balls so loud that a bird startles up out of the bushes by the road, and Sam laughs, coughs, keeps running. His pace doesn't slow, not by a step.

Sam stops, finally. An hour and a half, and Dean has to piss. He parks, turns off the car, while Sam breathes hard with his hands on his knees. "How was that?" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, still panting, and Dean can't wait any longer and goes over to the other side of the fence post and communes with the morning.

"Dude," Sam says, vaguely accusatory, but Dean only shrugs, and zips up when he's done. When he turns back around Sam's leaning on the car, sweat slicking his hair back behind his ears, and Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam shrugs. "That was good," he admits, finally. He's drinking the water bottle Dean's had sitting in the passenger seat the whole time. "Too fast to go the full twenty-six, but—yeah. Good."

He looks—content, again. Not smug, not even really glad. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, leans back against the car. Looks out over the little pond, the trees around it. Dean smiles, while Sam isn't looking, and then says, "Well, I left my gold medals at home, but if you want you can run back and get it—" and Sam rolls his eyes, and gets into the passenger side, and Dean gets to fake-bitch then about Sam's stinky sweaty ass on the vinyl, and it's a good morning, like they all are, anymore.

On the way home from a hunt—Ajo, Arizona, and vampires, in what Dean insists is the most ironic job they've ever been on—Sam has Dean stop at a drugstore. Two in the afternoon. Dean heads for the booze aisle and gets a six pack, and swings through the specialty candy and gets some pre-Christmas stocking filler, and then he walks around the aisles looking for Sam, and finds him in—

"Condoms?" he says. Sam glances up at him, holding a box, unfazed. Dean feels the black orb eye of the security camera on the back of his neck and feels—surreal. He tips his head. "I mean, not to go all sex-ed, but it's a little late, don't you think?"

Sam snorts. In lieu of responding he turns the box around in his hand and—not condoms. Astroglide. Dean licks the corner of his mouth and watches an old lady go by with her little cart on the far end of the aisle. "Yeah?" he says, and Sam lifts a shoulder, says, "You have a preference?"

Long time since Dean's had to think about it. He hitches the six-pack onto his other hip and comes and stands next to Sam, looking at the options. Fire & ice, spermicidal. Water-based. Sam's radiating heat, enough to feel six inches away, and Dean thinks about Sam thinking about this: driving through the cold desert, both of them tired after a night of chasing down the vamps, planning to crash in Amarillo. A motel, in Amarillo. He feels boring, normal. Shopping, with a bag of red-and-green Kisses in hand, and the wall of intensely pink pads and tampons looming at his back, and his—brother, waiting, while Dean reaches for the silicone-based KY he used to buy, when he used to have to buy it. The packaging's different but he's guessing the product's the same. He puts it in Sam's hand and Sam looks at it with his cheek sucked in on one side, and then Dean says, "You want something with, I don’t know, electrolytes?" and Sam says, "Yeah," and so Dean goes back to the wall of coolers and pulls out two Powerades, and Sam meets him at the cashier with rolled bandages and aspirin to replace what they used up out of the kit during this hunt, and the woman at the counter glances at their faces as she's ringing them up and Dean says, smiling, "Can I get a two-pack of lighters, too, miss?" and she's like seventy if she's a day but the charm offensive still works, and she's over-the-top as she hands them their receipt and tells them to be well, and Sam's giving him a sidelong look as they take the bags out to the car but, shit, Dean's had enough people giving him looks in his life, and Sam gets to but just about no one else does, now.

A motel, in Amarillo. Raining in west Texas like it never does. They get tacos and margaritas at a hole in the wall and it's still early, when they get back to the room, and Sam checks the stitches on Dean's shoulder—still holding—and Sam takes two aspirins to help with all the bruising on his side, and then Dean eats a Kiss from the mess of the Walgreens bag, and then he tosses the box holding the lube onto the closer bed, and he says, "So," and Sam shrugs, and says, again, "You have a preference?"

Shadow of a smile on his face. Dean gives him a look and Sam raises his eyebrows, all innocence, and Dean says, "You're a dumbass," and goes over and pulls Sam in by that godawful orange jacket and kisses him, and then he goes into the bathroom.

He takes his time. Showers, cleaning up. Leans his forearm against the wall and leans his head against his forearm and pushes his fingers inside, on the thin glide of the little complimentary bottle of conditioner, reminding his body that this is—yeah. This is good. He comes out with a towel loose around his waist and finds Sam mostly-stripped, leaning back on the bed with the TV on mute and his hand in his boxers. Dean glances at the screen—ESPN, showing basketball highlights—and says, "Jeez, you got a kink you haven't told me?" while Sam snaps the TV off, and Sam says, flushed, "Not my fault you took forever," and Dean says, frank, "Figured you wouldn't want any Mr. Hanky guest appearances on our first trip on the backroads, but if you'd rather—" and Sam says, "Jesus, Dean," and Dean grins like an asshole, and Sam rolls his eyes, and—

Sam's screwed women like this before, turns out, and knows to go slow. Dean's on his back, his one leg caught over Sam's arm and the other curled around Sam's hip, and he's not sure slow is slow enough. "Fuck," he says, grinding his head back against the pillow, and Sam kisses his jaw, murmurs, "Sorry," and Dean grips his shoulders and says, through a groan, "No, you're not," and Sam smiles against his skin. Dean knew it. Little shit.

Sam lifts up on one elbow, touches Dean's cheek. He drags his hips back, pushes in. Dean breathes shakily out and Sam's expression changes. "Is it—" he says, but thankfully doesn't ask the stupid question. He leans in, tilting Dean's hips to a new angle, and pushes again, and Dean drags a hand down Sam's chest, and Sam's watching his face, he knows, watching everything, learning him, figuring out what he likes, like he has with every new thing they've tried—probably cataloguing it on some insane chart, like he's been doing with the running—but just now, Dean doesn't care. He didn't realize how much he liked this, or how much he could. "God," he says, gripping Sam's hip, "go—" and Sam, thank christ, for once does what he's told.

Sam sucks him, to finish him off. When Dean's spent, Sam spits to the side, and then slides back up, kissing Dean's nipple and then the sweaty angle of his collarbone and his jaw and his cheekbone and the very end of his eyebrow, for some reason. "Freak," Dean sighs, content, and Sam cups his other cheek and says, "Back at you," quiet, and Dean tips his head in towards Sam's and breathes with him. Sam's mouth tastes like dick and it's a combo Dean is extremely fond of, but that's not, anymore, anything new. He reaches down and holds Sam's dick—still slick, because this is indeed the good lube—and half-hard, and sensitive apparently after doing its work, from how Sam hisses, and squeezes his forearm. Dean says, "If anyone gets to complain," and Sam lifts up then, and watches Dean's face while he slides a hand back between Dean's thighs, and presses gently. Dean bites the inside of his lip but lets Sam try it, and after a second Sam—slides a finger inside, where he's busted Dean open, and Dean lets his knee fall wide with the slick sting, and wonders. How much he could take, if Sam asked.

In the morning, Sam goes for a run. Dean stays very firmly in bed. "How'd it go, Romeo?" Dean says, drowsy in bed when Sam finally gets back, and Sam says, "You know that makes you Juliet?" but then, while Dean's frowning and trying to dredge up a comeback, he says, "Sixteen miles, mostly eight miles an hour, and I brought back coffee," and Dean lifts up enough to see the carrier on the table, steaming, and says, "You're forgiven for the Juliet thing."

He has Sam drive. He's feeling—hard to pinpoint, how he's feeling. Still cloudy, over Texas and then over Oklahoma, and Sam's driving a regular level of fast so they're going to get home around maybe dinnertime. He's thinking about steak—they could stop at that butcher in Smith Center—when Sam says, "Hey, let me ask," and Dean grunts, and Sam says, "What's it like?"

No guessing what he means. Dean says, "I mean, my ass is sore," and Sam rolls his eyes, and he's not being a dick about it or anything, and Dean thinks about how to answer. What's it like.

What came before doesn't matter, so much. They already talked about how only Earth counts, and that's true for a bunch of reasons, but on a physical level there's just no comparison. Even on Earth, though, this was different. What came before was mostly something Dean was okay with, either because he wanted it or because he needed it or because he had a job to do, and he's not someone who dwells on shit that could be different, and he doesn't really wish any of that was different. No point in it, and it doesn't bug him. It was always better, though, when he liked the person, and he got that sometimes, and when he got that it was… good, but. Maybe what he and Sam have isn't romance, isn't some big sweeping thing like from a movie—if Sam tried to sweep him off his feet, or vice versa, they'd probably just bicker and then fall over—but. But. What was it like?

He's been quiet too long. "It feels good," he says, honest. Lame, and Sam knows it, from how he glances across the seat. Random section of I-35, while Sam passes a semi. Dean watches the approaching road rather than look at Sam. "I don't know, man. Hard to describe. When you're with someone and you're figuring out what works, what makes the fireworks, that's the same from either side. But it's…"

Quiet, again. In the corner of his eye he can tell Sam looks at him, and he shifts his weight. His ass does hurt. Sam's got absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, in the jockstrap department. That he can get used to; the weird feeling under his breastbone, this thing he's been carrying all morning, that's going to take a little longer, maybe.

"Jessica used to say she felt like she was taking care of me." Said—casual. Dean stares across the bench seat, can't help it, but Sam's just looking out at the road. One hand at ten, the other at about five thirty, his hair tucked behind his ear. His jaw clenching and then unclenching. "I don't know. I didn't get it—felt the other way around, to me—but I always… wondered, I guess."

Taking care? Maybe that's it. Dean finds he's holding his hand over the weird feeling in his chest and shakes his head. Last night: Sam's head bent next to his, Sam's chest against his, his back drenching sweat against the bed, his body loose-open finally to Sam's dick after so long of the punishing stretch. Sam's hips grinding in against his hard and low, and his arms around Sam's shoulders, and his eyes closed and just—taking, feeling the slick parted jolt and feeling Sam quicken and feeling, deep, in this jolted raw way, how Sam was getting close and Sam was winding tight and how Sam was coming, how he hitched and crushed in and breathed strange and didn't make any other sound but held Dean still and close and tight while he unloaded. With other men Dean was tired or sore or impatient, wanting his turn. Last night, he held Sam's shoulders and felt Sam's face duck in to his throat, and Sam's lips pressing there, and he put his fingers in Sam's hair and twined his leg around Sam's and wanted it to go on and on. Perfect.

"Guess you'll have to try it and find out," Dean says, after way too long.

Sam glances at him again, and pulls into the right lane, and settles in for the long drive. "Guess I will," he says, and he's watching the road, and so maybe doesn't notice the deep breath Dean takes, and lets out slow.

It turns out a marathon is not, in fact, twenty-six point two miles. "Technically," Sam says, while Dean's on his back under the Impala, "it's 26.21875 miles."

Dean rolls out on the bench to give that the incredulous look it deserves. On the stool, Sam shrugs. "Why," Dean says, "on earth, ever, would anyone care."

"It's the rules set by the competition," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes and slides back under the car. "It's just the length. Same reason a football field's a hundred yards."

"Isn't it the length of the run that Greek dude did?" Dean says, later, chopping up potatoes for salad. Sam looks surprised, but not as annoyingly surprised as he's looked other times. "Did the length of that change, somehow?"

"Dean," Sam says, patient, "I hate to say it, but I am not in charge of the rules committee for marathons. I'm sorry to disappoint."

During dinner Sam's doing math. 26.21875 isn't that much longer than 26.2. In March he did twenty-five miles in three hours and fifty-five minutes, looping back from the pond and then running way out to town and back again, and he's nearly there. "What's the difference between 385 and 352," he mutters, and Dean doesn't bother even attempting to work it out in his head before Sam says, "Thirty-three yards."

"Doesn't seem worth making a whole-ass rule about," Dean says, but Sam's just ignoring him at this point, probably looking at his dumb running spreadsheet, and that's fine. Thirty-three yards, Dean thinks.

There are weird old surveyor tools in one of the archive rooms. One morning when Sam's back from his run, soaking off the ache in the shower, Dean figures out how the hell to use the damn wheely thing, and he walks it off. He drags his boot in the dirt, right in front of the stairs down to the entrance, and then walks it out: ninety-nine feet, up the driveway, out to the gravel road. Almost exactly the length to the gate. Dean smiles, and walks back from the gate, and then marks ninety-nine feet precisely, with his boot and then with three stones, so he'll know.

Sam's planning for May 1. Dean doesn't ask why; he figures he can guess. They find a job, April 21, and it's a family of ghouls that's gross and shitty and time-consuming to put down, but they manage it on the seventh day, at least, so they don't overshoot the deadline. Sam sleeps in the passenger seat while Dean drives straight through all the way back from Pensacola. When they get back to the bunker it's two in the morning and Dean has to shake him awake, and he blinks in the barely-moonlight, and Dean has to say, "Up and at 'em, Sasquatch," for Sam to rouse, and Sam follows him down the stairs and into the bunker and through the dark halls and then, quiet, straight into Dean's bed, barely kicking off his boots and shrugging off his jacket before he curls over the pillow, sighing into the mattress. Dean stands at the foot of the bed, looking at him. Then he goes upstairs, and does the thing he's been thinking of doing for weeks, and when he finally gets back to bed he strips down to a t-shirt and boxers and slides in right up against Sam's back, and Sam doesn't wake up but he does make this tiny sound in his chest, when Dean's arm goes around him, and Dean sleeps, finally, like the dead.

Thursday's a slow day. Sam's not running again, apparently, until Saturday—he ran pretty flat-out a few times during the hunt, and Dean guesses that's probably training enough. Because he is, in fact, supportive, Dean makes food that Sam actually likes—chicken breast and broccoli and some stupid grain thing that he read was good for slow-release energy, and Sam says, "I didn't know you knew what farro was," which proves that in fact it's Sam who's the dickhead, but then Sam practically inhales all of it, so. Success. They watch Chariots of Fire so Dean can remember the stupid song, and Sam goes and does his weird yoga stretching after that, and then they sit together in the workroom and make silver rounds for a while, since Dean got a load of pawned shitty jewelry in and it's one of those chores that falls down the priority list when bullets are flying, and then when they've packed up the bullet boxes, and there's really nothing else left to do with the day, Sam stands up and stretches with his fingers reaching way up and his body arching, pulling long after the hunched work, and Dean's mouth goes wet, and he says, without much thinking about it, "Hey, Sam," and Sam says yeah without hardly paying attention, and Dean says, "I want to fuck you tonight."

Sam looks up at him. Dean lifts a shoulder and Sam takes a visible breath, and he says, "Smooth, Dean," but it's not a no.

Dean shaves, while he's waiting. He takes a whore's bath in his sink, and waits in his boxers just like Sam had, that first time, sitting on the little loveseat in his room. Sam comes back in a t-shirt and unzipped jeans and bare feet, his hair barely wet at the ends, and he frowns at first at the empty bed before he sees Dean, sitting, and Dean says, "Took you long enough," and Sam says, "Don't start."

He's not nervous. He lets Dean kiss him slow, though, laying together on the bed, and with Dean's hand in his jeans, and he's hard all the way and wet at the tip and a tight grip locked on Dean's hip before Dean finally slides his jeans down, feels. Damp, and a little soft, and small, and he rolls his hips back against Dean's thumb, making this deep sound in his chest. "How do you want it?" Dean says, and Sam shrugs and then laughs, shaking his head. "However," Sam says, honest, and Dean rolls his eyes and kisses him and then pulls his jeans all the way off while Sam pulls his shirt over his head, and Dean gets him on his knees, then, pulls his hips back, and applies his mouth to Sam's asshole, and that's not entirely new but Sam yelps, flinching, and Dean has to hook an arm around his hips and hold him in place to lick in deep, like he wants to.

"Tell me," Dean says, and Sam groans. He's reaching past Dean's arm, fisting his dick. His balls warm and heavy, and his body—open, yeah, from the shower, from prepping himself, from knowing how—from watching Dean do it, from doing it himself, sliding his fingers in and working the muscle soft and learning how it can be good. Sam's hips push back and Dean breathes out hot, ducks his head down, suckles one of Sam's nuts and then licks back up over the flattened-wet hair and the crinkle of his hole and scrapes his teeth over one asscheek, and Sam's hand reaches back and grips his shoulder and Sam says, deep, "Are you going to fuck me, or what," and Dean slides up, kisses between Sam's shoulderblades, presses his dick swelling up in his boxers against Sam's ass.

It'd be easier if he kept Sam on his knees. He turns him over instead, and Sam's—god, hot for it, his dick huge and curving up to his navel, his chest flushed in that deep way it gets when he's nearly ready to come, his eyes heavy. He props himself up on his elbows and watches Dean lube himself up, and when Dean slots a slick thumb inside Sam—still tight, christ—Sam's eyelids dip but he just pulls his knee higher, and reaches down and feels Dean's dick, fingers slipping over the head. He gathers his balls up out of the way while Dean pushes up between his legs, and he's watching down between them, avid, for the moment it happens. Dean watches Sam's face instead, and on the push inside—Sam's lips part, and his jaw loosens, and his breath stills, and his eyes—Dean pulls back an inch, slides in deeper, and Sam's face tips up and he meets Dean's stare, dragging in air, gripping Dean's thigh, arching. Dean gets a hand on Sam's jaw and holds him there, their noses brushing, and he feels it, the moment Sam's body ripples. How Sam lets him in.

Sam doesn't come from being fucked. Not that Dean expected him to. Dean holds his balls and kisses his jaw, his mouth, lets Sam bite his lips, while Sam jerks his own dick, and when Sam finally spills he groans, his thighs twitching around Dean's hips and his asshole rippling. Dean slides his hand up, following Sam's, squeezing and getting the wet over his own fingers, and finally his dick slides free from Sam's body. Sam says, low and surprised against his ear, ah, and Dean loves him, is all, and always has, and always will, and now is, really, no different.

"So," Dean says, much later. His head on Sam's shoulder, and Sam's fingers in his hair. "What's it like?"

He'd watched Sam clean up. His nose wrinkling as he wiped between his legs. Sam had said, "You like this?" and Dean had said, "The proof is in the pudding," and Sam had stared at him and then said, horrified, "Never talk again." He'd gone and got them both beers as repayment, and now those are gone, and they've cooled off but the bed's still kind of gross and smells like sweat and jizz and, honestly, Dean's about as comfortable as he ever is.

Sam's fingers go still in his hair. "Huh," he says, after a few seconds' thinking.

"Told you," Dean says.

Sam pulls, what little he can pull, at the top of Dean's head where he should really trim it up. "I'll think of something," he says, and Dean says, "Sure you will, Wordsworth," and Sam says, "I don't know why I thought this would make you less annoying," and Dean says, "It's a gift," but he's smiling, tipped in against Sam's side, and he can't see it but he'd bet that Sam is, too, or at least that Sam's got that dimple tucked into his cheek. Sam's hand spreads, cupping the back of Dean's head, and his mouth brushes Dean's temple. Yeah, Dean decides, warm. Dimple. Maybe two.

On Saturday, Sam goes for the run. His route's pretty simple. Looping west away from the bunker and back for thirteen miles; looping east and back for the other thirteen. The point two gets sorted out somewhere in there, as Dean understands it. He offered, a few months back, to pace Sam in the car if he wanted, and Sam looked surprised but then shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said, and Dean knows it's true. Still, he set out water at few-mile intervals—no one's out here, so unless a rabbit stole one of the stashes Sam should get the benefit—and Sam's pace is pretty damn consistent, so Dean knows when he'll hit the various markers, and knows when he'll be home, when it's done.

Sam stretches easily, on the stairs by the entrance. "If you twist your ankle a mile out, call me, but give me time to laugh," Dean says. Sam rolls his eyes, dropping his one foot and pulling up the other. "Do you want me to grab a pistol? Starting gun, or whatever?"

Sam shakes his head, and pulls out his phone. "See you in a few hours," he says, and presses a button, and takes off, and Dean watches him go, down the driveway, to the gate, and then turning and running from the morning sun. Nine a.m. Dean checks his watch, and says, "Okay," to no one, and goes back inside to at least do something with the morning.

An hour and fifty minutes later, Dean's leaning on the gate, drinking a beer, when Sam comes running back up the road. "Woo!" Dean calls, sort of sarcastic and sort of not, and Sam's breathing hard when he comes up but he steals the beer right out of Dean's hand, takes a few deep swallows. "Hey!" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, burps abruptly, says, "Thanks for the water," and takes off again, and Dean checks his watch—right on time. Maybe faster. He finishes the beer, tasting Sam's salt on the rim, and then goes and sets up his minimal surprise.

He disassembled the bench those weeks back. Too heavy to move any other way. While Sam's completing the second half, Dean moves the pieces out of the side of the plant where he'd moved them, and puts the thing back together. Big concrete supports; concrete slab, that he about gets a hernia hauling back up into place. He's sweating, when it's done, but it's right at the end of the drive, just in front of his three-stone marker.

It's where he's sitting, forty minutes after noon, with a bottle of the whiskey Sam actually likes on the step, and two glasses waiting to be filled, and the sun coming down soft and easy, not yet hot or humid, not like it'll be later this summer. He stretches out his legs, propped on his arms, and watches down the lane while Sam comes around the corner again. Sweaty, tired, but keeping pace, and Dean doesn't mock or call out or say any of the dumbass shit he could say. Sam pulls out his phone, as he's running down, and Dean knows because he paced it exactly how many steps are left, exactly how far Sam has to go. Sam slows, as he's approaching the marker, and when his sneaker hits the stone he presses something on the phone and it beeps and he says, "Done," and takes a huge deep breath, panting.

He tips his head back on his shoulders, eyes closed. Dean watches him. His heaving chest, the sweat darkening his hair to black at the temples. His body.

"You set up a cheering section," Sam says, finally. "I'm touched."

Dimpling. Dean cracks the bottle, pours two glasses. "What can I say," he says, while Sam tips his head back down, tired. "I'm a fan."

"Sure you are," Sam says, tired. He sits down, finally, and takes his glass from Dean. Their shoulders together, and Sam's knee tipped against his. "Whiskey's probably the opposite of what you're supposed to have after a marathon."

"Well, good thing I'm not a stickler for the marathon rules," Dean says, holding his glass up to toast.

"Yeah," Sam says, smiling, "it is," and lets their glasses clink. They drink, quiet, looking out together at the warm day.

#ffcc #wincest #switching #my writing #trying a slightly different style here #idk if it worked but #it was an interesting experiment #i hope it satisfies

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cassianstattoo · 3 years

Text

HAPPY ACOSF RELEASE DAY!

(ACOSF SPOILERS AHEAD) ARE YOU EXCITED?

I personally am. It’s time for Nesta’s story (and not just hers) to be told. So, this leads to another thing I think (and hope) you’ve been waiting for.

LET’S EXPLAIN THE PLAYLIST! (Read every song’s meaning while or after reading the book) And thank you for all your love and support.

“Alone” by Melancholia: It describes the Cauldron scene at the beginning of the book. In this song you can feel the rage and how hard she’s struggling. This song is not about weakness. It’s about her strength.

“Impossible” by James Arthur: Chapter 1. Even if it’s not so clear in this chapter, I think this song represents how Cassian feels when Nesta’s around. He feels worthless and not so different from the other men she beds (as he thought in ACOFAS). He lost his hope of an happy future with the woman he loves and he feels like he’s breaking that last promise she made her. Everything just seems so impossible.

“Sister” by The Black Keys: Chapter 2. This just makes me think of Feyre and Nesta’s fight. It’s from Feyre’s pov.

“New House” by Toro y Moi: “I want a brand new house Something I can not buy, something I can afford I just want a long shower I been feeling so crowded” Chapter 3. It’s about Nesta settling down in the House of Wind. It’s not the place she feels she can call “home”. First of all, it’s not really hers. The last two sentences of this verse are about her breathing and trying to calm herself at the end of the chapter. She’s just tired.

“My Mother & I” by Lucy Dacus: Chapter 4. The whole song is about Nesta and the relationship with her mother when she was a child. I think there’s nothing else to say. Also, in the 1st Chapter it says that she’s born in spring, so the song talks about a girl who was born in May. It all fits.

“Teacher’s Pet” by Melanie Martinez”: “Teacher’s pet If I’m so special, why am I secret? Yeah, why the fuck is that? Do you regret The things we shared that I’ll never forget? Well, do you? Tell me that I know I’m young, but my mind is well beyond my years I knew this wouldn’t last, but fuck you, don’t you leave me here” Chapter 5 and 6. Nesta and Cassian’s first day of training together. She basically doesn’t want to act like she’s his pet and she’s got to do whatever he want just to respect her sister’s will.

“Dangerous Man” by Valley Of Wolves: “They say I’m a wanted man Holding line and break the fire I’m setting all the captives free But I’m hanging by a wire” Chapter 7. It’s about Eris and his double-cross. That’s how probably Cassian pictures Eris in his mind tbh.

“Control” by Halsey: Chapter 8. Nesta facing the stairs. It can be linked to other chapters too because if you take this song as a whole and not just a few verses, it really contains A LOT of things. For example, the line “The House was awake”. Also Chapter 9, when people start calling their children. You can find this moment in the song when it says “All the kids cried out ‘please stop, you’re scaring me”.

“Bookstore Girl” by Charlie Burg: Chapter 9. The bookstore girl is Gwyn and Nesta tries to know more about her.

“Wrong Direction” by Hailee Steinfeld: “I don’t hate you” Chapter 12. This song is about the chapter’s ending.

“You’ve Got a Friend In Me” by Cavetown: Chapter 13. Nesta and Gwyn’s interaction. Also, Nesta helping her.

“like that” by Bea Miller: Chapter 16. Nesta and Cassian’s tension is hilarious, but this song makes me thing about this scene so much.

“Queen” by Shawn Mendes: Chapter 17. Elain fighting with Nesta. This lyrics is so powerful. The first part is Elain talking to Nesta. The second part is Nesta talking to Elain.

“You’ll Follow Me Down” by Skunk Anansie: Chapter 17. Same scene. This is totally Nesta. She’s so scared of herself and of the world that surrounds her. She’s afraid to lose her sister in this world she still knows nothing about if not violence. She wants Elain by her side, even if it means dragging her down with her.

“Teeth” by 5 Seconds of Summer: Chapters 18/19. I like to call it “THE chapter”. Do you need me to explain why I chose this song? Um, I don’t think so. You know it.

“Only You” by Ellie Goulding: “Baby I’m on my knees” Chapter 22. He’s... returning the favor.

“Revolution” by Diplo, Faustix, Imanos, Kai: Chapter 24. Our girl Nesta knows what she’s doing. What she’s starting.

“Best Friend for Hire” by Anthony Amorim: Chapter 25. The whole song is about Nesta and Emerie’s interaction. Everytime I listen to it I can’t help but cry.

“Moment’s Silence (Common Tongue)” by Hozier: Chapter 26. Nesta’s worried about Cassian and gives him relief.

“Rise Up” by Andra Day: Chapters 27/28. These three girls are going to rise up, bitches.

“Nina Cried Power” by Hozier, Mavie Staples: Chapter 29. This song is really powerful, just like Nesta. She always is, but in this chapter we learn HOW MUCH.

“Fix Me Now” by Garbage: “Bring me back to life (fix me now) Kiss me blind” Chapter 31. THAT scene. HE HEATED UP THE WHOLE ROOM Y’ALL. Cassian literally kissed her back to life.

“Ready or Not” by Fugees: Chapters 34/35/36. I can’t choose only one quote from this song. But can you hear its vibes? Nesta’s leading a dead army. This is THE power.

“PILLOWTALK” by ZAYN: Chapter 37. *wink* This song says everything.

“Go Fuck Yourself” by Two Feet: Always chapter 37. I couldn’t choose just one song, you know. Also, lowkey Chapter 38.

“Never Again” by Breaking Benjamin: “Never again, never again Time will ot take the life from me” Chapter 38′s ending. All I can say is: NEVER AGAIN.

“Boy In The Bubble” by Alec Benjamin: Not linked to just one chapter. It makes me thing of Azriel a lot.

“Past Lives” by BØRNS: “I've got the strangest feeling This isn't our first time around Past lives couldn't ever come between us Some time the dreamers finally wake up Don't wake me I'm not dreaming“ Chapter 39. Gwyn and Azriel. Well, these lines are about them, but I think the rest of the song represents Elain and Azriel, too. I don’t know if you feel the same.

“Boulevard of Broken Dreams” by Green Day: THIS IS AZRIEL’S SONG. YOU CAN’T TELL ME OTHERWISE.

“Watch Me While I Bloom” by Hayley Williams: Chapter 41. Nesta teaching Cassian how to treat a woman. She’s got big dick energy ayeee

“R U Mine?” by Arctic Monkeys: Still chapter 41. Cassian taking control of the situation. This song just screams “dominant” lmao.

“Walls Could Talk” by Halsey: So Halsey once said “The House was awake” (Control). What if those Walls Could Talk? Like, poor thing. It could have a mental breakdown. This song is dedicated to the House of Wind ‘cause it needs respect. It’s alive. Just imagine how’d you feel watching non-stop those two fucking and fighting. Also Azriel, you’re loved.

“Despicable” by grandson: “If I were you I wouldn’t love me neither” Chapter 43. Tamlin deserves a song, too.

“Part Of Me” by Katy Perry: Chapters 45/46. It’s all SO chaotic. This song means a lot of things. They all lied to her, but this song is particularly about Nesta and Amren’s fight. In my opinion, she did the right think telling Feyre the truth ‘cause she deserved to know, but it just wasn’t the right time and space.

“Don’t Give Up On Me” by Andy Grammer: Chapter 47. Cassian’s going to take care of Nesta. She made a mistake but she knows here better than anyone. He won’t give up on her.

“There You Are” by ZAYN: Chapter 50. Cassian comforts Nesta when she finally explodes. He’s there for her with open arms.

“You Found Me” by The Fray: Still Chapter 50. This chapter was so hard to read and this is another song that can describe it best.

“Locked Out Of Heaven” by Bruno Mars: Chapter 51. Illyrian bat boys just love flat objects. I see.

“Thin White Lies” by 5 Seconds of Summer: Chapter 51. Yeah, still thinking about that desk.

“Chosen Family” by Rina Sawayama: Still Chapter 51. This song is wholly dedicated to Nesta’s new found family. Not only Gwyn and Emerie, but also Cassian.

“Library Magic” by The Head And The Heart: Chapter 52. Listen to this song and read the scene at the beginning of the chapter.

“Battle Cry” by Imagine Dragons: Chapter 54. I know it’s weird but I feel this song talks about Lanthys and Nesta’s fight.

“Hurt” by Christina Aguilera: Chapter 55. Nesta takes Cassian to the place she lived with her family in the mortal lands. It’s dirty and broken now but it’s still there. Nes talks about her father and realizes how much he’s done for her and her sisters.

“Story Of Another Us” by 5 Seconds of Summer: Chapter 56. I know this sounds like a sad song but to me it represents Gwyn’s present. The story of their past (of another “them”) and also their present.

“Drama Club” by Melanie Martinez: Chapter 57. Eris vibes, y’all. I know you can feel them. Everytime I listen to this song I can’t help but thinking of him. So the only thing I can tell you is: listen carefully.

“Genius” by Sia, Diplo, Labrinth: Chapter 57. Hear this song. It just makes me think of a ballroom where two people try to talk to other people and they’re avoiding to make eye contact. And they fail (yeah, those people are Cassian and Nesta btw)

“Therefore I Am” by Billie Eilish: Chapter 57. Still about Eris, but also Cassian. They can’t stand each other. So imagine the astronomical energy (inside of this bus lmfao) when Nesta comes in between.

“All About Us” by He Is We, Owl City: Chapter 57. Nessian dancing.

“Rock Bottom” by Hailee Steinfeld ft. DNCE: Chapter 58. This song is SO accurate. This is the moment I realized “That’s it. I think I can die happy now” and then I started crying. Nesta just thinking she’s not enough and she deserves to be with someone as ugly as she thinks she is. Cassian is like “shut the hell up, woman” and yeah. That’s the kind of energy and conversation I was waiting for.

“Stop Crying Your Heart Out” by Oasis: Chapter 58. Their life becomes brighter. They have to stop crying their heart out because of their fears and the emotions they keep trying to hide. They need to feel free and express all the love they can give to each other.

“Fade Into You” by Nashville Cast, Sam Palladio, Clare Bowen: Chapter 58. Finally the truth comes out and everything becomes real. Even if the song is pretty sad, the lyrics is just SO accurate and it describes the scene perfectly.

“I Miss You” by Adele: Chapter 59. Basically Nesta feeling needy ‘cause she doesn’t see Cassian for days, but it’s more than that. Pay attention to the depth of the song. It shakes you. And that’s what Nesta feels when she thinks of Nesta.

“Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera: Chapter 59/61. I want to dedicate it to my favorite girls in this book: Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn. They’ve been through a lot but they also learnt to face their fears. And they realized that unity is strength.

“Smile” by Uncle Kracker: Chapter 62. Cassian’s sooo happy to be with Nesta it breaks my heart. And his own too.

“Broken Pieces” by 5 Seconds of Summer: Chapter 62. Aaand here we go again. Cassian just wants Nesta to give him the chance to be happy with her.

“Carried Away” by H.E.R.: Chapter 62. Nesta thinks they got too carried away and now they’re at a point of no return. She opened herself to him too much. It’s not like she regrets this but she understands that now everything’s too real and changing. She doesn’t feel ready.

"What’s Up?” by 4 Non Blondes: Ending of Chapter 63. Okay, I’ll make you laugh but this is me after reading it. I needed to put a song about how I felt when I read this freaking ending, after all the devastation Chapter 62 brought into my heart. And the fact that Nesta’s 25 and the first line begins with “25 years”... I DIED. Also I think of her just screaming to the word “WHAT’S GOING ON?!”.

“Sisters Are Doin’ It For Themselves” by Eurythmics ft. Aretha Franklin: Chapters 64/65/66. DO I NEED TO DESCRIBE IT? NAH, I DON’T THINK SO. THESE GIRLS ARE POWERFUL, STRONG AND SMART AS HELL.

“Run The World (Girls)” by Beyoncé Chapters 67/68/69/70. The girls want to win and they’re going to conquer everything with no mercy.

“Puppets” by Depeche Mode: Chapter 71. Eris impotence t is heartbreaking.

“Warriors” by Imagine Dragons: This song is for every character. It’s about Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn, but also Cassian, Azriel and Eris. They’re fighting different battles and they’re doing it with every ounce of power they have.

“Emperor’s New Clothes” by Panic! At The Disco: Chapter 74. Nesta kicking Briallyn’s ass.

“Survivor” by Destiny’s Child: This song is dedicated to Emerie and Gwyn. They spent all their lives learning how to survive. At the end, they finally won.

“Set Fire to the Rain” by Adele: THE Nessian Anthem. I put this here ‘cause FINALLY they’re endgame. But something bad’s about to happen...

“Cancer” by My Chemical Romance: Chapter 76. This chapter’s been the hardest one to face. I had to put the book down for a minute and breathe. I know this song made you panic and ow you know why I chose it. I can’t stop crying thinking about Feyre in those conditions and all the IC and her sisters surrounding her. I’m still so heartbroken.

“You Saved Me” by Skunk Anansie: Chapter 77. Nesta cares about Feyre. She’s her little sister and she just can’t let her die like that. She gave her a happy ending even if Nes had to lose almost every ounce of power she had and learned to accept. But they’re worthless in comparison with her sisters life. She just loves them both. She’d do anything for them and this scene proves it.

“Lean on Me” by Bill Withers: This song is about friendship and sisterhood. Nesta’s relationship with Gwyn and Emerie, but also with Feyre and Elain (and lowkey Rhys). Also, I dedicate it to little Nyx, too. They all love you, babyboy, and would do anything for you. Welcome to this chaotic world, kid!

“Sorry” by Halsey: Chapter 78. These are not explicit apologies. Nesta doesn’t need to say “sorry” vocally. She already demonstrated it. Her actions speak louder than words and her sister know it. This song is not about a “romantic lover” but a “person who loves” and they all love too much and strongly.

“Amazing” by Aerosmith: WE FINALLY SEE THE LIGHT. This is the happy ending they deserve (but the cliffhanger is killing me tbh). It’s about everyone in this book. I put it in the playlist ‘cause at first I thought it could refer to Azriel and Cassian. But the more i listened to it, the more I realized it just describes every single character.

“The Reason” by Hoobastank↓

“this is me trying” by Taylor Swift: Both the songs refer to Chapter 80. Nesta visiting her father’s grave is one of the first steps to finally go on. The songs represent what she really wants to tell her father. He’s the reason to start over. And she’s trying. Even if she made mistakes she’s ready to fight for the happiness and love she denied herself years and now she knows she deserves it.

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hargrove-mayfields · 3 years

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Just A Dream Away

Chapter 12/13 read here on ao3!

for @harringrovebigbang

~~~~

They don’t have time to wait for Steve.

Over the radio he’s told very bluntly that Billy is not going to make it if they wait for Steve to find them first, and they have to get him to the hospital immediately.

He understands, but they say they can’t even put him on the radio, and he hears coughing in the background before the radio is turned off, so he has to find his way out of the woods alone, then wait on his front porch, bat clutched tightly in his hands just in case, for Joyce with a car full of kids to pick him up and drive him to the hospital.

The half hour it takes is the longest of his life, so that by the time he’s in the hospital, he’s running on waxed floors, tennis shoes skidding as he pushes forward into the endless labyrinth of white tiles and fluorescent lights.

Billy. The boy he'd held as he died in this very hospital. Now alive and breathing in room 340, just a floor above from where he’d thought he’d lost him forever. His legs can’t carry him there fast enough.

He’s only vaguely aware of the kids running behind him, or of the nurses who shout at them that visiting hours are over, unaware that they have a free pass, a special government sanctioned patient to visit. He thinks he hears Max, just as breathless as he is, shout something vulgar back at one of them.

They pass by room after room, Steve muttering the numbers under his breath as they skip the until they reach the start of the wing Billy’s being kept in, and he sprints so fast the numbers are too blurry to count.

He catches himself with both hands on the door frame of 340, leaving small scuff marks on the floor as he skids to a stop. There isn’t even time to take a breath and prepare himself before he’s rushing into the room.

The small group that he hadn’t left out in the hall is already in the tiny hospital room, Kali and El and Robin standing around the bed, talking to Billy. That’s a good enough sign, but they’re still in Steve’s way, the one last barrier keeping him from reuniting with his love. He has to see him.

“Move.” He hears himself breathe out, and they do, stepping aside each with matching looks of respect and sympathy for all that had got them to this point.

Billy looks up at him, the closed off, traumatized expression behind his eyes melting into one of relief and love that was mirrored perfectly in Steve’s own features. He’s sitting on the side of the bed, feet flat on the floor so he’s facing the door. An oxygen mask not much unlike the one that had kept him, or not really him, alive for so many months strapped to his face and a bandage wrapped tightly around his arm. Tired, deep blue eyes glassy with tears stare straight back at him.

Steve is completely frozen in place, can’t process the fact that he’s standing across from the boy he’d buried a year ago now. The one he never stopped mourning. Never stopped loving.

Billy’s the first of the two to say something, his voice cracking with the effort, with emotion , as a tear slips down his grimy cheek, “C’mere, Stevie.”

Steve practically trips over his own two feet, throwing himself into Billy’s open arms, “Baby, oh my god.”

“I know, Stevie.” Billy comforts, rubbing soothing circles into his back, but it only makes Steve cry harder, nuzzling Billy’s mess of hair and sobbing, “I lost you.”

“No, baby, I was here. I was here the whole time.”

Steve nods, sniffling as he tries to calm his tears, “I’m sorry.” He’s apologizing for everything, from crying to not saving him sooner to not being there in the first place.

“Sorry? Stevie, you saved me.” He thumbs over the bloody scratch on Steve’s cheek, “You could’ve been killed doing that for me with just a baseball bat.”

Insistently, Steve shakes his head, “Don’t make this about me. Look at you , you’re covered in blood.”

“Most of it’s not mine. There’s so many of those fuckers over there. They used to mind their own but something was different. Had to kill tons of ‘em.”

“But you’re okay?”

“Mhm. Doc says I’ll be on oxygen for as long as I breathed that shit in, maybe longer, and this damn bite’s getting infected, but s’nothin they can’t fix.”

“Good. I was so scared.” Steve sighs, relieved, and Billy chuckles, somehow despite everything still like himself as he teases, “You were scared? How do you think I felt?”

“Oh shut up. I’m serious. I thought you were gone, and then they said you might not make it.”

“We’ll I’m here now, baby, and I’m doing just fine.” Billy assures, so much confidence in his voice, albeit tired and worn, that Steve believes him.

Steve smiles, Billy’s attitude being back such a relief to his worry, “I love you, Bill.”

“Love you too.”

“Is that my bandana?” Steve gently tugs on the bandana tied at the back of Billy’s neck, the tiniest blush appearing on his face, but before he can answer, Max pipes up from the doorway, “And is that my watch?”

Billy’s face lights up all over again, “Maxi! C’mere, shitbird.”

Max runs up to her brother, stopping just short of the bed, her freckled cheeks already tracked with tears, “Am I allowed to hug you?”

“I fought monsters and you’re worried a hug’s gonna hurt me?” Billy smiles and holds his arms out for her, “Give your big brother a hug.”

Still just on the side of apprehensive, Max hugs him, and Billy starts to interrogate her, asking quietly, “Are you okay, Maxi? How’s home been? Has Neil hurt you?”

Max shakes her head, “Your dad’s been all depressed since you.. well since you died. He hasn’t hit my mom since before your funeral.”

“You telling me the truth?” He looks to Steve for confirmation, who nods as well, had heard the same from Max.

“Well don't congratulate him for that. I have half a mind to take that shotgun down there and give it to him for everything he did before.” Billy continues, voice grumbly, but Max pulls away from his hug to tell him, “Please don’t. You don’t ever even have to come home again. I never want to see you act how you used to have to around your dad again.”

“I’m not leaving you, Max.”

“You won’t be. Like I said, he doesn’t bother us anymore.” Max drops her voice to a whisper, her face somber and serious, “Just move in with Steve, please. That would make me feel better.”

It won’t be that easy, the two of them both know that if the glance they share says anything, but Billy agrees regardless, can’t bear to crush his sisters optimism after everything she already had gone through because of him.

“Alright, Maxi. I trust you.” Billy undoes the small yellow watch on his wrist, handing it back to her, “You can have this back. Sorry if it’s broken.”

Max takes the watch gently, holding it tightly in her hand and throwing herself into him for another hug, sobbing hard into Billy’s chest as her well-kept composure comes undone. He holds her and runs his fingers through her hair, mumbling on repeat, “I gotcha, Maxi. M’sorry.”

It takes until Joyce comes back in the room with news for her crying to calm down, pulling away from him and retreating to stand by El while she listens, a couple of the other kids thumbing away discreet tears from the emotional display as well.

Joyce had at first ushered all the kids in the room and told them to be supportive of Max, before leaving to talk with Billy’s doctors in the absence of his parents. Now she was back with something to say, and Billy looks to her expectantly, “So? How long’re they keepin’ me in this hell hole?”

“A month at least. They’re going to want to do a lot of tests. Monitor how you’re adjusting.” She smiles sympathetically, “I wish I had better news, but it’s for the best they keep you a while.”

Steve looks to Billy, holding his hand for assurance, worried he’ll take it badly, but he only nods determinedly, “Whatever it takes.”

#harringrove big bang 2021 #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #billy & max #max mayfield #ej writer #story by ej!#almost done! we’re in the home stretch y’all!

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ladycatofwinterfell · 3 years

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Dealing with the consequences, part 1

Here it is, the long awaited sequel to “Consequences”. It’s been a while since I was last this excited to post something and I hope you share this feeling. I usually write happy married nedlyn, so just digging into the more complicated and messy relationship that is nedlyn in this little modern AU I created last year is quite fun. And if you were with me when I was writing “Consequences” you might remember that I posted a chapter every other day, it WON’T be like that this time

Summary: One day, six months after they move into their new house, Ned and Cat wake up to an unfortunate surprise. This small and seemingly insignificant event sets things into motion, and they try their best to repair what they can despite that they have messed up before. Because maybe, just maybe, they can do things a little bit better that time around. And you know what they say, third time’s the charm.

The baby had made her an incredibly light sleeper. So she was fully awake in a second when it knocked on her door. She looked at Sansa’s crib to make sure of that she was still sleeping. Waking her before she woke on her own was just a very bad idea. She had also already been awake once that night. So Catelyn wasn’t too happy about being woken for a reason that wasn’t to feed her daughter. Whatever it was that Ned had on his mind. She knew that it was Ned, Robb wouldn’t have knocked and Jon always avoided her as best as he could on the weeks when he was with them.

She wrapped a robe around herself and tiptoed through the room. Ned definitely had something on his mind. And he didn’t look happy about it.

“Who died?” she whispered.

He did not appreciate the joke. Had someone actually died?

“The dishwasher is broken” he said. “And there is a lot water in our kitchen.”

“Seven fucking hells.”

She wished so badly that it would have been a lie. Damnit. She had to close her eyes for a moment, take three calming breaths. And then she walked down the stairs, crossed the living room and found that Ned had not been lying. It had been very much true. There was water. A lot of it. On their floor.

She heard him come up behind her. She didn’t really know what to do. What could she do? There was so much water. What were they supposed to do with all the water?

“What time is it?” she asked, because that was all she could come up with.

“Around half past three, I think” Ned replied.

Half past three in the morning. What could they do? What the hell could they do when it was the middle of the night?

“We’ll have to do this ourselves, then” she sighed. “We need to turn off the water.”

“I already did that.”

“Of course you did. Now what?”

“We need to get the water away.”

“And how do we do that?”

She had never dealt with a flooded kitchen before. She had never dealt with any kind of flooded room before. And from the look of despair on Ned’s face she guessed he hadn’t either.

Right then Sansa seemed to have woken only to notice that she was alone. And she was screaming bloody murder.

“I’ll go get her.”

She half ran back up to her room, had some small hope of that if she was quick enough maybe there was a chance of that Robb and Jon would sleep through it. They wouldn’t be of any help, it was better if they slept until their alarms rang. But of course they didn’t.

She had just picked Sansa up and was bouncing the baby in her arms when Robb poked his sleepy little head into her room.

“Has something happened?” he asked, quite loudly so that she would be able to hear him over the screaming baby.

“No” she told him. “Everything is as it should be. Go back to bed.”

She could take that with him later. When things were a bit calmer.

“Are you hungry? Is that the problem?” she mumbled to Sansa. “Robb, please, go to bed.”

He muttered something and went back to the room that he shared with Jon. They got along quite well. Well enough to share a room, at least. Jon was still a bit shy around Robb though. Ned said that it would pass, but she was unsure. He was probably confused about the weird situation, the poor child. And that she was around didn’t make anything better for him.

She walked downstairs again once Sansa was done. Tried to hold onto what remained of her sanity. It wasn’t much. She couldn’t do much either. She didn’t know what to do. It was in moments like those she wondered how anyone managed to be an adult because it was very hard.

“Just why?”

Ned sounded very miserable. And Catelyn couldn’t even be some sort of moral support because she was just as miserable.

“I bet it’s because I’m living with a divorced man” she said. “This is the gods’ punishment. That is what my father would say.”

“Can your father tell the gods that we are parents and nothing more?” Ned muttered.

Her father did absolutely not believe that they only lived together to take care of the kids. In truth, it seemed like no one believed it. Especially Edmure. He wouldn’t shut up about it. But it was true. They had lived together for almost six months, and they had done very well. They had made it work. It had been a bit strained in the beginning, but as time passed it had gotten better and better. And there had been no relapses. Not even a kiss. She was proud of herself. If they had managed to see each other every day for so long without acting on a single little thought they could probably manage it all the way through. It would be empty though, when the kids were older and they could part again.

”Could you get some towels from upstairs?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, darling.”

She stopped and turned to look at him. He looked back at her, didn’t seem to realize what he had just said.

“Darling?” she asked, chuckling.

He sighed very deeply and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m very tired, I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.”

She really didn’t mind. He could keep on slipping, she would enjoy every word. As long as it didn’t go further than that they were fine. Hopefully. She didn’t love Ned. She didn’t. She couldn’t after what had happened. But would that completely erase everything that had been before? No, it wouldn’t.

~*~

The floor was very water damaged. Gods, they had been living in that house for six months and they already had to deal with water damage in the kitchen. They would have to tear out the floor to check for further damage and replace it. And they needed a new dishwasher.

They had dried up as well as they could and carried out the table, the chairs and the carpet to the living room so that there wouldn’t be any mold. Once the time was reasonable they would have to call someone that could do the work needed in the kitchen.

But still all Ned could think of was the way she had smiled when he had accidentally called her darling. He really hadn’t meant it, it had been an honest mistake. They weren’t together, they definitely couldn’t call each other that. And still she had smiled. Damn her.

“So what are we gonna do while we can’t use the kitchen?”

Catelyn laid flat on her back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Her hair was like a fiery cloud around her head. None of them had been eager to go back to bed after that so they had just sat in the living room. There was still more than two hours until they had to get the boys up and get them ready for school. And he had to go to work. Catelyn was on maternity leave, but they would switch in two months so that she could go back to work.

“I’ll talk to Ashara, see if she can take Jon even though it’s not her week” he said. “I think being able to properly feed a kid is bare minimum and we currently can’t check that box.”

Ashara probably wouldn’t object to that. She wasn’t too happy about that Jon lived in the same house as Catelyn every other week. She was pretty pissed about it, actually. Understandably. Rightfully. Not that she really liked that Jon was with him every other week either, but that she had to agree to.

“If I ask I think Edmure could have Robb with him until we have it fixed. And if he can’t, my parents probably can. It shouldn’t take too long, should it?”

“I guess that depends on if the floor is the only damaged part.”

Catelyn closed her eyes and sighed.

“It better be. It better fucking be.”

A tired smile appeared on her lips when she opened her eyes again. Both Robb and Sansa had her eyes. A wonderful blue shade that wasn’t like anything else.

“I guess it will be just you, me and the little lady upstairs for a while then” she said as she rolled to her side so that she could look at him where he sat in his armchair.

And what exactly did she mean by that? It was a true, and maybe that was all she meant. But she could also mean something wildly different. Or maybe he was just overthinking it. That was most likely it. There was nothing.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, still smiling.

How breathtakingly beautiful you are, was what he wanted to say at first. That was not what he said. Because saying that was a bad idea. They lived together for the sake of the kids. Nothing else. But he could acknowledge that she was pretty, he wasn’t blind.

He had not forgotten what she had done. No, it still stung whenever he thought of it. And that was almost every time he looked at Robb. But a part of his mind was betraying him. And that part did backflips whenever she smiled at him. Did she feel the same? Was there some part of her mind that did the same? He couldn’t help but wonder. Wondering would do no harm to anyone.

“Nothing” was what he said in the end.

“Liar” she chuckled. “I know you, I could tell it wasn’t nothing.”

“Nothing of importance” Ned tried and he couldn’t keep himself from smiling.

Though it was important. Very important. But he couldn’t let her know what it was.

“Oh it looked to be incredibly important. And don’t tell me it was about the kitchen, I know it was not!”

“Terribly nosy today, are we?” he asked and rolled his eyes.

“Every time you leave like that I want to get into your head and see what you’re thinking of. But I can’t so you need to tell me.”

Ashara had said the same half a million times.

“Do I now?”

“It would make me happy.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

She sat up, looked deeply into his eyes. All he could do was look back at her, trying to keep his heart from beating so fast. It was the lack of sleep, he decided. He didn’t need much sleep, but he had slept even less than usual that night. That was why his body reacted the way it did. He did not love Catelyn Tully. He couldn’t. His feelings for her were dead.

“No, you’re not” she said after a moment.

“No, I’m not.”

She got up on her feet and stretched. He wasn’t supposed to watch her the way he did and still he couldn’t turn his eyes away. He didn’t love her, but denying that there was some attraction still left wouldn’t help anything. She was pretty. And he knew way too much about her to not think of it sometimes.

“I think I’ll go back to bed, if I’m lucky Sansa will let me sleep a bit more.”

He wouldn’t have complained if the moment had lasted longer, but he couldn’t keep her there.

“You do that” he said.

Maybe it was good if he went back to bed too. He did have a day of work ahead of him, being as well rested as possible would probably be good.

As Catelyn walked past him she leaned down and kissed the top of his head. It was a quick motion, over in a second. But Ned was so startled by it that he didn’t know what to do.

“Goodnight” she said with a smile and then she walked upstairs.

~*~

Had she overstepped? Maybe. But she had wanted to kiss him so badly after their conversation that the thought of not touching him in some small way had felt unbearable. Just earlier that night Catelyn had told herself that as long as it didn’t go any longer than an accidental affective term here and there it would be fine. And then she had immediately initiated physical contact that was more than platonic. What was she doing? She didn’t love him, she couldn’t love him. It wasn’t good for anyone. It would be better if she just stopped feeling so much.

He was most likely still angry with her for what she had done. They had not talked about it yet, but she knew. And she did deserve that and pressuring him wouldn’t make it better. And she had told herself that it wouldn’t end well if they slept together. But what was actually the worst case scenario? He wasn’t married anymore, she had no secrets, they already had kids together. And the chance of getting into a fight was there even without the sex. They were basically living like a married couple already, sleeping with him wouldn’t really change anything.

“Self control, Catelyn Tully” she muttered to herself. “You said you wouldn’t so you won’t.”

She had gone so long without those feelings. Everything had gone so well. And then they put their claws into her once more. But she would resist. She had not acted upon it and it would continue that way. For everyone’s best. Because they had not talked about anything. Even though they were living peacefully they had really not solved anything. And she would not do that to him, she would not take another step forward until she was sure of that he was fine and they had all cards on the table. They probably would never have. And that had to be okay. Because she had fucked up in gigantic proportions, and she could not expect him to be okay with it. One reaps what one sows. And unfortunately she had sown some bad seeds.

But it was hard seeing him. She would not say it wasn’t. Though she kept up a good expression. Like the good person that she was. Or at least half decent person. Maybe calling herself a good person after she had slept with a man she knew was married was taking it a bit too far.

Edmure of course found it incredibly funny when she explained the situation to him in the morning. She probably would have called him a number of things if not Robb and Jon had been in the same room. Their unusable kitchen really wasn’t funny at all.

“Could Robb stay with you and Roslin while we get the kitchen fixed?” she asked, using all her energy to keep calm. “It really would help a lot.”

“Of course” Edmure said

She breathed a sigh of relief, but that relief passed a second later when Edmure kept on talking.

“So what are you gonna do?”

“What do you mean? We’re gonna see if there’s more water damage and get the floor changed.”

“That was not what I meant.”

She could hear his smirk. Had he been there she would have smacked the back of his head, but she couldn’t do that.

“Then what did you mean?”

“Oh you know... if Robb is with me and Jon is with Ned’s ex-wife... the house will be almost empty except for you two.”

Catelyn was thoroughly tired of him and his remarks. But that one was at least partly on her, she had actually asked.

“If I murdered you no one would judge me” she hissed, in a voice that was low enough for Robb and Jon not to hear her.

“The law, sweet sister, would judge you.”

“I’d take twenty years in prison just to be rid of you.”

“Your man at home wouldn’t be very happy though, would he?”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“I’ll pick Robb up after work. Love you.”

“Idiot.”

And then she got the boys ready for school. Jon accepted her help without complaining but in his grey eyes she saw how he disliked that it wasn’t his mother helping him. Robb seemed oblivious of it though, he talked just as much as he always did. About most everything. Ned just chose to not acknowledge it.

He felt bad for what he had done, she knew that. He probably regretted it as well, but she didn’t allow herself to think too much about that. It was as it was. And dwelling upon whether Ned regretted it or not wouldn’t take her anywhere. They had their baby. So at least something good had come out of it.

Once Ned and the boys were out the house was oddly quiet. Sansa cooperated perfectly that day so she wasn’t too much trouble. Catelyn spent the calm hours looking into what would be best for their water damaged kitchen. Once that was done she packed Robb’s things so that it would be done when Edmure came to pick him up. She glanced at Jon’s side of the room. Could she pack his things too? Or would that be overstepping? She wasn’t trying to replace Ashara. Not in the least, she knew her place. It would just be easier if she packed for him too so that he was ready when Ned was going to drive him to Ashara. Surely no one could be too angry at that? In the end she decided to do it. No one could blame her for her intentions, could they?

“Thank you, Catelyn” was what Jon said when she handed him his bag.

At least he had stopped with calling her Ms. Tully. That was always something. And he didn’t seem to feel much about it at all.

“You’re welcome.”

“Has Sansa been nice today?” he asked.

Catelyn was surprised by that question. Not that Jon didn’t care for Sansa, he was very sweet with her. And he sounded very proud over it whenever he talked about her. But he very rarely talked more than strictly necessary to Catelyn.

“Yes, today she’s been very nice.”

“Good.”

“Then maybe she’ll sleep better tonight” Ned said.

“Let’s hope so.”

For the sake of Catelyn’s well-being. After she had gone back to bed she had barely slept a second because Sansa had decided that sleeping was overrated. Just then the doorbell rang and Robb practically came flying down the stairs. He reacted to the doorbell like a dog. So even though Catelyn, Ned and Jon were in the hall they let Robb open the door. It was Edmure, as expected.

“Hello everyone!” he said as he stepped inside, grinning like an idiot.

“Edmure” Ned muttered for a greeting.

Just as Jon usually avoided Catelyn when it was possible, Ned avoided Edmure when it was possible. He got very uncomfortable around her brother. And it wasn’t strange considering Edmure didn’t have any limits. She had just learned to live with it.

“Edmure. No” Catelyn said when he opened his mouth to answer.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“It’s better if you don’t say anything at all.”

“How do you stand living with her?” Edmure asked Ned.

Ned pretended not to hear that. Maybe he barely could stand living with her. It didn’t matter. As long as they were friendly for the children the rest didn’t really matter. But the thought of him disliking her felt worse than she wanted to admit.

Jon slipped past Edmure and went outside to wait for Ned while she made sure Robb had everything he needed.

“Give Uncle Edmure hell from me, will you?” she said as Robb picked up his bag.

“I promise” he smiled.

“That’s unfair!” Edmure exclaimed.

She pulled Robb into a hug.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

It wasn’t often she was separated from Robb more than a few days at a time. When she thought of it she couldn’t remember if it had ever happened. Surely it must have, but she still didn’t like it when he was with Edmure or her parents for too long. She had to keep reminding himself that he was getting big. There wouldn’t be many years until he no longer wanted to be with her. But he had been her only child for so long, it was hard.

She let go of Robb and expected him to run outside after Jon, but instead he turned to Ned.

“You take care of her” he said, serious as death. “And make sure of that she doesn’t worry so much.”

Both Catelyn and Ned stopped at that. He glanced at her for just a second, then he looked back at Robb. She wanted to say something to Robb, but nothing came out.

“I promise to do that” Ned responded, sounding just as serious as her son.

“Good.”

Then Robb walked out the door. The sweet boy.

“I shouldn’t be too long” Ned said. “And I’ll buy food on the way home.”

“Sounds good” she said. “Bye.”

And, seemingly without thinking of it, he leaned down and kissed her. It was just a peck, quick, as if it was a routine. Something they did every time one of them left the house. But it was a kiss all the same. And Catelyn didn’t know what to do.

She backed away a step, just to do something. Ned realized what he had done and she had never seen a more panicked face in her life. She didn’t really know how she felt. Mostly shocked. She had not imagined that their first kiss in over a year would be like that. She had not imagined there would be a first kiss at all. Or, well, she had imagined it more than a few times. But she hadn’t actually believed it would ever come true.

“What are you doing?” she asked, unsure of what else to say.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I don’t know what I was doing” Ned apologized.

When he had apologized for calling her “darling” he had just sounded tired. At the moment all she could hear was pure panic. And she knew that he genuinely had no idea of why he had done it. He was just as shocked as she was.

“Cat, really, I have no idea of why I just did that. And I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

“There is nothing to– oh my gods, Edmure, shut up!”

While all that had happened Edmure had been laughing hysterically in the background. But she had not really been aware of it until just then. Her attention had been directed towards Ned and the fact that he had kissed her.

“Do you really want me to believe that you two are not together?” he practically howled. “You don’t accidentally kiss someone, you do that often!

She really couldn’t deal with him at the moment.

“Get out.”

“You take good care of my sister now, Ned, give her everything you know she likes.”

“Shut your seven times damned mouth and get out!”

He actually did so, still laughing to himself, so that was a small relief.

“You know there’s nothing to forgive” she said to Ned once the door was closed. “But that was very... out of the blue. To say the least.”

She had thought of doing that about a hundred times since he came home, but she had never been even close to acting on it. And then he just kissed her out of nowhere. Was it because he wanted to kiss her?

“I know.”

~*~

He was undoubtedly the stupidest person he knew. He had not been aware of that he had done it at first. But then she had looked at him with wide eyes and asked him what he was doing. And Ned hadn’t even known what he had been doing. That was the second time that day he had done something like that. What was happening?

Despite the initial question she didn’t seem upset about it. Mostly confused. And he had to admit that he was confused as well. He had thought of kissing her before, but had never acted on it. It had only been a thought, safe deep in his mind, and never something that would be reality. Or that was what he had thought. And then he had kissed her.

“Go” Catelyn sighed. “We can talk more when you get home.”

“Are you sure it’s alright? I really didn’t mean to do that to you” he said.

He wouldn’t want her to think of him like that. And he would rather die than do something to her against her will.

That actually brought a smile to her face.

“Yes. No need to worry, it was a mistake. Let’s just pretend it never happened.”

For some reason that thought made something twist in his chest. Pretending it never happened would probably be the best. But still. It had been a mistake but he knew that he wouldn’t have objected to it happening again. But that clearly wasn’t what she wanted. And they still had not figured anything out. Building things on top of a broken base was a terrible idea. But did he really want to fix that base? He didn’t know. If they fixed it the temptation would be even bigger. And more temptation really wasn’t what they needed. They needed to move on despite that the conditions for that were bad.

“Yeah.”

“Jon is waiting for you” she said.

“And so is Edmure, most likely.”

Edmure would never let them hear the end of it. As if though the rest hadn’t been enough. He had asked Ned how he could stand living with Catelyn. Living with Catelyn was quite easy, Ned’s biggest question was how Catelyn had managed to stand out with Edmure for so long.

“No offense, but I really don’t like your brother” he said.

Catelyn laughed.

“I assure you, no one finds my brother more annoying than I do.”

“I actually might beat you on that one.”

“You definitely don’t. Now go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighed and almost pushed him towards the door when he turned to leave.

“You’re such a dork, I can’t take this.”

But she was smiling. That beautiful smile that made her shine. He had been afraid that he wouldn’t see that smile for a while after that mistake. But he did. And he loved that smile.

“Bye” he said as he stepped outside.

She only shook her head and closed the door behind him. To his great relief Edmure was not waiting for him. He had never been happier about being wrong.

The ride to Ashara’s went fine. Jon talked a little bit about how school had been, what he had learned and what they were going to do on Monday. Ned treasured those moments with his son. Because he knew that once he got older he wouldn’t be as happy anymore. He would most likely hate his father for what he had done.

Ashara had stayed in their house after the divorce. And despite that he had lived there for years it felt weird when he walked up to the door with Jon. The little boy bounced forward with his bag in one hand and rang the doorbell with the other. It only took Ashara a few seconds to open.

“Hey, sweetheart!” she said and pulled Jon into a tight hug which he happily returned.

“Hi, Mom!”

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too!”

Before he would have been a part of that. Just a bit more than a year ago. But he wasn’t. Because of his own idiotic mistakes. Or could he really call it a mistake when he did not regret it? He had his daughter, Sansa. The most lovely little girl ever. He could not regret that. Even though he wished Ashara would not have been hurt. She deserved better than to be hurt in the way he had hurt her. But he had done it, he had gone to Catelyn knowing what it would do to his wife.

“Is Dad going to come inside?” Jon asked and looked up at his mother.

“No. Dad isn’t coming inside.”

That she could keep her face from going hard when she said that was a miracle. But no matter how much she wanted to kill him she would smile for their son. Just like he would smile for Robb no matter what his mother had done.

“You can go inside though, Jon” Ashara said and ran a hand through the boy’s hair. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Okay” Jon said and turned to Ned. “Bye, Dad!”

“Bye, Jon.”

Ashara waited for Jon to get inside and then she turned to him as well.

“How is your daughter?” she asked, her tone neutral, as if they were speaking about the weather.

“She’s fine. Healthy.”

“Good. And how is her mother?”

“She’s fine as well.”

Talking about it was hard. He had created all that on his own, but still talking about it was hard. He had hurt people for Cat, including Cat, and then she had hurt him as well in the process. It was so much hurt. So much pain that had been unnecessary and avoidable. But they were human, they did stupid things for all sorts of reasons. That was the only explanation he had, because it didn’t really make sense. He had tried to make sense of it all and had realized that he understood very little. He had loved Cat, he had loved Ashara, he loved his children. Had it all been for love? No, that wasn’t it. How could it have been for love if he hurt people he loved?

Ashara looked up at the sky. There wasn’t a cloud in sight and it hadn’t rained in days.

“Catelyn” she said after a moment of silence. “I wish I could like her. She seems very likable. Maybe we could have been friends if it had not been for that she decided to go for my husband. Or maybe you’ll be her husband soon.”

He could hear the question in her words.

“No” he sighed. “And it will stay that way.”

Ashara chuckled.

“You know, that kinda pisses me off. Fine if you had left me for someone you loved more, but now you just left me.”

“I asked for a divorce because you deserve better than someone who cheats on you. I didn’t leave you, I wanted you to have better than me. Staying in the marriage would have been unfair, I couldn’t do that to you. And when my daughter came into the picture I had to do it for her as well.”

He had loved them both, and because of that he had let Ashara down. She deserved so much better. He deserved someone who wasn’t weak for some old flame, who loved her and her alone.

“Then why even sleep with her in the first place? If you couldn’t do that to me?”

He had asked himself that question a thousand times. He had known that he would ruin his relationship with Ashara, and still he had done it. Why?

“Because I’m weak” he ended up saying. “Because sometimes I’m a bad person. I have no excuses and no good reasons for doing what I did. But I’m sorry.”

He had told Catelyn that as well, even though it felt like it had been ages since then. They were weak. They had always been. But they had to put an end to it.

“As you should be.”

“I am. Truly.”

Ned wasn’t the best at expressing things, he was well aware of that flaw, but he really was sorry for putting Ashara through that. Divorce had been the only reasonable thing to do, but they had not needed to get to that point if he had not cheated in the first place. But it had been Catelyn. And Catelyn was... Catelyn. His Cat.

“That’s always something, I suppose” Ashara said. “Well, good luck with the kitchen.”

“Thank you.”

It was a relief when she followed Jon inside and closed the door. Ned had not expected to have that conversation, and it had been difficult. All of it was difficult. Oh how Ned wished it could have been different. In what way, he had no idea. Because the mess had given him his children, and he couldn’t regret that. Without Ashara he wouldn’t have had Jon, and without Cat he wouldn’t have had Sansa. And Robb.

He liked Robb. The boy was so much like his mother, there wasn’t a trace of Ned in him. And he wished he could have known Robb from the beginning, he wished he could have been a proper father to him. There probably would have been more of him in Robb if that had been the case. If Catelyn had let that happen.

He still couldn’t understand it at all. Why she had decided that keeping their son a secret was a good idea, and it made him both angry and sad. But some part of Cat had always been a mystery, some part of her he would never understand. She was human, she did illogical things all the time. And even though it was hard to accept that he had to, because what had been done had been done. Nothing could change it.

When he got back in the car he noticed that Catelyn had sent him a message.

My mom came here because Edmure told her about the kitchen

That didn’t exactly make Ned overjoyed, Cat’s family had no love for him. But her mother was probably the one he got along with best out of all of them. Her father didn’t even try to hide his dislike and her siblings either made jokes or just pursed their lips at him. Not that his family loved Catelyn particularly much, it was just Lyanna. The rest of them seemed weary.

Is she staying for dinner?

No but she’ll be here when you come home. Just thought you wanted to know

Thanks for the heads up

No problem

He sighed and leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes for a moment. It really wasn’t his day. But it couldn’t get any worse, right?

~*~

this is so much fun to write and people were so engaged in it last time, so i hope i didn’t disappoint and that i can deliver on the same level as last time this was a thing on my blog

Thanks for reading <3

#ned stark #catelyn tully #catelyn stark #ned x cat #robb stark #jon snow #edmure tully #ashara dayne #consequences #dealing with the consequences #more memes might come when I'm not insanely tired because it's the middle of the night

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albertasunrise · 3 years

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No More - Chapter 9

Summary: Frankie has been your best friend since you were in the 2nd grade. You were each other’s first’s, he, your first love and as you’d both gotten older you always somehow fell into bed together after one too many drinks with the boys. You don’t know how much longer you can keep this up but fate has other plans for you both and events are set in motion to decide for you.

Warnings: Angst, Blood and Injury, Hospitalisation, Descriptions of childbirth, Smut 18+

Pairings: Frankie/ Reader

You’re pulled back by invisible hands as you watch Frankie gasp and choke for air, lips turning a sickly shade of blue and you feel yourself losing control. What was happening? You watch as one of the men that helped him lowers his ear to his chest, closing his eyes in concentration as he tries to listen past the wheezing.

‘Ribs punctured his lung.’ He states as he looks at the man beside him ‘Anyone see an ambulance?’

‘Yeah, it’s coming.’ Chime’s in one of the women that are holding you.

Then you hear the sirens, you hear Brad’s screaming, Frankie’s gasping and Emma’s cries and you feel overwhelmed by the noise. You don’t know what to do with yourself. You bounce Emma in your arms as you try and calm her cries but she won’t stop, her eyes fixed on her dad. Suddenly the ambulance is there and the EMT’s are swarming, getting to work on stabilising Frankie and you decide you can’t watch, you can’t do this again.

‘Ma’am?’ A familiar voice calls and you turn to see the officers that had been looking for Emma ‘Is this Emma?’ Asks the female officer as she smiles at you and your baby.

‘Y-yes.’ You stutter as you try to keep yourself calm.

‘Hello, Emma.’ She says softly as she lets the infant wrap her hand around her index finger ‘You’ve had us all very worried. I’m glad to see you, sweetheart.’

You find her words oddly soothing. She looks at you and gives you a warm smile and you find yourself relaxing a little, able to calm your mind a little from the chaos that surrounds you. You see her partner taking Brad to the police car and you lock eyes with your ex, your blood running cold at the look in his eyes.

‘That should be my baby.’ He growls before spitting on the ground and being roughly shoved in the back of the vehicle.

‘What does he mean by that?’ The female officer asks, noting the sudden panic spreading across your face and placing a comforting hand on your arm.

‘I uh… We’re expecting another baby.’ You state as you finally tear your eyes away from the space that Brad had occupied a few moments ago ‘Brad had been replacing my contraceptive pills with placebos.’

‘It’s not…”

‘No it’s Frankie’s.’ You assure her and she gives you a warm smile.

‘Well, congratulations.’ She says, giving your arm another squeeze ‘He’s going away for a long time. You can rest easy knowing he’ll not hurt your family again.’

‘Thank you.’ You reply as you nod and give her a small smile, before turning to look at the EMT who’s walked up behind you.

‘He’s stable. Few broken ribs, one pierced his lung. Are you going to come in the ambulance?’ They ask, eyes flitting between you and the officer.

‘Yes.’ You reply plainly before placing a small kiss on Emma’s cheek.

‘What the fuck happened?’ Yells a familiar voice and you see Benny and Will sprinting towards you.

You’d forgotten that you’d invited them over this evening but you were so happy to see them both. Their eyes grow even wider when they see Emma in your arms and Ben is quick to pull her from your grasp and hug her tight, weeping as he breathes her in.

'Fuck I missed you Em.' He says as she cradles her head against the crook of his neck.

‘Brad must have seen the baby announcement.’ You start ‘He turned up with Emma and beat Frankie within an inch of his life. I need to go with him will you take care of her. Please.’

‘Of course.’ Nods Will as he takes Emma from his brother and hugs her tightly ‘We’ll get her cleaned and dressed and come by later.’

‘Thank you.’ You give them both a quick hug before sprinting off to the ambulance and clambering inside.

He’s going to be okay. Those words keep running around inside your head as you watch Frankie sleep, waiting eagerly for him to open his eyes again. He looks a little better now he’s been cleaned up. His eye’s still swollen and he has a large cut just by his hairline but his face was otherwise okay. His ribs were a different story. Brad had broken several which had lead to one puncturing his lung. You’d been advised that he was fine and that they just wanted to keep him in for a few days for observation to ensure he didn’t develop any infections. They said he’d be out for a few hours due to the strong pain killers they’d given him but you’d sat and waited anyway, hand resting on your small bump. You’d had time to contemplate things. You’d thought about how Frankie had done nothing but put you first in the past few months, despite his internal struggle. He’d cared for you when you were ill and he’d consoled you when you’d learned that you were pregnant again. He’s never once pressured you into anything, just supported you and cared for you and you’d come to realise. He really is in love with you. Once the initial shock of baby number two wore off he’d embraced it, shown you that it was nothing to be ashamed or worried about. That it had been, if anything, a blessing in disguise. Something to hold on to in those hard times and you’d eventually come round to the idea of having another baby with him. Now you couldn’t wait.

‘You’re thinking loudly.’ He grumbles and you practically leap from your seat, grabbing his hand as you watch him slowly come around ‘Where’s Emma?’

‘She’s with Will and Ben.’ You reply, smiling sweetly at him ‘They’re going to bring her around later but I needed to stay with you.’

‘I’m sorry I-.’

‘No shhh…’ You hush as you stand and start to stroke his unruly curls ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Brad’s gone and we're a family again. You, Me, Emma and this little Bean.’ You finish as you lay his hand on your stomach.

‘We?’

You lower your lips to his, careful not to hurt him and you kiss him sweetly. He doesn’t react at first, shocked by this sudden change but then he’s kissing you back, moaning when your tongues collide and fight for dominance. You pull away, lips swollen and cheeks flushed as you catch your breath and look at him sheepishly. Forming your next words carefully.

‘I love you, Francisco Morales.’ You start, raising your finger to quieten him when he goes to speak ‘And I’ve come to realise that you do love me too. I want to raise this baby with you. I want to raise Emma with you. I want us to be a family.’

‘I want that too.’

‘I’m sorry it took my ex beating the shit out of you for me to realise but I do know now… And if you’re not too fed up of waiting, will you have me?’

‘Definitely.’ He replies, yanking you down into another kiss more passionate than the first.

‘I love you, Lazo.’ He mumbles against your lips and you grin and each other like lovesick teens.

You were shocked at how many people turned up for Emma’s first Birthday. You’d decided to throw a barbecue and invited all the neighbours who had helped you when Brad had turned up. You'd become quite close to them all, disaster does bring people together. Those neighbours turned up, bringing along their kids and a few had even invited friends who had children Emma’s age. It was fortunate that Frankie had gone overboard on the amount of food he’d bought. You’d gone all out. A petting zoo in the yard, a bouncy castle which Ben spent most of his time on, with Emma of course, and for the parents a camper van bar that was complete with a vast selection of Gin. You were of course six months along and starting to feel it. You’d decided to combine the party with a gender reveal of the new baby so whatever the colour of the sponge in Emma’s cake was, that was what you were having. It had killed you both to wait this long but you wanted to make it special.

‘When are we cutting the cake it looks amazing!’ Questions Benny as he pulls you into a sideways hug and kisses you sweetly on the cheek.

The cake was amazing. You’d found a bakery in town that made the most incredible cakes and you’d commissioned a zoo-themed cake, Emma loved animals.

‘We’re cutting it in a few minutes. Will’s still okay to film it yeah?’

‘Defo babe.’ He replies ‘I reckon it’s another girl. Fish's got feminine swimmers.’

‘Fuck you, Ben.’

‘Nah I reckon it's a boy.’ Pipes up Will as he swans up beside you all ‘This is a great party sweetie. Got some great neighbours here!’

‘That we do!’ You reply with a smile ‘Where’s Emma?’

‘Over there with Sue. I’ll go fetch her.’ Says Frankie as he kisses you softly.

‘I can’t believe you waited two months to find out what the sex of the baby is.’ Says Will as he grabs the camera and tripod to set it up.

‘Right everyone if you could gather around that dashing gentleman just there with the camera. We’re going to cut the cake.’ You exclaim, making your way over to Frankie who’s waiting with Emma in his arms.

Everyone gathers, smiles on their faces and excited chatter filling the air as Will gives you the thumbs up to go.

‘So this isn’t just any ordinary cake.’ You start as you quickly glance at Frankie and Emma ‘It is indeed Emma’s first birthday cake but inside also holds a clue as to whether she’s going to have a little brother or a sister.’

There are a few cheers and a few shouts of ‘Girl’ and ‘Boy’ which elicit chuckles from you and Frankie, Emma clapping with excitement at the sight of her animal cake. You grab the knife and carefully cut a slice before sliding it underneath and holding the top so that you can lift it and reveal the colour inside.

‘FUCK YEAH.’ Shouts Ben and everyone laughs ‘Knew you had girly swimmers, bro!’

Sure enough, the sponge is pink and everyone erupts into cheers and claps, Emma screaming with excitement although probably to mirror everyone else reaction. You place the cake down on a plate and turn to face Frankie and Emma, grinning at them both as she wriggles in his arms.

‘You’re going to have a sister Bean!.’ You say excitedly as she claps her tiny hands ‘Sorry Frank. Maybe next time.’ You wink as you kiss him softly.

‘Next time??’ He exclaims ‘How many kids you planning on having?’ He chuckles as you kiss him sweetly before kissing the top of Emma’s head.

‘Maybe one more.’

‘Congrats Guys.’ Says Will sweetly as he gives you a friendly kiss on the cheek and a hug before turning to Frankie ‘Are you excited Emma?’

She giggles at Will’s question and he laughs at her reaction.

‘She doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on man.’ Frankie jokes as he kisses the apple of her cheek ‘Do you Princesa?’ She reacts the same way and everyone laughs a little harder.

You're a week late now and you're miserable. You've tried almost everything you can think of you coax the little one out but she's having none of it.

'It's her stubborn Latino blood.' You grumble as you rub your aching belly.

'Hey don't go hating on Latinos!' Frankie chuckles 'Look at Emma! She's the happiest baby on the planet.'

'Yeah... I'm convinced you're giving her pot when I'm not around.' You joke 'It's not normal for a kid to be that laid back. They certainly shouldn't love nap time as much as she does.'

'That, she got from me!.'

'No arguments there.' You reply with a wink.

Frankie booms at that and you laugh along with him before pushing yourself to your feet and waddling to the kitchen.

'What are you doing?'

'Making myself some tea Francisco.'

'I can make it for you.' He says as he walks up behind you and rests his hands on your hips.

'I do nothing but sit and bake this child. Let me make some tea.'

'You do look particularly beautiful today.' He growls in your ear as he pulls you closer to him.

So you'd learned for definite with this pregnancy that Frankie has a pregnancy kink. He couldn't get enough of you and you'd be lying if you said you could get enough of him.

'There's one thing we haven't tried.' He whispers against the shell of your ear as his hand slips down the front of your legs and he strokes a finger along your sex.

'We should try everything we can.' You mumble as you feel your arousal pooling in your core.

'Definitely.' He purrs as he slips two fingers into your heat.

He starts painfully slow and soon you're begging for him to speed up, one hand laced in his hair as the other holds onto the counter for support. He does as you ask and within minutes he's pulled an orgasm out of you. You shiver as he pulls down your leggings along with your panties before you finally kick them off and then you gasp when you feel his length nudge against your folds. He grabs your hips and pulls you back a little, wrapping an arm around you to support you as he pushes himself in. You both gasp together at the feeling, taking a moment to revel in each other before he's snapping his hips back and forth. His pace is maddening and you soon feel yourself approaching another peak, eyes rolling back as he hits that spot inside perfectly with each rock of his hips.

'Shit.' You whimper as you cum hard, your release gushing over him and dripping onto the floor.

'Fucking hell.' He breaths as he speeds up, chasing his release as he tries to pull just one more out of you.

You cum together, moaning loudly as you both hold onto the counter for support, legs shaking from the mind-shattering orgasms you both had. As Franke pulls you he grabs a cloth from the side to clean you up.

'How long does it take to work?' You ask, chuckling as you lean against the counter.

Frankie simply shrugs, pulling up his trousers before bending down to do yours.

'Um, babe.'

'Yeah?'

'I think it worked.' He states and you look down to see a pool of clear liquid beside the one you'd made during sex.

'Great!'

Frankie and Will help you to the car as you try to breathe through the contractions, Benny holding onto a fussy Emma who’s trying to wriggle from his arms.

‘You can’t go Em but in a little while you’re going to be a big sister.’ He says softly in her ear as he watches Will and Frankie help you into the car ‘Until then we’re going to play and eat cake.’

This seems to grab her attention as suddenly she’s beaming at him and he chuckles as he looks into her eyes, Frankie’s eyes. He looks up when he notices Frankie sprinting towards him, looking a little frantic as he plants a kiss on Emma’s forehead.

‘You sure you’re going to be okay?’ He asks as he looks at Ben with a panicked expression.

‘We will be fine man.’

‘I’ve left instructions on the table and all her-.’

‘Go before she gives birth in the car.’ Ben interrupts, patting his friend on the shoulder ‘We will be fine. Call us when the baby's here!’

‘Yeah.’ He nods, kisses Emma again and then sprints to the car, cursing in Spanish when he forgets it's a button start, not a key.

The drive to the hospital is chaotic. Your screaming means that Frankie’s swerving as he tries to keep you calm and focus on the road. It’s no surprise when the flashing lights appear and he’s being pulled over but as soon as the officers see you, red-faced and furious in the passenger seat they’re soon escorting you the rest of the way.

‘Well, this is something to tell her when she's older.’ He jokes and you managed to let out a small laugh before another contraction tears through you.

‘FUCK!!’ You scream, knuckles going white as you grip the dashboard in front of you.

‘We’re almost there baby.’

Sure enough, 3 minutes later you’re pulling into the hospital behind the flashing cop car, a nurse with a wheelchair waiting for you.

‘Wow, door service.’ Frankie jokes but you’re in too much pain to see the humour now.

He hops out of the car and runs around to your door, helping you out and into the wheelchair that’s been pushed over.

‘You head in, I’ll park your car for you.’ Says the officer and Frankie is quick to toss him the keys ‘I’ll leave them at the nurse's station.

‘Thank you so much.’ Frankie says as he shakes the officer's hand before following you inside.

You’re quickly taken to a private room, the nurse helping you out of your clothes and into a gown before she, along with Frankie, helps you lay down in the bed.

‘A doctor will be along shortly to see how far along you are.’

You can only nod, tears streaming down your face as you try to breathe through it. This is the first real labour you’ve experienced as you’d passed out during Emma’s. It’s hell and you’re pretty sure you’re crushing every bone in Frankie’s hand but he doesn’t complain, just stands there and takes it.

‘Right I understand a baby is coming.’ The doctor jokes and you glare at him but Frankie laughs.

‘She’s not in the best of humour right now.’ He says and you do manage a chuckle at that.

‘Right well you’re around 8 cms so she’s well on her way.’ He says, giving you both a smile 'I’ll be back soon so see how you’re getting on.

Another half an hour and you’re in the delivery room, holding onto Frankie’s hand for dear life as the doctor tells you to push. You do. Over and over you push until suddenly your screams are replaced with the cries of your newborn daughter and then you sob, your whole body shaking with exhaustion as the nurse hands you your baby. Frankie wraps his arm around your trembling shoulders and rests his chin on your head, looking down at the tiny infant in your arms and he suddenly can't stop the tears that fall. Neither of you had been able to experience Emma’s birth so this was a truly special moment.

‘Has she got a name?’ The nurse asks you both and you suddenly realise you hadn’t agreed on one.

Looking down at her you see that she too has Frankie’s dark hair and golden skin tone but it’s a little early to tell who’s eye’s she’s inherited.

‘I think she looks like an Ava.’ You say as you look lovingly up at Frankie.

‘Yeah.’ He replies, returning your gaze ‘I think so too.’ He finishes before kissing you sweetly.

‘Right you all ready?’ Calls out Will as he gets the camera connected up.

‘Yes.’ You all shout in unison.

‘Ava and Emma are getting fussy. Hurry the fuck up Bro.’ Grumbles Benny as he holds a bouncy toddler in his lap.

‘Right.’ Will sprints over to where everyone is sat patiently waiting for him to get the camera set up.

You are sat beside Frankie, his arms around you as you cradle Ava in yours and Ben is then beside him with Emma. Will sits down next to you and clicks the shutter button on his phone before telling everyone to say cheese. The shutter goes and he brings the image up on his phone.

‘First time!!’ He exclaims and you all breathe a sigh of relief before.

‘Pool!.’ Emma shouts at her uncle Ben and he chuckles.

‘Why couldn’t your kid’s first word be normal?’ He chuckles as he chucks Emma in the air and catches her.

‘POOL POOL POOL!.’ She keeps squealing and Frankie grabs her from his friend.

‘We don’t have a pool but you can have a bath?’

‘NO!.’

‘Well, that’s a new one.’ He chuckles as everyone looks at her in surprise.

‘Where did she even learn pool from anyway?’ Enquires Will as he plugs his camera into his laptop.

‘Greg across the street had one put in and he invited everyone round last weekend.’ States Frankie as he pops Emma down and watches her waddle towards Ben ‘Turns out she’s part fish.’

‘Seems apt when her dad is called Catfish.’ Ben jokes, his brother snorting in response.

Frankie just rolls his eyes, chuckling to himself as he gathers the cushions and throws you’d decorated the bench with. It had been Will’s idea for the ‘family photo’ as he’d put it and you’d thrown yourself at the idea. Frankie had never been one for photos but he liked the idea of putting it on the wall amongst the photos of you, him and his family. You had ended up selling your house and moving into his. It was larger and better suited for a growing family but you’d also liked the idea of your children growing up in the same house that you and Frankie did. It felt like everything had come around full circle. All the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place and now you were exactly where you were meant to

#frankie morales #Frankie Morales Fanfiction #Frankie Morales x you #Frankie Morales x reader #francisco morales #francisco 'catfish' morales #Francisco Morales Fanfiction #Francisco Morales x reader #Francisco Morales x you #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfiction #Pedro Pascal characters #pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro pascal

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elucere · 3 years

Text

Sad Late August Quarantine Thoughts 2.0

Last year, I wrote this. Basically my thoughts on how I felt in my life up to that point and what quarantine had illuminated. It felt cathartic then, so hopefully it’ll feel cathartic now. A part of that probably had to do with the fact that the last part was complete bullshit, but we’ll get into that later.

At nearly the slightest inconvenience now, I’ll say “I’m at my limit”. Technically, that isn’t really true because if I was really at my limit, at the next inconvenience I would completely lose it. But no, I’m just simply reminding myself that while I’m constantly met with a series of unfortunate events, I haven’t broken down yet. I might feel like I’m there, but I’m not. I’m just at my limit. Things are bad, but they aren’t the worst they could be yet. So keep in mind, I am very much at my limit as I’m writing this.

Last year I talked about my struggles with my job. Yeah, I got fired in February. It was not pretty either. I knew I wasn’t doing well performance wise, and they invited me into a zoom call that they said was a project meeting a week before my year anniversary and fired me. My supervisor (or I guess, ex-supervisor) cried on call. I didn’t cry until afterwards. It was an entire year of me trying to get better, him promising that it’ll come with time, and then getting sacked because “we didn’t see improvements”. Really, really fucking sucked. And it messed with me for a long time because I kept replaying those last few weeks, trying to decipher what I could’ve done differently to prove my worth and keep my position. There was a lot. I felt really guilty.

I think the worst part is that I got a performance warning in December and realized at that point I’d become so apathetic about my job that I needed professional help. I’d been trying to go to therapy for a long time, but it never panned out. My mom forbade it when I was in high school, it was practically impossible to get an appointment at my college’s mental health facility unless you were considered a threat to yourself and others (which I most certainly did not want on my record), and after school life happened so fast with the pandemic and the fact that I live in a 2 bedroom apartment with my mom and my brother with very little privacy. Even now that I’ve convinced my mom that therapy is okay, actually, she still highly disproves and sees it as some sort of psychological failing on my part. Which is. Sure. Whatever. Why not.The reason I did not enroll in therapy that December is actually because my dad lost his job and with it, his health insurance, and with that, my health insurance. That means I had to enroll in a health plan through my employment, which became an unanticipatedly long process. I actually got my new-but-useless health insurance card in the mail a few days after I got fired. They actually fired me on the last day of the month, so my benefits wouldn’t extend beyond that month. That’s a bit of fun irony.

To quite a few of my friends, this story solidified the idea that insurance=therapy. As soon as I got insurance again, I’d be able to finally get some help. This was a couple of people’s first response to me when I got hired again (yay, I know I don’t have to worry about that anymore but I’m also afraid that I’ll just inevitably be fired again so I don’t let myself have the victory). I know my friends only want the best for me, and I can’t expect them be able to emotionally support me like a professional, but I’m afraid that they think that therapy will be some sort of magical fix of sorts. I don’t mean in the sense of just getting better mentally, but I think being a tolerable person. I know that sounds like I’m just being self-depreciating, but let me explain.

A few years ago I was at dinner with one of my friends. I don’t remember exactly what we were talking about, but she goes “name three things you actually like” because I was probably being negative or something. I said a few things and whatever, but that comment stuck with me for a long time. I thought it was especially poignant or something. Am I so unhappy all the time because I fixate on things I don’t like? It could be connected to the attitude of social media to be outwardly negative. Casual wisdom, you know.

Well, that was the fact until I was out with that same friend and we visited Barnes and Noble. I’ve been doing quite a bit of reading this year and got more involved in the book community, so I have many Opinions. Some are good, some are bad, some are just me being annoying. After an hour of browsing the shelves, we drive home. I start talking about a series I really like in the car and she goes “It’s nice to hear you talk about a book you actually like.” Which kind of stunned me because I had just did a lot of talking about books I liked. How happy I was that kids were still reading Rangers Apprentice, going out of my way to see how many Brandon Sanderson books I could find in the Adult Fantasy section, and more reminiscing in the Young Adult section about books I liked recently or as a teen. The truth is, I talk about stuff I like all the time to people who will listen. Ask me about my favorite books! My favorite movies! My favorite musicals! I promise I will not shut up. It’s one of the few things I have that lift my spirits when I talk about it, I just don’t get the opportunity to much because it’s hard to find people who want to listen.

The thing is, I’m naturally a critical person, I think. I love tearing things apart, in good and bad ways. I also love gossip. I’m an okay gossip, but I know at this point that I’m a good critic. I’m really good at identifying faults and commenting them on an insightful or constructive way. I edit a lot of my friends’ writings for this reason. I don’t find that to be anything negative, it’s just something that’s interesting to me. Basically what I’m saying is, what if it’s not mental illness and I’m just annoying and I’ll not be able to meet the expectations of other people’s idea of progress for me and I’ll be a disappointment. I’m kind of tearing up while typing that out while listening bopping to Disturbia by Rihanna but this is the third time I’ve been on the verge of crying today so yaknow maybe it is just mental illness.At this point, I can either talk about criticism in relation to the particular way I dish it, or I could talk about how I want to receive it. I think the former will take less time to elaborate, so I’ll start with that.

I mention last year how I got an unpaid gig as a critic for DiscussingFilm. Embarrassing at times, I joke with my friends that “DiscussingFilm Writer” is a slur, but it’s cool at times as well. I got a press pass to go to Sundance and gorged on an entire family sized bag of peanut M&Ms while I watched like 14 movies in one weekend. I’m trying to say positive things about this until I start ragging to prove that I’m not an overwhelmingly negative person, but I don’t think that’s working well. Whatever. The point is, if I didn’t like it I would quit, but if I did quit it wouldn’t be because I didn’t like it. It would because there was an…event. I had quite a falling out with one of the higher-ups that run the site and in response my work has taken a hit. I won’t go into too much detail, but I don’t get assigned anticipated releases anymore. My work is often delayed going out and, in turn, I feel less motivated to turn in my work on time. And then on top of that, it’s rarely promoted. I have examples on top of examples, but this stupid thing is getting long enough. To summarize the DiscussingFilm situation, I feel like shit. I have one of the lowest view counts on the site. I’m told that my work is good and it’s valued, but not enough to get reposted, I guess! Why bother. And also because the person I do not work well with is quite up in the food chain, I’ll never see a promotion. I wanted to become an editor so bad (I do editing on the side for my friends and enjoy it), but now it will never ever happen. I don’t have the opportunity to prove myself, it’s just completely off the table by nature of leadership. Ass. Complete ass. I’m doing quite a bit of work for DiscussingFilm including creating the standard for the Instagram, making graphics for the Instagram, performing interviews and writing reviews for the site, and co-hosting a DiscussingFilm branded podcast, and I will never see neither a dime for my work or recognition in any meaningful or significant way. I don’t have a say in anything, and I feel like an insignificant cog whose opinion does not mean much.

I still get insecure with my reviews, but not as much anyways. Sure, I can’t compare to the great writers at trades who do this for a living and have been doing so for years. But, I am better than a lot of writers at my level. Sometimes I try pitching to other publications, but so far I’ve only been met with rejection. It kinda stings to know that my work is not worth enough to be paid for, but I’m kinda over it. I still pitch. I try my best. That’s the thing about me, I just keep going. Rejection hurts like a bitch, but whatever. I don’t want to quit just yet, so I guess I won’t. There isn’t anyone in my corner who’s actively spurring me to keep going, I’ve just decided that I’ll get paid for my work one day and so now I will.This connects with the criticism I want to receive which unfortunately very much is not of the nonfiction variety. Ew I fucking hate talking about this but I need to get it off my chest.

After I got fired, I was slipping into quite a bit of a depression. I started a podcast at this time with my friend to try and prevent that, but I knew that I probably needed another project. I wasn’t watching movies anymore, DiscussingFilm was not publishing my shit, and all I was doing all day was reading (which I don’t anymore, I’m in a slump and it’s definitely connected to the idea I have in the next sentence). So I had the brilliant idea of “hey, I could do that. I could write a book. I should do it to do it.”You see, this has not been my only attempt at writing a proper book. I tried when I was 13, I tried when I was 15 and into online literate roleplay, I tried when I was 18 by doing NaNoWriMo in college (also, I was actually more depressed then). I also tried to get into a short story class in college that you had to submit a story to get into and didn’t even make it on the waitlist. Nothing stuck. But hey, I was unemployed and I came up with a funny premise that I wasn’t too attached to, so why not?

The book is not funny. It was supposed to, but it’s changed a lot. I’m very comfortable writing in camp. It’s difficult because I know sometimes I have my moments, but often I don’t. I also chose to write it in a genre I’m not super familiar with (Young Adult contemporary, I read Young Adult and Adult fiction primarily). I didn’t expect it to be easy, but the things I thought would come easily did not come easily. I have a lot of male friends, so I could certainly write the male characters as real people, right? Right? I’m funny, so the humor would come across well, right? Did I anticipate that after years of pretty much only analyzing films critically I’d subconsciously structure my story using dialogue-driven storytelling similar to a screenplay? No! Not at all, actually! This journey of self-discovery has been ass at every corner!

I recognize that first drafts are shit and authors hate their writing, but also I’m built different, your honor. By 15k words in, I realized I needed an outside perspective. I hated my own writing and I was afraid none of the characters were coming off right. I needed feedback, and I still do. But I hate being perceived. As long as no one reads my writing, they think that I know what I’m talking about and value my opinion on their writing, but once they figure out I’m just an Imposter then it’s game over. They’ll lose respect for me. Logically, I know this isn’t how this works, but I feel physically nauseous whenever someone reads my writing.

Anyways, back to my much-needed criticism. To make a long story short involving several English teacher that caused me to quit pursuing writing altogether in my formative years and decide to switch to a STEM track, I have very little tangible self-awareness of my own writing and how to improve it. I need the outside feedback, or at least I did. I’m 60k words into my first draft now and I’m cripplingly self aware of all my errors, but it feels too little too late. 60k words are a lot of words, and it feels not great knowing that most of them are trash. I really needed this kind of feedback earlier in the process so I could make tweaks early on. I know that writing is like a muscle and you need to work it out and practice to get stronger, but fuck man, FUCK. 60k words is a LOT of words. And I still need people to read it and give me feedback and I’m literally willingly asking people to read shit. It’s so humiliating. I guess I’m just at a point where I wish I could look at it and find something of value in what I’ve written.

I see other authors and I get so jealous. At their confidence, at their lyricism, their mastery of the art, their enthusiasm for their story, their love of their characters. I don’t have that. I’m not even talking about imposter’s syndrome. I know what that feels like. This is something else. I just wish I was the kind of person who could openly be creative without wanting to die. I’m 100% sure if I could be enthusiastic about the story I want to tell, the entire thing would be better. It’s crazy how I noticed that I’m not writing any metaphors into realizing that’s directly connected with my inability to be vulnerable and that I’m detaching myself from my work. That, and the fact that I’m fucking shite at writing metaphors apparently.

It also doesn’t help that I don’t have a writer group of friends and very little people to talk about this with, none of which are like… enthusiastic. It’s not their fault. I attract people into my life who are very much like me. They’re supportive and wonderful but I need someone who’d be excited to talk to me about it. I just feel like such a huge burden all the time. Everytime I bring it up I feel terrible, but it’s occupying so much of my brain space and I have no outlet. But also, getting that group of friends would require me to be vulnerable online and be willing to share what I have so far which I might actually throw up.I think it’s very fun that “crying and throwing up” has become a saying on Twitter considering that I’ve counted a countless amount of times this year and thrown up from stress four times since last November. It might also be connected to coffee consumption, but if that’s true I’m ready to off myself because coffee is one of my few joys. Honestly, it’s probably a mix of both. I’m very healthy, very much okay.

I don’t know. Last year, I ended my little essay on a hopeful note. Here’s the thing, this may seem like very much just stream of consciousness bullshit but there is quite a bit of structuring I do and omissions I make. I didn’t talk about my struggles reconnecting with people and subsequently taking their irregular replies, because there’s a lot to get into there. There’s a lot I could’ve talked about, but no room. There’s a very specific flow, and I feel like any story, it needs a conclusion. So last year, through tears, I wrote a hopeful ending. It was as much for me as it was to the people reading it. Unfortunately, I don’t have it in it for me to conclude in the same fashion this time around.

The truth is, I need to feel okay. I need to feel like I’m good at something, anything, and be recognized for it.

Life is suffering and I’m just constantly going through the motions. I promise you, this stupid thing is 3k words and the second I’m done I’ll go back to working on my b**k even though today I literally started crying thinking about how shit it is. I’m just a tenacious individual. I persist. I don’t feel good about it, and I’m done with being genuinely hopeful, but there’s nothing to do but keep moving. I don’t know if my writing will get better or if I’ll ever get published or if this story is worth it. I don’t fucking know anything and I feel like shit. But what else am I going to do? I’ve been holding onto this hope that I’ll feel better about things for just so long and it hasn’t happened. But I’m not giving up lmao I’m just working with what I have. I am at my limit.

#mine #bean spews

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shattered-mirror-fanfic · 3 years

Photo

This isn’t even my final form! *laughs in angst*

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32206135/chapters/83214115

Chapter below cut for non-Ao3 readers:

“It’s not that bad…” Reginald said softly, gripping his right arm to cover up the fresh cut. Right frowned more before sighing.

“It is, ya have to put an end to this before he aims to kill ya!” Right practically shouted. He grabbed a bandage wrap and a small bottle of rubbing alcohol out of the medkit. "Now give me your arm."

"Righty, I'm fine, this isn't the worst pain I've felt, you know that." The brunette extended his cut arm to his friend. Right poured some of the rubbing alcohol on a rag, then ran it against the fresh wound. Reginald let out a quiet hiss at the stinging and gripped his right arm with his left.

"Y'know, kind of tempted to teach ya self defense since this keeps happenin'" The Aussie chuckled as he set down the rag and started to wrap the bandage around the disinfected cut.

"I know self defense! You were there!" Reginald said, defending himself.

"Sure, then how come you got this cut in the first place?" Right teased. Reginald puffed his cheeks and shoved the ginger with about the force of a teddy bear. "Okay kitten, I got your point now."

Right laughed a bit while Reginald sat there, cheeks puffed and red and crossing his arms. "Y'know Reg, you're cute when you're mad." With this comment Reginald turned bright red and shot his hands up to cover his face. Right laughed more and closed the kit, standing up to set it on the wooden desk next to the bed. Reginald grabbed his gloves from beside him and put them back on, avoiding any and all eye contact with his companion. “Reg, y’know that just because I gave you a compliment that doesn’t mean ya get to hide from me now.” Right said, calming his tone. He sat back on the bed next to the brunette, placing a hand on the other's back and rubbing it thoughtfully. Reginald nodded and smiled, before yawning and stretching his arms. “Actually I really want to tell you that-”

“Oh goodness! It’s so late, I hadn’t realised! I’m so sorry Right but you’re going to have to hold that thought! I have some more paperwork to do before tomorrow and it’s already 10:30, oh dear.” Reginald interrupted, letting his anxiety build up the more he rambled on.

“No, no, it’s fine, it wasn’t that important anyways. I’ll just head off and leave you to work then.” Right responded with a bit of despair in his voice. He got up and walked over to Reginald’s bedroom door, turning back to look at his friend. “Don’t burn yourself out again.”

~~~

Right regretted that day so much. It had been 14 years and he could never let that day go, and now all that regret he felt came right back at him, much harder than ever. The one thing he regretted about that day was not being able to say what he wanted to. But he couldn’t focus on that right now, right now, he had to panic over the fact that a stupid fucking flower tried to kill Reginald for the second time.

He had collapsed on the ground grabbing the broken soul from the glass shards and holding it close to his chest.

“Oh lord! I am so sorry! Shit, shit, shit, I’ll think of something.” Flowey spoke in a panic. He flipped through the book, trying to find an alternative to save the soul. Right just sat there paralyzed with despair. Tears started forming at the corners of his cyan eyes. He couldn’t say a single word, he knew Reginald would fade soon, there was nothing he could say.

Flowey continued looking through the book when he spotted something he didn’t recognise.

“Hey big guy, do you know what a soul bond is? It says here it’s the two human equivalent of monsters absorbing human souls.” The flower asked. Right had only a vague idea of soul bonds from hearing Henry talking to himself about them. But, there was one thing he knew for sure, it would be Reginald’s last resort.

“Tell me what to do.” Flowey glanced over the pages before clearing his throat.

“Ok, apparently this is going to be easier if you’re a DETERMINATION soul. What you need to do is channel your DETERMINATION to his soul, get the soul rebooted with that, then you’re going to try and get his soul bound to you in some way, it’s not very descriptive at this part.” He instructed. Right didn’t fully understand, but he knew he would still have to try his best.

Cradling his best friend’s soul in his hands, he focused on it, he felt as though he would be able to fix it. He didn’t pay attention to anything else, not even to his own soul that had been drawn out. He needed to fix Reginald. He was DETERMINED.

Right felt his soul grow heavier and saw out of the corner of his sight, it glowing brighter. He felt a tear roll down his cheek, then he was hit with a wave of pain that made him feel like his skin was being torn off.

“Oi flower boy! Get the doc!” The man shouted as he bent over more in pain. Flowey managed to tilt his pot enough to fall over, he pulled himself out of the pot with the table ledge as a stable support then proceeding to fall onto the ground before sinking in.

The Right Hand Man gripped his chest with his left hand, still using his right to hold his chief’s soul. His own soul was glowing bright, blindingly so. Right had to close his eyes from how bright his soul got.

“Reg! You have to work with me here! I need you to be strong right now! Please! I…” He paused, letting more tears fall down his face. “I love you!”

And then…

He opened his eyes again, the bright glow stopped, the shards that had chipped off of Reginald’s soul stayed in place. A stream of red DETERMINATION flowed from Right’s soul to the other, filling the break like it was glue. The shards reversed, attaching themselves to the soul once more.

He was fixed.

~~~

Flowey re-emerged from the ground in a panic, looking around for anyone, to only see Frisk, the white-haired human, and their once sibling. He sighed and burrowed down again to get closer.

“Listen Frisk I’m just saying…..what are you doing here?” Chara started before addressing the appearance of the flower. Flowey couldn’t choke this time, he knew what he had to do.

“Where’s the doctor?!” He shouted. The two humans and the ghost were a bit startled at this.

“Why? Is something wrong?” Henry asked.

“Um...god, what was his name again? Why can’t I remember it?! I only remember how stupid it was!” Flowey panicked to himself. Henry immediately knew what was going on.

“Right Hand Man! Is he in danger?!” Flowey nodded in response.

“He’s in the medical tent! And the souls in trouble too!” With the mention of something having gone wrong with Reginald’s soul, Henry shot up.

“I’ll go get the doctor, you kids stay here!” He explained, focusing attention to Frisk and Chara. He ran off in the direction of where everyone else was, leaving Flowey, Frisk and Chara alone.

“So, um, how are you doing Flowey?” Frisk asked nervously. Chara glared at the Flower.

“It was your fault wasn’t it? That’s all you do.” They said.

“No, I was just helping.” Flowey argued.

“And you helped the underground by stealing all of our souls?”

“Chara! He did manage to break the barrier, cut him some slack.” Frisk stated. “Plus, he’s really trying to make amends.”

“your friend is right, y'know kiddo, that flower’s done some awful stuff.” Frisk turned around to see the voice coming from Sans.

“Hello smiley trashbag, when’d you get here?” Flowey asked.

“just now, thought i should poppy in.” He laughed. Flowey rolled his eyes. “anywho, i came here to inform you kiddo that your new friends seem, not so great.”

“What do you mean Sans? They’re really nice.” Frisk asked.

“niceness can only get a soul so far, especially for level 13 soul.” Frisk was shocked at this comment. “judging by your expression, you never even CHECKED them, kid, that’s like asking for a fight. i only got to check henry as he was searching for alph, so who knows about the others.”

“Sans, you’re being paranoid! If they haven't hurt us yet then, then won’t hurt us soon.” Sans sighed at what Frisk said.

“just be careful kid. You should not trust people who came from another world.” His tone had shifted from his usual one, to a serious tone. “anyways, i’m off to check in on pap.”

Before Frisk could even speak again, he was gone.

~~~

Alphys had been in one of the tents nearest to the medical tent, talking with Undyne about some anime they hoped to watch since on the surface, it’d be much easier to access new anime. As they were discussing, Henry ran in, taking a moment to catch his breath.

“Woah there punk! What’s got you all riled up?” The tall fish lady asked.

“Emergency...in the medical tent...danger!” Henry spoke between pants. Alphys jumped in surprise. The three of them rushed to the medical tent, throwing open the fabric entrance to see Right Hand Man trying to get up off the floor using the nearby chair as support.

“Oh my goodness! A-are you ok?!” The doctor asked in a panic, rushing over to help them man up.

“M’fine, jus’ a little after shock. Nothin’ I ‘aven’t ‘andled before.” Right answered in his usual thick accent while rubbing the left side of his head.

“Then why’d...your eye!” Henry started before cutting himself off as he noticed that Right’s left eye had gone from it’s normal turquoise color to a light blue shade, with even the red ring around the iris having changed to a teal color. Alphys looked up at the aussie before noticing the same change.

“I-It’s true! Whatever you did must’ve changed your soul!” She explained, pressing a hand against Right’s chest and retracting it to let his soul be drawn out.

His normal soul did pop out, but it had faint teal orbits circulating it. Along with his soul, a familiar light blue one also appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, it’s break had been sealed with solid DETERMINATION and even had more pumping through newly visible veins.

“Is that?! No it can’t be...unless…” The other human started before trailing off into his thoughts. Then he noticed the discarded leather book on the table, opened to the page with a familiar process. “You binded your soul with the chief’s, didn’t you?” Right looked away for a moment while raising a hand to the teal soul and stroking it lovingly.

The soul glowed brighter.

“It was the only option, Reg’s jar got knocked over and it broke, he was goin’ to fade if ah didn’t do something.” He looked back. “Granted, the flower didn’t give me warnin’ that the process would hurt like a stab to the chest.”

“Yeah, the pain of the other’s death is reflected onto the bonder.” Henry receipted. The other three in the tent just stared at him. Even the way Reginald’s soul was facing and glowing felt like judgement. “Hey, I just read it somewhere.”

“Well now what?” Undyne asked in a monotone way.

“Now, we let Reginald soak up enough determination from Right’s soul until he’s ready to show himself, then he’s got to get used to being a ghost for a bit and if he understands what to do, he’ll fix himself.” Henry answered. He left the tent after finishing his sentence, wandering into the woods for a bit.

“Well he was helpful, I mean, he didn’t even explain half the things I would have to do!” Spoke a disembodied voice in a British accent. Right looked around for a moment, Reg wasn’t there.

“Course not Righty, I’m dead remember? But now since you binded our souls, you can hear me! And I can hear you!”

Right was losing his mind wasn’t he? Maybe he needed more sleep? Well, if you can hear me, then did you hear what I said to bind our souls? Also, what can you see since you can only hear me? He thought.

“Nope! Didn’t hear a thing until your DETERMINATION powered me! And, well, I don’t know where I am, it’s just pitch black and I’m all tangled up in something, not sure what it is, I think that since it’s coming from my wound, it’s blood. Y’know it’s so nice to talk to you, I missed you a lot, I’m actually glad you were the last thing I saw before I ended up in this hellhole.”

Right laughed internally, tied up in your own blood? Yikes. He smiled, now knowing that his darling friend was at least somewhat happy.

~~~

“Hey Heny~ what’s wrong? Missed me?”

“God no, it’s just that...now Right Hand Man is caught up in this whole soul bond business. I don’t want him to know that you exist.” Henry responded, leaning against a tree.

“Well I know what can help that doesn't involve killing all your friends~” Player cheerfully said while reaching into their cloak pocket, only to pull out a-

#shattered mirror #undertale #thsc #the henry stickmin collection #toppat recruits #cliffhanger #CrossOver #fanfic #fanfiction #post-pacifist ending

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mosaicofdreamsanddragons · 3 years

Text

First Lesson

Pigsy teaches his kids to cook.

ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27769003

It was a well-known fact that Pigsy was at war. Every day he struggled to guide his troops toward excellence. Every day he worked tirelessly to build up the stockpile necessary for a campaign into enemy territory. And every day he poured his heart and soul into the techniques that would carry his crew to victory.

Oh and there was the whole saving the city thing, but that was really his second priority. He liked to think of that life as existing in a separate spears of his mind. He only had so much brain power he could devote to Monkey nonsense. When he was at war, such things were far from his mind and when he was a superhero, war was the last thing he thought of.

Until the day it wasn’t.

It had been an ordinary day: fight whatever demon or demon bull king minions who wanted a piece of his kid and then get back to his real life of noodles and plotting campaigns.

But today, today he’d slipped up. Today he’d almost been squashed by the remains of some demon bull minions and had barely been pulled out of the way by Tang. The attack wouldn’t have even come close to killing him but it could have done much worse.

He’d kept his fretting to himself of course. No point in scaring the kids, they were freaked out enough by the near hit. If a few smiles and gruff reassurances were all they needed to bounce the close call off their shoulders as only the young can, he would provide them.

Tang was no so easily fooled. “Something is bothering you,” he said, glare on his glasses preventing any eye contact. It was not a question.

“I…When we were on the mission…” he began and then stopped.

“I saved you,” said Tang firmly.

“Yes but you almost didn’t save me,” said Pigsy. Tang’s hands clutching the noodle bowl turned white and Pigsy quickly amended his statement. “Not that it would have killed me, calm down.” He waited until Tang let go of the bowl placing it on the table before continuing. “If you hadn’t, I would have broken my arm. And that would mean disaster for my business. I couldn’t cook, so MK would have no food to deliver. And soon we’d lose customers and who knows how many regulars would come back when I healed, what with the enemy always upping his game…we’d starve. And I can’t do that to MK, he’s starved enough in his life.”

“You wouldn’t starve,” said Tang with a hint of anger. “Even if the worst happened, you’d still have me to help and Sandy. Heck even Mei would chip in.” He took a deep breath and grabbed his bowl back. “And you’re missing the most obvious solution. If you broke you’re arm, you could run deliveries…” Pigsy raised an eyebrow at Tang. He snorted “….I’ve seen you drive one handed, don’t give me that look…” Pigsy raised his eyebrow even higher and Tang made a huff into his leftover broth “…fine. I could run deliveries. Then all you’d need to do is teach MK how to cook for you. You’d be able to be back in business in a day!”

“Teach MK how to cook?” said Pigsy. “Not in a day I wouldn’t. Cooking takes art and art takes time.”

“So start now,” said Tang. “Give him the time he’ll need to learn and grow. You could bring in Mei too, make a day of it.”

Pigsy looked down at his hands. “I’m not….the best instructor. Last time I tried to teach…well….Sandy and I ended that with a mutual agreement to never be in a kitchen together again.” He closed his eyes against sudden memoires of a time before Sandy had started therapy.

“Well that was a long time ago,” said Tang. “I’m sure you’ll be a great teacher now.” Before Pigsy could retort that Tang hadn’t been there and didn’t really know the extent of the disaster he caught a glance at Tang’s face.

He was gazing out the shop to where the two children had left. “And I don’t think they’d mind having a normal type of legacy,” he said barely above a whisper, “one without any magic or monkeys or dragons. Something they can learn an fail and the world won’t fall apart,” Pigsy opened his mouth to protest that was Tang not taking the noodle war seriously enough when Tang said, “…like their dad’s secret noodle recipe.”

Pigsy opened his mouth. And shut his mouth. And turned back to the table. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Lessons begin tomorrow.”

Pigsy had seen many things in his life. He’d befriended Sandy before he gave up his fighting ways. He regularly aided his children with saving the city. He’d had to create a noodle business from the ground up and used it to wage war against all who would stand in his way. But never had he been faced with such a challenge as this.

Before him, in the heart of his kitchen, stood only the freshest of recruits, neither who had ever so much as held the weapons of this war in their hands. Beyond them watching expectantly with notepad in hand was his acting secretary, who was far more interested in the potential noodles then jotting the recipe down. Farther back was the emotional support, who was not allowed near this kitchen for reasons both knew and would not discuss. Together they would create a mock battle, with Tang and Sandy as the customers and Mei, MK, and Pigsy as the chefs.

“Okay,” he said to the eager faces of his children. “Today you will be taking your first steps onto a harrowing battlefield.” He paced back and forth moving his spoon and feet with the beat of his words. “Today, you will face trails like you have never faced. It will be the most difficult thing you have ever attempted to do, magical Monkey business included.” He turned to meet the eyes of Mk and Mei. “But I have complete faith, that under my guidance you will pull yourselves from the muck and mire of mediocracy and into success.”

“Pigsy its just noodles,” said MK hands behind his head. Mei shoved her hand in her mouth to stifle a giggle.

“Just noodles!” said Pigsy throwing his spoon in the air and advancing on the boy. “Just noodles! Those noodles are the backbone of our livelihoods! The result of countless years honing my technique to perfection!” he caught Tang’s eyes and took a deep breath. Then in a gentler voice he continued, “And today I will be passing that legacy onto you. Now no one is expecting you to get it on your first try.”

“I make noodles all the time at home! How bad can it be?” said MK.

“You make instant noodles,” said Pigsy stepping back and rubbing his temples. “That’s completely different. No technique, no finesse. This, this will push you to your limits.” He waves towards the assorted vegetables and meat. “Mei, you will be on toppings,” he gestured to a large pot, “and MK you will be on broth. Now I will need both of you to listen to what I say and only do what I tell you. Do you understand?”

The nod in unison. He takes a deep breath and hands the kids the knives. He can do this.

The next hour passes quickly. But for him it goes swiftly jumping between:

“No Mei do not hold your knife like your sword. Watch me, like this.”

“Don’t touch that pan, you aren’t invincible anymore you’ll burn yourself.”

“You need to sauté the vegetables first. No those aren’t ready, you haven’t turned the stove on so they aren’t cooking…”

“Don’t poor boiling oil down the sink! &*@#$ Get on the counter NOW!!!” Both children climbed onto the counter in confusion and even Sandy and Tang pulled their feet up. “The pipe melted,” he told the confused kids. “We stay up here, until I get the boiling oil of the floor.”

“It’s like the floor is lava!” said Mei.

“Don’t try anything crazy!” said Pigsy. “I’m just gonna head over to the broom closet…” he began carefully picking his way across the counter, careful not to step near any of the food or utensils. It was harder then it looked, as the counter was covered with the mess only three chefs could bring. He picked his way across only to discover what he’d thought to be a solid footing turn out to be pan which slipped out from under his foot and sent him toppling down, down…

Something hard and round stopped his fall before he could make contact with the oil slicked floors. “I’ve got you Pigsy!” he heard his kid yell as he slowly became aware of the enormous iron staff now wedged from one side of his kitchen to another, and preventing him from a landing with third degree burns.

He took a deep breath and pulled himself across the makeshift bridge to the counter where Tang, Sandy, and MK were all waiting. And even though he was fairly certain he had got the hang of it by the time he reached them, Sandy still reached out and lifted him onto the counter.

“Real battle we got here,” said Sandy. “But I think the troops are getting the hang of it.” He nodded and Pigsy looked up to see MK carefully maneuvering the staff-bridge to bring Mei towards the broom cupboard.

“They’re ingenuous,” said Pigsy. “That’ll help them with creating new things down the line. Once they master the basics…” he glanced around his kitchen, now covered in oil, with food scattered everywhere and possibly contaminated by the people climbing around it waving their newly discovered brooms and mops and bit back a groan. This was not how this lesson was supposed to go.

Sandy rose to retrieve the one of the mops from Mei but before he left he turned to Pigsy, “No one learns any skill in a day. Give ‘em time. They’ll get it. They have an excellent teacher.”

Pigsy closed his eyes as Tang dropped down beside him. “Sandy’s right, no one learns a skill in a day, not cooking, not teaching.” Pigsy opened one eye to glance at Tang. He grinned smugly at him. “But a little disaster never stopped your campaigns before, eh Marshal? And whatever the result of this campaign, I’ll eat it.”

“You better,” he mock-growled at Tang’s smirk.

Between Sandy, MK, and Pigsy they managed to get the no-longer-boiling oil off the floor. Mei helped as much as she could but all she could really bring was her enthusiasm since she’d never seen a broom in her life and really didn’t know how to clean (and Pigsy made a mental note to teach her later). Sandy even fixed the melted pipes. With the kitchen newly sparkling and all that could be salvaged out and ready, Pigsy got up and fetched the noodles.

“Okay kids,” he said. “Mei, I want you to get the toppings ready to go. MK hold this in the boiling water for three minutes, do not touch the pot again. When the three minutes are up, pull it out and pour the noodles in it in the bowl. Mei, I want you to add the toppings on top once MK’s added the noodles and then poor in the broth. Take your time both of you, you’ll have time to add speed to this later.”

Face squished in concentration, MK slowly lifted up the noodles and placed them in the bowl. Then Mei added the toppings and very slowly and carefully poured in the broth. Now finished their faces broke into relieved grins and they both reached for the bowl, only for Pigsy to yell “Order up!” and place the bowl in front of Tang.

Pigsy turned back to the disappointed faces and handed MK another batch of noodles, nodding back to the broth and stack of toppings. “The point of cooking is to make it for others, not yourself. And besides, we’re not done here until we’re out of ingredients.”

The broth lasted them two more bowls, one which Pigsy handed to Sandy. The two children were left staring at the single bowl. They seemed to be having a silent conversation before turning and pushing it towards Pigsy. And Pigsy found two pairs of wide eyes turned up to him expectantly. He steeled himself and reached up to bring the noodles to his mouth.

It was…not bad. Not to his standards and not ready for sale yet. But it was made with his kids sweat and tears and he loved every bite. “Delicious,” he said, “We’ll make chefs of you yet.”

Sandy applauded. “Much better review then the first time I ever tried to help him! Have we told you that story? It started many years ago and ended with an explosion…”

With the kids happily listening to Sandy regale them with their first cooking disaster, Tang happily listening nearby sipping his soup and stealing some of Sandy’s noodles, Pigsy sat back and drunk the site in. This was something he wanted to savor, a memory he could call up after scares like yesterday or on bad nights.

His kids’ first bowl of noodles, one more step towards growing up. A milestone greater than any of the saving the city they did. He was so proud.

#monkie kid #Pigsy #Tang #Monkie kid mk #Qi xiaotian #monkie kid mei #long xiaojiao #sandy #my fic

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