I don’t know who needs to hear this today, but don’t ever buy something like this for your child’s crib!! It’s a huge suffocation risk.

Have you seen that post going around showing pictures of dead Palestinian kids and directly comparing it to Auschwitz? My blood is boiling, dude. I know it's lame to get offended, but holy shit. People have no idea how war works and they clearly forgot how INSANE Auschwitz was.

If it's the one I think it is between two of the ones I've seen one is totally fake and the other is Syrian children that assad gassed.

Did the same thing with the starving child and several other photos of victims of various atrocities not committed by Israel in gaza.

Putin is near universally reviled by people in the west and the pain and death in Ukraine isn't getting anywhere near the coverage as this is and while I understand that as a species we do love a come from behind underdog story, why the movie Dodgeball did so well....... in all seriousness though it's wild and I could understand the visceral hate if Israel had been the one that started this, but since 1948 they've only initiated one war and that was supposed to be a preemptive strike, day 1 they started out under attack and have been in defense mode ever since.

Somehow that involves winning every war they've been in but honestly the folks coming after them have never been professionals, even still as outnumbered as they are they hold and push back and I guess all the people that are tired of losing on the ground decided that the PR machine would be better.

So we get lines of either fake dead children or dead children from a totally different conflict because for all their talk about Jews being white they can't tell the difference between a Syrian, a Saudi, an Egyptian, or a palestenian and if they can't tell nobody should be able to I guess.

They've been attempting to appropriate the Shoah for decades now, sinwar and crew finally thin they're going to manage it.

and if not, they'll try again.

Everyone believes their claims about mistreatment at the hands of Israel why do they not believe them when they say they're happy to send innocent people into the meat grinder.

The fact that they keep having to pull out pictures and video from other conflicts should say something about how many people aren't dying in gaza.

But we're not supposed to think about that.

Or they don't expect people to at least.

An army letting humanitarian aid through that they know for a fact is being hijacked by the people they're fighting against, but doing it anyways because some of it will get where it's needed isn't going to be in the market to slaughter children on purpose.

We had isis surrounded in their last stronghold, they had no food, people were eating grass, there were innocent men, women, and children in there, they didn't get truckloads of UN aid and nobody was screaming that they should, not much at least if they were.

This is just a weird thing going on, and sickening in places as well, like the Holocaust thing that started the essay that for some reason I just kept typing.

sorry bout that, lol

Lace your heart with mine // Baldur's Gate 3

About Me and My Writing

Hi, you can call me Kit (or Decay or Sol or w/e floats thine boat). I'm in my late twenties, my pronouns are she/her. I am both queer myself and obviously queer friendly. I'm not always consistently around due to both some environmental circumstances and personal struggles (it's the mental illness).

My writing style is third person present tense. I do have the ability to write in past tense if present tense bothers you. I can write anywhere from 200 words to about 3,000 (I don't measure in paragraphs as I play a little fast and loose with the definition of "paragraph" aksjdfhg).

While I don't expect you to mirror/length-match me, I am asking for someone who is comfortable writing detailed, literate posts. Not every post has to be 800w, I often dip low in my word count during dialogue heavy scenes. And I'm not asking for perfect spelling every time, lord knows I have a myriad of typos and I don't re-read my posts when I get excited. But I'm asking for the basics. Knowing that the game (and thus the city) is Baldur's Gate, not Baulder's Gate, would be a good start.

I have not finished Baldur's Gate 3. I am mid-Act Three on a normal Tav run, and haven't even gotten to the Goblin Camp on my Durge run. I am kindly requesting no spoilers, and we can discuss where each of us are in the game to better know what that means.

The Rules

Since I'm in my late-late twenties, I'm looking for someone who is at least 21 themselves, but it'd be even better if you were 23+

In this house we double. If you don't know what doubling means, it means that I write both my character and who you want me to write for you, and you write your character and who I want you to write for me.

I will even triple for you, if you're in the market for a love triangle or a polyam OT3. You do not in any way have to triple in return, in fact I'd prefer if you didn't.

At this time I am not looking for any NSFW content in my roleplays. I fade to black, and I won't be bullied into doing otherwise. (Dick jokes and talking about the fact adults do fuck is fine though, fading to black doesn't mean instant prude status)

I am however alright with like, a bit of violence. About Witcher 3's level is as far as I'm comfortable going: Durge can maim people as a treat if they want, we just don't need to go body horror with the organs, right?

Limits: Are very important, do not forget them. I do not want drugs, alcohol, smoking, vaping, or substance abuse to feature in or out of character. I don't want to see memes about it, I don't want to write about it. Nothing. I also am not wild about sexual assault, or the community's standard limits list of: pedophilia, incest, bestiality, etc. Leave all of that at the door, thank you. Rule number one of the salon is don't be nasty and you know that!

The mediums I use are: Discord, Email, and Gdocs (though with their AI scraping we should probably find somewhere else. I'm not keen on writing here on tumblr, but I'd be happy to idk, make a private Proboard or something?)

New rule: Please do not show me AI art of your character. Don't use an AI generator about it if you plan to write with me. Find a picrew or a dress up doll or some random picture on Pinterest. Hell just give me a paragraph description if you have to.

When you message me, do not just ask for my Discord or my Email. Do not just ask if I'm still looking, don't just say hey. The first message is a first impression, make it a good one. Tell me about yourself, tell me who you want me to write for you, what you're thinking, if you're picking up what I am putting down. Put some personality into it: This isn't a job, it's a hobby, it should sound like it when you talk to me. In this same vein, I'd prefer said first impressions are conducted over email, but messaging me on tumblr is fine too I suppose

Remember kids: Cringe is dead, the concept of a Mary Sue and judging OCs based on this imaginary criticism is inherently misogynistic, and having OCs related to canons (or other “Sue” traits) is cool and hot actually! Write that down! It’s okay to have powerful, smart, capable OCs! It’s fine, I promise ♡

Characters and "Plots"

First of all, in regards to sexuality / gender / canon / oc identities, everything is peachy keen! M/F, F//, M//, Trans, NB, Canon/OC, Canon//, OC// are all fine by me ♡

My side will be M/F Canon/OC, but you are welcome to request anything you would like. This is Build-A-Bitch and you can, in fact, have it your way.

My side is also M/F in a distinctly queer way. My OC is ace, as well as someone who doesn’t entirely conform to gender, so take that as you will ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I will make you an OC, I will play multiple Canons for you, you can write as any gender identity or sexuality as you please. Just rub the lamp and make your wish! I will write almost any Canon for you, barring noted exceptions.

That out of the way, here's what I'm looking for!

I am looking for you to write: Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep against my OC. I would particularly love to write for you: Astarion, Karlach, Minsc, Rolan, damn near anyone your gay heart desires Who I'm not particularly keen to write: The Emperor, Gortash and I don't yet feel like I know enough about Raphael to do him justice

And here's some plot jumping off points I've got rattling around in here:

Alternate Universe

I'm reeeeaalllyyy vibing with AUs at the moment. I think it's the ✨Holiday Vibes✨ aksjdfg. I'd love to do - honestly a wide variety of AUs! If you have something in mind, please feel free to mention it! The one I've been thinking about though is some sort of low-modern mid/high-fantasy thing where Gale is a professor at some wizard school? O///O I saw some art where he was a professor by day and a chess streamer on twitch by night? Which was pretty cute alwksjdfhg But I'd also love like some like Holiday-y cheesy romcom tropes if we're vibing. I love stuff like fake dating/fake engagement/fake marriage, that's easily my favorite. Shit like oh no now there's a storm, and no flights, and they can't leave... whatever will they do... how tragic. Only one bed type shit. I loooove slice of life, I also love stealing the plots of other media to use as AU skeletons! Like The Holiday or The Proposal, You've Got Mail, She Loves Me (the musical), whatever! I've got a whole list of these and a few other cheesy prompts if you're interested in something festive and romcom-y! I also love fantasy if we want to put these characters in a fantasy AU that's distinct from the game itself alsdhf

Self Indulgent Pre-Established (sort of) Bullshit!

Now I know a lot of people tend to see the term pre-established and cringe or in general think it’s boring. But wait, don’t scroll by! First of all, I don’t mean they were already like super together and had had a full character arc and everything prior to the roleplay ever starting. By pre-established I just mean that they knew each other. Second of all, remember what I said about cringe? It’s dead baby! Bury the coffin and move on! I’ve got an AU that I’m growing fonder of by the day, where my Tav has known Gale since they were teenagers (having attended Blackstaff together). They’re best friends and have been for decades at this point, and unbeknownst to Gale, my Tav has been in love with him since their days at academy. But his friendship means more to her than anything, so she’s never brought it up. Especially not when he was dating other people and later Mystra. She’s always been supportive and just quietly, quietly pines in the background. When he returns to Waterdeep after the netherese orb embedded itself in his chest and Mystra broke it off with him, after not seeing him for a while (since he’d been off with Mystra and later looking for the orb itself) she shows up to help him through this dark period in his life, and to help him find a cure. Gale is someone the game clearly writes with depression and something akin to (if not outright) suicidal ideation, and journeys of healing are narratives that I really really enjoy and cherish. So this would obviously be a lot of healing and then sweet sweet pining because like. Yearning, yanno? This sounds, as I write it out, like I can fix him fic and like I guess it’s not not that but? It’s more about giving Gale the tools to fix himself.  Listen. I’m not explaining it good. But we’re all depressed queers in this Chili’s tonight, are we not? My depressed queers get it. We wanna see these bitches get some therapy! And learn to recognize their support groups! Even if that support group is your one school friend and your cat. You gotta start somewhere. This can be a pre-game thing if you want to later move into the game’s plot, or we don’t even have to touch the game’s plot. I am happy as a clam to just party on with Gale’s personal quest and figure out an alternative solution to the orb.  I also recognize this is disgustingly self indulgent, but what is roleplay if not the wish fulfillment hobby? Naturally, in return, I am happy to write whatever self indulgent AU you are after!

Tadpoles, Gods, The Absolute: Oh my! (The Game)

I am more than happy to just shove both of our Tavs in the game and go from there! Especially since it’s what I’m currently interacting with, and that makes it something I’m thinking about all the time. We can craft companion quests for our Tavs, and we can pick a point in the game to drop them in if that’s your cup of tea! We can go as laissez faire or as hardcore mechanic about it as you like. Whether it’s just loosely following the plot or like sharing class builds and shit, I’m down for either! But know at the end of the day I’m one of those people who believe if the rules of Dungeons and Dragons are prohibiting fun, then it’s time to throw them out (like that old rule about all Tieflings being evil or some shit. Or how they can only be a limited amount of colors. Boring. Stupid. Where’s the joy, WOTC? Where is it.)

Alright, I think that's probably it. I know I probably came off abrasive, but I promise I'm a pretty chill person alksdkjfg

Hope to hear from you guys, but if I don't, good luck on your searches!

And for those who stuck around to the end and are interested in contacting me, here is my email that you can do that at:

cherryicingx (at) gmail (dot) com

(sorry for it not being very copy-pasteable, trying to avoid you know whats just scraping my email and spamming me)

We can totally RP via Discord, but you gotta get my handle by talking to me first. I'm getting tired of handing out my disco only to be hit with "hi i saw your ad :)" great what do you want "baulder's gate :)"

If you're gonna make me pull teeth at least pay me a dentist's salary first <33

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My last entry for @ssskmonth | Prompts used Festivals and Family

Kin

Summary: When Sasuke struggles with letting go of pain from his past, Sakura and Sarada remind him that he doesn't have to do this alone.

Rating: Mature

_

“Anata?”

Sasuke stopped dusting off the shelves and looked over in Sakura’s direction. He frowned though, seeing Sakura perched on a stool dangerously, trying to clean the cobwebs of their apartment.

“I was asking…” Sakura scrunched her face in displeasure. She hadn't realized when she had left with Sasuke on his journey that it could bring this much work.

A week ago, when they unlocked the door of their apartment, back after a year with their three-month-old daughter, they had realized making their home habitable again wasn't going to be easy. The exhaustion of their journey back to Konoha hadn’t left their souls, but the Uchiha couple prioritized cleaning over resting.

Sasuke walked over to her and steadied her wobbling stool.

“What?”

Sleep deprivation had left him cranky. He had hoped that Sarada's wailing would cease after they had moved from roads to Konoha. Although he was glad that she was more safe under a roof, it hadn’t stopped her from crying the whole night.

Sakura caught the irritation laced in his voice, and considered whether she should say what she was about to.

“Obon is in two days..." She spoke cautiously, busy with her work. "I was asking if you want to…” She trailed off again, not sure how to phrase this.

“Obon?” Sasuke looked up in her direction. He was about to ask her again, when he realized. “Obon.”

Sakura turned, facing him, and asked nervously, “Should we?”

In all these years, he had never celebrated Obon. When he was a child, he remembered his mother strictly following rituals, preparing to welcome the spirits of their clan's ancestors.

He realized that although he always carried his long gone family in his heart, he never had given any damn about the festival.

“Aah,” he agreed.

Sakura's face lit up with a wide grin, but that died off when they heard Sarada crying at the top of her lungs.

While Sasuke rushed to attend Sarada, Sakura wrestled with more dust and ended up coughing.

Although Sarada’s shrill cries bore holes in his eardrum, all the chaos of his new-formed family had settled down all the internal chaos that he had carried for years.

_

Sasuke stirred out of his slumber engulfed with warmth . Sakura's body was pressed against his back, her arm snuggly thrown around him. Sarada had been quiet after days, and he felt fully rested, refreshed after a sleep devoid of nightmares too.

The light filtering from the curtain told him it was still early, and Sakura's breaths on his neck made him want to wake her up and kiss her numb. He had lost count of the number of days he had felt her bare skin on his, slowly and passionately driving her crazy. The days and nights after Sarada’s birth went by changing diapers and trying to understand the meaning between different kinds of cries, which he hadn't quite mastered yet.

Sasuke was tempted even further when Sakura pressed her lips on his neck and murmured 'morning,' her pert nipples brushing against his muscular back. Sasuke suppressed a gasp, his twitching member, and the urge to reciprocate his wife's desire. He gently pried away from his wife's leg, and regretted it when Sakura retracted herself from him.

"Anata?" Sakura sat up with a myriad of emotions on her face — confusion, hurt and rejection.

Sasuke didn't want to make her feel like that.

"I… I'm going to visit my parents' grave."

Sakura nodded and smiled, her features relaxing.

Sasuke never thought that gulping down the guilt of neglecting his dead family could be that easy.

_

Sasuke sauntered through the path that led to his parents' grave. The place was cold and distant like his heart had been for many years. Neglected even, he mused.

He stopped when he found the stone that bore his parents' name. Uchiha Mikoto and Uchiha Fugaku — names engraved with such beauty that was ironic considering the way they had died. A surge of rage and emotions pumped through his veins in a way that he was too familiar with — it had made him a person of sins that he was still redeeming for.

He stood there unable to repress the painful memories that had seeped from his past like a poison. His surroundings reverberated with the screams and blood that painted his nightmares.

Years of redemption had seemingly healed his wounds, but the sharpness of the past always cut, and the wounds bleed as they always had.

Unable to anchor himself, he looked anywhere but his parents' name. His eyes darted across the ungrazed grass, wild flowers, and puddles formed by summer rain. Stubborn weeds creeping over his parents grave, like the past that was attached to him.

His eyes caught something. And there it is, he mused again. A small pink wildflower intertwined with weeds, facing the sun. A gentle breeze that made its petals gleam in the sunlight reminded him of Sakura's unwavering love. The love that had waited for him through his sins and redemption — love that assured him every day that he no longer was in the darkness alone — love that gave him Sarada.

He crouched down, sighing. The summer heat was getting unbearable, and beads of sweat rolled down from his forehead. This reminded he should get going. Sometimes Sarada got all fussy, and it was hard for Sakura to manage her alone. Although his heart was heavy when his eyes glided over the name of his parents again, he smiled thinking about his new family.

Sasuke traced his finger on kanji of his mother's name, dirt gathering on his finger tip. He picked up the rag that he had brought with him and scrubbed the dirt and mud from the stones. With every swipe of the rag, the images of lifeless bodies of his parents became clearer in his mind. His fingers twitched, but he did his work diligently. The dirt from his parents' name was gone now, like the blood from the wooden floor that had pooled out from his parents' bodies.

Shaking his thoughts off, he held his shirt sleeve with his teeth and rolled it upwards. He went on plucking the weeds, wishing if it was this easy to pluck away memories of his past. There was a hopeful part of him — a little part — thought that with time, the pain of his lost family would wash away, but maybe hope wasn't a thing for Uchiha Sasuke.

He bid adieu to his dead parents, and got up to leave. As he walked away, he looked back over his shoulder to get a peek of the pink flower that remained. The pink flower that had grown in his life — accepting him and his past.

_

As he reached the threshold of his house, he stiffened when he couldn’t feel the familiar chakras he was accustomed to.

He looked around and found Sakura had almost finished cleaning their house. Bookshelves no longer had cobwebs, the white sheets had been removed from the furniture, and the floor was polished.

“Sakura?”

He was answered by the empty hallways and a note. It was a note from Sakura that said she was going out for grocery shopping.

He ran fingers through his hair, sighing, and walked towards the kitchen. He decided to cook a proper lunch. They had been surviving on simple food after they had returned, courtesy of Sarada's fussiness. It amazed him sometimes how their child managed to command all their attention.

Sakura always jokingly complained that it was something Sarada definitely had inherited from him. Sakura boasted that she was a quiet infant, and her parents always backed her up. Sometimes he felt a tinge of jealousy at that.

He opened the fridge and grabbed the leftover rations that they had, and he remembered Naruto grumbling about something similar. He knew he shouldn't find that soothing, but he realized in that aspect he wasn't alone.

In fact, he wasn't alone at all anymore.

Sasuke delved into cooking, but as time ticked on, he got impatient. He decided to go out and look for them. Something made him scared that he couldn't pinpoint.

As he was going to turn the stove off, he heard the click of the door knob. He heard Sakura calling him and responded.

Relief washed through him as Sakura approached him. He had been worrying over nothing. Perhaps his heart was still as fragile as his younger self's. Too afraid to lose, yet too afraid to accept his weakness.

Sakura kept the bag of groceries, grinning widely at him before she complimented the smell of the food. He was captivated by her green eyes, but his daughter seemed to have his attention now. Sarada happily clapped her hands on seeing him and wiggled in her baby sling to reach for him.

Sasuke bent down, and Sarada reached for his cheeks and patted them with her small hands, grinning toothlessly. This was Sarada's way to embrace, Sakura had told him once. Sasuke kissed her little palm before straightening himself.

"When did you return? We were sort of feeling alone, so we decided to make a quick trip to the market. "Ne, Sarada-chan?" Sakura cooed, rubbing her nose on Sarada's head, and Sarada giggled, agreeing with her.

"But someone had more fun than she expected." Sakura tickled Sarada, and she joined her in fits of laughter.

A smile slipped past his lips, and all the heaviness that had settled in his heart from that morning began to dissipate.

"She seemed to be in a good mood," Sasuke commented, looking for something from the bag.

"Yes." Sakura hummed, sifting her fingers through Sarada's hair.

His eyes lingered on them, before he started grating ginger.

"Umm, Anata? Isn't that too much?" Sakura pointed out.

Sasuke nodded, but he added it to the pan and said, "Father always liked it this way."

Sakura blinked. She didn't know how to respond. Sasuke rarely talked about his parents, so she stood there just nodding.

The space between them stilled, with only sounds of food sizzling on the pan and Sarada's squeals.

"Father used to love the spice of ginger, so Mother used to cook like this," Sasuke explained.

"I see," Sakura replied, excitement spiking in her voice.

"Mother also added less Mirin than required," Sasuke went on, and Sakura listened raptly, watching him while he cooked Gyudon.

Sakura didn't miss the melancholy in his eyes when Sasuke said that Gyudon was his father's favourite, and it stirred Sakura's heart

Sakura knew the things which are gone always hurt, but she knew too it took time to heal them. So when Sasuke told her bits of his family, she was glad that Sasuke talked about them without any resentment — sharing his lost happiness with her. She wanted to thank him, so Sakura tiptoed, her arms wrapping around Sarada, and she pecked on Sasuke's cheek.

It was unexpected, and Sasuke stared wide-eyed at the contents in the pan, while the tips of his ears turned red.

"I'll remember this when I cook next time," Sakura blushed.

Sasuke nodded, smirking.

Sarada wiggled in her sling to reach for Sasuke again while Sakura giggled and commented on how restless she was growing.

The house, the people, and the meal he had once shared together with his parents were long gone for him, but now he saw himself in Sarada who was trying to get her father's attention like he used to. He realized time had its own way to fix things.

_

Sasuke watched the sky, summer clouds lazily drifting and strings of smoke whirling between them. The smell of smoke from the neighborhood mingled with the evening breeze, and he felt nostalgic.

His clan breathed fire, and where there was fire, there was smoke. He remembered tasting the bitterness of smoke that lingered on his tongue when his lungs had flamed out a great fireball in childhood. He’d been excited to share his experience, and Itachi had confirmed with his too gentle smile that he had felt the same way

It was a memory that had been long forgotten. Years and years of using katon jutsus and chasing his older brother for revenge had made him ignorant to these feelings that he had held precious in his childhood.

The orangish hue of the setting sun told him it was time.

It was the first day of Obon. He looked around and saw the lantern that was tied at the entrance of their house swinging with the wind along with a windchime.

The lantern will guide them home, Sakura had said when she had tied them.

He knew that too. His mother had told him during childhood while Itachi had set up the bonfire for mukaebi. He had complained that bonfires are for winters, not for summers. His mother had laughed and had corrected him.

Sasuke, this bonfire and lanterns are for the spirits of our ancestors to guide their paths back home.

He had shrugged back then, because he thought he wouldn't have to bother about this in future.

Sasuke set the twigs, and lit them using a small fireball jutsu.

He sat there, remembering that Obon during his childhood had never been so solemn. Lots of people visited during that time. He hadn’t remembered any of them, though Itachi remembered some of them. Sasuke had challenged Itachi: Just you see, nii-san, next time, I'm going to remember everyone's name. Itachi had chuckled and had flicked his forehead.

The next time hadn't ever come. Before he could add more people to his growing list of people he knew, Itachi had wiped out everyone. And then Sasuke was alone.

He realized after all these years how much he had missed his older brother. He always wanted to bury the feeling because it came with the realization that Itachi was dead because of him. Itachi was dead because of Konoha.

Itachi was dead because he wanted his otouto to live.

"Anata?"

Sasuke lifted his eyes from the flames to Sakura, who looked worried. He looked back to flames.

"Are you okay?"

Sasuke nodded. He knew they had spent enough time together for Sakura to know he wasn't alright. His eyes were fixated on flames, so he didn't notice the way Sakura's eyes softened when she sat beside him.

He didn't want to ask her, but he found himself talking anyway. "Do you think Itachi can find his way?"

For the second time in the day, Sakura blinked in confusion.

Sasuke clarified again, "He doesn't even have a grave."

For a second, Sakura felt like she couldn't breathe. She had never seen Sasuke so vulnerable before.

"This place… Konoha…" He gritted his teeth. "I- I don't know how to call Konoha my home after what they did to my clan… to Itachi."

"I can't," He said, his voice louder and filled with accusation.

But as soon as these two words left his mouth, his eyes widened in the realization of what he had done. He shut his eyes and apologized to Sakura.

He felt Sakura's palm on his left cheek. It reminded him of his daughter's gentle touch — that they were his home.

Sakura smiled when his mismatched eyes met her green, and spoke softly, "Hate it till you can love it back, Sasuke-kun."

_

Sasuke swallowed the soft moan that fell out of Sakura's plump lips before he moved down on her neck, leaving a trail of kisses. When their house turned silent from Sarada's cries, they both sought comfort in their bed, limbs tangled innocently. Sasuke was comfortable enough now to delve into his wife's gentle touches. Gentle touches soon turned greedy when he kissed her the way he had wanted to that morning. It wasn't too long before their clothes were scattered across the polished wood of the floor.

He nipped her neck, eliciting a whimper and a delicious clench of her walls around his pulsing cock. He groaned and pushed deeper into her wet velvety cunt. The air from the ceiling fan cooled their sweating bodies, but the heat where they were intimately joined made both their spines tingle.

Sasuke leaned down to capture her lips again, and Sakura reciprocated wantonly meeting with his thrust. They gasped for air when they parted, saliva smeared across the corners of their lips. Sasuke held his gaze with hers, which was always soft, assuring, and accepting. Like a wanderer on a cold night regarded the flames that kept him warm, Sasuke tried to emanate his gratitude for her through his mismatched eyes.

He inched deeper, relishing the warmth of her skin. Sakura's lips parted in a silent cry when he hit the spot that he knew made Sakura come undone. Their rhythm became more erratic, and the heaving and slapping of wet skin was driving Sasuke to his own finish.

Sasuke angled his hips and thrust roughly. Sakura shuddered, her nails digging deep in his bare shoulder. He closed his eyes, focussing on the pleasure unknoting in his belly, he pushed roughly again, and felt—

Sarada's whimpers reached their ears. His eyes snapped open reflexively like he was waking in the midst of a nightmare, and Sakura's grip loosened on him. Sakura winced as he reluctantly pulled out of her. He wasn't sure if it was because Sarada's cries intensified, or if it was because they’d been interrupted.

She smiled weakly and slid out of bed. Sasuke huffed and dropped onto the bed, watching Sakura hurriedly putting his shirt to cover her curves.

When he made his way towards them, Sakura was pacing along the room, cradling Sarada in her arms trying to calm her down.

"I fed her, changed her diapers, and still she is crying," Sakura said, expression etched with worry and irritation. Sarada shrieked louder, and Sakura's patience was waning thin.

Sasuke stretched his arm towards her, and Sakura handed the baby over. When he took her in his arm, rocked her and carefully nuzzled his nose on her forehead, she stopped crying. Somehow, it felt strange yet so good that someone needed him.

He was sure Sakura was red with envy and embarrassment when she mumbled something and walked away. He couldn't help himself but let out a chuckle, and Sakura turned and laughed too.

_

Konoha's streets were overflowing with families, people enjoying and dancing around the yagura stage to the beats of Taiko drums on the second day of Obon.

"Ino and I always loved dancing to this rhythm."

Sasuke didn't remember anything from his genin days. Maybe Sakura had told him back then, but he never paid attention to it like the other things he had missed while chasing blindly after revenge. This festival, this tradition, and Sakura were always there, and he had always been a piece out of the puzzle.

But Sarada with all her charm had made him fit in the puzzle. And now he and Sakura sat on the engawa, basking in the comfortable silence that they shared while the sound of Taiko drums reverberated with his heart beats.

Sakura held Sarada close to her body. He smiled, eyes falling on the Uchiha fan on her little back.

"I sprained my ankle the previous year. It was all stupid Ino's fault."

Sakura went on telling him about her Obon experiences while his eyes lingered on the swell of her chest, the bindings tugged down for Sarada to suckle. Sarada fed herself without any complaints, her little fingers clutching on folds of the beautiful green yukata Sakura was wearing.

The beautiful cherry blossom print on her green yukata accentuated her beauty, but it was the Uchiha crest that she sewed on her yukata in the afternoon that accentuated her beauty.

Sasuke's eyes trailed upwards to her exposed skin, and he noticed the hitch in her breath when his eyes stayed on the purplish mark he had given her the night before. They locked eyes, trapping her green with his mismatched ones.

Sakura blushed furiously under his gaze. Sasuke smirked and asked, "Want to go to the festival?"

_

The sound of heavy breathing disturbed the silence, as both of them came down from their high, basking in the afterglow. A sheen of sweat covered them like velvet, limbs entangled and limp. Sakura's yukata lay crumpled between their bodies, tugged upwards and sideways unceremoniously.

Sasuke had committed to memory the way her pink hair seamlessly smudged with the green of her yukata when he had pushed inside her from behind, losing himself to pleasure. His fingers lightly traced her pink nipples, and Sakura gasped.

She turned her head back, and Sasuke pulled her closer to his body, his palm now resting over her beating heart. Sakura smiled, and Sasuke realized there were so many colours that adorned his life now — the red of her lips, the pink of her hair, the green of her eyes, and that mirthful smile.

His heart skipped a beat when he felt Sakura's heart dancing under his palm, synchronising with his. Their lips found their way to each other, the uchiwa on the Sakura's garment silently observing their love.

_

A wisp of smoke rose into the air while twigs in the bonfire crumbled down to ashes. Sasuke sat in front of the extinguished bonfire, looking above at the dark sky.

The moon hid behind the clouds and stars twinkled, trying hard to compensate for the overcast skies. A breeze touching his skin gave him a familiar feeling. He had spent more time under open skies wandering than under a roof with a family. However, tonight he felt the same heaviness that he had carried for a long time.

After they had dinner, Sakura had reminded him that it was the last day of Obon. Reluctantly, he had lit the okokuri-bi — the bonfire that sent the spirits back to their resting place. Maybe he didn't want to part with his dead family. Maybe holding on to the illusion where his father, mother and brother were with him was easier.

The breeze swept the hair that covered his eyes, his mismatched orbs growing wet. It wasn’t because of anger anymore, though. It just hurt. He clutched at his chest, fingers digging into his shirt, trying to soothe the pain that was there. An invisible pain that he only owned — that Sakura and Sarada couldn't replace.

"Sara-chan, did you like it?"

Sasuke snapped out of his thoughts as Sakura approached him. Sarada fiddled with a toy that Sakura bought recently for her. Sarada cooed in excitement, and Sakura giggled.

When she reached closer to him, Sakura stretched out her hand towards him. Words were not their way, and Sakura smiled gently, coaxing him to take her hand.

And Sasuke did.

Because there were things Sakura and Sarada couldn't replace, but he could relive and recreate memories with them. Severing bonds would never ease his pain, he knew now; instead, new bonds would help him embrace the old ones.

They were there for him — he wasn't alone, and he didn't need to do this on his own.

_

FFN | AO3

Obon is a Japanese custom to honor the spirits of one's ancestors. This custom involves a family reunion holiday during which people return to ancestral family places and visit and clean their ancestors' graves when the spirits of ancestors are supposed to revisit the household altars. It has been celebrated in Japan for more than 500 years and traditionally includes a dance, known as Bon Odori.

Credits: Inspired from Warm by @catflorist . For those who haven't read, please read this wonderful piece.

Thanks to @fm-white for telling me more about rituals of Obon.

Thanks for @fictionalquacker's headcanon that Fugaku loves beef, which helped me making an assumption that it could be Gyudon. Also thanks to lovely @birkastan2018 for giving some tips about cooking Gyudon 💪. A big thanks to @theredconversegirl for naming my fic 🥺. Believe me, I would be forever grateful to you for this❤️

Thanks to @something-like-air for beta-ing this. 🤗

Last but not the least, @thatsakurastan :") with her constant support and nagging, I was able to complete and post this fic. You deserve big slabs of chocolate!🍫🍫🍫

Fireworks.

the request :

pairing : not technically a pairing.. but lets just say gojo x female reader warnings : angst and cursing, no editing. wordcount : 2561 a/n : this physically hurt me to write thanks anon. aha all jokes aside i’m so sorry for not making this quick enough, i finally got enough time to finish it and it’s not even that good :( thank u SO much for ur kind words omg u got me feelin like <333333333

       You stare at him, and he stares back, you’re sure he’s unblinking behind those shades of his.         You knew what would happen after this confrontation, after all, you were the one who had asked him to meet you here. It’s a small, calm park. The atmosphere is still, and the shrill sounds of cicadas are the only thing penetrating the deafening silence between the two of you.          “Hey.” he finally speaks up, sounding a bit too impatient for your liking. You flinch a little, and your fist tightens. It was like he never learned how to introduce himself politely.         You take a deep breath in and exhale, your breath comes out in clouds of smoke. You remember when Shoko had given you those cigarettes one day and Gojo slapped it out of your slack hands, Geto and Gojo laughing at your flushed face, your heart twists.          Truth be told, you didn’t even know why you were thinking the world was ending- it wasn’t. Breaking up with your fellow peer was awkward to say the least, but there were only 4 of you in the jujutsu class, yourself included. It would be undeniably dreadful to see his lanky figure dotting around the back of the class with Geto, and to have to work with him for everything else.          “Hey.” you reply, your words dripping with venom.         “C’mon, cut to the chase.” he waved his hand a few times in the air as a dismissal of the conversation, a half eaten lollipop dangling dangerously from those limp long fingers. It makes you hate him even harder. Couldn’t he read the room?     “I don’t have time for chit-chat, you know?! The strongest needs some rest. I’m human like the rest of us! Sheesh, Jujutsu is so demanding....”      “We need to break up.” is all that slips from your lips, and even you’re shocked it came out that carelessly. You wanted to stop resisting, to stop holding back and let loose the long river of hatred and misery you had for this man- no, a boy, he was a boy.      A strong wind blows against your warm face, and the lollipop drops onto the grass without another word.        Gojo gapes at you dumbly, and in return you look down to study that glistening in the moonlight lollipop, it’s pink and ants are already crawling on their new found prey. Your shoes are slightly dirty, and you could see-        “Are you serious?” he scoffed as if it was a joke. It’s not, and you hate being taken like a joke. You weren’t, and that’s all Gojo Satoru did- take everything as a joke, everything was childs play to him. You were looking for a serious relationship, and him? He was looking for sex and quick make out sessions.        “Wait- you’re not joking?” he laughs again, but it trails off, you doubt it actually affected him.        “Of course I’m not joking. Why would I joke about shit like this?” you spat back.        You didn’t care about his feelings right now. You deserved some sort of medal for dealing with him, any sort of compensation really. it seemed to you like the relationship didn’t quite matter for whatever reason. If he wanted to be fuckbuddies he could’ve just said so-       But you still can’t wrap your head around why he kept you, he didn’t throw you away, and you falter. You wanted to be his girlfriend in some ways, in others you wanted to punch him in the face with as much cursed energy as possible.        Gojo takes his glasses off, slipping them into his jacket’s pocket. It seems like he doesn’t want to talk, but you press on.        “I’m fucking tired, Satoru. You treat me like bullshit. I’m not your-” you take a short breather, tears beginning to dawn at the corner of your eyes. “I’m not your fucking doll. And I never, ever WILL BE. I’ve hung onto this stupid fucking relationship long enough and the amount of dedication you poured into this isn’t enough. I deserve better.”        Shit. You hated rambling like that. Scratch that, you hated confrontations as a whole, this would be sure to take a toll on you later.       Turning your back on him, you allow those tears to finally fall. Tears that had been shut in long enough had finally seen the light of day. You wipe the trails away with the already wet sleeve of your hoodie, a large trembling frown adorned your features.        You can’t hide your sniffling even if you tried, and before you know it you can’t even prevent the floodgates from bursting. The tears seeped into the dirt, creating some sort of rhythm as they fell from your cheeks.       “Hey-” he places those hands on your shoulder that made your knees go weak, it’s gentle, and he slightly caresses you. It’s strangely intimate for the situation you found yourself in, but you’re still mortified. Why did you enjoy his touch?        It feels like you’re in this position for ages, his hands on your shoulder, your back facing him. Somehow, someway, you can taste salty tears and you didn’t remember drinking any, for a split second you feel disgusted, at you, at him, at the world.      A small noise leaves your throat.      “It’s okay.” he finally spoke, was that a hint of sorrow? Never mind that, he was actually taking this seriously. What a turn of events.      He took it better then you certainly thought, especially since this would be a definite blow to his big ego. You turn to face him, maybe as an act of superiority, hell like you knew.       Peculiarly, there are tears in his eyes as well. Crocodile tears, probably. He’s most likely trying to guilt trip you- hah, like you’d fall for that. You knew better.      “It’s okay.” he repeated again, brushing those tears away with his roughed up thumb, you’re mortified. Why were you allowing him to touch you?      A calm silence settles between the two of you, but shortly after you hear the rustling of cloth.       Gojo’s taking his jacket off?       About to speak, your mouth snaps shut as he placed the impossibly large jacket around your body, small compared to his. Instinctively, you allow it, but your mind is cursing you for not lashing out on him- why did he still care about you, anyways?     Gojo takes a step back, and you realize you’re now wearing his jacket. His gaze directed at yours, eyelashes fluttering. Your lips are tingling, and for some unbeknownst reason you wonder how a kiss would feel right now.      A part of you still wanted the relationship.      “Take care.”      And with that, he twirled around with a hint of flair, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets; wind howling against your ears as he did so. He was finally leaving you, but that wasn’t what you envisioned, you wanted to leave him- not him leave you.      You watched him stroll off, heading to where ever he came from.     That was how your first, and last relationship ended.  ‧₊˚✩彡.     The thought of this abandoned relationship nestled at the back of your head, and it had been for several years. It was like it happened yesterday.      His glasses still resided on your nightstand, sitting on the same spot that you had hastily dropped it on all those years ago, gathering dust quickly as you couldn’t quite look at it.       Gojo’s jacket was at the very back of your closet, and you’d advert your gaze to somewhere else- anywhere else, whenever you saw the wretched pitch-black sleeves that were twice the size of your arms.       You had taken a rather looked down upon jujutsu path, one that you knew only one other person had done before you. Nanami Kento was his name, from what you remembered. Sure, you still kept in touch with Shoko, but that was about it.       Today was one of those days, Shoko would invite you to some sort of establishment to eat, perhaps make small talk about what had been happening in your life, and that was that. Admittedly, you missed that childish relationship with her so badly- but you could never tell her about that.       Japan at night was always a treat though, that was certainly a fact.      Perhaps Shoko was thinking about other things when she took you to the Japanese night market, though you didn’t blame her- after all the fireworks festival was today, if you remembered correctly. Stalls filled with games and cheap street-snacks wafted about in the air, sweet tangy sauce, noodles, your stomach grumbled as you thought about taking a bite on the horribly unhealthy junk food.       “Here, Y/N. I’ve heard this takoyaki is really good.” You and Shoko had finally found an empty bench to sit at, and for some reason the muddy green color painted onto the wooden bench made your stomach lurch- it was the same shade that you saw nearby when breaking up with Gojo.     Shoko gives you this lukewarm yet kind smile, enough for you to give her a small grin to her in return, and you take the still hot container out of her gentle hands.       You plop the doughy deliciousness into your salivating mouth, and immediately you’re giddy. Savoring the taste of the thick brown sauce coating your pallet. You had to admit, Shoko, Geto, and... Gojo had amazing taste in food. Your tastebuds had instantaneously dulled as soon as you parted ways with the trio.      “Shoko-” you mumble, your mouth still stuffed, you cover your mouth and try to lower the sound of your chewing. “This is really good! How much was it?”        Shoko’s eyebrow quirks, and she leans in closer to you, “What was that?”        About to repeat yourself, you drink in the scene around you first. Cheerful children roaming the streets; too past their bedtime. Angsty teenagers and the many lanterns strung highly above everyone’s heads, how bright everything was.       Then you see it.       Someone large, atleast, significantly larger as opposed to the general crowd bustling in the streets. You couldn’t be mistaken, he had the same wild white hair- except it’s gelled up into spikes. He’s wearing a mauve darkish-purple uniform, it seems, a cute shopping bag swinging side by side as he took long strides. One thing you had to note was a blindfold, though.       Gojo’s not wearing those classic shades that was practically his signature.       You peer over at Shoko, who’s now frantically waving at Gojo, humming, his chin tipped towards the clear canvas of a sky, dotted with many white stars. He seems livelier somehow, an aura of friendliness radiating instead of arrogance, and you drop your takoyaki in suit.       He notices you.      And then he notices Shoko.       “...’Scuse me. Comin through.” he maneuvered himself through the already annoyed crowd, muttering quick polite apologies before finally freeing himself from the tight bundle of people. A large toothy grin is displayed for the world to see on his face, you feel like you’re about to vomit everything you had eaten today.       Your eyes scan the bag he’s holding, it contrasted heavily from the dark color scheme of whatever he was clad in; pastel yellow with a cute light green mascot chewing happily on mochi. In bubble letters above it were the words, “It’s a good day for yummy food.”      “Shoko!” he exclaims joyously, giving her a quick hug. “Hey, haven’t seen you in a while outside of work.”       Then, Gojo glances at you, atleast that’s what you assume he’s doing, the blindfold was really confusing you. He politely smiled, not as big as the one that he gave Shoko, though.        “Long time no see, Y/N.”        You clear your throat and nod in agreement. “You too.”        Polite chatter between the two of them ensued, and you steadily got more bored as the time went on, checking your phone and stealing quick stares at the two of them. You want to comment, to be included, but you doubt anyone really cared for you right now.        “...How are you?” you say bluntly, blinded by boredom, and immediately you regret it.       Shoko chuckles awkwardly, looking at you with those tired eyes of hers. “Was that for me or Gojo?”        Fuck it, if you were gonna go out, you might as well do it now.        “Gojo.”        “Shit. Putting me in the spotlight like this?” he stands back up from leaning down to talk to Shoko eye-to-eye, now turning to look at you, pausing.       “You’re even more straightforward then I remember, and I thought that was impossible.”        “Yeah.” you finally say after too many seconds of silence. It seemed like he was hinting at something. “I guess we just grow as people, even though I thought that was basically impossible for you.” you cheekily retort back, crossing your arms over your chest with a smug smirk now proudly playing at your lips.        “AND you got sassier? Never quite grew outta the brat phase.” taking a seat between the empty space between the two of you with a huff, his right leg placed above the knee of his left, his thumb plays with the hem of his blindfold, pulling it just a bit so that you could see his snow white eyelashes, alongside with a singular eye.     It’s like time stops as soon as you see them, and it’s like Shoko isn’t closely surveying the two of you, obviously perplexed with this sudden increase of the intensity of conversation.        You see a split second of something flickering in those eyes of his, you’re not quite sure what it could quite be.. Vulnerability?         “Can’t believe my eyes.” pulling his blindfold back down. They’re still as breathtaking as you had imagined them to be. He shrugged, leaning back into the bench casually.      For a while, the three of you just watch the stall directly in front of you- it’s a goldfish stall. Gojo had gotten you one when the two of you were still dating.         Shit. Why weren’t you over such a silly relationship? It wasn’t like you still had feelings for him, but there was still this emotion you couldn’t shake off. It clung onto you like a leech.         “It’s been so long since we’ve relaxed with each other like this.” Shoko mused aloud, turning to look at the two of you. The words are so faint, you’re barely able to hear her subtle voice.        At this point, colorful fireworks started bursting into the air- every shade of color could be seen. Vibrant greens, blues, reds, a loud crackling is all the ear can hear, aside from the loud cheering of over joyous children. Both of you are unanswering.       Vaguely, you remember the first time you saw the fireworks. Lo and behold, you remember wisps of Gojo’s white hair that you twisted and played with, your legs wrapped around his head. You felt on top of the world. Now, you found yourself at the bottom of it.         There’s a grateful, albeit, sad smile on your face. It wasn’t like it was all sunshine and rainbows for you, no. You felt bitter. Hatred, even, that Gojo matured without you.        “Yeah. I miss this.” you say through gritted teeth.         If you were to be honest, you did miss them. Geto, Shoko, Gojo, running around pelting each other with scrunched up paper.       Not just Gojo.        But you guess he’s a big factor as well.       

32. Are you aware of how much money you spent? Tang and Pigsy

go wild god of fanfic prompts, go wild

I WOULDN'T GO THAT FAR ANON JDFKLSJFAS But that's very sweet of you to say! And I couldn't pass up a great chance to write these two as the old (but not that old) married couple I know them to be in my heart. I tried something a little experimental, this isn't exactly how I would normally write them but I had a little idea and wanted to see what I could do with it.

Are you aware of how much money you spent? 

Tang loved Pigsy. And he wasn't afraid of who knew that fact.

"You sure you wanna come with me to the market after... you know,” Pigsy said with a shrug as he rubbed his neck awkwardly.

Tang knew. He remembered the events of quite a few months ago very well. Over half a year if he remembered correctly. It was the last time he had gone with the chef to purchase his ingredients at the market, not wanting to go anywhere close to what was likely still far too close to the lair of the Spider Queen.

Especially not after their later encounters on the new year and the following weeks.

“I’m sure.”

It wasn’t as if they didn’t spend pretty much all their time together anyway. Tang had work, of course he did, and he wasn’t always in the shop 24/7. But whenever he could take his work on the go or take a break or just have the day off he would be by the chef’s side. He always had been for as long as he could remember since their first meeting in college.

At first it was simply from a sense of loyalty to an old friend. He’d kept in touch with Pigsy since they had graduated together, went to the restaurant from day one since it opened, and went back almost every day since then.

And then... he’d lost his apartment, an accidental electrical fire no one could have prevented and he had been glad no one was hurt, and Pigsy had just offered him his spare room like it was nothing.

Tang could have possibly stayed in a hotel until he was able to find another apartment, at least for a while. But not forever. Not the way people who knew who he really was thought he could.

Once someone learned you were the descendant of a long distant cousin of the Tang Sanzang they had a tendency to assume and want things from you after all.

He wasn't in any way rich, far from it. But people thought he was the second they learned he was related to Tang Sanzang and he was just well off enough for people to assume they were right. Just enough for people to expect more from him than he could really give. And he gave all the same, scared to disappoint. Scared to be left alone. Scared to be alone.

Not Pigsy, though. He didn't tell the chef for a long while before moving in and not for quite some time after, guilt from not revealing who he was making Tang leave him far more money than would be his reasonable share of the rent despite the fact he didn't really have it to spare, and the charade would only last as long as Pigsy was willing to ignore that.

It took 1 month and 28 bowls of noodles that Tang vastly overpaid for before Pigsy dropped an overstuffed envelope with all the excess money (which was really nearly all the money he could spare) he had given the chef right into his lap while he was attempting to study a book on their now shared couch.

Pigsy barely got out his question of "why?" before Tang buckled under the pressure and revealed everything.

His heritage.

His past with others.

His feelings.

That last one had been an accident. Truly it had. He'd never planned on telling Pigsy that he had developed a crush on him ever since he had asked him to taste test some of the recipes for his shop. That he kept going to the shop not because the food was amazing (even though it absolutely was, the best he'd ever had and he was certain ever would have) but because he just wanted to see Pigsy more. That the day he'd asked Tang to move into his spare room in his own apartment his heart had skipped a beat and he wondered if there was a deity out there both enjoying the idea of giving him everything he wanted on a silver platter while also reveling in the idea of it being snatched away in an instant because he was certain Pigsy had never liked him back.

Well. Was certain.

Until Pigsy stared at him for a few second too long before a lopsided grin spread on his face and he ignored every single other part of his confession to ask "you had a crush on me too?"

It had taken a minute or two for them to realize they were both hopeless idiots who had been mutually pining for each other the entire time.

They felt pretty silly after that, having lived together for a month when they probably could have been doing so long before.

~

"You don't have to keep givin me all this, you know," Pigsy said firmly once everything was out in the open, gesturing to the envelope that Tang now held in his hands.

"I know," Tang admitted, worrying his fingers over the edges. "It's just... everyone else always wanted more from me and... I was scared, I guess..."

"I'm not everyone else." Pigsy gently took hold of Tang's hand, giving it a careful squeeze. "I don't care who your great uncle or cousin or whoever was. I mean, I do, cause they're your family!" The chef corrected himself, flushing a deep crimson in embarrassment. "But you could be related to nobodies or a king and that wouldn't make you less you to me. I like you for you! I... am I makin any sense? I didn't go to college to sound nice, I went for business stuff!"

Laughter bubbled up from somewhere in Tang's chest, making him squeeze the chef's hand back.

"You are," he said, feeling a lightness inside him that he didn't realize he hadn't felt in a long time. "I get it. I like you for you too, Pigsy."

"Good," the chef said, a chuckle of his own resounding in unison. "Good..."

The two sat for a moment longer, staring at each other before Tang started to lean forward. Pigsy followed, just as he had with the laughter.

It didn't take long for noses to bump each other awkwardly and for the two of them to burst into cackles as they realized they would need to remember to turn their heads before they kissed.

And then they shared their first.

~

They'd been together for years after that. Scholar and chef, old college buddies now roommates turned boyfriends and then later husbands. Most people didn't even know they were married at all, "if they couldn't see it when it was right in front of their faces why explain it" was Tang and Pigsy's mutual reasoning. And for those that did know, some people didn't really understand their relationship. Not with how they carried on with the whole "freeloader" thing.

But that was because of one of Pigsy's only requests when they started dating.

"Don't feel like you gotta pay me for anything, ok? I don't know what other people have said to you, but you don't gotta do that with me."

Tang liked to take that a little far, admittedly, for the fun of it with the noodle orders at the shop. He couldn't help it, he loved everything about Pigsy! His smile, how much he cared behind his gruff exterior, his cooking (obviously), and how cute he was when he would let out that exasperated sigh at the end of the month and just look at Tang's tab as he took out whatever was extra in his half of the month's rent to pay for all but a few yuan of it and just change into that soft smile all over again.

The tab was real, but Tang always paid it at the end of the month. Even if Pigsy always insisted behind the scenes that he didn't have to. He could just stop giving Pigsy the extra cash and they'd wash their hands of the tab and the freeloading completely if he wanted to.

But Tang liked teasing his husband too much and Pigsy was happy as long as Tang was alright with that.

Something in the back of Tang's mind wondered if he was still just scared though, despite everything. As if the ideas of his youth were too deep seated to really go away, intrusive thoughts needling into his brain in a way that would need something even more life altering than he already gone through to get them to leave, and he kept the tab and the teasing around just for some extra security so he would know he'd get to see Pigsy's exasperated smile and hear him say he could stop again. He was certain he was just overthinking things, something he did more often than he would like to admit.

Of course... that was until Spider Queen.

It hadn't been a good morning already, the selection at the market had been poor and Tang was tired from a long work week. Pigsy had been determined to find the right ingredients for... something that, frankly, Tang couldn't remember after all these months. What he did remember was the way the Spider Queen drew Pigsy in, despite his sniping at him while they were tied up he knew that the chef really was only after actual vegetable, and being in that lair.

It was awful.

They hadn't been down there long, but it was long enough for Tang to suggest Pigsy stay away from the market entirely and order his food via online delivery. Pigsy thought he'd been jealous at first, until he realized that Tang was just... scared. Scared of Pigsy getting hurt, scared of losing him. Just scared.

Until MK had shown up there really was no telling if they would have made it out. And that scared Tang. A lot.

Pigsy didn't stop going to the market entirely, but for Tang's peace of mind he bought most of his food via delivery like he suggested and took MK with him every time instead. Tang refused to go back, not when he knew how close that stand was.

And then the Lunar New Year happened and Tang no longer really felt safe anywhere.

Oh he acted like everything was fine alright, but he knew Pigsy could tell how defeated he was in knowing that Spider Queen and her crew could just show up anywhere at any time now. It left him tired, having trouble sleeping, and just emotionally exhausted.

Until this morning. When he woke up before Pigsy and got dressed and ready to go and suggested they go to the market together.

He was tired. Too tired.

Tired of letting himself be afraid. Of Spider Queen. Of the market. Of his old intrusive thoughts.

After all he had used a giant gun sword on that one spider guy with the pony tail who insisted on teasing Pigsy for some reason. And went through whatever happened with that weird shadow puppet guy. Why be afraid anymore after all that weirdness?

So at the market they were, looking over the selection of ingredients together for the first time in months almost as if nothing had happened. No one would have been able to tell except for the way Pigsy kept looking over at Tang to make sure he was alright.

Tang loved that about Pigsy too.

“Tang you don’t have t-”

“I want to,” the scholar said firmly, handing his card to the merchant they had stopped at over Pigsy’s head before the other even had a chance to argue further.

“Tang!” Pigsy yelped as his card was handed back, gesturing to the bag of food he was being handed shortly after. “Are you aware of how much money you spent? That stuff’s expensive!”

“I know,” Tang said nonchalantly, smiling softly as he turned to head to the next stall. “I told you, I wanted to buy them.”

“But why?” Pigsy insisted, looking a bit lost at having to be the one to follow someone else through the market for once. “You know I’d never make you pay for anything... well, heh, except your tab that you insist on keeping open.”

“About that" Tang said, smiling softly as he turned back to the man he loved for so long. "I don't think we need to keep that open anymore."

Pigsy froze, staring at Tang in confusion for a moment before his eyes widened as he realized what he'd just said. He blinked, looking at the bag of ingredients, thinking about the amount of yuan Tang had spent before he finally caught on to what the scholar had so sneakily done.

The exact amount down to the last little bit.

Paid in full.

"You're serious," The chef said as he took in Tang's expression carefully, reaching out to grab his free hand softly and squeeze. "What brought this on?"

"Just thought it was time to let go of old fears," Tang answered with a shrug, and he barely had time to react before Pigsy tugged him forward with a tilt of his head and pressed their lips together.

Tang didn't keep count of how many times they kissed over the years, who would after so long, but he was sure he'd remember this one as vividly as the first.

"Let's get back," Pigsy said after he pulled back, smiling warm and bright and just looking the way being home felt. "MK's probably waiting to get that out of the city training started and we don't wanna keep them all waiting."

He loved Pigsy.

And the one thing he was never ever afraid of was who knew that.

The Winter Prince Review/Analysis

So I have a complicated relationship with YA fiction. In general there’s the old, "is it ok to like media for younger demographics," debate. The common consensus pendulum will swing from "why are you so against media that teenage girls like" to "you’re just numbing yourself with simple, easy material and aren’t branching out and growing up." The obvious middle ground is there are high quality works for all demographics, so just have a well-rounded media diet, but even then sometimes I have trouble ignoring the noise.

My specific baggage comes from having come of age once the YA market was well established with the likes of Harry Potter, Twilight, and the Hunger Games. So while I was the perfect target audience for this boom, I was never really encouraged to explore outside of it. There are some great YA series I still enjoy and am glad to have read, but there is still a general sort of flavor found in most popular commercial entries. These days, even adult-marketed books will sometimes carry that same flavor, just due to how much money can be made by also being able to pull in a YA audience.

All this is to say, when I picked up, The Winter Prince, a middle grade historical fiction title published by Elizabeth Wein in 1993, a part of me still had this fear it would be a simple, easily consumable, safe affair. And instead it was a wild roller-coaster that went harder than many works I've read praised for their grittiness.

For more context, here’s the summary: Medraut is the eldest son of Artos, high king of Britain; and, but for an accident of birth, would-be heir to the throne. Instead, his younger half-brother, Lleu, is chosen to be prince of Britain. Lleu is fragile, often ill, unskilled in weaponry and statesmanship, and childishly afraid of the dark. Even Lleu's twin sister, Goewin, seems more suited to rule the kingdom.

Medraut cannot bear to be commanded and contradicted by this weakling brother who he feels has usurped his birthright and his father's favor. Torn and bitter, haunted by jealousy, self-doubt, and thwarted ambition, he joins Morgause, the high king's treacherous sister, in a plot to force Artos to forfeit his power and kingdom in exchange for Lleu's life. But this plot soon proves to be much more - a battlefield on which Medraut is forced to decide, for good or evil, where his own allegiance truly lies...

If some of these details ring familiar to you, it is because Wein, is pretty open about this being her retelling of Arthurian legend. While the setting is purely grounded in 6th century Great Britain, considering the focus Medraut and Morgause’s relationship gets, to the point where the entire novel is in the style of him recounting the entire narrative to her, it isn’t hard to guess the dark secret bubbling below the surface. This series has often been compared to the Queen’s Thief series, another middle grade series that still had a pretty substantial adult audience. Never venturing anywhere too inappropriate for twelve year-olds, but also not talking down to the audience. So I expected the backstory elements to remain a tastefully implied backdrop to the sibling rivalry brewing in the forefront.

Anyway three or so chapters in Medraut very directly explains that he is the product of incest to the twins. And from there we have a very intense story of inter-generational abuse and trauma that does not pull back its punches.

It’s hardly the first narrative I’ve consumed to go there. In fact it makes a surprisingly amazing companion piece to the anime Penguindrum, I just finished. (Hopefully I can get around to reviewing that as well.) But what drew me in from the start was how it knew how to let a scene play out without an internal monologue providing commentary on why Medraut is making his choices and how he feels. the first half of the novel or so is mostly vignettes that all strung together paint a very clear picture of his relationship with the twins. Perhaps it sounds like I’m just describing good writing, but again, even literary works I’ve picked up will feel the need to explain everything in clear, distinct terms. The subtlety of the Winter Prince comes less from a need for censorship, but more from trusting the audience to be able to put the pieces together.

And along with that confidence we’re able to witness the nuance of Medraut’s feelings. We see him genuinely look out for the twins, bond and care for them, even while his resentment grows. In one scene he will affirm Lleu of his ability to one day grow into a great king while the next he will bond with Goewin of their jealousy of his position. I’ve seen other reviewers describe his behavior as confusing and nonsensical, but to me it felt like a very real sort of love-hate relationship that comes from these tense situations.

All helped by the fact that Lleu is more than just a spoiled brat. Over the novel he comes into his own as a brilliant swordsman and sociable charmer. (And in interesting fashion, this growing competency only fuels Medraut and Goewin’s jealousy.) He has his own trauma and baggage beyond simple "pressures to be golden child/heir," and it is genuinely painful to see him try and cope with Medraut’s growing erratic behavior. It is beyond easy to sympathize with both brothers, which makes the inevitable writing on the wall all the more painful to read.

I have to admit that the latter half of the book is weaker than the first. We trade out those vignettes for more plotty action, which can make the swing of love-hate feel more melodramatic. But I was hooked enough into the characters and their struggles to still enjoy it, even if it was less tightly constructed. Plus what it loses in tasteful balance it more than makes up in sheer excitement and tension. For the last fourth of the book, I would read a paragraph, scream, and have to turn away because I couldn’t believe this middle grade novel was going there. Hell, by the end the shock value transcended the age demographic issue, it was like the entire curtain of innuendo had been dropped to reveal the raw wound that Medraut saw most his existence as. Seriously the fact we have a canon bi protagonist is a footnote in comparison to the torrent of pain and self-loathing.

If you’re not the type to enjoy that high stakes emotional whirlwind, then I understand this book not being for you. I don’t know if it would be classified as "good rep" or a "respectful portrayal of serious issues," but good Lord did it remind me why I love reading after a boring stream of smug "nuancedTM" bestsellers. Where it prides itself in being messy and complex, but never to the point where you lose sympathy for a "good guy" as there is always a bigger evil you can hate without question. Perhaps I’m just tired of living through moral panics, but in a world where school-boards argue they have to protect 8th graders from being exposed to curse words, the fact this little firecracker was not only put out by a mainstream publisher in the 90s but was marketed towards children, it feels like a miracle it exists. Like I can’t imagine what twelve year old they expected to pick this up.

But then again, I do remember being in 8th grade or so, picking up what i assumed would be another middle-of-the-road paranormal romance YA novel, and then having my world rocked when it ended on a tragic cliffhanger. I reread the ending over and over again, stunned that a novel was "allowed" to do something like that and make me feel such intense things.

That said, the series apparently was never a commercial success, to the point where the final novel remains unpublished bc of publishers not wanting to touch a series finale with such low sales. Call this a call to action or whatever, but if you check out/like this book, then consider going the extra effort to purchase a new copy. Or it doesn’t even have to be this specific book. Just at the end of the day, remember to support small, weird, yet daring art.

Heart of a Hero

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Tommy Vega, Nancy Gillian, Andrea Reyes, Gabriel Reyes

Rating: T

Warnings: Mass shooting incident

Notes: A million thanks as always to @bluenet13​ who beta read the heck out of this and listens to all my writing woes.

Written for the @badthingshappenbingo​ prompt “Ambulance Ride.”

Read on Ao3

It was his day off. It was his goddamn day off. But apparently crime didn’t take days off or respect the fact that he was just trying to run errands like a normal human being. Something that should have been a safe activity for everyone. Not a terrifying, violent event.

Carlos had been in the vegetable aisle when he’d heard the distinctive popping of gunfire. He’d dropped the mango in his hands, instinctively reaching for his duty weapon, despite the fact that he didn’t carry it on his days off. It had taken him only seconds to assess the situation, to realize the shots were coming from outside the store rather than inside, and to start running toward them. “Get to the back of the store!” he yelled to panicked customers and staff as he moved past them toward the doors. “Find somewhere to lock yourselves in and call 911!”

He stopped momentarily to help up a woman who had fallen to the ground, pushing her in the direction everyone else was fleeing as another round of shots sounded and the glass windows at the front of the shop shattered, causing everyone nearby to scream in terror.

Carlos paused at the front doors, trying to assess where the shots were coming from before exiting to the sidewalk outside. He could see people running, what looked like a body on the ground, but no sign of the shooter. Or shooters. There had been an awful lot of gunfire for it to be only one person. 

There was a flash and more popping and Carlos caught a glimpse of someone in a black or dark blue hoodie running toward the building before ducking behind a mailbox for cover. 

Running out into an active shooter situation unarmed seemed incredibly stupid, but there were still a lot of bystanders around and Carlos needed to do what he could to stop further casualties.

He crouched low, pulling the door open just enough to let himself out and moved quickly toward the fallen person on the sidewalk. The man let out a groan as Carlos got close and he felt a brief wave of relief that the man was alive. “Help me,” he said, breathing hard, eyes wild with fright.

“I’ve got you,” Carlos said, looking up and around for either shooter, but they seemed to have disappeared for the moment. “What’s your name?”

“Danny,” the man said, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Danny where are you hurt?”

“My leg,” he said, in obvious pain. “I was running and I tripped. I think I broke my ankle.”

Another wave of relief. Broken ankles were an easy fix compared to gunshot wounds. “We need to get you somewhere safe,” Carlos said. “I want you to put your arm around my shoulders, I’m going to help you get behind that table over there. It’s probably going to hurt, but I need you to stay as quiet as you can, all right?”

The man nodded and Carlos wasted no time in putting an arm under his shoulder and moving immediately toward the table a few feet away just as the assailant reappeared, apparently having reloaded a fresh round of ammunition.

Carlos dragged Danny the last few feet, hunching over as more glass shattered nearby. “Oh my god, oh my god!” Danny gasped.

“Stay down!” Carlos ordered, putting as much of his body over him as he could.

And that was when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The door to the grocery store opened and another man stepped out, looking up and down the street. 

“No! Get back inside!” Carlos yelled.

He was on his feet and moving before he even thought, gunfire ringing in his ears as he tackled the man to the ground, both of them grunting in pain as they hit the concrete. 

There was a squeal of tires and Carlos looked up to see the man in the dark sweatshirt jump into the back of a jeep, slamming the door shut as the driver hit the gas. 

He was just able to make out the first three digits of the license plate before it turned the corner and disappeared from sight. 

“Are you all right?” he asked the man underneath him, still breathing hard.

The man let out a moan. “He shot me.”

Sure enough there was blood seeping from a wound on the man’s arm. “Okay, deep breaths,” Carlos said, sitting up and reaching for his phone with one hand while the other clamped down firmly on the man’s arm, ignoring the pained swear words coming from his mouth.

“911 what is your emergency?”

“This is Officer Carlos Reyes, badge number 1-3-0-8. I am at the Machado Family Market on Ninth Street and we have a mass shooting situation. The suspect fled in a white jump, first three license plate digits 6-3-1. I have two known victims both male. Victim one is in his early thirties and appears to be suffering from a broken ankle. Victim two has been shot in the arm. Requesting immediate police and medical assistance,” Carlos barked as he grabbed a wad of napkins from a nearby table and pressed them against the man’s arm.

“Officer Reyes I am dispatching all available police units in your area and rolling medical,” the dispatcher told him calmly. “Do you need me to walk you through what to do with a bullet wound?”

“No I’ve got it,” Carlos said as he tried to stop the bleeding. He looked down at the man. “What’s your name?”

“Ian,” the man said with a grimace. “How bad is it?”

“Just stay still and keep taking deep breaths,” Carlos said. “We have ambulances on the way and they’re going to take good care of you.”

It didn’t look that bad to him, the bleeding seemed to be slowing, but he wasn’t a medical professional and he wasn’t going to make any promises. “How you doing over there, Danny?” he called over his shoulder to the first man.

“I’m all right,” he called back. 

“Just try and be still okay? The less you move the less damage you’ll do,” Carlos called back.

It felt like an eternity before sirens split the air around them. People had started emerging from the store. A woman who said she was a nurse had gone to take a look at Danny’s ankle while others sort of walked slowly through the debris in a state of shock. 

“Reyes?” 

Carlos looked up to find a colleague, Matthew Cruz looking down at him. “You just have to be in the middle of the action at all times huh?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Carlos said, managing a half smile. 

“You need help?” 

“I think I’ve got him for now. If you can just send medical over as soon as possible that would be great.”

“On it,” Cruz said, keying his radio as he and the rest of the officers worked to clear the scene so medical could come in. “Any idea what happened?”

“It was one person,” Carlos said. “Dark hoodie, medium build. I got a partial plate when they fled the scene.”

“Yeah they picked up the Jeep’s tail a minute ago. Nice work.”

Carlos nodded.

Within minutes the scene was cleared and medical swarmed the area. A paramedic that Carlos didn’t know ran over and knelt beside him. “Need some help over here?” he asked.

“This is Ian,” Carlos told him. “Single gunshot wound to the arm. Bleeding was under control until a minute ago but I think the bullet might have moved and hit an artery.”

Blood had begun gushing through his fingers in the last few seconds and Carlos felt panicky at his inability to do more.

“Okay I’m going to put my hands over yours and you are going to slide out, got it?” the medic asked.

Carlos gave an affirmative and they switched places as another medic came over and joined them. “You take care Ian,” Carlos said.

“Thank you,” Ian told him, his face pale and sweaty.

Carlos got to his feet, surprised at how shaky and nauseated he felt. This type of scene wasn’t new for him, but he’d never been out of uniform during a crisis of this kind before and it was getting to him more than he would have expected.

“Carlos?” He heard T.K.’s horrified voice before he saw him and his heart sank. His boyfriend was going to be beyond upset.

“Oh my god! Are you all right?” T.K. moved toward him eyes wide, a bag slung over his shoulder with Nancy right behind him, looking equally concerned.

“I’m fine,” Carlos assured them. “A little shaken up, but fine.”

“There’s blood all over your hands,” Nancy said.

Carlos shook his head. “It’s not mine. There was a man who was shot, somebody from the 130 has him.”

“Hey! We need some help over here!” An officer beckoned the medics toward a woman who was bleeding from the head.

T.K. looked back at Carlos who waved him off. “Go help everyone else. I’m all right, I promise.”

They didn’t look convinced. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?” T.K. asked.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Carlos assured him as they moved to help the woman in need.

He was vaguely aware of T.K. calling out vitals, Nancy rushing past him to grab something else off the ambulance as he wiped his arm across the back of his forehead, sweaty despite the fact that he was beginning to feel cold. The adrenaline that had fueled his heroics was wearing off fast and he knew he should probably sit down before his knees gave out, but he couldn’t quite figure out where to go.

Another team had already packed up the man with the broken ankle and Carlos gave him a nod as he rolled by. He could sense T.K.’s eyes darting back and forth from him to his patient, but he ignored his boyfriend. He was fine and T.K. needed to focus on his job.

He sucked in a deep breath and put his hands on his hips, swallowing hard as the nausea in his stomach swelled.

“Carlos, are you okay?”

He had spotted Tommy speaking to the incident commander a moment ago, but apparently she’d finished and was now standing in front of him with a worried look on her face. “Did someone examine you?”

Carlos shook his head. “No, I’m fine. What’s the situation? How many casualties?”

“Several injuries, mostly minor from broken glass or trip and falls. One gunshot victim so far.” She looked him up and down and he could see that she wasn’t going to let him go. “You look like you’ve been through it; why don’t you let me check you out?”

“I should go see if I can help—“

“Carlos, you are not on duty right now,” Tommy said, guiding him to a nearby chair, her fingers settling on his wrist to take his pulse. “Do you have any pain?”

“Not really,” Carlos said, feeling extremely tired now that he was finally sitting. “I’m kind of nauseous. Shaky.”

Tommy hummed in sympathy. “That could be the adrenaline. All this blood is another victim’s?” she asked, looking at his hands.

“I think the bullet may have found an artery,” he said, by way of explanation. “I was on him pretty fast but I don’t know if it was enough.”

Her hands ran up and down his arms as he spoke, searching for injuries. “You did everything you could,” she said. 

Her hands moved across his chest, down his torso and then she stilled. “Nancy?” she called without taking her eyes off of Carlos.

Nancy looked up from where she was bandaging a cut on a woman’s forearm. “Yeah Cap?”

“Can you go get me a fresh kit and some oxygen from the rig?” Tommy’s voice was calm. Too calm. Carlos felt his heart begin to beat faster.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Carlos I want you to listen to me and stay calm,” Tommy said, her voice smooth and gentle. “You’ve been shot.”

Panic jolted through him. “What? No I—I’m fine.”

“We’re going to get you on the ground all right? Easy does it.” She put one hand on his shoulder and the other on his left side, sliding him easily off the chair and onto the sidewalk even as his confused brain tried to catch up. He couldn’t be shot. He would have felt it. He would know if he’d been shot. 

“I don’t feel anything,” he said, noticing now that his voice was shaking and he felt even colder than before.

“That’s probably the adrenaline,” Tommy said. “You’re out here being a hero and saving everybody without even taking care of yourself.”

Nancy reappeared and her eyes widened in horror as Tommy cut up Carlos’ shirt and exposed his abdomen. “Nancy, go get T.K.”

“Cap…”

“Go quickly please,” Tommy said and now Carlos heard the sharp edge of urgency in her voice. “Here we go Carlos, take some deep breaths for me okay? This might hurt.”

Oh! Carlos choked back a cry as she put pressure on his right side. A lot of pressure. Pressure that sent all the agony he hadn’t been feeling burning through his body. He tried to arch his back and move away from her, but either he was weak from blood loss or she was stronger than she looked. 

“Easy, easy Carlos,” she said as he gritted his teeth and tried not to let out another pained moan. “Try and relax for me. I know it’s hard, but I need you to stay as still as possible.”

Stay still when it felt like he was on fire? 

T.K. appeared above him, eyes wild with fear, a hand cupping his cheek. “Cap what—?”

“Gunshot wound to the lower right quadrant,” Tommy said evenly. “No apparent exit wound. Nancy get him on oxygen. T.K. can you work?”

“I—“

“Yes or no?” she asked sharply. 

“Yes, yes I can,” T.K. said, but Carlos could see tears in his eyes. He wanted to reach up and wipe them away, but his arms didn’t seem to be working anymore. He felt weirdly detached from his body. Detached from everything except the pain radiating through his side. 

“Okay let’s get him on some fluids,” Tommy ordered. “How you doing Carlos?”

“Fine,” Carlos slurred from underneath the oxygen mask. He didn’t like the way the air blew against his face, but breathing did seem easier so he didn’t try and pull it off.

“Carlos stay awake,” Nancy ordered when his eyes slid shut.

He forced them open again. Why? Why did he need to stay awake? He couldn’t quite remember.

“T.K.?” his eyes searched for his boyfriend, it was hard to see with the mask covering half his face.

“I’m right here babe,” T.K. said, appearing in front of his eyes. “You’re all right. You’re going to be just fine okay?”

He put a hand on Carlos’ head and Carlos felt an odd urge to cry, tears pricking at his eyes, his throat tightening, making it even harder to breathe. 

“Let’s get him on the gurney,” Tommy ordered. “Carlos let us do the work okay? We’re going to get you out of here.”

He might have blacked out when they lifted him onto the gurney. He definitely threw up. It was horrible.

T.K. got the mask off just in time and Nancy rushed to put a basin under his chin. He fell back with a moan that turned into a whine, not something he was particularly proud of. He wanted to go back to ten minutes ago when he’d just been shaky and weak in the knees. Nothing had hurt then. Now everything hurt and he wanted it to stop. 

“T.K.,” he whimpered, tears pooling in his eyes as they slid him inside.

“I know, I know it hurts babe,” T.K. said and Carlos could see he was near to tears as well. “Tommy can we up his morphine?”

“Give him a few more milligrams,” Tommy said as she slammed the doors shut behind her. “Let’s go Nancy!”

Carlos felt a tiny bit of relief from the pain as medication flooded his veins. He pulled the oxygen mask from his face. “My parents,” he rasped.

“I will call them as soon as we get to the hospital,” T.K. promised.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos said, closing his eyes as tears slipped down his face. 

“No, no, no,” T.K. said quickly, putting the oxygen mask back in place and stroking his hair. “You don’t need to be sorry. You are good and brave and perfect and you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Don’t want to leave you,” Carlos said, his heart splitting into two at the thought.

“You’re not,” T.K. said firmly. “You’re not leaving. Right Tommy?”

“Absolutely not,” Tommy said as she adjusted the IV’s. “You are staying right here with us. A little surgery, a few days in the hospital, and you’re going to be good as new.”

“See?” T.K. said, his voice breaking just a little as his thumb moved back and forth over Carlos’ forehead. “You’re fine. You’re going to be fine.”

He drifted in and out after that, everything coming in flashes and blurs of noise and light and pain.

“I love you,” T.K. said to him over and over again, pressing his lips against Carlos’ forehead. “I’ll be here when you wake up."

And then he was gone and there was pain and strangers and the sharp smell of antiseptic burning in his nostrils. There were voices all around but he didn’t understand what they were saying, didn’t know what was happening until someone with a soft voice took his hand.

“Officer Reyes we’re taking you into surgery now. They’re going to remove the bullet and repair any damage. You’re going to go to sleep and when you wake up things will be much better.”

Then someone was putting something over his face, telling him to count, but he was so tired and his tongue felt leaden in his mouth.

He had no idea how much time passed. He woke up to voices, some familiar some not, and excruciating pain in his side. He might have cried, he thought maybe someone wiped his tears away. Someone definitely put a straw in his mouth and encouraged him to drink, which felt good on his dry throat, but then he was drifting again.

Everything was heavy and tired and painful and sleep kept dragging him under again and again like waves beating against the shore. He wasn’t strong enough to fight them, not even when T.K. was whispering things in his ear or when he felt his mother run her fingers through his hair.

It felt like a long time before he was able to swim up from the darkness and blink his eyes open in the harsh lighting of his hospital room. He swallowed hard, his mouth and throat still parched and tasting of medication. “There he is.”

Carlos turned his head and found his father sitting by his bed, a smile on his face. “Are you with us mijo?”

Carlos nodded, brain still foggy as he tried to piece together the events that had gotten him here. “Are you in pain Carlitos?”

His eyes searched until he found his mother sitting in a second chair, a pile of knitting in her lap. “I was shot?” he asks, his voice coming out raw.

“Yes, mijo,” his father said, sitting forward. “At the grocery store.”

“How,” he swallowed painfully, “how long?”

“It’s been about six hours,” his mother said. “You lost a lot of blood.”

Carlos winced. “Bad?” he asked, apparently only capable of single syllable words. 

“Nothing they couldn’t fix,” his dad assured him. “They were able to remove the bullet without complications. There was minimal damage. You can ask your boy, he knows all the medical stuff they’ve been talking about.”

“Where is he?” Carlos asked, shifting uncomfortably in the bed. 

“He just went home to get some things for you,” his mom said. “He got here before we did and hasn’t left your side, but we knew it could be a while before you woke up and he was still in his uniform. He looked very uncomfortable.”

“He should be back soon. Do you want us to call him? Tell him what you’d like from home?” his father asked.

Carlos shook his head, already feeling himself drifting away again. “Just tell him to come back.”

His mother squeezed his leg through the sheets. “He’s coming Carlitos. He’ll be here soon. Just rest now.”

The next time he opened his eyes T.K. was there. His uniform was gone, replaced by jeans and a grey hoodie, the strings of which he was fiddling with absentmindedly as he stared a hole into the wall across the room. “Hey,” Carlos croaked. 

T.K.’s eyes immediately flicked to him and he sat forward on the chair. “Hey babe,” he said softly, his face a mask of worry and exhaustion. “How are you feeling?”

In pain was the answer, but Carlos wasn’t going to let him know that. “I love you,” he managed to croak out, tears tightening his throat.

“I love you too,” T.K. said, reaching for his hand and threading their fingers together reassuringly. “I love you so much.”

Carlos shook his head and tried to get his emotions under control. “I made peace so long ago with the idea that one of us might die in the line of duty. But I never…I didn’t ever think that picking up groceries…”

“I know,” T.K. said. “Me neither.”

Carlos shook his head and had to swallow down a moan of pain as he tried to get more comfortable in the bed, a seemingly futile task. “Easy,” T.K. said, coming to help him. “Take it from someone who knows, bullet wounds hurt like hell.”

“I uh, I asked my parents but they don’t understand everything like you do. How bad is it?”

T.K. squeezed his hand. “As far as gunshot wounds go, you got very lucky. It missed everything vital. Barring any complications you’ll be out of here in a few days.”

Carlos exhaled slowly and looked up at the ceiling. “Okay. Good.”

“How’s your pain?” T.K. asked. “Do you need more medication?”

“No, I’m all right,” Carlos said even though the pain in his side was slowly growing from an ache to a knifelike stabbing. 

T.K. fixed him with a look. “You don’t have to be brave,” he said bluntly. “If you need more medication, you can have more medication. There’s no reason to tough this out. It won’t speed up your healing time at all.”

It was all said in a forceful, strained tone and Carlos took a good look at his boyfriend, noting the pallor of his face, how drawn he seemed. “Are you okay?”

“You’re the one in the hospital bed,” T.K. pointed out.

“And you’re the one who had to save my life while I was bleeding out on the street,” Carlos countered.

“You should be resting, not worrying about my feelings.”

“If you don’t talk to me I’ll just worry more.”

“Carlos.”

“T.K.” Carlos gave him a pointed look.

T.K. sighed and leaned back in his chair before looking into Carlos’ eyes. “It was terrifying. The most…terrifying thing I’ve ever lived through. And I feel,” his voice caught. “I feel so guilty that I didn’t see it when I first got there. That I let you walk around, bleeding out…Carlos I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, no,” Carlos said. “T.K., this was not your fault.”

T.K. clenched his jaw and shook his head. “You, and Tommy, and Nancy, and your parents and, my parents can say that all you want. But I’m going to have to live with the guilt for a while.”

“You were doing your job. You were helping people who needed to be helped.”

T.K. leaned forward, pain in his eyes. “My first, and most important job is taking care of you.”

“You did,” Carlos said. “You always do.”

T.K. still looked like he was in pain. “Is there something else?” Carlos asked. “You can tell me.”

He shook his head. “You’re tired and you’re hurting. We can have this conversation another time. You don’t need to be worried about me right now.”

“I always worry about you,” Carlos said. “That’s part of the deal in a relationship.”

T.K. blew out a breath. “You know, when Alex and I ended, I had to figure out how to be enough for myself. To look inside myself for strength. To find it within me to continue on with life even when it got tough.

“And then I met you and it was so easy. Being with you is…it’s the best I’ve ever felt. I feel whole. Like myself. And looking at you in that street, holding your hand, trying so hard to keep you alive…I had a lot of time in the waiting room to sort through my feelings and try to…try to figure things out.”

“And?” Carlos asked gently.

T.K.’s mouth shaped into a sad, forlorn smile. “I realized that…I can do it. I can do this life without you.” His breath caught and Carlos saw tears pool in his eyes. “But I really, really don’t want to.”

“Hey.” Carlos reached out a hand and gently grasped T.K.’s wrist. “You don’t have to. I’m here.”

T.K. finally managed a small smile. He reached up and smoothed a curl from Carlos’ forehead. “Yes. You are.” 

He cleared his throat and Carlos watched him shove all his pain and feelings deeply back inside. They would need to pick up this conversation later. Maybe when his mind was a little less foggy and his entire body didn’t hurt like hell. 

“And listen, we’re even now. I got shot, you got shot, that’s enough. It’s not a competition,” T.K. said, flashing a manufactured smile.

“I will definitely try not to get shot again,” Carlos promised. “How’s everyone else? The man with the gunshot wound and the guy with the broken ankle?”

“Both fine thanks to you. Everyone else only had minor injuries. You’re a hero,” T.K. told him. “Your face is all over the news.”

Carlos closed his eyes and groaned. “How did they get my name?”

T.K. gave him a wry smile. “Adriana and Francesca are in the waiting room with your parents. I think they’ve hit on every doctor, nurse, and orderly in the place.”

Carlos sighed. “And they talked to the news crews.”

“They really didn’t like you being referred to as an unidentified officer. They’d like you to get full credit for your heroics. And hopefully a medal. And a monetary reward. Which you will use to take them on vacation.”

“God they’re the worst.”

“They definitely are,” T.K. agreed. His face sobered. “But they’ve been here since I texted and refuse to leave even though they can’t come up. Underneath their astonishingly blatant horniness and greed, they’re really worried about you.”

“They always come through,” Carlos said.

“They also brought coffee and donuts. Don’t tell them, but I love them.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” He shivered and winced as he was reminded that any movement at all was beyond painful.

“Are you cold?” T.K. asked.

“A little.”

“It’s probably the blood loss.” He reached into the duffel bag next to him and pulled out a blanket that Carlos recognized.

“You brought me a blanket from home?” Carlos asked, heart melting at his boyfriend’s thoughtfulness.

“Hospitals are notoriously cold and their blankets notoriously suck,” T.K. told him as he tucked it gently around his legs. He kissed the tip of Carlos’ nose. “You should try and get some sleep. Hospital wake up call comes early.”

“Thank you,” Carlos said. “You’ll uh, you’ll stay with me?”

T.K. smiled and leaned closer, carding his fingers through Carlos’ curls. “If you’re here, I’m here.”

☕️ fashion in your favorite series (plural)

Hello there, anon!

And oh boy is that a topic!

I think I should start with the fact that I know basically nothing about fashion. I basically only wear jeans, t-shirts, and occasionally blouses day-to-day and my fanciest clothes are Sunday best.

But onto the actual fashion.

I think my favorite series with the best fashion sense would have to be Avatar: the Last Airbender. The clothes come from various Asian cultures and are so aesthetically pleasing. And while not 100% practical, they are not illogical fashion choices.

(Sorry about the different in quality. Couldn't be helped.)

I mean, look at their fits! Color consistency with characters from the same nation. Blues and grays for the Water Tribe. Warm tones (mostly red but pink in Ty Lee's case) and black for Fire Nation. While Earth Kingdom and Air Nomad both share yellow, at least between Toph and Aang, the saturation/shade is different. Aang's yellow and orange aren't overwhelmingly bright shades and the brown on his outfit provides a neutral shade to bring it all together.

Seriously, Avatar has some amazing fashion!

.....

Another series with good fashion sense, though more for symbolism, is Demon Slayer.

With Demon Slayer 99% of the time, the characters are all in uniform with just haoris or capes to distinguish them. Still, the patterns that they wear on their clothes sets them apart.

https://olafolsson.com/blogs/blog-1/wagara-traditional-japanese-patterns-and-designs

This blog post explains a few types of designs/patterns used in Japanese clothing. Nezuko's kimono has a hemp leaf pattern which represents protection from evil spirits, which she both gives to the defenseless and receives from Tanjirou. Tanjirou's checkered haori carries meaning such as "prosperity for descendants" which make sense since the checkered pattern has been with the Kamado family since Sumiyoshi and the siblings do manage to have their own descendants.

Inosuke may not wear a haori but he wears different types of fur.

Boars are wild and stubborn. Bears are strong and sturdy. Deer are beautiful and nimble. All those words can be used to describe Inosuke as well.

The clothes in Demon Slayer may not have a lot of variety but the meaning behind what the characters do wear shouldn't be ignored.

.....

My Hero Academia's fashion is fine. I mean, the U.A. uniforms do give an air of sophistication with the button-ups and jackets. Although there are still the unrealistically short skirts. And when the characters are shown in street clothes, the outfits are varied and some are quite pleasing in my opinion.

Personal favorites are Itsuka and Hitoshi's because they're simple with little flares like the collar or stripes. Shows that they don't put too much thought into their outfits but still put effort into it.

(And yes, I am just using this as an opportunity to show off that I have manga in the original Japanese.)

I won't really talk about the Hero costumes because that's a whole other can of worms that's strongly influenced by the characters' desire to be flashy and marketable. Practicality isn't considered that much from what I can tell. I will say this though: none of the students' costumes are good (aesthetically, practically, or even both) when you take a real close look at them. I think the adults are better, though not perfect.

.....

Black Clover is... One of the servers I'm in has a channel called "fashion police" for a reason. In this medieval fantasy setting, the fantasy is turned up all the way while medieval is low.

Just look at the Black Bulls.

Lightning round.

-Henry's in his pajamas, enough said. -Gordon is in some military uniform that we don't see anywhere else. -Yami's dressed like a bum. -The pads on Gauche's elbows and knees distract me and the lines on his pants and boots?! -Zora is basically Eijirou's Hero costume but worse (and there are already problems with that). -Finral is fine for the most but I think the boots need adjusting. -Vanessa's issue is that it's so much of one color (yes the hat ribbon and grimoire bag add another color but I personally feel like it isn't enough). -I think I have a shirt exactly like Luck's which isn't a good sign and his grimoire bag's placement also deducts points. -Noelle's outfit is illogical and inappropriate for her age. -Grey's is sensible for the most part (like how the shoe straps match the belt) but I think the divide of blue and white should be lower, maybe at stomach level. -Secre is in a ballet dress and could use shoes and a couple accessories to make her design less barren. -Charmy dresses like a grade schooler and it suits her size but, eh, I think a cute blouse could work too. -And although Nacht isn't pictured above, I have a slight issue with all his belts and that stupid high collar.

I think Magna and Asta (pre-Heart Kingdom training. Post-Heart makes me a sad mama) have the best outfits. They've got simple outfits with little details that prevent them from being completely plain. And honestly, I could see real people wearing those fits.

And it's not just them!

I mean! Why are there holes in Solid and Nozel's pants? Where are Noelle's pants?! Why do all the older siblings have such crusty looking hair?! Why do the fire Vermillions all wearing the same thing (seriously aside from jacket lengths and shoes styles, they are all wearing the same thing)?! Why can't the Golden Dawn have consistent cape colors?! Charlotte's breastplate and helmet make no sense and Sol's outfit is barely existent!

.....

Whew, I think I burned myself out with that one! Didn't think I'd go so hard, especially at the end. I legitimately surprised myself with that.

Hopefully you don't find my ranting too off-putting, anon. I just put all my thoughts out where without much of a filter.

2am musings on Character Creation, Originality, and More Writing Nonsense

Recently I’ve been fascinated with characters who are vaguely distantly reminiscent of the humanoid form, but very clearly and frighteningly inhuman. How many arms could a character work with? Four? Six? And how many eyes? Could I perhaps have a good nine of those? Wings? Of course. Lets have several sets. Also why don’t I give them three tongues and make them 12 feet tall and incredibly strong. And...oh no. I’ve just realized that I have, in fact, made a biblical angel.... Botheration. You know, characters need not be constrained to human form all the time. I’ve read plenty of books with animal characters like mice (”Redwall” by Brian Jacques), owls and wolves (”Guardians of Ga’Hoole” and “Wolves of the Beyond” by Katherine Lasky), and many many books with dragon protagonists (because who wouldn’t choose to be a dragon, given the chance?). But we could go further than that. If you did it well, there is absolutely no reason you couldn’t have a book entirely from the point of view of a little thimble, or a dust mote. Sure it might be weird, and you’ll constantly be bombarded with the desire to use personification (Giving human characteristics to something nonhuman). That’s not a bad thing, exactly. But I’ll bet there are lots of unexplored ways to write the point of view of a thimble without personifying it, possibly all kinds of weird ways. What if you wrote an entire story on the premise of living beings formed from dark matter? Since science is still working on this, the field is wide open for all kinds of probably highly unscientific stories that go in every direction. If the matter is so spread out that its invisible to us, perhaps the way they perceive the universe and reality is very different from us as well? Can they even tell we’re here? How would such a being think? What might their world be like? What could you do there? And then, in time, what stories could you tell? It would be a lot of hard work, and it would be incredibly weird. To be honest, there’s probably not a market for things like that. (there might be but I haven’t found it anywhere). Publishers are in the habit of going for books they think they can sell, stories and characters that people can relate to. I can see the value in relating to characters and stories. Sure. But I’m only marginally interested in selling my stories. No, what I’m interested in is what can be done with writing that we haven’t explored yet. I hear all the time “Oh there’s no original ideas left. Everything has been written already! You’ve just got to put your own spin on it!”..... um.... no? I’ve seen plenty of original ideas all over the place. In video games, in books, movies, shows, etc. Some of them fantastic, some incredibly stupid. And usually they were accompanied by a lot of borrowed concepts and ideas or even traditional formulas and styles (Because those things work. That’s why they’ve lasted this long). Furthermore, why can’t I relate to a being of dark matter? I might have to look pretty closely to find something in common with such a being in a terribly alien reality and understanding of living. But there’s always SOMETHING, even if its not the sort of thing I usually try to relate to (such as “we are both alive in some way” or “we are made of matter so we actively affect the universe in a significant way even if we can’t really figure out what that means”). It just means I have to improve my writing skills to make a reader relate to a character in that way. And not all stories involve characters you’re supposed to relate to. Sometimes you’re NOT supposed to relate to them but watch awestruck as they do things you would never dare to or don’t want to do, but enjoy witnessing anyway because wow.... that's something alright. Some of my favorite characters are ones I don’t relate to at all in any way. Heck... if I wanted to write about a being who lived outside of time and space... no physical matter and no conception of linear time, I could do it. Heck, I HAVE tried something very similar. It wasn’t my best work, but I proved to myself that it was possible! And now that I know that, I can work on getting better at it. The point I’m trying to get at here is this. When you’re creating characters, you don’t have to let yourself be confined to all the preconceived notions about what constitutes a character. If you wanna write a human or humanoid character, GREAT! Do that! Absolutely all the way. If you want to write a book or story that is likely to be published... MORE POWER TO YOU! GO FOR IT! But you don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to. There are still unexplored wilds. The Art of Writing is still evolving in ways that would have been difficult to even dream of a hundred years ago (Or even 20 years ago!). I’ve seen fanfictions by that sleep deprived writer who decided two months ago that she was gonna do a full eight book series and she’s halfway done and somehow the writing is not just good, its so wholly original and groundbreaking that it redefines my own idea of what can be done with writing at every third paragraph. I’ve seen published books and poetry and essays like that too, that can make me stop in my tracks and have to reevaluate the ways that writing can be used. So go, explore. Create WEIRD and CRAZY stuff! Try something totally off the wall and bonkers! ... maybe it won’t work. That’s alright. Lots of things don’t. Some things don’t work if you haven’t built up the skills to achieve them. Some things just don’t work. But you can’t possibly know that unless you give it a go. Let yourself transcend for a short time beyond humanity, to think and perceive in truly alien ways. To live as something incredibly inhuman, and maybe even something you might not have considered could be a character before. Can you make the epic of the scrub brush vs the dish into an engaging tale without giving them human traits? You can. Can you tell me the epic battle between the spider and the fly? I’ve seen someone do that. So you can. How might a butterfly see and understand itself? What are the cultural norms of the deep sea hermit crabs? How do crystals communicate with one another, and what do they have to say (and why that’s important)? The possibilities are infinite. And so is your potential.

My experience on Apex Legends Mains:

This is just my experience, I can't speak for everyone since people have different experiences and opinions towards certain mains. This is for laughs and fun. Nothing serious and just stupid thoughts. Will go by alphabetical order!

Bangalore:

Really aggressive and quick to run in. Pretty good aim and for some reason the first one to be shot at. I hear her voice saying she's been hit at multiple times before anyone else. Sometimes can't wait for the team to catch up and end up being downed fairly quickly. Uses smokes for the rez but they do it at the wrong place. Forget that they are in the open when rezzing. Pretty slippery to kill due to their passive. Uses their Ultimate anywhere... even when the enemy team can easily go indoors... Overall, they're pretty solid teammates.

Bloodhound:

These feral people I swear to god-. A wild card when teamed up with. Unpredictable and most of the time exceed expectations. Will use Beast of the Hunt when the fight starts but the fight lasts 20s. *HEAVY BREATHING*. Uses scan on places that are empty just in case but then alerts people nearby. Wants to land in densely populated areas. I enjoy their company and they're pretty good at what they work with.

Caustic:

The one teammate who will block entrances with their gas traps. Hell breaks loose when there's 2 in a fight. Teammates are annoyed at them when in an enclosed space. Second most often to rage quit. Will stick traps onto the trident as the one driving will have to cross their fingers that no one shoots them. Will miss their ultimate, no where close to the enemies. Satisfying to play as and a piece of shit to play against. Ironically the most serious legend has the most hilarious moments.

Crypto:

This bad boy... is covered in traps or punched by teammates to a new location for laughs. Underrated. Super helpful but no one notices him. Teammates flock around him and t-bag until he gets back. Will most likely be around Mirage mains for the banter. Will hide behind a rock instead of being inside a building. Hearing the "wrrrrr" of his drone induces anxiety. They know this and try to mess with you. Shooting the drone and failing always gives them the ">:3". Please give these mains the attention they deserve.

Gibraltar:

I love them. They can slam my back and I'd thank them. That being said... they need to be more aware of their surroundings. They have really awful timing when it comes to rezzing. Sometimes forget that his shield is not as invincible and can be passed through. Dies while rezzing. The most protective and supportive teammate. Also really friendly. Praise them because they will die for you. *small smooch to the cheek for gibby mains*

Horizon:

"We can all use a pick me up" heard 99.999% of the match. Love to be on the high ground. Really pleasant to listen to her voice. Seen most often in teams now. Experimenting new strategies. People are still getting used to her so not much to say at the moment. Sweet people with the will to help teammates.

Lifeline:

Tries their best to be helpful but their kit is used poorly. Uses the shield from D.O.C. to fight instead of finding cover to help rez. Speaking of rez, the one being rezzed will be downed again and again until the enemy finally puts down their misery. Will lose the fight when the rez isn't finished and the person gets killed. Most likely to get pissed when another teammate rezzes downed players. Healing during a fight will result in being found and getting blasted with bullets. Will complain when they don't get the loot. Asks for the loot you have so they can later die with it.

Loba:

Queen of getting away. Bracelet is loud enough to attract enemies and they're not aware of this sometimes. Once the black market open you gotta look all areas just in case an enemy team sees or hears the outline. Will open black market 90% of the match no matter where they are. Never deactivates their black market. I have never ever seen it happen. Revenant and Bangalore mains will most likely be teamed up with her. Really helpful teammates and generous when it comes to loot.

Mirage:

These people absolutely adore his humor and banter with everyone. Will use the riding skydive emote the most. Bamboozles actually trick you and you realize how dumb you can be. Makes people waste their bullets and revel in this fact. Rezzing is very nice.... until you hear footsteps then it's extreme anxiety. Has meme potential in anything. Will try to use their ultimate to escape but will eventually be shot at. Half of the fakes run into walls or objects which will have the enemy team look directly at the real one. Goofy and fun to be around but anxiety goes straight up when they're trying to rez.

Octane:

Speedy bois. Hella hard to hit and never stop running. Try their hardest to get teammate banners. Cheer on these devil babies, they do so much. Slurps and throw up loot all in one go. *90's racing music in the background*. Unfortunately abandons their team behind when 1 person is downed. Can't stay indoors for long and keeps moving destinations. Cannot drive the titan for their life and crash land near edges of maps. Makes me grip the mouse and keyboard when they're driving.

Pathfinder:

Will use their grappling hook and either fly over their initial stop or be stuck under the building. I'm the one stuck under the buildings. Hella good at snipers and aerial shots. Is that one main who'd swing into action all cool but will crash face first into a building. Zip lines to fights and gets downed first. Gets impatient when groups don't show up and quit. 2nd most salty people in voice chat. Pretty good for rezzing and retreats. It's over when they have high ground.

Rampart:

Ballistic players who don't know how to chill. Gets the most attention with Shiela but also has their shields at all angles when a fight happens. Prepared for a gun fight at all times. Pair up with trap mains and create so much chaos. Will likely get pissed if teammates don't stay behind shield and get downed. Also underrated af. Shield get left all over the map and turns the fight around if the enemy uses it. Honestly need more Rampart in my life.

Revenant:

Guilty of playing him for his voice. I'm calling myself out here but I'll be damned if I don't drag the rest of the fandom down with me. Will keep climbing up to impossible heights until they get in the perfect spot. Crawly bois, sneaky af. Will forget to use their totem before a fight. This also is the case with their tactical. Throws themselves in the most populated areas as jump master. Pings loot for teammates. Ironic that the character is awful to other people but the mains are really nice people. Love to annoy Lobas and piss off everyone else if their teammates are trash.

Wattson:

Do not be fooled by their cute personalities and awesome skins. They are the most devilish mains. Will do the 90's anime laugh in your face as you get electrocuted. Anger them and the last thing you'll see is a finisher. Will put their Tesla in an open field and get it destroyed in seconds. FENCES EVERYWHERE. You'll try to protect them until you see that they've already won a 1v2-3 fight. Will kill in cold blood if you destroy a fence. Disposes your body by finishing you. Actually scary. The personification of ":)".

Wraith:

2 opposite spectrums. Either a noob or a 1000+ veteran. 1000+ veterans think they are privileged to own the best loot. Will voice chat just to complain and diss on your playstyle. Barely a team player and go off on their own just to die and get angry that "you're trash at the game". Very rarely will be cooperative to win a game. Noobs will have no clue and will follow you around like a lost child. T-bag moments. Will have you be the initiator of everything because the other teammate will just follow along too. Average Wraith players are the most chill players and don't say much but do a lot with their actions.

If I fucked up anyone's expectations then I'm sorry. This list is pretty stupid but if anyone else related to this or has anything else to add then put it in tags or messages!

Thanks for reading my opinions and please stay hydrated, unclench your jaw, don't send hate comments, and get some rest!

Keys to the Kingdom Preview

In which Sora realizes you need money to exchange for goods and services and also realizes that he’s got none of that bc the Duck and Dog Dads never let him carry any of their cash around. Also the child is starving. Fun!

***

The third night is the first he goes to sleep hungry. 

Sora leaves that first world not long into the next day, largely for one very simple, yet very important reason. He can’t find a single source of water anywhere, something that soon starts to become a problem when, after only a few hours of wandering under the relentless sun, his rising thirst slowly starts to turn into the first signs of dehydration. He’s already feeling weak and lightheaded when he caves to summon a dark corridor; and, as he’s quickly starting to get used to, he feels even worse after he crosses through it. 

He still doesn’t know how to control where his dark portals lead to, not that the destination really matters as long as it's as far away from either the lights or the Organization as possible. Fortunately, the first thing he sees as soon as he collapses out of the corridor is a river, rushing clear and cool just a few feet away from him. He nearly falls into it, desperately swallowing several mouthfuls of water until he ends up inevitably choking on it. His stomach settles rather quickly this time around, but he’s left with a lingering headache from the short trip through the shadows. He does what he can to ignore it as he splashes some river water onto his face, washing off the thin layer of dust and dirt he hadn’t even realized accumulated on it back in the canyon. 

Upon taking a cursory glance at the rest of his surroundings, he finds the river is bordered by dense trees on either side of it, woods that are more comparable to a jungle than a forest. The air is hot here, but different than it had been in the last world, much more humid and bearable as a symphony of wild sounds sing out from the surrounding trees. But what catches Sora’s attention the most is something he can see from his spot on the riverbank, resting downstream just a short distance away: a village. 

It’s a relatively tiny town, composed of a collection of simple huts and houses that are by most accounts, largely primitive. Still, Sora heads straight for it as soon as he sees it, knowing that where there’s a town, there’s bound to be something else he’s in need of if his rumbling stomach is anything to go off of: food. 

Despite its small size, the village is quite populous, filled with midday hustle and bustle of its humbly-dressed residents going about their usual business. Most of them barely notice Sora as he unceremoniously walks into town, though a few do spare him odd or curious glances as they pass him by. To not arouse any unwanted suspicion or alarm, he keeps his hands tucked into his pockets, his claws out of sight and his head down as he strolls into what appears to be an open air market of sorts. Several stalls have set up shop, pedaling a variety of goods and foods, from fruit to meat to herbs and more. Out of all this, the appetizing scent of freshly baked bread is what draws Sora over to one certain stall, one selling all sorts of loafs, biscuits, and even a handful of cakes. He eyes the impressive display hungrily before picking out a few delectable-looking rolls, as well as a few small, fruit-topped tarts for good measure. He’s still going through the stall’s stock, however, when its owner finally speaks up from her spot on the other side of it. 

“Your eyes certainly seem to be overloading your stomach, boy,” the older woman remarks, her face and tone both quite grouchy and detached. “That doesn’t matter much to me though, as long as you can pay for that stash you’re piling up there. You can afford all that, can’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” Sora nods, shifting his potential purchases to rest on one arm. He searches his pockets, checking his jacket first and then his pants, only to quickly reach a very startling discovery: he doesn’t have any money on him to speak of. 

 Before, he’d never really needed to carry money on him. Between the three of them, that had usually been Donald’s job, a job he’d taken away from Sora relatively on into their first adventure together, claiming that he wasn’t “responsible” enough to handle their funds. Sora had playfully brushed the comment off at the time, and over the years, had largely gotten used to either Donald or Goofy keeping track of any money they obtained and what supplies they spent it on in his stead. Only now that he’s on his own without a single cent to his name that he wishes the pair had trusted him just a bit more, at least enough to carry a little of their money around, just in case. 

“Um… so… this is pretty funny, I’m sure you’ll get a good laugh out of it,” he begins, throwing on the most charming, pleading smile he can manage. “But... I don’t really have any money…” he hesitantly tells the shop owner, looking between her and the bread in his arms. “You… don’t happen to give out free samples, do you?” The shopkeeper only responds to his small, hopeful smile with a cross, deadpan look, one that gives Sora an answer that’s every bit as clear as words would have been. “Right…” he sighs in defeat, putting every piece of food right back where he found it. “Didn’t think so…”

He sullenly stuffs his hands back into his pockets as he walks away, trying not to steal a glance at any of the other surrounding food stalls, lest his unsatisfied hunger only continue to rise. He nearly makes it out of the market altogether before spots something he’s hard pressed to pass up: a stall selling several different types of fruit. Among them is his favorite by far, a treat he’d always enjoyed snacking on back on the islands: mangoes. The stall doesn’t carry many of them, in fact its entire stock seems to be rather small and largely unimpressive, but one is really all Sora wants right now. After all, something, even if it's something as small as a simple mango, is bound to suffice after three days of eating basically nothing at all. 

It’d be easy enough to just take one too. The stall’s owner has their back turned, preoccupied with going through the rest of what they have to put out. All he’d have to do is swiftly pass by, pick one up, and shove it into his pocket without anyone seeing. He’s not very keen on the idea of stealing, especially after how much trouble the unsavory act had gotten him into back in Agrabah. But there, he’d stolen a priceless, magical treasure; here, the only thing he intends on making off with is a single, largely inconsequential piece of fruit. And given just how hungry he’s starting to get, how bad could taking just one really be?

He nearly moves in to do exactly that, though stops short only a few feet away from the stall as a small child, no older than 6, suddenly runs out from behind it. “Papa! Papa!” the boy calls, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the edge of the stall. “Can I have one of the mangos? Please?”

The shopkeeper turns, a kindly-looking man, though his eyes are tired as he looks down at his young child. “Oh, I’m sorry, son,” he frowns, shaking his head. “But those are the last few we have. You know the harvest wasn’t good this year, and if we don’t sell those, we won’t have enough to get the materials your Mama needs to make you new clothes.” The shopkeeper smiles a bit as he steps out to hoist his son up into his arms, affectionately ruffling his hair. “You’re growing so fast that it’s getting hard for us to keep up with you.”

The child laughs as his father carries him back behind the stall, his former request for food all but forgotten by now. Neither of them notice that their warm exchange had been watched from afar, and as soon as it's over, Sora instantly feels guilty for even considering the thought of stealing from them. Of taking something from a family that clearly needs it to survive, simply for his own selfish, singular needs. He hangs his head in shame as he briskly walks past the stall, not even sparing it a second thought as he starkly leaves the village behind entirely. 

He finds a place to sleep not too far outside of town, in a well-shaded nook at the near edge of the jungle. It rains that night, and he largely doesn’t sleep, even though he manages to stay relatively dry thanks to the thick canopy of trees overhead. Because the entire night, the most he can really do is lie there, his arms wrapped around his empty, aching stomach, silently pleading for some kind of relief from the starvation he doesn’t know how to stop. Eventually, he somehow falls asleep, dreaming of all of the delicious dishes his mother used to masterfully make for him back home, from freshly steamed salmon, to sweet pineapple cake, to savory vegetable soup. Only to wake up the next morning, still longing for food, longing for his mother, longing for home. 

All while knowing painfully well that he won’t get to see any of those things any time soon. 

angst 3 for winteriron pretty please

Hi Ava, thank you so much for sending this prompt in. Finally I finished it, after… 3 months. I also used it for the WinterIron Week (which I am so much behind for, it’s not even funny). I still have no clue if this really warrants as ‘angst’, cause it feels more dull to me than angsty, but oh well. It is what it is.

Now, the whole organizational stuff (aka the pain in my ass):

On Crossing Paths

Prompt is from this list: “You promised you’d stop drinking.” — “And you promised you wouldn’t hurt me!”

Day 3 of @winteriron-week: Angst & “But I did it”

And since this got way out of hand anyway, combined with:

Day 4 of @winteriron-week: Tony needs a hug (Bucky too) & Forgiveness

(Nvm, I wrote something for day 4 anyway)

M, 5.2k, Alcoholism TW, Angst (-ish), Canon Divergence, Tony Feels, Emotional Hurt, Falling In Love, Hopeful Ending | AO3

(Day 1 / Day 2 / Day 4)

—

Tony meets James for the first time in a seedy bar in Brooklyn on the night of December 17th, 1991.

Twelve hours before that first meeting, he listens with deaf ears to the police telling him his parents died in a car accident.

Ten hours before that first meeting, he cries on Obie’s shoulder while Obie pats him on his head and tells him “everything would be fine”.

Seven hours before that first meeting, he speaks to Rhodey on the phone and makes him promise not to jeopardize his military career by showing up without permission.

Five hours before that first meeting, he drives to the scene of the accident where he screams into the godforsaken void from the top of his lungs, curses Howard and then has a mental breakdown in the middle of the street.

Two hours before that first meeting, he finds himself driving through the city with no destination in mind until he decides that he needs a drink.

Or rather ten.

Which is how he ends up at “Cheryl’s” where no one even bats an eye at the face of today’s headline and sole heir of a multi-billion company entering the bar. It’s too dark inside, the strong stench of sweat and smoke penetrates his nostrils on the spot, and Tony is pretty sure that the mold behind the counter is just about to build its own ecosystem.

He orders whiskey and gets a Jack. Not exactly what he wanted, but it will do.

There’s a glint out of the corner of his eye that gains his attention and when he turns, his gaze falls on the metal hand of a man with the saddest eyes he has ever seen. What once must’ve been a wild grey is now the lifeless stare of someone who’s been haunted by ghosts for a long while. A frigid expression on a pretty face framed by strands of long brown hair and cherry red lips made to be kissed. Wrapped up in an outfit that might as well be from a BDSM scene.

Tony likes what he sees. Very much so. He imagines dragging the guy into the bathroom, pulling those tight leather pants off and giving him the best blowjob of his life. It certainly would take his mind off other things. Like the fact that he’s an orphan now.

So he does, what he does best: he flirts. But this time it’s a challenge. It takes him three attempts until the stranger takes his eyes off the wall and looks at him, a tiny frown between his brows—but no other sign of acknowledgment.  

“Finally got your attention, Handsome! You’re not much of a talker, hm? No worries, I can talk for both of us.” Which Tony then does. He talks and drinks and flirts—a wink here, a featherlight touch on the guy’s biceps there—and drinks and speaks of DUM-E and Rhodey and all their pranks during MIT, watches with fascination how that dead look in the stranger’s eyes slowly forms into curiosity, beams in delight when he gets a snort out of him, drinks some more, slides closer with each drink and puts a hand on his thigh, slowly caressing it up and down.

“You got a name, Handsome?”

The guy seems to hesitate for a while until he answers in a deep, raspy voice, “James.” Tony is pretty sure it’s a lie, but then again—he doesn’t need to know the name when he’s got his mouth full of dick.

“Well, James, you can call me Tony.” He flutters his eyelashes and bites teasingly on his lower lip before he drops his tone and asks, “So… your place or mine?”

After that Tony remembers the night only in a blur. He remembers passionate kisses in a dark alley, hands wandering everywhere, rising heat and grey eyes shimmering in pure lust. He remembers a hotel room and soft sheets and strong arms around his waist.

And then he wakes up, the taste of alcohol and James still lingering in his mouth.

When he opens his eyes, he finds James sitting in the chair at window, instead of lying in bed next to him, his entire focus solely on Tony. It should be creepy, but James’ gaze merely comes from curiosity, as if Tony was a machinery whose workings he is still trying to understand. It’s kind of endearing.

Tony gets up, disinterested in getting dressed, and pours himself two fingers of whiskey at the bar.

“This your breakfast?”

Tony grins smugly at the hoarse tone of James’ voice. “Nah, that’s just my mouthwash,” he answers and winks at him over his shoulder.

He eyes James for a moment while sipping on his drink, and then adds, “There’s a diner not far from here. Serves the best blueberry pancakes in all New York, I can vouch for that. What do you think, want to accompany me?”

It’s not Tony’s usual style. Otherwise, one-night stands will remain exactly what they are for him: one-night stands. But James has something that fascinates him immensely. It’s not just the overdeveloped prosthesis that can impossibly be on the market anywhere, and makes Tony wonder where he got it from, but also that look in his eyes of someone who has seen way too much. This emptiness that suddenly becomes filled with curiosity when it comes to small things. This enigmatic thing that surrounds him and whose code Tony wants to crack.

At the diner, Tony watches with amusement as James’ eyes widen in delight at the first bite of the heavenly pancakes and can’t help laughing when James pounces on them like a starving predator.

Since James is not much of a talker, Tony does the speaking. For one, because he can’t stand the silence, but for another, because he needs to distract himself. Because he doesn’t want to think about the death of his parents or how empty the mansion will be when he returns. So he talks about anything he can think of until he comes to a point where he doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, but is pretty sure that somewhere in the torrent of words, he tried to explain James the exact details of his AI study.

When they’re about to part ways though, Tony only too well remembers the emptiness that will greet him when he comes home, and he doesn’t even finish thinking it through, before he invites James to come with him.

James does not only come with him, but he also stays.

—

Weeks pass and before Tony knows it, James has practically moved in with him. If you can call it moving in when James doesn’t seem to have a single thing that needed to be brought here. Tony doesn’t know James’ last name, nor does he have the slightest idea who he is, and with each passing day his suspicions grow that he must have taken a homeless man off the street.

It should be terrifying or at least worrying but Tony can’t find it in himself to care enough. He lost his parents—and Jarvis and Ana even earlier—and would be alone in this big mansion until the loneliness would overwhelm him. And James turns out to be an excellent guest. Or rather roommate at this point.

For all he knows, James could be a serial killer, and Tony still wouldn’t care. He needs the company and he uses James for it—in bed and outside of it.

The more time they spend, the more not only Tony seems to be learning about James, but James also about himself. He discovers a love of books, especially C. S. Lewis, and sometimes holes up in the library all day except when he goes looking for Tony to read his favorite passages to him.

Every time he discovers a new dish that he likes, Tony can watch James’ whole face glow and none of the shadows of his past can be seen in that moment.

His favorite reaction, however, is when he trusts James enough to show him his workshop. James’ eyes widen in amazement and a brilliant smile forms on his lips at the sight of scientific chaos there is. “It’s like Narnia!”

“What? Where do you get that from? Narnia is nature and talking animals. I don’t have any talking animals here.” What DUM-E understands as a cue to speak up and whereupon James gives him a smug ‘told you so’ grin.

In these situations, it’s easy to forget that all is not peace, joy and pancakes. As soon as Tony gets down to the jobs Obie gave him, he remembers again, and the alcohol finds its way to his liver to ease the pain. In the morning, noon and evening.

Sometimes at night too when James has one of his nightmares and Tony can’t help him because James doesn’t talk to him, not about who he is, not about his past—although Tony guesses with an almost certainity on veteran—and not even vaguely about it his nightmares.

But they are fine, they have a routine: talking during the day, fucking at night. Eat blueberry pancakes for breakfast at the diner once a week and fiddle with James’ arm whenever he has time.

It works perfectly well as it is.

—

It’s not until on a particular bright morning in March 1992 Tony realizes that he had fallen in love with James a long time ago—the day after he almost dies of alcohol poisoning.

He wakes up to see James laying next to him, still asleep. Long strands of hair cover his face and Tony gives into the urge to brush them to the side, so he can take James’ peaceful expression in.

It’s a picture he’d like to wake up every day to. The longer he thinks about it, the more Tony has to admit that he can’t imagine a life without James in it—and that’s when it hits him. That those are feelings beyond of sole sexual attraction, beyond cameradine or friendship.

The realization hits him like a slap in his face. He breaths in shakingly and his first instinct is to get up and get himself a glass of whiskey to calm down, but before he can do anything the heart monitor starts picking up and only then does Tony realize that he’s not at home but in a hospital.

James stirs awake at the sudden noise and immediately glares at Tony. “You fucking idiot.”

His eyes are red, indicating he must’ve cried, and Tony isn’t sure what is going on but he can tell it must be bad. But he’s still too overwhelmed with the realization of his feelings, so he just gapes at James, not being able to say a word.

“You fucking idiot,” James repeats. “How often did I already tell you that you drink too much? That you should stop?”

And before he can react to that, he’s being crushed in a sudden hug, James holding him tightly to his chest and tears streaming down his cheeks.

“For a genius you are so dumb,” James murmurs and Tony—for Tony it’s too much. He doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t know what to say, so he blurts out without a second thought, “I love you.”

That brings James to a halt. Tony’s muscles tense up and he instinctively holds his breath.

James pulls back a little bit, so he can look at Tony, who rather focuses on the white sheets of the hospital bed. “Tony did you watch too many rom-coms? Confessing feelings after you almost died should’ve been my job in that case though.”

Tony needs a moment to register the words correctly. “Almost died?”

“Alcohol poisoning.”

Oh fuck. Even Tony knows that this is not good, that he definitely went too far this time.

James gently cups Tony’s face so that he’s forced to look into those gray eyes shimmer in a happiness. “Tony, I love you too.”

Faintly he registers the heart monitor rising up again, but he’s too distracted by the warmth that fills him from within to feel any embarrassment at that. He looks up at the wonder that James is and then surges forward to steal a kiss. He expects a nurse to barge in any moment now at the way his heart rate jumps off the charts, but that’s not stopping him from burying his hands in James’ hair and deepen the kiss further.

“Tony,” James laughs as he pulls off. He rests his forehead at Tony’s while they catch their breath and slowly morphs his sappy expression into a serious one.

“Tony,” he repeats. “I love you. And because I love you, I need you to promise me to stop with the drinking. I can’t watch you destroy your own life any further like that. Yesterday I had to find you passed out in the workshop. Have you any idea what I went through?” His hands wander all over Tony while talking, as if he needs to prove himself, that Tony’s still alive.

Tony thinks of SI and Obie and the expectations he has to live up to. He thinks of mama’s piano and how he hasn’t played on it since the accident. And with each thought the urge to get a drink intensifies. He gulps audibly and asks, “Will you help me?”

James’ quiet smile is more than enough for an answer. “Always.”

“Okay,” he breaths out and adds, more hastily, “okay, but you have to promise to never hurt me, James. I can’t, after mum died and Jarvis and—”

“Of course I will never hurt you, Tony.” James interrupts him and those words leave James lips so effortlessly and earnestly that Tony has not a single doubt in the truth of them.

And with James on his side, Tony believes he can make it. Not just getting sober, but living an actual life. Getting his shit together, looking forward.

He finally tells him of his plans of a new home in Malibu, those he was too afraid to talk about because James is bound to Brooklyn and Tony feared he wouldn’t come with him when the mansion’s constructions are finished. But James just laughs and says, “The only place I belong to is your side. So wherever you go? I will follow.”

Tony feels happy like never before. Things finally go well.

—

Until they don’t.

—

The Winter Soldier fights for the first time against his programming on the night of December 16th, 1991.

It’s the shocked “Sergeant Barnes?” Howard Stark gasps that evokes hidden memories from the back of his mind. Memories from war—gunshots, explosions, screams and the smell of fire and blood. Memories of a guy once tiny suddenly big. Somehow the same person, somehow not.

Memories that lead him to Brooklyn instead of the meeting point where he should deliver the serum to his handlers.

His legs walk him the entire day through the city, while he’s taking in each building—some he recognizes, most of them not. Until at night he looks up at a blinking light stating “Cheryl’s” and sees flashes of himself, hair shorter and a laugh on his face, dancing with another man and exchanging forbidden kisses in a dark corner.

He enters and not much later he meets the whirlwind that is Tony Stark.

With Tony the Winter Soldier becomes James and learns to feel again. Other emotions, besides constant rage and pain. Curiosity first, then amusement, lust, care, warmth and somewhere around March 1992 he knows it’s love.

He falls in love with Tony Stark who treats him like a human being rather than a tool, who talks and talks and makes him laugh, who touches him softly always and everywhere, who isn’t afraid of the metal arm but fascinated by it, who studies it without causing him any pain, who sings and laughs and dances and doesn’t shy away from James even once.

Tony Stark who drinks more than he should, reminding him of a man that might be his father coming home, reeking of alcohol, hitting a woman that might be his mother—bringing back memories that rather stayed forgotten. Tony who almost dies and promises to stop with the drinking. Tony who sometimes looks like a man carrying the entire world on his shoulders, dark bags under his eyes, a haunted expression in them and yet does his best to keep James’ sorrow’s away.

Tony Stark whose parents he killed as he realizes after a nightmare on November 24th in 1992.

—

In the morning of November 25th 1992 Tony wakes up alone in bed, a yellow sticky note on his nightstand and the words “I’m sorry, doll” scribbled on it.

—

Tony waits first, clinging onto the hope that he misinterpreted that note and that James will come back. All of James’ few things are still here—Tony checked.

But the longer he waits, the stronger the urge gets to wrap his fingers around a bottle of whiskey. So he gets up and starts looking. First at the diner, then the park, further to the Brooklyn Bridge, to “Cheryl’s” at last.

He returns to an empty home. Doesn’t sleep in the first night, neither the second nor the third and collapses on the fourth—his face buried in James’ favorite wool sweater, the bathroom reeking of his vomit.

And then he repeats that circle anew.

—

James doesn’t come back.

—

On December 1992 Tony moves to Malibu without looking back.

The bar in his new home is fully stocked.

—

The next sixteen years pass by in a rush. Tony drinks. A lot. He drinks and fucks, and then drinks and fucks even more in a desperate attempt to forget James. To forget his touch and smile, his smell and his taste. To forget James’ everything.

And he doesn’t care enough what happens around him during his wake of self-destruction.

Until it comes back to bite him in the ass.

—

In 2008, after 3 months of captivity, Tony returns to the New York mansion for the first time since moving out. There on the night stand of his old room are still the photos of him and James from the photo booth they once took.

Tony blows the dust away and looks at the old pictures, a wistful expression on his face. He soaks James’ soft smile and bright glint in those beautiful eyes in, remembers how those pouty lips felt on his own, remembers the sound of James’ laugh, the taste of his mouth, his body pressed against Tony’s.

In all this time J.A.R.V.I.S. was never able to find even a trace of James. It was, as if he disappeared from earth. Chances are, he died. Because how far can a guy with a metal arm get without the most advanced AI of the world being able to find him? But even though he doesn’t believe in ever seeing James again, Tony thinks of him and the promise they gave each other when he empties his bar down the sink.

The photos end up in his workshop, next to the arc reactor’s glass case Pepper gave him. Tony finally starts looking ahead.

—

Years pass and Tony lives his life again.

He also almost dies some countless times, and every single time he thinks of Pepper, with a lingering memory of James’ laugh.

—

And then in 2016 Johannesburg happens and with Johannesburg the Sokovia Accords follow.

—

Over the years Tony imagined countless scenarios where he would see James again. Not in one of those could he have imagined it to go this bad.  

“I know that road.”

—

Fourteen hours after the whole Siberia debacle Tony pulls the old photos from the drawer in the workshop and sets them aflame. He watches with a grim satisfaction as they slowly crumble to ashes and takes his first sip of whiskey in years. Directly from the bottle.

DUM-E’s distressed efforts at saving anything from the photos with the fire extinguisher are just a tad bit too late.

Nothing is left.

—

Tony starts drinking again.

—

In 2016, despite careful avoidance, Bucky does meet Tony again—in a HYDRA bunker of all places. And his heart aches at the sight of Tony’s shock.

Tony might’ve aged and changed, but those eyes are still the same. Big and expressive and at that very moment filled with sadness and anger and disbelief. And worst of all, it’s Bucky’s fault.

He doesn’t plan to fight and neither does he want to leave Tony behind, but he doesn’t believe Tony wants him anywhere near—Bucky had already done more than enough.

So he goes with Steve and goes back into cryostasis, hoping to stay there forever. Only to be woken up a few months later and informed that they got rid of his trigger words and Tony made sure that the Avengers were allowed to return to the States.

Bucky included.

It seems surreal to him to enter the Avengers compound; as if he was dreaming. As if there was a catch that would strike later because he doesn’t deserve to be here.

And then, in the kitchen waits none other than Tony, his eyes hidden behind colored sunglasses, his fake media smile on his face and a whiskey glass in his hand, the sight of which freezes Bucky’s blood in his veins. He’d like nothing more than to take the glass out of his hand and hug Tony tightly.

Which is a privilege he no longer has.

“Ah, the fossil duo! Welcome back,” Tony couldn’t sound more unwelcome if he tried. “Everything is still as you left it, Rogers. You can show Barnes yourself where everything is.” With these words he mockingly salutes them, turns around at his heel and disappears from the kitchen again without giving Bucky a single look.

A chill runs down Bucky’s spine at the sound of his last name from Tony’s mouth. It’s so… wrong. To Tony, he has always been just James. If affectionate or angry or laughing, James was the name Tony would call him with. This single, condescending “Barnes” feels like a thousand knife stabs in his heart. It’s only thanks to his training that he stays composed and doesn’t go running after Tony in a desperate attempt to try talking to him.

The next few weeks pass similarly. If he and Tony even see each other, which is a rarity in itself, even though they live in the same building—he has the suspicious feeling that Tony is deliberately avoiding him with F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s help—then Tony ignores him as if he were not here at all.

Bucky knows, he deserves worse than just the cold shoulder, but that still doesn’t make it easy. Especially not when he keeps finding empty alcohol bottles scattered around somewhere and can do absolutely nothing about this problem.

His only bright spot is Rhodes, who looks at the bottles with just as much loathing as he does. It means that at least one person keeps an eye on Tony’s consumption, since Bucky himself cannot. Bucky never had a chance to meet Rhodes twenty-five years ago, and Bucky is pretty sure Tony hasn’t told him anything, otherwise Rhodes wouldn’t be content with shooting him deathly looks only.

That’s why he doesn’t say anything to Steve either, no matter how hard he questions him, because he sees that there is something between him and Tony that he doesn’t know about. If Tony doesn’t want to tell anyone about their past together, then Bucky won’t either.

Bucky keeps the distance that Tony obviously wants from him.

Until two months after his arrival at the compound on a Tuesday morning F.R.I.D.A.Y. sends an urgent distress signal, and Bucky is on his way so quickly that the other Avengers don’t have a chance to follow him directly even if they tried.

—

Tony wakes up in a hospital with a throbbing pounding in his head and aching bones all over his body—James’ worried face hovering over him. It’s the shittiest déjà-vu he’s ever had.

At least the circumstances aren’t quite the same. Rhodey diluted Tony’s alcohol every time he thought no one would see him. So that something like alcohol poisoning wouldn’t happen again. Tony is grateful and annoyed at the same time.

No, this time he just flew drunk in his Iron Man armor, lost the connection to F.R.I.D.A.Y., which he has to get to the bottom of as quickly as possible, and then fell. So, waking up in the hospital makes sense.

But that James is here instead of Rhodey or Happy or Pepper or anyone else is both, surprising and unwanted.

James opens and closes his mouth several times, seemingly unable to decide what to say before croaking out, “You promised you’d stop drinking.” His voice sounds suspiciously as if he had cried recently, and Tony almost laughs at the irony of the situation.

But then he remembers the day he woke up without James at his side. Remembers searching everywhere for him, waiting, not being able to sleep for days, and how miserable he felt without him, not knowing what happened, not knowing where he had gone.

He remembers that James had fucked him—no, made love with him—knowing he had killed Tony’s mother. And he feels the blood boil in his veins in anger at that. How dare James after all these years, after all that happened, now talk about that promise?

So he throws him a deadly look, his hand clenched into a fist and growls, “And you promised you wouldn’t hurt me!”

James visibly flinches at that and takes a step back, his eyes wandering everywhere but at Tony. Then he takes a deep breath and looks Tony straight in the eye as he says, “You’re right. I promised you that I would never hurt you. But I did it. I have—”

“Why did you do it?” Tony interrupts, because that’s what he wants to know. What he had asked himself over and over again over the years—the why.

Bucky blinks at him in bewilderment and asks: “Why what exactly?”

“Everything!” Tony throws his arms in the air in frustration, ignoring the ailment of his broken ribs over the sudden action. “Why you suddenly left me overnight, why you never told me anything about yourself, not even vaguely hinting at who you are and what happened to you, why you let me fall in love with you when it was you, who killed my mother and were therefore to blame for my misery!” The last part comes out much more honest than Tony wanted it to be and he quickly looks ashamed to the side to blink away the rising tears of anger.

He hears a deep sigh from the side and out of the corner of his eye he can see James drop into the visitor’s chair.

“Tony, I didn’t know who you were or that my mission had been your parents when we met in the bar,” James begins hesitantly to explain. “Howard… his words brought a few memories to the fore. Just blurry, barely recognizable images. I didn’t even know my own name when you asked me for it—I just named the one that was at the tip of my tongue.

“During the time we were together, my memories have only gradually returned. I had no idea about your parents until a nightmare reminded me of it.” This is where James looks up from his hands for the first time, straight into Tony’s eyes, his gaze steadfast and honest. “And then I realized I had broken my promise—I had already hurt you.”

James sighs and runs his hand through his hair and swallows hard. “I understood that it was only a matter of time before HYDRA found me. We were lucky before that because no one suspected I could be with you. But under no circumstances did I want them to get you. I knew I had to go. That is why I did it.”

Tony nods slowly. “And then what? You just decided to go back to HYDRA?”

James laughs dryly, without a trace of humor in his voice. “Of course not. I went on the run. But in the end, no matter what I do, they always find me, don’t they?” His mouth twists into a grimace of self-hatred and resignation.

Not under my watch, no, Tony thinks to himself. Instead he says, “You broke my heart.” Because as reluctant as he is to show his vulnerability, this is James. And he’s always been able to be honest with James.

“I’m sorry,” James says in all earnestness.

“I’m not forgiving you for what you have done.”

“I understand.”

“Not yet at least.”

At that James’ gaze shoots up in surprise.

Tony clears his throat slightly shy. “I—I understand that the… brainwashing and stuff. That it wasn’t you. I just… I just need some time.” And it’s true. Tony had read the Winter Soldier’s files; he saw what they did to him and he understands on a completely rational level that it’s not James who is responsible for all those deaths.

He only needs his emotions to come to that understanding too and then he would truly be able to forgive him.

And really, as much as he always claims that he worked to bring the Avengers back together was because the world needed them, he knows the real motivations for it had been for James only. When Pepper had broken up with him because “there was someone else occupying his heart she could never reach” he hadn’t been able to contradict her. Seeing James again after all that time has only proven her right too.

“Tony…”

“Great, now that that’s settled, take my tablet and read me something,” Tony interrupts James before he can go any further, because there is only so much emotional talk Tony can handle in one day and that line has been exceeded a long while ago.

“I… what?”

“Read me something. I am a poor injured soul deserving to be properly pampered. And I want a good-night story.”

And as James slowly smiles brightly at him, gray eyes glinting in hope and wonder, it’s like not a single day has gone by since he disappeared on him.

Tony is still wary. Remembers only too well those days after James had left him. Can’t forget the Winter Soldier’s hand around his mother’s neck. His fingers itch with the urge to hold a drink, but he snuggles deeper into bed, letting James’ soothing voice and the story of a girl who finds a wonderland in a closet lull him into contentment.

Tony meets James for the first time in December 1991 in a seedy bar in Brooklyn and then a second time in 2016 in a Siberian bunker. He thinks that if against all odds their paths cross not only once, but twice, then maybe they should take a step forward together and see, where the path will lead them to.

And if they just believe strong enough in it, they might even find their wonderland for a second time too.

Quix·ot·ic (The Mandalorian x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 2.8K

Summary: He's an enigma. Something completely unattainable, but after finding yourself on the wrong end of trouble, that all changes. Who knew getting beat up would end up with a handjob.

Warnings: Smut, language, dirty talk, handjobs, mentions of blood and violence, reader gets beat up :(

You never knew for sure what you would end up doing in your life. You imagined you'd become a moisture farmer on Tatooine or a bartender on Coruscant, maybe get to see a drunken fight or two if you were lucky. Or maybe you'd end up in some Wild Space planet where you'd live out the rest of your days eating berries and soaking up the sun. Whatever the case, being hired by a Mandalorian was not on your list of positively exuberant made up occupations. Or, you know, having a teeny tiny crush on said man.

It's generous pay, a gracious 12 percent of his quarries, and you feel sorta bad because, truly, you don't do anything besides babysit the little green monster and occasionally fly the Razor Crest. You do however, manage to get the hyperdrive working up to a staggering 68 percent functionality rate that you're quite proud of. You're not sure if he cared when you mentioned it to him, but he did offer an impartial tilt of his helmet. You like to believe it was his way of saying that, Ah, yes, of course. I needed that fixed. Thank you so very much my beloved companion. What would I do without you?

He would never say that. In fact, he doesn't really say anything at all. You're used to bustling crowds and chatty folk and talking your way out of things because, hey, not everyone is a walking armory that's nigh indestructible. You don't think you've ever been this silent in your meager life, and so you've pushed yourself into a corner. You don't ask questions even if that miraculous shiny helmet and smooth modulated voice makes a million of them spring forth. You don't know a thing except for the highly exaggerated or just plain wrong theories you've heard about the Mandalorians, and you don't want to offend him. You're not willing to poke at his patience even if it is tempting.

Sometimes, when he brings back bounties, it offers you a bit of in-house entertainment. Seeing him wrestle them into carbonite is really, if you're being honest, hot. It shouldn't be and it terrifies you that he's that strong, but your dirty, disgusting ape-brain still gets a kick out of it.  

You end up just talking to the kid most days. It just coos and babbles, understanding jack-shit, but the Mandalorian is unattainable, a lonesome planet that's not even in your fucking orbit,  and you're pretty sure he forgets you exist most of the time.

And then everything shifts.

You go outside for once, antsy from being cooped up in the Crest for so long and you need stuff for the kid (and caf for yourself). Naturally, you wander through the markets, not really thinking, just letting your eyes graze over things, take in the buzzing crowds. It reminds you of home and you get so lost in your head (you blame it on your constant isolation) that you wander into some grubby cantina. They're playing Sabaac in the corner and somehow you're roped into playing. Stars, you don't even know how to play Sabaac very well and of course you end up loosing.

It wasn't even your money to begin with; you took the seat of a Bothan who angrily threw their cards down, but for some reason the stupid Rodian sitting to your left got the idea that you did, in fact, owe him a great deal of Calamari flan. You thought you outsmarted him by feigning the need to take a piss and then squeezing through the much too small window in the bathroom. Unfortunately, when you're halfway sticking out, wriggling around like some weird earthworm, the Rodian's got two more buddies with him and they yank you out the window.

Really, you're lucky that all they did was beat the living shit out of you instead of selling you to some Spice mine or to some seedy guy with a penchant for half-naked slaves. You tell yourself this as you manage to pick yourself off the grimy ground and limp, somewhat conscious, back to the Razor Crest.  

Your head is pounding noticeably by the time you reach it and fuzzy darkness is creeping at the edges of your vision. You're relieved that he isn't back yet, because this is embarrassing and you don't want him to think that you're some sort of trouble maker. He doesn't need more problems added on to his plate. You have just enough time to lower yourself onto the floor and pass out against a cargo crate.  

Hours pass before you wake up, and you know this because the sun is melting against the horizon like butter (wasn't it just morning?) and oh—the Mandalorian is hovering over you. The sun is reflecting off his armor and it almost hurts to look at him. You have to blink a few times to make sure you aren't hallucinating and he really is saying your name in that lovely baritone voice of his, all raspy and modified by the vocoder.

"Ah, shiny, you're back." You don't know why that's the first thing you say and you want to knock yourself out again.

"Who did this?" He's asking and you can't really process words right now, much less concentrate on anything but your spinning head. He sounds mad but you can't be sure if it's directed at your own stupidity.

Maker, how are you still alive?

You don't recall shutting your eyes again but two large hands that cup the sides of your face make them open. "Hey. Stay with me."

"Never left, Mando."

"Who did this to you?" He asks again and your brain finally catches up a bit and it's jarring to know that he cares about you. At least a little.

You try to sit up but he's gently holding you in place. "M'fine. Jus—jus' a few bruises."

Again, you try to stand but his hands are gripping your shoulders and forcing you back against the crate. Your heart pounds against your chest at his prolonged touch.

"Just stop—damnit! Stay still," Mando snarls as you try to wriggle out of his grip for a third time. "Let me see."

You stare up at that unforgiving mask as he pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, wincing at the movement. You know you have a black eye and the crusty feel of dried blood is lain on thick above your hairline and you wonder if it looks as bad as it feels.

"They did a number on you."

Yup. They sure did you wanna say but it hurts to move your mouth and your tongue feels swollen and puffy like you're allergic to your own blood.

He says something about moving you to the bunk but as his hand slips under your armpit and wraps around your waist, you're gasping in pain. Your breath gets sucked away like someone's punched you in the gut and you crumple back onto the floor. His gloved hand comes away dark red.

"Shit—Take off your shirt." He commands, leaving no room for argument.

You huff out a laugh that's closer to a faint wheeze. "B-buy me a dri—a drink first."

"Maybe later."

Now that certainly grabs your attention but you don't have time to analyze all that because he hooks his hands under the hem of your shirt and yanks it above your shoulders and off your head. You look down and holy fucking shit—when the fuck did you get stabbed? You don't remember those thugs having knives.

"Stay here."

Like I'll be going anywhere, you want to quip back. The Mandalorian shuts the hull, blocking off your view of the spectacular sunset and returns with the cauterizer in hand. You make a face and try to fend him off, because you are not in the mood to get your flesh singed back together but he's set on the idea. It doesn't take long for him to wrestle your arm down and under your back, exposing the bloody gash that stretches from the middle of your ribcage and down until it stops just above the last rib.

You don't like the way you're positioned. He's somehow got your legs trapped between him and the crate while you're half splayed over his lap, one arm stuck beneath your own weight while the other he holds in a death grip. It's too vulnerable and when he trades his hold on your arm for a hand on your hip to get a better hold so he can start pressing the laser onto your flesh, arousal sparks in your belly.

Unfortunately, you don't get to enjoy the weight of his long fingers splayed across your skin or let the fantasy of him fucking you into the next galaxy play out, because razor sharp pain is erupting throughout your whole left side. You jerk in his grip and your mouth falls open with a silent cry. You've been burned before from stray wires or way too hot sheets of metal, but this? This is pure fucking torture and you don't know how the hell he does this to himself. Let alone stay conscious.

You do end up passing out again (an embarrassing fact he doesn't mention and you're thankful for it) and you awake to something warm and calloused trailing up and down your exposed skin, avoiding the sensitive area surrounding the charred and throbbing wound. It's soothing and almost entirely masks the pain. It isn't until the tip of a forefinger is carefully tracing lines between your freckles, most certainly studying them, that you realize whose finger it belongs to. Sans gloves.

You go rigid and he stops. You bite back a whine at the loss.

"Is...is this ok?" He's saying softly through the vocoder. It still sounds warm and dark despite the mechanical tone to it. You can hardly form a comprehensive thought and you have to fight through the hazy fog to force out a jerky nod of your head.

"Y-yeah," you croak out and there's a half second delay, if not shorter, before he's touching you again. This time it's bolder, braver like his fingers are starved and the only thing available is you.

His breath comes out stuttered as you twitch under him. "You're so soft."

His hands are a beautiful sun-kissed brown, speckled with scars from past battles. You want to plant kisses over the slopes of his knuckles, trail your tongue over the lines of his palm, but you're still uncomfortably trapped in his lap against the cold beskar cuirass. It's torture.

The Mandalorian's fingers dance up your shoulder, your breath stuttering as they skim over your collarbone then sweep up the column of your throat you readily bare for him. He threads those long, warm digits through your hair, thumbing the strands then tucks them behind your ear. Your heart slams against your ribcage and you're sure it might just burst.

"Breathe," he says. You can hear the smile in his words.

Despite the shaky inhale, it's even harder to breath and you wonder if one of your lungs collapsed as well. He gently pinches your chin, cradling your jaw so you're staring up at him. You can feel is eyes on you through that shaded visor and you nearly miss the hitch in his breath when your tongue flicks out and slides along the pad of his thumb that traces your bottom lip.

Liquid heat pools in your lower belly as two of his fingers press at the seam of your lips. You part your mouth and he ever so slowly slips them in. You groan softly and curl your tongue around the two digits until the shine with sticky saliva, the surrealness of the situation making you lightheaded. Who would've thought you'd be here after getting beaten and stabbed after a Sabaac game gone wrong, and you're all but giving Mando's fingers a blowjob. You wouldn't fucking believe, but yet, here you are.

His hips twitch as you curl your tongue around his middle finger and slide it between the delicate skin there, and you can feel the firm bulge digging into your lower back. Desperate and burning for the chance to touch him, you manage to wiggle your arm behind your back, tracing the cuirass all the way down to the hem of his trousers. You palm at his cock through the material and his hips jerk into the touch, his torso hunching over you, the cold metal brushing over your arm. His fingers leave your mouth with a slick pop and he's reaching in between you to grasp at your wrist and grind your palm harder against cock. The angle in which your arm is twisted is uncomfortable at best, but your mind rears at the thought of moving. You don't want whatever this is to end.

"Shit," he hisses. "S'good—fucking good."

"Mando," you whimper. He feels just as firm as beskar if not harder and you know your underwear is far beyond salvaging as his other hand wraps around and grabs at your breast.

"You—you're so pretty an—and brave," he grunts, thrusting his hips in tandem with the hold you've got on his throbbing cock. Your heart swells and you're blushing for an entire different reason. "So b-brave for me."

There's a brief pause as he shoos away your hand and your chest seizes in worry that you've upset him somehow. That he'd suddenly changed his mind about this whole thing. Is going to kill you? Put you out of your fucking misery? Or—oh. Your fears are quickly stamped out once you realize he's shuffling his trousers down and tugging your hand back around him. He is searing hot, thick and pulsing in your hand and when you give it an experimental tug he makes a punched out sound.

It's an awkward angle, but Maker do you try. Mando doesn't seem to care and judging by the sticky wetness that's dribbling over your knuckles, he certainly likes it. Much too focused on your current task, you don't note his hand smooth over your stomach and slip under the waistband until his fingers are circling your clit. You gasp and buck your hips into his touch, your hand stopping.

"Keep—ah—going," he's muttering, lowering his helmet to rest on the curve of your shoulder. "Fuck. Don't stop."

It's hard (pun all intended), real hard to focus when his fingers are swiping down your soaking slit, gathering the wetness there then back up to draw meticulous patterns over the bundle of nerves. At this point, your brain is a muddled mess and you aren't doing much except for holding your hand loosely so he can fuck into it.

The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burn through you, drag you closer to the precipice, and you're whimpering out the only name you have for him. Wicked heat blooms in your abdomen, spreads through your core and sweeps out into your shaking legs. You arch into him and with a steady hand, he parts your lips, thrusts his fingers inside and grinds the heel of his palm where you need him the most.

"That's it. Go-good girl. Cum—cum for me." Paired with his voice as his fingers press up and curl into something sickeningly good and you're gone. "S'good girl."

Your eyes squeeze shut as light compatible to hyperspace explodes behind your eyelids. You don't think you've ever cum this hard and it almost aches how good it feels as your legs lock and your nerves are set on fire. It burns through you and you wouldn't be surprised if your body goes up in flames. You twitch and jerk in his lap, breathing ragged, as he continues to thrust into your cunt, letting you ride out each and every tendril of pleasure until you melt into his lap. He still toys with your oversensitive clit and you have to push his hand away.

An overwhelming wave of exhaustion abruptly washes over you; a mix of getting stabbed and just having the best damn orgasm of your life you think. But Mando is still rutting up against your back and you fight the urge to close your eyes and pass the fuck out. With a shaky hand, you reach for his cock once again, a fresh wave of heat flashing through you as a lovely moan, soft and vulnerable echoes through the modulator.

"Maker," he gasps, "You—I'm—M'gonna cum.."

He wraps his hand around yours, squeezing around the hardened flesh and giving his cock a few more hard thrusts before a broken gasp rips through the modulator. His body stiffens and the Mandalorian cums hard. Hot ropes of liquid coat your hand and the small of your back, his cock throbbing and pulsing in your grip. He snarls out your name, still thrusting up into your fist, milking every last spurt of cum until it tapers off and swears are tumbling out.

Sleep is tugging at your eyelids when his rapid breathing begins to even out, his fingers spreading his seed over your back as if marking you. You shiver. "M'falling asleep."

"Yeah, ok," he's breathes. "You need rest. Brave girl—you did so well. Close your eyes."

You do just that and fall into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

The Rules IV: Triggered

Author’s Note: Thank you all soo much for your input!!! It helped me out more than you know! This was fun as hell to write and I hope you’re down for a ride! It’s about to go down. There are two songs that really hit the nail on the head for this part, they are linked below! Happy Reading my people!

Pairing: CEO!Henry Cavill X Reader

Warning: Angst. SMUT. DRAMA.

Want to catch up! Click HERE

Song Inspirations: Jhene Aiko: Triggered (First Part) Jhene Aiko: P*SSY Fairy

If your heart slowed anymore, you’d collapse. But it wasn’t just the lethargic beat of your heart that slowed down. The kiss. The fucking kiss was being replayed in your head over and over, the way she cupped him, the way his lips touched hers and he deepened it. You feel the bile rise at the helm of your throat and you step back.

“Excuse me.” You whispered to a bewildered Alex, “I need to leave.”

He noticed. You could tell by the way he looked back to Henry and then you. His tall frame went from relaxed to apathetic. “Is it him?” He gave a wave in Henry’s direction and then stepped closer to you. “Y/N?”

“I can’t talk about this right now.” You attempted to push your way through the crowd and caught an opening into the gala hall. Alex was on your feet, his long strides made it easy for him to catch you. “Hey, I can’t talk about it right now.”

Your mind raced, he took a month away from you, was it because the entire time he had her? Were you some fucking mistress, side-chick, side bitch… Homewrecker? Inwardly you taunted yourself with the unceasing line of insults to yourself. Fuck! Fuck.

“Look.” Alex cleared his throat and stepped closer to you. His presence kept you from bolting into the nearest room and destroying everything in it. You were grateful for that, maybe. “He is not worth you not enjoying this night. Do you know how beautiful you are right now? Every eye in the building was with you when we arrived. Make him mad, but don’t let him win. He did nothing to deserve a win apparently.”

The pep talk worked and more and more you were starting to understand why Alex was a friend you didn't want to lose regardless of what happened. The first dance is casual, you fight tears watching the woman touch his hand, laid her hand on his chest and laugh like he was a comedian. He wasn't that damn funny. You stay for an hour, it was required to stay an hour, you have done only what was expected of you and nothing more. Alex took you home, the car ride is silent besides the occasional murmur of a curse word under your breath.

Home is what you craved more than anything, once the door was closed and Alex's driver left you released a scream that scared you, followed by a sob as you felt your heart literally break. What a fucking feeling? Grief for someone who didn't deserve it. You didn't drink to solve your problems, so alcohol was a no. Sleep was the obvious answer.  The dress felt like it burned your skin, you were certain it didn't, but the fact that it came from him made it poison. He was poison, that you willingly chugged down like a vintage wine and now the repercussions had finally made their grand entrance. And fuck them.

Why were you looking them up, they were a known couple, known to everyone but you? You typed in his name and nothing but her appeared Billionaire Henry Cavill and Olivia Tate grace the Emmy's with their presence. Will this playboy finally settle down? Olivia Tate has HC's heart around her finger. You were sick again. You throw the phone on the couch and screenshot the picture of him kissing her. Is this the future Mrs. Cavill?

You changed clothes, slipping the crop top and leggings on. You knew it wasn't the end of the night. And you were right, sleep does not come. He sends you seven messages, each of which you stared at trying to formulate a response, but they didn't merit one, until the last one.

Henry: I've been looking for you for an hour. Where are you?

Henry: You left without a word? Are you mad or something?

Henry: A response would be nice.

Henry: Y/N

Henry: Y/N. I'll find you later.

Henry: Be there in ten.

Y/N: Drive safe. Are you bringing the wife with you?

You hit send of the picture you'd saved.

Henry: Wow.

The wait for him to arrive only infuriates you more, your mother had always said your temper was like a wildfire, once it sparked it would consume everything to the ground. You knew she was right; Henry even knew your temper needed to be managed, but no one fucking managed you. This included Henry. He didn't knock. He never did really, he entered with his perfectly tailored suit and an eye roll. And the lamp crashed behind him. He ducks, but his face is shocked.

"What the fuck was that?" he hissed.

"My fucking two-hundred-dollar lamp." You picked up the shoes and hurled them across the room next and he ducked as if he knew they were coming and charged towards you. You moved from his grasp. "You have been with her for a year!" It roared out of you and then the tears followed. "Why did you even come over here? Did you think I would be okay with it? Do you think I want to be your whore? Come when you say, fuck when you say and then you go home to her. Don't touch me!!"

"You're not going to let me explain, are you?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Explain Henry, tell me what lie did you conjure up, while headed here. She's just a friend. I wasn't with her." you shake your head and Henry folds his arms across his chest. "Is she the reason you wouldn't let me kiss you?"

"Are you finishing acting like-."

"Say it!" You cut him off and step closer to him. You wanted to hit something, but his face was too pretty for that shit, and despite your anger, your mother raised you better than that, "Like what Henry? Get out."

"Y/N."

"I said get the fuck out!"

His jaw clenched and he pushed his hands through his thick mane of brown curls, ending the polished look he had earlier. "I'll call you later."

"Oh, no the fuck you won't." You opened the door to Alex standing there with his eyes on Henry. Why was he back? "He was just leaving." You explained to Alex. "Bye."

Alex stepped aside and held up the brown bag, you could smell the Chinese and noticed the wine bottle. "We didn't get to eat." He explained. The smug grin on his face sealed the night, he was a good guy.

You smiled and watched Henry stare at him before looking back at you. He shook his head, "Goodnight."

"Fuck you." You whispered.

In the past hearing, people say they were numb sounded foolish, of course, they felt. A human cannot simply shut it all off, but you were wrong. So wrong, it was easier to go numb than to feel. It started with work, your time invested in the company allotted you vacation three fucking weeks, paid and free.

The first week you spent with Alex, not fucking his brains out like a part of you wanted to but being a friend. He allowed you to talk, you told him everything and he listened with no judgment and that made it easier. Tia was around too, she spent the night with you when she could, in between hair appointments and makeup slots. Her career was changing fast, you were happy for her even if you barely showed it at times.

The second week you shut them both out. You told them you were out of town, but you were in your apartment with food and tear-soaked pillows. His phone calls had stopped, but you feared it was only because you changed the number. Work could contact you via email if they needed to, but no one even called you during the first two weeks. The marketing strategy you left would do well, you knew it. And besides your certainty in your program, you didn’t care what Cavill Industries did at the moment.

The third week, everything went numb, there were no more tears to cry. Every inkling of him that existed was gone, including the $6000 dollar dress. You burned it and at that final act, the night was gone from your mind. He’d broken the rules. You’d both set them and when he kissed her, he disqualified himself.

The first day back to work your anxiety had you in its grip. Every phone call and opening of your door you dreaded. But he didn’t come. He wasn’t even in the building, according to your boss and that eased everything. You could work with him not being anywhere near you, and that made you apply to the other firms that had once been interested in you. You got two calls immediately. Matheus Corporate wanted to hire you without an interview and after the offer they sent, you were taking it. You typed out your resignation letter and turned it into HR. It was the right choice.

It was a month before you saw him again, and the Cavill you saw briefly in the lobby looked nothing like the one you had grown accustomed to. His hair was wild, and he had a beard, an actual beard. His slate-blue eyes were tired as were his movements. Just seeing him triggered you, the horrid memories of that night flooded your head and the pain resurfaced. Being numb would not be possible around him. You knew it. You hid in the stairwell like an idiot and avoided him. Nine more days of work here and you would be clear.

“Look, the way I see it, we are friends now.” Alex kicked his feet up on your desk and looked to you for affirmation.

You gave it to him nodding your head and chugging down your third bottle of water. “Yes, we’re friends. So, when I call you up at midnight and you’re with your little girlfriend cuddling and things you still have to make an appearance.”

“Girlfriend?” He scoffed.

“You heard me.” You pointed at him.

“I’m hoping one day the little girlfriend, I am cuddling will be you.” He smiled. “There is no rush and no expectation for it. But I didn’t want you to leave this place, oblivious to the fact that I really like you.”

Your heart warmed and you smiled. “Nine days to go and your boldness is out the bag.”

He shrugged. “Did I get brownie points?”

“A whole cake.” You said. You were back to work an hour later, singing under your breath when the door opened.

“I told him to wait outside.” Your assistant said, trying to beat Henry in the office. She turned to you. “Ms. YLN, Mr. Cavill is here to see you.” But he was already in front of your desk.

“Get out.” He said to her.

“Whatever you have to say to me, she can hear.” For some reason, you knew if the door closed you would succumb to him, “Speak.”

“You are not leaving.” His voice was not composed, just wavering and near weak. “Y/N.”

“Gianna, you can go.” You exhaled. What the hell had happened to him? She left the room and the space that once seemed huge started to shrink. Henry walked towards you and you held your hand up when he reached your desk. “What?”

“You changed your number.”

“What did you expect?”

“For you to give me a chance to explain,” His eyes plead with yours for the opportunity. “Can I have that please?”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, I was never yours, right?”

“You’re still mine.” The slight possessiveness came back to his voice.  

It made you weak for a moment, your hitched breath took over the silence. “Hurry up, Henry.”

“She is my girlfriend.” He said.

The words punch at a wound you were certain was nearly healed. You hoped he was going to say that he left her, the pathetically infatuated part of you wanted him to say, she dumped him. But he just reaffirmed what you already knew. Olivia Tate was the official girlfriend of Henry Cavill. “Thanks?” You swallowed. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t want her to be, I want you.”

“You are making no sense and I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to throw things at you here. I just wanted to leave all this in the past. Go be with her.”

“Y/N.” He said your name as if he was fighting for breath. “There are some things you do not understand about me. Things I would rather not talk about, but I don’t want her.”

“Then leave her! Damn it.” You bit out. “You are a grown man. You can make decisions on your own. If you didn’t want her then end it. End it now.”

“I can’t talk here.”

“Where else are you gonna talk?” You laughed. “My place? Hell no.”

“Mine.” He shook his head. “I’ll send a car for you after work. Don’t make them work Y/N. Just come.” He looked at you. “Please.”

“Fine.”

 You didn’t fight his orders on meeting him, curiosity reared its ugly head and you were gone. His home was at the edge of town, the driveway curved up a hill and lead to the glass estate. It was incredible. Had you been here on better circumstances, you would have enjoyed the view. You stepped out and the door opened. Henry had shed the suit for a black shirt and black sweats that hung at his waist somehow accenting his frame. Fuck. Were you even going to be strong enough to say no to this god? One last fuck? Just to say goodbye fuck, it wouldn’t be frowned upon.

You argued with yourself and walked into the home, the décor was much like his office dark brown woods with a modern sense. You stood in the foyer and looked at him. The closer to the door you were, the more likely you were to say no to him without hesitation.

“I can’t shut you out of my mind.” He confessed. He had shaved, but his hair was still tucked behind his ears, longer than normal.

“Just tell me.”

“I met Olivia in college.” He sighed. “We used to date off and on, but it was never more than sex. Never.”

“That’s all it is with us.” You interrupted. “Hence the reason I don’t need this talk.”

“Then why’d you come?” Henry stared. “I have been infatuated with you for months and when I finally got the opportunity to be with you, I jumped at it.”

“Don’t feed me bullshit.” You held your hand up.

“Who do you think hired you?”

“Why can’t you just leave her?” You asked.

“She knows things about me that can ruin me.” he stopped talking. “Liv is talented at getting the things she wants. If I leave her, she’ll spill it.”

“Oh, get the fuck out of here!” You laugh. “You expect me to believe this Lifetime movie shit? You got a girlfriend and you want me too. Admit it.”

“I don’t want her.” He shook his head. “I want you.”

“You can say it until you’re blue in the face. If you don’t show me, how in the fuck am I supposed to believe that this… isn’t just a way for you to get what you want.”

Henry sunk to his knees. “I’ll beg you.”

“Dogs beg.” You spat.

“Anything.” He rasped.

“Do you know how bad I hurt? I didn’t work for weeks. I didn’t care for weeks. We’ve been together a month. Do you think my behavior was normal? Do you think yours is normal? No. We are bad for one another and I just…”

How did he get up so fast? You moved back and he was on you, his steps heavy and determined. He caged you against the wall and then you realized, his face was wet with tears.

“You have to believe me.” He whispered and the fear clawed through him. “Please.”

There was an urge pushing you to leave this place, nothing good can come from him. But his face was pained, you’d never seen this part of him. You cupped his face affectionately and your lips graze his cheek. It feels as if he shutters and then you just do it. You hesitantly kiss him. Your lips touch his and the energy that passes through you ignites a groan.

“Please.” The plea is accompanied by him responding to the kiss, tenderly. He leaned into you, his body blanketing to you and taking whatever breath you thought you had left. But you were sure that he took your breath away without a kiss. His brow furrowed as he deepened it pushing your head against the door. He wrapped his arms around you, swaddling you in his muscles while somehow it wasn’t the muscles that you felt. For the first time, he was being himself with you. He allowed you to feel what you didn’t even know was there.

He pulled back from you and he moved as if he was dizzy. The breath he had stolen from you had made it's way back to you and you inhaled. There was more than a desire that flickered between the two of you.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

His eyes flashed with a little hope. “Same.” Henry didn’t wait for permission he just scooped you up from the floor and kissed you again, this time it hurt. The hurt is so fucking good.

“I want,” the words were caught in your throat. Was this right or were you spiraling? “I want you, here. Right here.” He lowered you both down on the steps so that you were straddling him, you didn’t care for his comfort. You wanted him to feel you. “You remember the rules?” You whispered. Your tongue licks his lips and then dives in and he’s taken back, gripping your ass that is winding on his dick. You can feel him through the sweats. “Hmm…”

“I could never forget.”

“Don’t cum unless I say.” You smiled before kissing him again. You bucked your hips on and his eyes widened the lust pushing through. “You hear me, sir?” Your voice was low and filled with lust. “I want to fuck you right here.” He grew harder, flinching against you. “I want you to moan my name when you cum…”

Henry’s hands were in your hair, pulling you back so he could see your eyes. “I’ll do whatever the fuck you want me to, just fuck me.” He begged.

“Did you miss me?”

“Always.” He groaned lowering his head to your breast. He sprung the from the blouse and ripped it in two. “Always.”

You wanted to believe him, but the lingering hurt from the past month. “If you lie to me again,” You unsheathed him from his sweats and stroked your hand down the length of his cock. You swiped the precum that oozed from the tip down and pumped again. “Missing me is all you’ll know how to do, sir.”

“Fuck,” He jumped in your hand and sucked air in through his teeth.

“Understand?”

“I-,” He moaned when you increased your speed. “Oh fuck.”

“Yeah,” You were so turned on by the way you were making him feel. You now understood why he wanted to be in control of everything in the bed. It was sexy as fuck to watch what you could do to someone. You could watch them unravel, put them back together and do it again.

Henry pushed the pen skirt up and easily ripped the panties. He tossed them behind you and his fingers were in you. Prodding and working, you fucking missed him, even though you shouldn’t have. “Y/N.” He moaned. “I’m almost there.” He panted.

You stopped stroking him and began to ride his fingers, lifting yourself from them and then back on until the next time Henry pushed his cock in. He was fighting every urge he had to allow you some control in this thing. He threw his head back when he was fully inside of you and stilled.

But you wanted to fuck him. You wanted to ride him slow and draw out every fucking moment you could with him. So, if you regretted being here in the morning, the walk of shame wouldn’t have too much shame. Your walls sealed around him and he gripped your hips trying to stop you from fucking him, but you continued. Your rhythm was wild, you used his shoulders like an anchor and smiled down at him. His face was red and misted with sweat. His curls were soaked, and he was mesmerized. Your tits bounced in front of him and your eyes were rolling. “Y/N.” He warned and you felt his cock grow harder and then he growled, shuddering in your breast as if he had waited forever to cum inside of you.

“Seems you broke a rule.” You laughed and continued to fuck him. He made sounds that only made you wetter for him and the man was part machine. He had to be as his cock grew back rigid and he was still shuttering from coming the time before.

Henry licked his fingers and slapped them onto your clit before he pulled you towards him. His fingers knew how to work your pussy. Moving in circles and then another slap before he started back again, and you were about to cum. You didn’t want to. You shook your head and Henry looked up at you, “I won’t last another time. I ca-,” Your pussy shook around his and your thighs locked down as the pleasure surged through your body. “Shit!” He yelled before slamming into you and spilling his cum again. “Y/N.” He rasped.

The floor wasn’t a bad place to lay for the time being. Henry was wrapped around your naked body and there was no need for cover. He kept you warm enough.

“Was she the reason you didn’t kiss me?”

He exhaled. “She,” he paused. “I never know when she will decide to come back into my life.” He admits. “And up until you, it was easier not kissing, that way when it ended… there were no emotions in it. It was just fucking. I can’t do that with you, okay? A single glance from you could make my heart stop, a kiss would have shattered me.” Henry admitted.

It was quiet for a while. Just deep breaths and kisses all down your body. “Let’s go to bed.” You said finally. “My boss would be mad as hell if I missed tomorrow.”

“I’m throwing you resignation away, and if you’re having problems out of Mike… I’ll fire his ass.” He stood up and reached his hand out to you. “Come on, the bed is the proper place to make sure you’re so tired work isn’t an option.”

  His bed was comfortable, the sheets were so soft you were tempted to ask where he got them. You slept peacefully entangled in the muscled mass that is Henry. But it was not a complaint to make, being without him for so long made you grateful you could listen to him breathe and feel his heart against your back.

“Thank God.” The unfamiliar voice came from the bottom of the bed.

Your eyes narrowed as the bright sun made its way through the windows. The blonde hair was the first take away, it was Olivia. You scrambled from under Henry’s body. “Henry!” If she wanted a fight, you were ready to fight her, you’d just prefer to not be naked while doing it.

Henry groaned and once he caught sight of her he jolted up from the bed. “Olivia. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Don’t be rude. I was just saying thank God.” Olivia leaned over his legs and looked at you. “I hated watching him mope around here. He looked like a puppy, sad because his bitch went away.”

“Bitch? I beg your pardon, Henry if you don’t get this woman.” Henry gave an admonished look to Olivia and gripped your hand. It didn’t comfort you. It just pissed you off. You snatched your hand away from him. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” One more foul word from her and you’d fight naked.

“Excuse my manners, darling. I’m Olivia and I am so glad you are here. It seems we have some rules to introduce.” She pushed up from the bed and left the room. “Chop, chop Henry, dear. Bring your bitch, I have a plane to catch.”