#I literally feel like I cannot get anything done when I have afternoon shifts it SUCKS

[yandereshingeki]

trying to be sane when i know i have work in an hour

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra x Maiden ----Anonymity Ch.10

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9

The day shift gives you ample time and opportunities to walk around the castle. Within a week, you come to know every chamber and pathway you hadn’t previously crossed, intimately.

At first, you pictured making your escape through a weak point in its fortification. The walls are ancient; You would have bet money on one of its parts having given out in the passing of centuries and gone unnoticed. Now, you know such a thing doesn’t exist. It doesn’t really surprise you that Alcina has made sure the exterior is in the same excellent condition as the interior.

But it is a problem.

The walls are too big for you to scale. If there are any stepping points, you can’t see them from within. You tried over and over to at least peak out into the back yard, but the shrieks and growls of monsters had you immediately changing course.

You don’t know what those things are and you’re not eager to find out. According to the older maids, there are more of them deep in the dungeons. It is only a rumor, of course, since nobody has ventured down there and returned to tell the tale.

Which, taking the window bars into account… leaves only one way out.

The front door.

You are aware that Lady Dimitrescu and the daughters all have a key on them. You know from Cassandra those are the only copies. Nothing enters or leaves unless one of them allows it.

There is not a snowflake’s chance in hell you’re getting Alcina’s key. She will murder you on sight. Bela won’t do anything to disappoint her mother, so that rules her out, as well. Daniela is the one most likely to misplace it or be persuaded to give it to you, but the girl is as unpredictable as she is sly and you won’t risk your wellbeing for a distant chance.

That means…

Cassandra is the only way out, isn’t she…

-

-

You lay low and await an afternoon where the cold is downright bone-piercing. As warm as the castle is, with fireplaces burning everywhere, you can still feel the stinging kiss of the outside frost every time you so much as go near a window.

And it all comes full circle right back to the start; You in front of Cassandra’s bedroom door, trembling with anxiety like the very first time. It is oddly fitting, in a way, that the story of the two of you ends where it began.

For a moment, you almost marvel at how long ago it feels, now. But there is no time nor space in your heart for sentimentality anymore. You stand at the point of no return.

And you cross it as soon as you turn the handle.

Cassandra’s bedroom is softly illuminated by the dying embers of the fireplace. You walk forward cautiously, slowly, almost as if you’re expecting a landmine to go off at a single misstep. Except –well. A mine would be far more merciful. Just an explosion and then nothing. If Cassandra wakes…

You try not to think about it, lest your muscles lock in place.

Underneath the heavy covers of the bed, you see her, cocooned, pale fingers clutching tight at the blankets. It is too early for her to wake. She is deeply asleep, you tell yourself, simultaneously praying she doesn’t open her eyes.

You make it to her vanity, soundless. Her amber-jeweled choker and the necklace she and her sisters wear are neatly arranged, yet the key you’re looking for isn’t with them.

Shit. You inwardly curse, your hand shaking from the nerves. It means she’s put it in the drawer of her bedside table. It means you have to go next to her, to literally put your fingers in the sleeping wolf’s parted jaws and hope they don’t clamp down.

Easy, right?

An unsteady exhale later, you move further in and carefully kneel by the small furniture. Keep your eyes on the prize. Keep—

But you make the mistake of looking to the side.

Cassandra’s expression is not relaxed in sleep like how you remember it from the time when you would wake her up. Instead, her brow is furrowed, the line of her mouth pressed thin. She’s shivering, you realize, either from the cold or a nightmare or both. Shadows dance across her beautiful face.

Your first instinct is still to reach over and soothe her. You hate it, but you’ve accepted you won’t be over whatever it is you feel for her in quite some time.

It is not your place anymore to touch her, you remind yourself. You cannot ease her through her fears now that she has become your own.

With a clenched jaw, you force your body through the motions of opening the drawer and taking the key within.

At last. Your freedom is in your grasp.

And yet.

Shouldn’t you be happier about it?

Cassandra’s voice nearly knocks the air out of your lungs when it reaches your ears, faint. “No… please…”

You forget how to breathe for a couple of seconds. When your wide eyes shift to her, though, you realize she’s merely talking in her sleep.

Leave. Leave while you can.

But your chest constricts when you hear her sob. “…don’t leave me here… please…”

And out of all the possible things she could say, she utters those words and smashes your glass heart with a sledgehammer into a trillion pieces. The shards cut into you and it hurts—

You pause at the door. The corners of your vision have started to blur.

And then the world snaps, sharply, back into focus when her tone changes;

“…Alexia…?”

Your eyes lock, hazel to amber-grey, for a split second.

You run.

-

-

You don’t think you have ever ran this fast in your entire life. But it’s different now that it is about your life.

Adrenaline rushes throughout your bloodstream. You’re not thinking, just acting. Just fleeing.

Death, in the form of a black swarm, closes in on you with every rapid heartbeat. Cassandra is faster –she can fly and you’re only human—and at this rate you won’t even escape the corridor, much less the castle.

Flies break ahead of the rest and attach themselves to you. The sting of their bite at your nape and arms nearly has you howling in agony. She meant it when she said she would kill you herself. Not that you doubted it. Not for a second.

Because if Cassandra can’t have you, she will make sure nobody will.

You didn’t want to hurt her back the first time, but the stakes are too high now. You grab the nearest solid antiquity in your panic and throw it with all your might against the nearest window.

Glass shatters and the temperature plummets with it. Over your shoulder, you hear her scream. More out of rage than pain.

The flies biting at you drop to the floor, grey and paralyzed. You hear her shout pierce through your eardrums like a gunshot as you dash towards the turn—

“You won’t ever get to that door, Alexia!”

From the corner of your eye, you notice a blur coming towards you and instinctively drop down. A heavy thump later, your frantic eyes fly to the wall to see her sickle embedded halfway through a painting. If you hadn’t reacted in time, that would have been you.

Still, she can’t cross the hallway now, so you scramble to your feet and run while she takes the long way around. Question is, will you make it to the front door before she does?

It becomes a race where the winner takes all.

You practically jump down entire sets of stairs in your struggle for survival and you have no clue how you do it. You just know you can’t slow down for even a second.

The castle feels ten times as large as it actually is. By the time you descend the last staircase and the sound of buzzing insects grows in volume, the entrance is within sight.

You reach for another decoration and smash another window. Cassandra slows down, forced to materialize out of the swarm before she can’t will her body back together at all.

You shove the key into the lock and turn it.

Cassandra fights through the rush of frozen air, taking step after weighted step towards you—

“I won’t…let you leave here…alive.” she hisses, her teeth bared at you, skin growing too pale yet eyes blazing.

“I’m done being your prisoner.” you say back, voice hoarse and raw…

And you open the door. Steps taken backwards carry you away from her faster than she can make it to you. You can see her pain and her frustration, but they cannot compare to your own.

Your wounds ache from the frost.

Cassandra seems just about ready to leap at you even if it will certainly mean something very bad for her—

Until a black blur shoves her a dozen meters back. Bela’s back stands between you and Cassandra’s cracking form. Daniela soon lands off to the side, looking between the two of them.

“Get out of the way, Bela!” Cassandra snaps.

“It’s over.” Bela replies, a grave finality to her voice.

Your breaths are coming out in harsh puffs of smoke. You still have trouble believing that you did it. That they can’t follow anymore. You did it.

“Nothing’s over!” Cassandra snarls and lunges for her elder sister.

The blonde, deadly calm, grabs her by the neck in a choke-hold and drags her closer to the nearly-extinguished warmth of the fireplace. The way Cassandra thrashes in her arms is downright heartbreaking.

Daniela looks at you, almost saddened, then back at her sisters.

“Shh. Calm down, Cassandra. Let go. Mother will be here soon. Don’t let her see you like this.” Bela says. “If you’ve any parting words to say to Alexia, say them now.”

You’re shivering. The cold nips through every layer of clothes you’re wearing to bite straight at your flushed skin. But you don’t move further away. You wait. Why am I even waiting, though?

Realization slowly sinks in, you can tell from Cassandra’s expression. Beyond the wounded pride of the apex predator losing a fight to a rabbit… she understands that she will never see you again.

Bela releases her and steps away, adjacent to Daniela.

“You’ve earned your freedom, Alexia.” Bela speaks under her hood. “Nobody’s ever managed to escape, before. Respect.” In another life, maybe her and you could have been friends. Maybe.

“So you’re really… leaving?” Daniela’s lower lip is slightly jutted into a little pout. “I… who will I use to get on Cassandra’s nerves, now?”

“I’d say it’s been nice, but.” you speak up between pants, birthing forth puffs of smoke. “I was taken from my home and sent here as a slave, so.” You can’t help the bitter grimace.

Cassandra’s chest is heaving, yet she isn’t looking at you. It doesn’t look like she has anything to say to you, either. But you have words for her, because you need to get this out at last, you need to be free of this weight or you will never really have escaped this nightmare.

“Even as your captive, you know what I fucking thought? You three can be so beautiful when you toy with the idea of basic human empathy. I don’t know what you saw our time as, Cassandra, but I was genuinely attracted to you. I wanted to be together with you. At some point, I was even happy!”

You’ve inhaled so much icy air your lungs probably won’t be doing great for very much longer but God, this is so cathartic. And so enraging that she’s not meeting your eyes now, at the very end of it all.

“Look at me! I care for you, deeply, but I can’t do this anymore! I don’t want to live in a cage as a pretty sacrifice, with you as my jailer. I can’t. You don’t know how psychologically destructive it is. You don’t know what it feels like!” you end with a hitched shout.

You hear the ominous sound of heavy heels hurriedly descending the staircase. “By Miranda! What is going on— Cassandra?!”

All three daughters freeze up for a moment.

Then Daniela touches her head as though she’s having a migraine and Bela shuts her eyes tightly, shoulders tensed. And Cassandra… drops on her knees to the floor, gasping for oxygen, clutching at her temples.

Bela shakes her head to snap out of it. Daniela still looks dazed and afraid… but Cassandra is nearly crying—

And then, in her panic attack, she whispers; “Don’t abandon me like they did, Alexia.”

You don’t know who she means or what you’re doing, until you’ve dashed back inside and gathered her chilled form into your arms, tight. You keep her there like you wish someone had held you during your storms. It doesn’t matter that you’re so much weaker than Cassandra, when what haunts her is too powerful even for her to face.

Alcina extends her claws as she advances on you.

You could probably still get away if you make a run for it, but where will you even go, when your heart is right here with the woman in your arms? The world beyond the village died for you a long time ago. The village died in a literal sense.

You wanted to be free. But freedom and being with her aren’t mutually exclusive. Why did it take me this long to figure it out…?

Alcina is too close now. You turn to kiss Cassandra’s hair for what may be the last time. You do not let go.

Bela and Daniela step in front of you.

Alcina gives them a warning, narrowed look.

“Uh— you know what, I just stepped forward because I saw Bela move. Haha, nevermind.” The redhead retreats once more. Maybe you’d roll your eyes at her if you weren’t bracing for your execution.

“Bela… step aside.” Lady Dimitrescu’s tone leaves no room for disobedience.

The eldest daughter lowers her head and hesitantly opens the path, as well.

Alcina casts a deep shadow over you in her massive height and giant claws. You lock eyes with her briefly, with the last, flickering cinders of your courage. Then you shift your face down into Cassandra’s shoulder and prepare to be skewered through. Her fingers clutch you almost painfully close to her.

“As for you…” there’s a growl in Alcina’s voice that makes you cower in terror.

Except...

The horrible pain you expected takes a little too long to come.

“…you have backbone, little human, I will admit.” Is that… is that a smirk you hear in her tone? “And my daughters do seem to want you around…”

…What?

Cassandra slowly pulls away from you to look up at her in disbelief and you dare to open your eyes. The claws are still uncomfortably close to your face.

“I will take responsibility for the damage, mother. Just, please, let her stay with me.” Cassandra says.

“…Hm. Very well. I expect the windows repaired by dinner.” Alcina gracefully pivots and just like that, takes her leave.

You and the sisters are left there, unbreathing, unmoving, wondering what just happened.

“Too cold. See you at dinner.” Daniela is the first to speak up. She rapidly waves and disappears like she’s being hunted by an army.

Bela glances at you, then at her middle sister. “We need to talk. But later. For now, defrost.” She, too, disperses in a swarm of flies.

Cassandra, uncharacteristically vulnerable, looks into your eyes and brings a crystalline hand to your cheek. The soft way she does it, it may as well be the apology she is too proud to voice. You both lean towards each other, resting your foreheads together.

You have a lot to talk about. But there is time.

[aftqrglow]

A Blessing, Beautiful And True

pairing: bucky x fem!reader

word count: 3.2k

warnings: use of she/her pronouns; swearing if you squint; mentions of death; mentions of food

a/n: this is a rewrite of one of my old fics that i absolutely hated with my entire being. i hate this a little bit less djaksjsjs also pls ignore how i literally cannot write a good ending to save my life.

dedicated to @xsamsharons for lending me her name. i hope i did it justice mi amor ily <3

Bucky learnt to value things.

Not the great, terribly material things people around him seemed to rush after. Not money, not even when he was barely getting by.

No, for Bucky, it was the small, seemingly insignificant things.

The tiny toy WWII soldier figurine he found at a yard sale one Tuesday afternoon, the one with the missing arm. The near-exact model of the car his father used to drive—rusted around the tiny steel axel, the rubber wheels worn from use. That yellow screwdriver set that sat at the very back of the tool cabinet in the garage, unusable because of the cracked plastic handles and rusted steel, that looked exactly like the kit he had once used to fix up the plumbing in his first apartment.

Bucky was used to valuing the broken little things.

He never truly understood what loving something whole, something complete felt like—not until he met you.

You, in your white sweater and blue jeans, hair tossed up in a braid. You, your eyes that dancing with unbroken light, like the rays of the sun on the ocean on a bright summer’s day. You, with the sort of kindness he never truly thought he would ever be worthy of, not until you showed him that he was.

You, the girl he fell in love with before he could ever truly know what love was.

Steve might’ve been the first to notice. He was with him that day, the day he first saw you. They had been hunting for a Christmas present for Tony, and even though Bucky wasn’t exactly thrilled to have to attend, he wasn’t about to show up empty handed.  

Steve didn’t even realize that the sly-footed assassin wasn’t by his side until he had walked the two blocks from the mall to his car. Hands ghosting over the gun tucked into the holster hooked into his waistband, Steve retraced his steps, his heart thundering in his throat.

Until he heard Bucky’s laugh.

Not the obviously fake chuckles he used to placate those around him. No, this was the laugh he remembered, the laugh he thought Bucky had lost.

This was Bucky’s laugh—his Bucky’s laugh, before the world stole him away. Pure and innocent.

Happy—so undeniably, inexplicably happy.

The tension eased from his shoulders when he saw you. Steve knew who you were, of course. Everyone did—or at least, everyone who had been around after the Battle of New York. Everyone who had seen you walk among the rubble, bleeding through your jeans, helping dig survivors out of the rubble, guiding them to shelters. Everyone who had seen you do everything you could help those who needed it more than you did, until your legs finally gave way and the only reason you didn’t collapse to the floor was because Steve caught you.

But Steve also happened to know why you’d done it. Because you were kind. Because you were selfless. Because you knew what it was like to lose everyone you loved, and to garner the strength to build yourself up anyway.

You’d lost people too—everyone you loved, killed during the Battle. Your family. Your friends. It might’ve seemed cruel to be spared. Might’ve seemed like a cold, dark twist of fate—and for a time, it did.

Steve had never known anyone to be resilient the way you were.

And maybe, just maybe, he thought to himself, as he watched his friend from through the glass, maybe you would teach him to hold on to the tiniest sliver of hope too.

—

Bucky didn’t even like books.

The only book he’d read—aside from the coursework assigned to him in his school days—was The Hobbit. And even that had taken him an ungodly amount of time to finish.

So yeah, Bucky didn’t exactly like books.

But he still visited the tiny bookstore on the corner every day.

He didn’t even buy anything. He just looked around, running his fingertips over the spines of the books that jutted out of the wooden shelves, the sunlight turning his eyes into uncharted waters of the oceans, swimming with undiscovered secrets and untold lies.

You would talk to him. All the time, and with no trace of the usual pity or sympathy that he heard when he spoke to people. You talked to him in a way that made him feel like himself, in a way that made him feel like he just might rediscover the man he used to be.

That first time he’d seen you was burned into the back of his brain, the image of you standing there with a hip braced against a bookshelf, dressed in a white sweater and jeans, your hair pulled into a braid over your shoulder. He had watched as a strand escaped, falling into your face.

And him—he'd stood there, watching you talk to another woman he couldn't recall because really, how could he look at anything else but you? Bucky was certain he looked like a gaping idiot, both wanting your attention to turn to him, and dreading the fact that he would surely make a fool of himself if you so much as looked at him.

Back in the 40s, things would've been so much easier. He would already have said something witty to make you laugh, he would already have been telling you about the carnival down at the beach and asking if you wanted to go with him.

But when your friend left, and you asked him if there was anything you could help him with, his voice sounded strange to his own ears as he croaked, "Books?"

You had laughed—and he found himself laughing along. A true laugh—for the first time in a long time, the sound didn’t sound fake to his own ears. For the first time in a long time, he felt like himself.

Bucky had taught himself to value that which wasn’t whole—because he wasn’t, either. Love was give and take. Love was equal.

If he was to deserve your love, he would have to be whole again. If he was to deserve your love, he would make himself whole again.

—

There was a sudden shift in the way Bucky viewed the world.

It had been three days since he last saw you, but he walked in through those doors anyway. He had no cause, no reason—he just couldn’t go any longer without seeing you.

You were sitting by the bay window at the very back, reading a book. He took a second just to take you in, to get used to the fact that you weren’t just a figment of his imagination.

The second you looked up, your face split into a grin, like you were truly, genuinely happy to see him. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had smiled at him that way. “Hey, you’re back! It’s Bucky, right?”

He nodded. He couldn't trust himself to speak, not when he was sure he would stumble over his words, not when he couldn't bring himself to string together a coherent sentence in your presence. 

"What can I help you with today?" you asked, snapping your book shut and placing it on the table. 

"Uh... What're you reading?"

You glanced down at your book before looking up to meet his eyes again. Blue, you thought, supressing a smile. Icy blue, but warm nonetheless—familiar in the way most things aren’t. "Wuthering Heights. You've never read it?"

He shook his head no. "Never been much of a reader, no. Is it any good?"

"It's one of my favourites," was your answer, watching as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The light caught the steel of the chain around his neck—the chain of one of those military-issue dog tags.

And maybe that was how it started—on that dreary cold Wednesday, when you'd stood next to the bookshelf by the window, telling him about your favourite book, but really all he could focus on was the late afternoon sun rendering the hue of your eyes several shades lighter, the soft slope of your nose, the fullness of your mouth. Every little detail about you was etched permanently into his mind—and he wanted to learn more.

He wanted to know everything there was to know about you. 

It was about closing time when he decided he had to go. Not because he wanted to, but because he had promised he would have dinner with Sam and Steve. And as much as Bucky wanted to stay, he was a man of his word.

Which is why when he promised you he would come see you as soon as he finished reading the book, you knew he meant it.

—

And you were right.

Two days later, he was back. 

It was raining that day, early in the morning when you were just about to open up. And there, standing under the awning in the freezing rain, was Bucky, the collar of his coat turned up against the wind, drenched to the bone.

"What're you doing here?" you asked, eyes wide.

"I just... I don't know," he said. Because he didn't. Bucky didn't even like books—but he did like being around you. There was a strange sort of calm about you, a sense of peace he'd only known in Wakanda. Around you, he was just Bucky—not Sargent Barnes, not the Winter Soldier—just Bucky. 

He liked being just Bucky.

You shook your head, but he could've sworn he saw the corner of your mouth tilt upwards as you fished your keys out of your pocket and unlocked the door. "Well, come on inside. I'll turn up the heat and get you something warm to drink. Christ, Buck, you could get pneumonia or something.”

He only nodded once. It didn't matter that he wouldn't get sick—not when the serum in his veins healed his body faster than normal. It didn’t matter that even if he could sick, he wouldn’t have cared, not when you were looking at him like that, with concern in your eyes for something other than your own safety.

You had a coffee machine in the back room, you told him. He followed you, lingering in the doorway as you bustled about, humming a tune under your breath. He recognized it as a song from that one Marvin Gaye album Sam couldn’t stop talking about. He recognized it as a song he wanted to listen to for the rest of his life, if only you were the one singing it.

He recognized that, for better or for worse, you would be his undoing.

—

After that, he came to see you every day.

When the weather got colder still, he brought you steaming cups of hot chocolate from your friend Bella’s café down the street. And on the days when he didn’t, he would head into the back room and make you coffee. You’d never had to tell him how you took it—after that in the rain, he’d somehow remembered what you liked.

You weren’t about to tell him, but you remembered what he liked too.

It started out simple—plum cider that you found on your weekly trip to the farmer’s market. An old vintage copy of The Hobbit from the forties. Rubber silencers for his dog tags that he never used but carried around in his pocket anyway—until eventually, you had something new for him every week, some insignificant thing that he looked at with the kind of childlike awe that made your heart twist into knots in your chest.

He walked you home too. Every evening, with his hands stuffed in his pockets, slowing his stride so that he could walk alongside you. He would stand outside, across the street, hands in his pockets, waiting for you to walk into the apartment you shared with Bella. Only leaving when the lights came on and he knew you were safe.

Bucky wasn’t much of a talker—you learnt that about him. He would spend all day sitting quietly in a corner of your store, reading one of the books he found on the shelf of used copies you kept in the back of the room.

He seemed to love those used books more than the new ones—books someone had already read, books that had already been loved.

He felt a little that way sometimes, too. A little too used for love, not loved enough for use.

But never when he was with you.

And you—you were falling for Bucky Barnes. A little by little, day by day, without even realizing it—not until it all came rushing to you one afternoon, like a dam breaking, like the ocean of his eyes pulling you under, especially when you felt his gaze on you from time to time, watching you as you worked.

That afternoon, a new shipment of books came in. You didn’t even have to ask him for help—he was already on his feet, snapping his copy of Anna Karenina shut, mumbling a soft, “I’ve got it,” as you signed for the order. Hefted the two cartons of books like they weighed nothing at all, and carried them inside.

There was a strange tightness in your stomach as you watched him, standing in the middle of your store—the only thing the Battle of New York hadn’t taken away from you—and you wondered just how it took so damn long to realize that the feeling of familiarity didn’t lie among these books, but rather, in Bucky himself.

—

It was a slow day, so the two of you spent the rest of the afternoon restocking the shelves. He asked you about each of the books, watching your eyes light up as you talked about your favourite ones, until conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, the two of you basking in each other’s company as you worked.

You didn't even realize how much time had passed until you heard the door open and your friend Bella breezed in. She'd been here the first day Bucky had walked in, had noticed the way your eyes shifted to him mid-conversation like you couldn’t focus on much else when he was around. “Ready for lunch, y/n?”

You looked at Bucky, opening your mouth to ask if he wanted to come along. Not because you didn’t trust him to be alone at the store, but because you wanted his company. Because being around him felt like coming home.

He only waved you off. "Go ahead. I've got plans with Stevie. I'll be here when you're back though."

You believed him. You believed that he would always be around, for as long as you wanted. And you wanted forever.

"Was that the guy from before?" Bella asked, looping an arm through yours as you left the store, walking down the street. She brushed her fiery hair out of her eyes, turning her head slightly to look at you, yellow-green eyes filled with curiosity. “What’s his name?”

"Bucky. He... He's a friend," you said. 

"Well," Bella said. "He sure doesn't feel the same way."

"What do you mean?" you asked, confused.

"Y/n, he looks at you like you put the stars in his sky. Are you sure he's just a friend?"

"I... I don't know, Bella."

Because you didn't know what else to call him. Because you and him weren't friends in the way people usually are—you had always been more.

Bucky was always more.

—

"I've barely seen you," Steve said, picking up his can of Diet Pepsi and taking a sip. "Where have you been?"

"Around," Bucky mumbled. Because how could he explain why he was spending so much time at the bookstore with someone he'd only just met? How could he explain the magnetic pull he felt toward you, the inexplicable desire to just be around you?

How could he explain the way you made him feel like himself again?

But Steve knew. Steve always knew. He saw the growing stack of novels on his friend's bedside table, saw him reading at the kitchen table, book propped up against the jug of milk.

He also knew that all this was because of y/n. Because Bucky mumbled that name when he was too exhausted to even know what he was saying. Because Bucky talked in his sleep—and Steve could hear him calling that name through the thin walls that separated their rooms. "You've been at the bookstore?"

Bucky set his drink down. There was so use denying it—his friend would see right through him. Steve had known him for too damn long to believe in his lies. "She's so... I can't even put it into words. She makes me believe that there's good in this world. That all the things I did wrong don't even matter—not when I'm with her. It’s the way she looks at things, the way she’s capable of finding a little bit of good in everything. Like she found something good in me, Steve."

Steve knew it was true. Because he hadn’t seen Bucky this way for a very long time. Because he hadn’t seen that light in his friend’s eyes in a very long time, and ever since he met you, it hadn’t gone away.

—

Bucky had to leave for a couple of days.

He didn't tell you why—just that it was a work thing. How long would he be gone? He didn't know.

"I'll be back soon," he said. "I promise."

And he was. Five days later.

But Bucky was quiet—quieter than usual. 

It was a Sunday, and you’d somehow managed to drag him along to the farmer’s market with you. He walked alongside you, hands in his pockets, like he was aching to reach out and touch you but desperately holding himself back.

He’d almost gotten himself killed on that mission.

You took up too many thoughts in his head, too much space in his heart. And when the bullet narrowly missed him, grazing his ribs, his only thought was whether or not you’d miss him if he was gone.

You deserved better than someone who’s life was tied to the death of others. Someone who didn’t have so much blood on his hands.

A few paces ahead of you, Bella walked hand-in-hand with Bucky’s friend Sam. You were glad that Bucky had introduced them, glad that Sam made Bella happy in ways you’d never really known or understood before.

“Look at them,” you said, watching with a smile on your face as Sam quietly slipped a couple of oranges into Bella’s bag. “They look real happy.”

Then, turning to look at him, you smiled, and he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. Because you might deserve better, but he was selfish and stubborn, and the only thing he had wanted in so goddamn long was you you you.

“Go out with me,” he blurted, every thread of self-control he had so carefully cultivated to keep his head in your presence snapping. He felt like he was taken back to that December evening he saw you for the first time, when the words refused to leave his mouth, when you’d rendered him tongue-tied and helpless. Only this time, he couldn’t stop the words from coming out, not as he said, “One date, y/n. One date, and if you don’t have a good time, we can just forget it ever happened and move on.”

His heart shuttered when he saw the small frown creasing your brow, your voice soft as you asked, “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. I want to do this for the rest of my life with you, y/n,” he said quietly. “But for now, I’ll take that date.”

“Okay,” you said, nodding slowly. “Okay, Bucky, I’ll go out with you.”

He couldn’t help it. Bucky wrapped his arms around your waist, drawing you to him, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around until you were both laughing, childlike and breathless, blissfully unconscious of the knowing look on Sam and Bella’s faces.

Because really, how could he see anything but you? You had been it from the first day he saw, and you were it now—a blessing, beautiful and true.

tags:

@goldengoddess @wherearethesantreys @ughlantsov @for-bebbanburg @mriddlemethis @xleiaorgana @xsamsharons

if you would like to be added to or removed from my taglist, just send me a message or an ask off anon!

[otp-holic]

Will this be the night? (ALSO IN A03)

A random piece of online advertising unleashes some movie memories of a Summer afternoon in 1932

1.5 Ks Fanfic + Pictures Inside. Part of the Never let us lose what we have gained series (AO3) Silly drabble born from my love of classic movies... that ended up not having anything to do with classic movies.

BROOKLYN'S KING'S THEATRE

Poster for Cary Grant's Retrospective. Printed paper 2025.

A poster for the upcoming month long celebration of the movies of Cary Grant to be held in Brooklyn.

Bucky is not expecting a vivid memory of the past to jump at him from a piece of online location-targeted promotion popping on his phone as he and Steve are wandering around the neighborhood on a random Friday.

But the 21st century works in mysterious ways and Google is kindly inviting him to check “Cary Grant: A Celebration”, a month-long chronological retrospective of all his movies taking place at a nearby hipster cinema starting… in half an hour.

He beams as a long string of memories of the both of them in different afternoons and movies plays in his head; how they counted the cents for the admission price, and how Bucky learned to sneak into the movie every time that did not add up to two full tickets.

“Buck, you’ve been smiling at your phone in silence for a whole minute,” Steve interrupts his daydreaming. “Should I be jealous? Worried?”

“Sorry,” he answers, still smiling about the memories. “I think I’m leaving you for Google, they see inside my one hundred years old soul; But I might give you another chance if you don’t mind a change of plans for the afternoon.”

“Lead the way, but can you give me some heads up?” Steve chuckles, more than used to Bucky’s ways.

He takes Steve’s hand to direct them towards the movie theatre and thinks about how much information he wants to share.

Although he is the one who still relies on the comfort of 30s and 40s movies whereas Steve keeps getting bolder with his options, Steve has always loved Cary Grant and Bucky thinks he’s going to appreciate his choice since this particular movie has a history (sad history, maybe) for them, so he debates on whether to tell him or not.

“We are going to the movies. But the real ones, not that shit on Netflix you keep choosing,” he settles for half-disclosure.

“Damn, mister life in black and white strikes again. Embrace the 21st century, Barnes, I think you’ll like it!”, Steve laughs.

“Hey, I embrace it more than you do! At least I look the part of a mid-thirties man from it instead of a fifty-year-old hiding in fucking khakis. Albeit a very hot one, I’ll give you that.”

They both laugh. It’s not the first time these remarks fly between them and having a routine, running jokes, and running pet peeves is very soothing after everything they have gone through.

They’re getting closer to the cinema now, and Bucky can already see the Billboard announcing the retrospective and a small queue forming upfront. He takes a side look at Steve to see if he has noticed and he can certainly tell that his curiosity has peaked.

“Surprise! Call it a win-win, it might be up my alley, but you used to love Cary Grant movies,” Bucky smiles as they reach their place in the queue and glance at the program for the afternoon.

‘This is the Night (1932)’, the poster says, ‘Cary Grant's feature film debut on the big screen’

Bucky is deep in nostalgia, remembering a summer day of 32 when they were waiting in line for the same film and how the evening turned out, but when he looks in search of his partner’s reaction, it’s not what he expected at all.

“Steve, you ok?” he asks, worried at seeing Steve frozen in place.

Steve nods. His whole face is deep red, but at least he is responsive. He looks ashamed and Bucky is shifting from worried to curious.

“Jesus, this movie,…” he chuckles now.

“You seem to remember, then. I thought you might.”

It was not a happy memory: Steve had felt really ill halfway through, looking white as a sheet of paper and about to die on Bucky. They had to leave the unfinished movie and run home, as per Steve’s request. But as far as Bucky remembers, nothing to be ashamed of.

“Why are you acting weird? Oh my god, Steven, are you allergic to this movie?”

The silence before Steve answers is a little too long and the queue moves forward.

“Shit, this is not easy to say and I’m sorry in advance.”

“Duly noted, but could you try to explain? I’m lost and I didn’t expect a full-on confession of something to be sorry about when I decided to follow Google’s intelligent advice to an unfinished movie. I just thought it was a good excuse for a change of plans. And kind of closure.”

Steve takes a breath and starts talking.

“I wasn’t honest with you, Buck. Back then…” he stops, searching for words, nervously musing on his beard. “Ah, I cannot believe this hasn’t come up at some point, but there it goes. I absolutely lied to you that day: I wasn’t sick or half dying and I am very very guilty of using my poor health to run away from that place and that movie, but I did the only thingI could think of.”

Bucky is at a loss for words, he’s still deciding if he is angry, curious, or somewhere in between.

“But… but you were feverish and white as a ghost and you said you had palpitations!”

Steve seems to think for a moment again and the bastard laughs so loud they get a curious look from the people behind. And taking advantage of the queue moving up again, he gets really really close to Bucky who honestly thinks he’s going to try to kiss himself out of the situation since it’s a bulletproof strategy.

But he doesn’t: He goes for Bucky’s ear instead, and whispers.

“I had a boner like you wouldn’t believe.”

Bucky gasps loudly totally taken aback while Steve takes a step back and looks at him in the eye more amused and hungry than ashamed, but still blushing.

“But hey, not all lies! I was somehow sick. And pale since my blood was… otherwise occupied. And I was barely 14!”

Bucky laughs at the dork. His dork. But the information is still making its way into his brain.

“Oh my God,” he exclaims as it starts to settle, “You piece of shit, you pulled the poor sick child card when you were just plain horny. I was worried to my bones as we run to your home. Shame on you Rogers!”

“Me? It was your fucking fault! Yours and Cary Grant’s and your stupid grins and stupid chins, those clefts!” he’s screaming in whispers so Steve Rogers’ teenage boner doesn’t make it to the news, but he’s talking as if he was pronouncing an important speech to the UN, “What was a 14-year-old in the fucking 30s popping one upon seeing an actor who kind of looked like a very tall version of his very male best friend to do?”

He is about to say something, but Steve literally covers his mouth with one hand giving Bucky no other option but to stick his tongue and lick the palm.

“Gross, Buck. I’m not done!”, he dries his hand on Buckys’ shirt before he goes on. “I’m not done because as I was still processing all that, you kept brushing your goddamned hand with mine when you went for popcorn! Over and over and over. It was torture. I have palpitations now just thinking about it.”

Bucky full-on laughs. One of those real ones that come more and more lately and that he honestly thought he would never get to experience again.

They have reached the box office, so he doesn’t push it further. For now.

“Two tickets for `This is the Night´, please.” Bucky smiles at the box-office guy. “He is paying, tho. I paid last time we tried to see this one and he didn’t have the decency to stay until the end.”

He actually feels like a teen as Steve takes his hand into the theatre, as he very intentionally buys popcorn to share, and as they start full-on making out on their seats during the commercials once the lights are out.

“Wanna know another secret, Buck?” Steve whispers a few minutes later, eyes on the starting movie as he brushes Bucky’s hand with intention over the popcorn bucket. His flustered face and recently kissed lips bathed by dancing lights and shadows coming from the screen. “It’s a good thing we were already together in ‘38 when “Bringing up baby” came out because I was able to plan ahead and lure you into that memorable window fuck at our old apartment before the show, or we would have totally missed one of our favorite movies, too.”

Bucky hates Steve with the force of the universe. Or maybe not, but he’s not playing clean.

“Raincheck on the movie?” he manages to whisper back as he drives Steve’s hand to his already noticeable hard-on. Two can play this game.

“Oh, poor Buck. Do you have palpitations” Steve chuckles, lips wet on Bucky’s ear and gripping harder on his bulge instead of letting go. “Was that the memory of the window fuck? Or all the making out? Tell me so I don’t do it again.”

“You are a punk, Steve Rogers,” Bucky answers before standing up to leave, closely followed by a smiling Steve.

Argh, sorry for deleting and uploading again, but i had technical issues with this.... so here it goes again. I need to free myself from this one!

[yandere-romanticaa]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇʟʟᴛᴀʟᴇ ᴛᴀʟᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱ ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡ ᴊᴇᴋʏʟʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇᴅᴡᴀʀᴅ ʜʏᴅᴇ.

♥♥♥

A well beloved doctor living in London, Andrew has made quite a name for himself! All of his patients are very happy with his work as he is able to always diagnose them properly and give them the correct medicine - truly a divine blessing in this day and age. He's a cheerful gentleman in his mid to early thirties who always has a gentle smile on his face. He is very fond of children and he does not mind babysitting them whenever someone asks him to do so, making him popular with parents and single mothers especially. During the day time he is filled to the brim with work but he always makes time to have afternoon tea, chat with his servants, or just try to enjoy like in general. A truly kind man in the eyes of many!

Alas though, when darkness overcomes his manor a new side of the good doctor surfaces, a side that no one knows about.

And Andrew plans to keep it that way.

There are many, many things that the doctor desires, craves, needs. But he is stuck in the same place day by day as he is forced to play his role of the savior. Even the good doctor Andrew likes to indulge himself from time to time... But that indulgence has gotten out of hand. By sheer accident Andrew was able to create a special elixir which is able to shift him in to a completely different person. His body is different, his hair is different, everything is different. His psyche however, remains the same.

And Andrew uses this newfound knowlege to his advantage.

Dubbing his new alter ego "Edward Hyde", Andrew is pleased to do what he wants once the sun sets. He messes with the townfolk, he shamelessly flirts and seduces any woman he sees, he picks on the young and the poor, nothing is off the table. This becomes a habbit very quickly as Edward is soon well known among the city. Some flee and flinch at the mere mention of him while others scoff and prepare their fists for a fight. Things continue like this for a while until Andrew notices that whenever he changes in to Edward, his mind is no longer fully his. Even throught the day as he sits in his office he can hear a gruff voice at the back of his mind, telling him to just finish the damn paperwork already. He starts hearing this voice everywhere and he starts to think that he is going mad. The voice taunts him day after day until he finally turns in to Hyde. Only then is he able to feel some inner peace. Andrew soon starts to lose control over himself as the voice grows louder and louder, yelling at him and commanding him to do its bidding. Every day now turns in to a battle as Andrew struggles to get out of bed and face himself in the mirror... But that's the catch. On one fateful morning the reflection he sees is not his own.

It's Hyde's.

The glowing green eyes of Edward Hyde stare back at him as Jekyll does his best to hold his breath in. This can't be real, this can't be happening! By now Andrew is pretty much at war with this new persona he had made and he does not know how to stop this coflict. Both do as they please which contradicts their previous actions, making both Edward and Andrew more then a little suspicious to the public eye. By this point Andrew regrets having ever created Edward but it's too late now. Edward Hyde was a part of him now, a dark part of him which could not be released. The only thing Andrew could do was to keep him at bay even if he was bearly able to do so. This constant pushing and pulling was exhausting to both of them and both were more then ready for a release.

And their release indeed came, but not in the way they thought it would.

It came in the form of love. Love for a sweet darling, a twisted obsession and want over this special little lamb who stumbled in to their lives by sheer accident, at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Andrew and Edward remain greatful still.

The pushing and pulling dies down whenever (y/n) is in the room and their attitudes are completely different from each other. Oh, if only (y/n) knew just what sort of danger awaits...

Andrew Jekyll.

Ever the gentleman, Andrew always places his darlings needs before his own. He worries for his sweetheart constantly as he dotes on them, making sure that they are safe and happy. Did his darling eat today? Did his darling sleep well? He won't ever stop asking these questions whenever he sees them, he just can't help himself! He never shuts up and he always seems to forget what he is trying to say but that's okay, his darling doesn't seem to mind.

Andrew stays gentle like that for a while as he treats his darling like divine royalty which does not go unnoticed by the people around him. He hears his servants whisper many things once he turns his back but he can't help but to blush a little - he may act a little awkward but in reality he really doesn't mind.

Andrew is also willing to bend over backwards and break his spine to get his darling whatever their little heart desires. He has more then enough money then he knows what to do with anyway! He wants jis darling to depend on him, he wants to be darlings only one true protector. He wants to provide for his darling like a good husband would.

Andrew often loses himself in these little fantasies that he gets distracted from his work, cahsing him to mess something up or to accidentaly spill or destroy amything around him. It's a vicious cycle of endless pinning as Andrew just doesn't have the guts to express his feelings, much to Hyde's annoyance and amusement. Cracks will start to form deep within him as Andrew tries to restrain himself more and more whenever he is around his darling. His smiles are not entierly his anymore as he stares his darling down like a piece of meat. Andrew hungers for darlings love and approval which in a way, does make his darling a piece of meat to him.

No matter what he just can never get enough of his darling, ever. The cheerful smiles thrown his way are not enough, and good grief just the mere brush of darlings fingers against his own is enough to send Jekyll in to a panicked frenzy. He loses his composure right there and then as he is forced to look his darling in the eye and do... nothing. He can't do anything he desires, he can't grab his darling by the back of their neck and press those pretty little lips against his own...

He can't caress the love of his life freely in public.

Hell, he can't even touch them without someone making a fuss.

Everything, everyone, is slowly driving him mad.

His love is driving him mad.

Andrew's affection starts to turn conditional, he can only ever shower his darling with gifts if they behave how he wants them to, if they pay enough attention to him, which is of course never quite enough.

His sanity fades as lovesickness kicks in.

His patience is wearing thin. What's taking his darling to love him back already? Hasn't he done everything any ideal lover would do? He has done literally everything, it must be his darling! It can't be his fault! His soft spoken words soon turn sharper then any knife as he imagines that very same weapon in his hands, pressed against darlings pretty little neck. Bruised, bloody and broken, that's how Jekyll wants his darling to be now.

He wants to crush them in his love.

And chances are, he will give in to his temptations.

Edward Hyde.

Tsk, tsk, this man is quite the charmer. A real smooth talker blessed with a deeper voice then his more seemingly more gentle counterpart, Hyde is no stranger to suggestive comments and rough touches. His feelings ignite like flames, quickly and suddenly. They take over his heart and soul, burning him and leaving endless ache and want in its path.

It's a strange feeling. He doesn't know how to feel about it...

When he meets his darling he treats her just how he treats other women. He craves nothing more then darlings body but when darling turns him down Hyde feels intrigued. Playing hard to get, eh?

He is always up for a good challenge.

Hyde stops paying attention to other women and his darling soon becomes his prime time target - Edward cannot move on unless he has his darling. He provokes, taunts and teases, just itching to see darlings reactions to his schemes. Cuss at him, slap him, do anything you want! Just as long as your focus is on him that wolf like grin will never leave his face. He just loves it when his darling turns red, it's so cute he could kiss her. His provoking continues like this for a while until Hyde begins to realize just how some couples act around each other. His softer side starts to show itself and it's something to marvel at really.

Unlike Jekyll, who is soft at the beginning and turns cruel at the end, Hyde is the opposite of that. He doesn't want to just mess with his darling anymore, he wants to actually love and care for her, to actually be in a commited relationship.

His protective side is on full display and anyone with at least a single braincell should be able to get the message.

Hyde often wonders when the Hell did he become so soft all of a sudden. He wants this pain in his chest to stop but the only way it can is if his darling is with him. He doesn't need anyone else... He doesn't want anyone else.

Let's hope Hyde's darling has a strong stomach because he doesn't give a damn who he has to hurt. He and Jekyll are nearly nothing alike but if they share on thing in common, it would be determination.

Edward Hyde has found his prey and he isn't going anywhere without it.

Tags: @3rdgymbros, @eclipsezero, @ghostiebabey, @yandere-of-your-dreams, @howl-of-the-hunting-lambs, @yandere-wishes, @severnrsstuff, @twstdreams, @twst-soul, @hattress-of-spades

I did my best guys, I hope this was okay! First time making a OC, sorry if it's too similar to the original characters. As I write more stories for them I'll try to build them up more! And feel free to ask any questions if you have them!

[thewordworrier]

Today is gonna suck.

Edit: I see tumblr ate a paragraph about me not being able to sleep, starting to drift off only to be woken up at like 3:15am because my boyfriend needed help dealing with a spider in the kitchen. Ugh.

I don’t know what time he came to bed after that but I’m pretty sure I remember seeing my phone say 4am and he still wasn’t in bed but when he finally did come to bed I felt it.

I’ve had to change my whole morning routine because last week my store’s opening hours have changed and it I don’t change my routine and go in a bit earlier every day then I’m going to lose an extra two hours a week. And considering the fact that I had my hours cut like two months ago, I can’t afford to lose anything else.

I’m so tired and it’s way too early for me to really be eating anything but if I don’t now then I won’t have time.

It might not seems as bad to some people. I mean, I work four days a week, an afternoon shift. I used to do way, way more, but I had myself a breakdown and I haven’t been the same since.

And it sucks, so much. Both the company I work for and the situation. It always feels like there’s stuff going against us, in regards to my store, and we never have enough of anything to get anything done. Staff, stock, time; pick two.

Well, just quit and get something else.

I can’t. It took me long enough to get this job way back when. There’s nothing but retail where I am and I am actually terrified of getting another job with a different manager/leader/whatever who might not take mental health as seriously/well.

And of course they’ll never tell you because that’s discrimination nowadays, but you’ll know but you won’t be able to prove it.

I’d have to have something lined up before i quit my current job anyway - I literally cannot afford to not be working. Neither of us can. Living payday to payday sucks major ass.

But this is pretty much it for the rest of my life now.

I don’t think I can take that.

[celosiaa]

hi me again 🥺 sorry for making you tear up even if it was in a good way (hopefully?) 💕 i don’t mind the wait at all, i completely understand and it’s 100% worth it (honestly i get so excited whenever you post a new fic)!! soooo... i was doing some research for a project on epilepsy and i got thinking about epileptic martin?? like particular in s1 maybe he didn’t tell the other archives crew as he didn’t know them that well/hadn’t worked closely with them before (ok sorry tbc as i am rambling)

hello friend!!! I am so sorry that this took me a literally unreasonable amount of time to write! I really enjoyed the research I did for this, and I love this hc forever. And I hope this is what you were looking for <3

CW seizures, nausea, misgendering

Focus.

Just focus.

For god’s sake.

It’s been nearly an hour of Martin sitting at his desk, trying desperately to rein in any sliver of concentration he can muster to look at the laptop screen before him. He feels awful doing it, but every time Jon has passed by his desk that day, he’s found himself pretending to click around or to type—though he’s got the brightness set so far down there’s no way he’d be able to see it anyway. After a few attempts at turning it back up, he’s had to immediately look away, as the pounding behind his eyes resumes again. So for now, he’s stuck with reading statements—something he is loathe to do even on a good day.

And this certainly wasn’t.

He knows better than this, knows that he’s very nearly approaching disaster—what with the not sleeping out of hypervigilance, not eating out of anxiety, and not having his seizure meds for the past two days, as he’d managed to run out of his flat without them. And there’s no doubt in his mind that he cannot send anyone back to his flat. Not with Prentiss still on the loose.

Selfish selfish selfish

No, stop it.

You haven’t even done anything.

Wishing more than anything that his mind did not constantly run him ragged with thoughts like this, Martin looks up from his papers, intending to find a rubber band to snap against his wrist as a distraction, but instead—

Instead he finds himself frozen, colors fading in and out across his vision, heartbeat steadily climbing as his fingers go numb.

No no no no

Not now not now please not now

Realistically, he knows it’s only been a few seconds, but the seconds feel like years against the rapid thrum thrum thrum in his ears, made even worse when he sees Tim approaching from the periphery.

Damn it damn it

Please please please

“Hey Marto!”

Like clockwork, the focal aware seizure ends, and at last—at last he is able to move enough to look up at where Tim stands, leaning against his desk, smile fading rapidly as he watches Martin blinking in the suddenly-too-bright light.

“You alright?” he asks, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at his face, doubtless taking note of how quickly he is breathing now to match his settling heart rate.

“Y-yeah, sorry, um. Was just thinking,” is all he can reply, fighting to put an easy smile back on his face.

It seems to have been the wrong move, as Tim only shifts to sit atop his desk, expression quickly becoming overrun with concern.

“Okay, well…you look like you’re having a panic attack, mate,” he says lowly, reaching across him to grab his water bottle and set it nearer to him. “What do you need?”

Even with his misguided interpretation, Martin can’t help the flood of affection he feels toward him in this moment—because that’s just Tim, isn’t it? Never assumes, just asks what will help and then does it.

If only I weren’t such a mess, and would let him.

“Oh, n-no it’s not—it’s not that, Tim, I’m—I’m alright. Must’ve…drifted off, or something. Had a nightmare.”

There is no way Tim buys that, no way in hell—but thankfully, he lets it go.

“O…kay then. Well. If that’s the case, I was just thinking of grabbing some lunch, do you want anything? Don’t reckon you’ve eaten properly in a bit, yeah?”

God, Tim.

I don’t deserve this.

Yes, you do. You deserve a friend and you need to eat.

You need to eat.

“Uhh—th-thanks, erm.  Where—where are you going?” he asks, wishing to god his voice didn’t sound so shaky.

He takes a few intentionally deep breaths after that—thinking that perhaps it is a panic attack, after all.  Without realizing that several seconds have gone by since his question, he feels Tim’s bracing hand on his shoulder, knowing that he’s not going to ask again—but offering him a clear sign that he’s there all the same.

“Just the corner shop,” he murmurs, starting to rub his thumb over the shoulder seam of Martin’s t-shirt. “Nothing fancy. But I can get you a sandwich, if you like. Well, no—I am getting you a sandwich regardless, but I thought I might be considerate for once and ask if there was anything in particular that you want.”

“Yeah—erm, yeah, just. Anything that’s warm would be nice,” he says at last, sinking a bit as Tim removes his hand from his shoulder. “Thanks, Tim. That’s—that’s really kind.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously,” he says, clapping his hand back against Martin’s shoulder with force before standing. “Be back in a bit. Drink that water.”

“I will,” Martin nods, earning himself some finger guns of approval before Tim starts walking towards the lift. “Thanks, mate.”

And he’s so close now, so close to shouting after him, to asking him to pick up his meds from the chemist, if he calls them in—

Just ask just ask just ask

—and then Tim is around the corner, and out of sight.

Damn it all.

He tells himself it’s probably for the best anyway—that he’s not really even sure he can get them. But it doesn’t stop him burying his face in his hands, tugging at his hair in frustration and shame. Really though, he ought to call first before mentioning anything—perhaps they have a delivery service, or they’ll refuse him, or something.

And what then?

The idea of finding himself suddenly on the floor of the archives, alone and in the dark with the worms having crawled all over him while he seized—

Have to call.

Reaching bitterly for his phone, he takes a deep breath as it rings, preparing his best “customer service” voice.

“Boots, how can we help you today?”

“Hi! Erm, I was wondering if—if I could get a refill for my prescription? For—for carbamazepine,” he says, cheery voice belying the dread with which he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Sure thing! Just need your name and date of birth and I’ll look you up.”

“Right. Erm—well, it’s Martin, but I think you’ve still got me under, erm. Mary Blackwood,” he says, forcing himself not to grit his teeth at the foul taste his deadname leaves in his mouth. “Date of birth October 15th, 1987.”

“Alright, let’s see here—“

Please please please

“���it looks like you’ve already got your refill, Miss Blackwood. Our system says you picked up your medication on the 19th.”

“It’s—it’s Mister, actually. Erm,” he stammers, stomach churning over the entire thing. “L-listen, I—I’ve had to leave my home quite suddenly, and—and I am unable to return there for the time being. So I don’t—I don’t have access to my meds. And I, erm. Really need them.”

Pathetic pathetic pathetic

“I’m really sorry, Mister Blackwood. You’re going to have your doctor call in another prescription for you before we can get you that refill. Unfortunately, it’s out of our hands.”

Of course.

“Oh, right. That’s erm—that’s okay. Thank you so much,” he says as brightly as possible, unwilling to blame anyone for something out of their control.

“You’re quite welcome. Take care.”

With a long, shaky sigh, Martin throws his phone back onto his desk, returning his head to its rightful place, buried in his hands. There’s no way he can call his doctor today—or tomorrow even, with it already being a Friday afternoon. No chance of him getting his refill, then. And no chance of sending Tim back to his apartment either.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

It was just a focal, nothing too bad.

Nothing unmanageable.

I can make it.

Steeling himself with somewhat tremulous determination, he takes another long breath—blinking back against the steady pounding in his head, and getting back to work.

—

“Aw come on, Sasha! Take a break with me!”

“Not on your life. I’m still furious with you, you know,” she replies, tossing her hair like a lion’s mane over her back. “Can’t believe you’d go all the way to the good café for Martin, and not offer me anything. Not even crumbs, Stoker!”

“Listen—” Tim grins back, hands raised in self-defense. “He looked like he could use some soup! I don’t know what else to say.”

“And you didn’t get me any? What about me doesn’t scream ‘I could use some soup, thank you?’”

“It’s different!! It’s—Martin? You alright?”

As he was walking past their bickering, eyes firmly fixed on the floor on the lookout for worms, Martin had suddenly stopped short—looking anxiously up and over their heads, framed by the doorway of Jon’s office.

“Martin?” Tim repeats, already halfway to standing in worry, following Martin’s gaze behind him and finding nothing.

Faster than he can turn back around, Martin’s muscles all tense at once—and he tips backwards onto the floor with a heavy thud.

“Shit! Martin!”

Tim darts forward at once, in some feeble attempt to catch him, but of course, far too late to do so. In his shock, he can do little but stand over him for a few seconds, taken aback upon seeing his eyes still open where he lies still on the floor.

“What happened?” Jon demands, stepping quickly out of his office towards them, where Sasha now crouches near his head.

“I-I don’t know, he just—”

And then Martin begins to convulse.

“Oh my god, he’s—he’s having a seizure,” Sasha gasps as she claps a hand over her mouth, from where it had been pressed against his forehead.

“Fuck. Fuck, what do—what do we do? Do we call 999?” Tim shouts, unwilling to sit by and watch as this all goes on around him, already grabbing Sasha’s phone from her nearby desk.

“I—I think so, let me—”

“Wait.”

Two sets of eyes land upon Jon as he interjects, crouching near Martin’s flailing left arm, waiting for him to set it back down before quickly grabbing at a bracelet circling his wrist.

“I-it’s a medical bracelet. Says epilepsy,” he says lowly, quickly sitting back on his heels as Martin’s arm begins to jerk again.

“Fuck. I—I had no idea,” Tim breathes, running an anxious hand through his hair. “How could we not know?”

“We should—” Sasha breaks off quickly to swallow a lump in her throat, before continuing. “We should be timing it, did anyone see the time?”

“I-I don’t—it’s probably been less than a minute, right?”

“I think so. I’m—here, I’m googling it to make sure—”

While she does so, Martin’s head begins to slam into the ground—and Jon immediately pulls off his cardigan, folding it quickly and placing it beneath him to cushion the blow.

“It’s alright, big guy,” Tim says, settling down to kneel next to Jon, who now has a hand gently pressed to his shoulder—not holding him down, just resting there in a comfort Martin probably cannot receive.

Tim rests his own hand against Martin’s thigh all the same.

“Okay, I think we’re good so far,” Sasha says at last, setting her phone down with a timer running on the screen. “Just time it, and—and keep watch. If it goes past five minutes, we call 999.”

“That’s—that’s it?” Tim says in dismay, snapping his eyes back to his friend, still convulsing on the floor. “There’s nothing else we can do?”

“No. We just have to watch out for him,” she replies, voice low as she adjusts Jon’s cardigan beneath his head. “Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

Not the answer that Tim was looking for.

And so they wait—silent save for the rhythmic smacking of his limbs against the carpeted floor, and the occasional whispered platitude, though all know he cannot hear them. The seconds tick by in agony while they sit helpless, all eyeing the timer on Sasha’s phone creeping up steadily past three minutes.

“I don’t like this,” Tim says, knowing how useless it is to say so—Sasha raising her eyes to meet his for the first time in a while.

“Me neither.”

“Nearly three and a half minutes,” Jon mutters, worrying at his bottom lip while still resting a gentle hand on Martin’s shoulder.

“We’ve got you, Martin,” Tim mutters. “We’ve got you.”

Ten more seconds.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Forty.

And at last—at last he goes still, right past the four-minute mark.

“Alhamdulillah,” Jon sighs as he lets his chin briefly rest against his chest, a sentiment echoed by everyone around him.

“Okay, turn him on his side, here—Tim—”

“Got it,” Tim says as he moves to crouch next to her, helping roll him towards Jon, head pillowed on the arm Jon stretched out across the floor as a cushion.

As soon as they get him in the recovery position, they watch as saliva runs out of his mouth, surely fit to choke him had they not turned him—and he begins to snore forcefully, catching Tim very much by surprise.

“Wh-what—” he asks in bewilderment, struggling to hold back a bit of shocked laughter.

“The website said that’s normal,” Sasha assures at once, reaching behind her to grab a box of tissues from her desk behind her. “He’s going to be sleepy for a bit.”

“Okay. That’s—okay,” he says, watching as Jon takes the tissues from Sasha and wipes at Martin’s face so very gently, before tossing them aside and taking his hand.

Taking his hand.

…interesting.

Stowing THAT away for later.

As Jon starts to move his thumb across the back of Martin’s palm, the snoring stops—and his eyes begin to flutter rapidly, attempting to force their way fully open.

“Hey Martin, can you hear me?” Sasha says rather loudly, bending over him and tapping his shoulder lightly.

All she receives in response is a moan, deep and low, as he squeezes and unsqueezes his eyelids, coughing a bit against the pooling saliva. Jon reaches for the tissues again at once, cleaning his face as best as possible.

“You’re okay mate,” Tim says, patting his hip before leaving his hand there for support. “You’ve had a seizure.”

It takes a few moments, but at last, Martin opens his eyes, looking vaguely around without meeting Jon’s eyes.

“Wh’ happ’n?” he slurs—all three of them exchanging a meaningful glance, a bit alarmed.

“You had a seizure, Martin,” Sasha repeats, stroking at his hair while Tim starts rubbing his hand up and down his arm, hoping it will somehow help to ground him.

Remaining still for a few moments, still blinking, Martin tries to take it all in— looking down towards where Jon still rubs at his hand, though still seemingly unaware of his presence.

“What happened?” he asks again, voice less slurred, but still weak.

“A seizure, Martin,” Jon says, trying desperately to catch his eyes. “You’re alright.”

At once, Martin wrenches his hand away from Jon’s grasp in favor of clapping it over his mouth, muffling a small and desperate gasp behind it.

“Shit. You gonna be sick?” Tim asks, already looking around him for something to grab as Jon once again prepares his tissues.

He does not respond right away, instead pausing for a few deep breaths—at last shaking his head no. In both relief and the absence of something to do with his hands, Jon fusses at the cardigan again—positioning it just so.

“Wh—oh, seizure,” Martin breathes, and Tim cannot help but feel relieved at his gaining a bit of orientation back.

“Yeah.”

Eyebrows knitting together, Martin moves the hand clapped over his mouth to rest on his eyes, sniffling a bit before speaking.

“M’so sorry,” he gasps—and it’s enough to break Tim’s heart.

All of their hearts apparently, as they immediately place their hands on him in a gesture of comfort.

“Hey, no, none of that,” Sasha soothes, brushing back his fringe again.

“M’sorry.”

“Martin, it’s alright,” reassures Jon, with such rare gentleness that even Martin lowers his hand to look—wincing quickly as he does so, and placing it back over his eyes at once.

“Do the lights hurt?” Sasha asks worriedly, placing her hand to cover his own, hoping to block more of it out.

“Yeah—ah,” he grits out with a pained little gasp, and Jon gets to his feet.

“I’ll get them,” he says, and walks quickly to the switch, sending them into a darkness illuminated only by the light from the hall.

With a quiet sigh of relief, Martin lowers his hand again, eyes still closed, and rubs absently at his nose. Stumbling a bit as his eyes adjust to the dark, Jon makes his way back to kneeling beside him, taking up his free hand again.

“Your head okay?” asks Tim, prompting Sasha to card through his hair to look for any swelling. “I’m sorry I didn’t—I couldn’t catch you.”

“…what?” comes the vague response, delayed by a few seconds as Martin tries in vain to sort through what was said.

“Still confused,” Sasha mouths at him silently—and he nods, instead going back to rubbing up and down Martin’s arm, as Sasha moves to massage his neck.

“M’sorry.”

“Hush, darling. It’s alright,” she says, and Tim knows without a doubt she will sit there all day, repeating these same things to him as long as he needs.

And loves her for it.

“…wh—Jon?”

Eyes more focused than ever, Martin looks down to where Jon still rubs a thumb over his palm, stunned very his very presence in this space.

“Yes, I’m here,” he murmurs, offering a small squeeze of affirmation, inadvertently painting a soft grin briefly across Martin’s face—before it drops quickly again in horror, as the reality of the situation sinks in again.

“Oh god. I—oh god.”

“It’s okay, Martin.”

“No no no.”

“It’s alright,” Jon comforts, more soothing than Tim had ever imagined would be possible for him. “Just be still. You’re alright.”

Five minutes turn into ten, turn into fifteen as Martin’s confusion slowly fades away—his recovery naturally filled with a deluge of apologies, patient soothing from his friends, and tending to the waves of nausea that come over him every few minutes. Ever so gradually, he becomes better able to hold a conversation; better able to hold their gaze, asking what happened before he went down, explaining that his…well, everything is sore, but that it’s nothing unmanageable.

There is very little that Martin would call “unmanageable,” of course, but it’s the most they will get out of him.

“I think I can sit up now,” he says after a bit, bracing his arms underneath himself to prepare, and Tim reaches out to support him at once.

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

A bit slow, a bit clumsy, they get him up—not without some worried questioning when he hunches forward, face buried in his hands as the headache worsens with the change of posture. But luckily, it dulls as quickly as it comes, and Martin soon finds himself able to look up, even to offer a bit of a sheepish smile.

“Want some water?” Tim asks as soon as he looks steady.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m on it,” he says, refusing to accept any of Martin’s guilt-laden excuses, and dashes off to the kitchen at once, leaving Jon and Sasha still vaguely holding onto him in the fear that he might fall again.

“I’m alright, guys, really,” he assures, though he makes no effort to shrug their hands off—so there they stay.

“Do you know what caused this, Martin?” Sasha asks, folding his collar from where it sticks up at the nape of his neck.

With a heavy sigh and an exhausted pinch to the bridge of his nose, Martin replies, face reddening with shame.

“Yeah. You’re—you’re going to laugh.”

“Why would we laugh?” Jon asks so earnestly, so softly that it wins him a long and surprised look from Martin.

“I…dunno really, just. It’s just that it’s—it’s all my own fault. Stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

“I—I don’t—” he cuts off for a moment to hiss painfully as he rubs at his temple again, and Sasha’s hold tightens ever so slightly as a precaution. “I don’t have my…seizure meds with me. I left them at my flat when—when I ran. From Prentiss.”

Of course.

Of course he did.

“I would have gotten them for you Martin!” Tim shouts as he returns with the water. “Any of us would, mate. You should have said.”

“I didn’t want to send you back to my flat. She might…she might still…be there.”

He fades a bit as he speaks—rubbing once more at his temples, and Sasha resumes her ministrations of massaging his neck.

“Alright, just—it’s alright, Martin,” Jon soothes, a bit alarmed at the way he’s hunched back over—seemingly nauseous again, as he moves the bin a bit closer to himself just in case. “What can we do now?”

After a few long, deep breaths, his churning stomach finally settles long enough for him to answer, albeit a bit more vague-sounding than moments before.

“I tried…I tried to call the chemist, but…they won’t refill it unless I…unless I talk to my doctor. And it’s not like I can just go.”

“You have to get some from A&E then,” Tim insists, sitting back down next to him and pressing a hand atop his shoulder.

“No, I can’t.”

“We’ll go with you,” mutters Jon, before clearing his throat, returning to his best confident-boss tone. “We’ll keep watch for the worms. Go prepared.”

“You don’t—“

“We will,” Sasha says emphatically, leaving no room for argument—and even Martin knows when the battle is lost. “We’re happy to do it, Martin. Seriously.”

“Thank you,” he very nearly whispers, face flushing beet red as the undue attention of the afternoon catches up with him. “That’s really…too kind.”

“Well, you’ve got to get it somehow, mate,” Tim says with a chuckle, earning himself a warning glare from both Sasha and Jon. “What? I’m sure Martin wants this to happen again even less than we do. Which is saying a lot.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, surprising them all by chuckling briefly in return. “Reckon you’re right about that. I didn’t—this is pretty much my worst nightmare, so…just so you all know how sorry I am.”

“Yes, you’ve said,” Sasha laughs. “And it keeps continuing to not be your fault.”

“Right. Sure.”

He does not sound at all sure—but she lets it go all the same.

“We should go today, Martin,” Jon says as he stands, already grabbing a canister of CO2 in preparation. “Don’t want you to miss another dose.”

“And take that thing on the Tube?” Martin laughs, fully smiling for the first time since the whole affair began. “Think we might get some looks.”

“It’s the Tube, mate. Stranger things have happened,” Tim chuckles, rolling his eyes good-naturedly before jumping in to assist him in standing.

“Suppose you’re probably right about that.”

“Let’s go then,” says Jon, face steeled as if armed to the teeth and ready to tangle with anything coming his way. “Work that needs doing.”

[sarahlevys]

One Person's Guide to Coping with AD(H)D in the Workplace

Howdy! This is a non-exhaustive overview of a few things that I have learned to put into practice to cope with my ADD in the workplace.

For some background context, I have ADD but do not currently manage the condition via medications due to some side effects that negatively affect my quality of life. Currently, I hold an executive leadership position at the company I work for, and manage individuals with ADHD. I use ADD to describe myself because that is the name that was given to me when I was diagnosed.

I don't intend to speak as a sole authority on this subject; I've just been asked to provide ideas and thoughts on this by friends. The coping mechanisms in this post are by no means not intended to be the only coping mechanisms that exist.

Your Mind is Different

I've learned to accept the fact that I will easily get side-tracked, distracted, and have days in which I simply cannot focus on things during the time in which I either want to focus, or have been told (by supervisors, bosses, my own internal guilt mechanism, etc.) that I should be focusing on.

All of this is okay! My mind rarely, if ever, works on command when it's time to do something that I'm not intrinsically motivated to do, like work. And sometimes, even when I *want* to do the thing – like a hobby or something I genuinely enjoy – I can't focus. All of that is still okay.

Be gentle to yourself. A coping mechanism that works one day may not work another day – or even later, that same day. It's okay to multi-task, to lose focus, or to get hyper-focused on something you should or shouldn't.

Allow yourself the grace to not always use a planner, a habit tracker, or similar.

Some Things to Try

You'll note a common theme in all of these: these don't always work for me all the time. Trial and error is totally okay!

Focus:

If you find yourself itching to do something else at the same time as something you're working on – e.g., check your text messages – go ahead and do it. Sometimes, if I don't let myself give in to those impulses, they build up in my mind until my focus on what I'm 'supposed' to be focusing on gets shot to all hell.

That said, on those moments where I settle into 'the zone' or 'flow,' I am sometimes I'm able to go ahead and shut off whatever might pull my focus. Roll with it and do whatever's right for you in the moment!

In meetings, depending on the stakes of it, I might play a bit of sudoku or doodle; doing something that's low pressure, even for a few seconds, can often help me feel like I've 'multi-tasked' or 'slipped into something else' long enough to refocus on the meeting at hand.

Taking notes during a meeting, especially by hand, also can feel like multi-tasking, even if I'm not.

Standing up during a task or call often helps me focus. (Sometimes it doesn't!) Either way, even if it's just for a little bit, I still am usually happier for being able to physically fidget or stretch more than I would in a seated position.

Listening to music while I work helps me feel like I'm multi-tasking, even if I'm not – but I know this doesn't work for everyone! And like everything else, some days it works for me, some days it doesn't. I personally prefer music with lyrics, but I know others who don't.

Give Yourself Breaks:

Sometimes, when I'm moving really quickly – e.g., if I'm going through a lot of tasks, going from meeting to meeting, or trying to think and do a lot – I feel myself getting short of breath/tense. Breaks are really helpful to me!

Focusing is hard work! Try to give yourself at least one 10-15 minute break in both halves of your work shift.

Allow yourself the space to also zone out for a few minutes here and there, too.

Sometimes, even just walking around my home is enough to refresh my brain.

You might have success with the Pomodoro Technique: https://pomofocus.io/ This involves trying to work for 25 minutes, then taking a 5 minute break regardless. Repeat this for as long as desired – typically it'll be done 4 times (for 2 hours), followed by a 15 minute break.

Thinking Through Things Before Sending Them Loose:

My biggest struggle! I'm a big blurter, both out loud and via text/typing.

My first plan of attack is to, once I've typed through something, to pause before hitting send. I'm a fast typist with +100WPM, and I have to literally (sometimes out loud!) tell myself to not hit send right away so I can slow down and read through what I'm saying before I do hit that send button.

When communication is handled verbally, I physically try to weigh each word as I speak it, and focus on hearing each word before going onto the next.

I have learned to accept the fact that I will often trail off and lose my train of thought, and I will admit that out loud to whoever I'm speaking to – even if they're a client or someone important – so I can buy myself a little more time to sort things out. Being open about this takes pressure off of me.

Resist the Urge to Speed Through Work:

My other big struggle!

If you feel comfortable, speak to your manager about fail-safes and review processes that currently exist in your work environment. At my job, we've created internal processes that always involve someone else reviewing your work (no matter who is executing the task) so we have built-in failsafes.

If you do take a task quickly, for whatever reason – e.g., if it's something comfortable to you, or you're running out of time – speak to whoever you're doing the work for in order to make sure your work is reviewed, or to buy yourself more time to review your work before you hand it in.

Talk to Your Supervisor:

Ideally, you have the kind of relationship with your supervisor where you can explain that: 1) multi-tasking doesn't always mean that you aren't paying attention, whether you're actually multi-tasking or chasing something that'll give you the feeling of multi-tasking; 2) single-focus is hard. Even if they don't necessarily change anything about your operations processes, having that awareness goes a long way.

You may even consider talking to your other team members about this; I sometimes can come off as impatient or rushing when i don't need to be, and I've also talked about how I often go off-topic or off-track and people know that about me.

If you get a lot of same-day tasks that can pull focus from what you've planned to do today, you may want to talk to your supervisor about requesting a minimum of one day's notice for your work or to request communication when a same-day task is being sent your way.

Create Control For Yourself:

A big part of my instance of ADD is needing to control everything so that I know exactly what's happening at all times and nothing's going to distract me more than i already innately am. I've learned to (somewhat) let go of the control thing, but of course being able to do that means being aware of when it's popping up.

With this in mind, I try to be mindful of when I'm feeling tense or out of control – a bit trigger for me is when a bunch of unexpected meetings or communications crop up, for example – and to pay attention to how I'm feeling and what I can do to solve it, or to roll with the punches.

I've found that taking the time to think about the next day and set up my planner for the following day in the afternoon before signing off, or after work has closed, and then reviewing that again in the morning of, really helps. Of course, I don't always remember to do it. But when I do, it really help!

Organize Your Work & Find Low-Pressure Accountability:

The way that I organize my tasks for each day differs based off of the day or my mood. Sometimes I organize them by priority, sometimes by the amount of time that I think it'll take me to do something, sometimes by client, etc. Be flexible!

At my work, we do a daily check-in with the whole team where we say what we plan to do that day, and I've found that group accountability to be really helpful. That might be something your manager might be interested in providing to you (e.g., a quick message in the morning to let them know what you plan to do).

That said, accountability can sometimes feel like too much pressure if you don't always do everything on your list. Ideally, you can talk with your supervisor or even a trusted co-worker to set up an environment in which it's okay for things to roll over or for priorities to shift depending on how a day is going.

Find a Flexible Way to Organize Yourself:

Paper journals/planners and I don't mix; when I forget to use it, the empty pages give me guilt, and the permanence of pen also makes me anxious since things in my mind are so fluid.

With this in mind, I prefer digital means since I can rearrange and move things around. I personally use an iPad Pro and a Pencil to take notes in digital note-keeping software, but this can be cost-prohibitive. If you struggle with paper methods of organization, consider using note-taking software or even Google Docs to create a plain-text bullet journal so you can move things around.

That's all I've got! Please let me know if you found this guide helpful, and what other coping mechanism or ideas I should add to this (with credit to you!)

[bonjour-rainycity]

Odin’s Ward ~ Chapter 4

Link to previous part: https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/630010330649706496/odins-ward-chapter-3

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word count: 2586

Warnings: None

Y/n: 16 // Loki: 18 // Thor: 22

Y/n’s POV

My eyes glaze over as I study yet another account of Asgard’s history. This time, it’s the telling of the first war against the Frost Giants, a story I have only learned about ten thousand times. The soft feathers in my bed, much more captivating than this boring tale, invite me to sink deeper, to drift off to sleep. I’ve got a few hours before dinner…a nap would do me no harm.…I lay the book on my stomach and close my eyes, allowing the soft light of the afternoon sun to fade away.

A footstep echoes through my chambers.

My eyes fly open and I sit up, tension otherwise holding my body in place. Surely that couldn’t be coming from inside my room.

After a full minute of silence, I relax. I must have imagined it.

I lay back into the pillows, eager to return to my nap.

The lace of one of my curtains ripples.

My breath hitches. Someone might actually be in here.

Just as I open my mouth to call for a guard, the shrill sound of clanging echoes through the castle. Warning bells.

A hot spike of fear shoots through my stomach, and I dive to the table nearest my bed, the one containing a dagger Loki had given me for emergencies. With warning bells ringing in my ears and the sounds of the guards’ stomping feet resonating through the halls, this is surely that.

It’s probably safer to stay in my chambers rather than to venture into the unknown of the halls. For all I can guess, Frost Giants or rebels have already begun to terrorize the inside of the castle.

But I cannot ignore the step I heard in my room, nor the rustle of the curtain. I am not alone in here, and, for that reason, I must get out.

Dagger in hand, I break out at a sprint towards the door. Once outside, I’ll stick to the edge of the hallways until I can reach a guard or find the nearest safe room. I realize then, that I don’t remember the locations nor access codes to said safe rooms. Oh gods, I should have prepared for this! Panic spurs me on, and I reach for the door handle.

An arm locks around my waist, a cold hand clamping over my mouth before I can release a scream. I raise my free hand to plunge the dagger into my attacker’s thigh, but he dodges easily, stepping back and spinning me around to face him.

I let the dagger fall to my side.

It’s Loki, eyebrow raised and wearing an amused smile.

I gape, and something in my expression makes him lose the battle fighting his laughter. He begins to chortle, dropping his arms from my shoulders and taking a few steps back towards the center of my chambers.

“My, you’re easy to scare. I should to do this more often. It’s quite fun.”

Anger rushes through me. “Loki, what the hell?! Freaking me out like that during an attack on the city! That was really mean and I am going to kill you later, but for now, we’ve gotta go. We need to find a guard or a safe room or something.”

I turn from him and resume my progress towards the door, but he stops me by locking a hand around my wrist. I turn to find him looking dubious and as if he has no intention of leaving this room.

“Why?”

I huff, tugging on my wrist in an effort to either get him to release me or follow me. At this point, I’m considering just leaving him here. He could probably take care of himself, anyway. Or at the very least, annoy the attackers to death. “Because we’re under attack, obviously. We need to find somewhere we’ll be safe.”

He rolls his eyes, letting go of my wrist to stroll leisurely through my room. He plops on my bed, stretching his long frame over the plushy mattress.

Even in the face of fear and possibly death, the sight of him in my bed distracts me. It’s new, and strange, but not exactly bad. He’s thrown protocol and propriety completely out the window by one, visiting my chambers unaccompanied, and by two, lying in my bed.

Nanny Idsol must be rolling in her grave.

But now’s not the time to analyze Loki’s questionable decision-making skills. Or mine, for that matter, seeing as I’ve not kicked him out or called for a chaperone. I pull my focus back to the situation at hand.

“I assure you, we’re perfectly safe here.” Loki stretches his hands behind his head, looking completely at home.

My blood boils at his ‘I know something you don’t’ attitude. Still, my heart rate calms. With Loki, he usually does know something you don’t. And if he’s not concerned, I probably don’t need to be, either.

A suspicion begins to form in the back of my mind. No….“Why are the warning bells going off, Loki?”

He smiles at the ceiling as if he hasn’t a care in the world. “Well, that would be my fault, I assume. I did break into the Vault and pilfer one of Asgard’s treasures.”

“You what,” I hiss, forgetting all about my fear and instead zeroing in on disbelief. I stomp towards my bed, stopping at the edge so I can stare over my annoyingly calm best friend. “Loki, you’re a literal prince. You don’t need to steal treasure because it’s already yours. Everything in the entire world is yours!” Is it healthy for my teeth to clench this tightly? Probably not.

Loki just shrugs, turning his head to the side so his eyes can meet mine. He winks. “Yes, but where’s the fun in that?”

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach resulting from his teasing. “You need to give it back.”

He smiles, once again staring at the ceiling. “Oh, I will. I just want Father to squirm for a few hours.”

Emboldened by the adrenaline coursing through me, I perch on the top corner of my bed. Still, I keep my hands safely in my lap and leave plenty of space between us. He notices, and the edges of his lips twitch. Obviously, he finds depthless wells of humor at my expense. Mercifully though, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he closes his eyes, looking perfectly comfortable, like he could drift off to sleep at any moment. The same way I had been before he so rudely interrupted.

“So I thought I would lie low here, until the guards are done exhausting themselves running all around the castle.” He opens one eye, peeking at me without actually moving his head. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

I shake my head a little too quickly. “I don’t mind.” Then, I remember all the unnecessary fear I just went through. I grit my teeth and speak under my breath. “Even though you scared me half to death.”

He, of course, hears my complaint, and rolls onto his stomach, taking my hands in his. When I look down in surprise, I find him staring up at me with a soft, still slightly amused but otherwise benevolent, smile. “I’m sorry.”

I huff, trying to ignore my frustratingly pleasant reaction to his hands on mine. “Forgiven, I guess.”

He squeezes my hands lightly before releasing them and rolling onto his back once again. When I look down, I notice the dagger I previously held is gone.

“Hey,” I protest, but he doesn’t even open his eyes.

“I don’t exactly feel safe taking a nap not a foot away from an armed and possibly still angry woman. You can have the dagger back when I leave.”

I grit my teeth, always teetering on the edge of laughing and wanting to scream when I’m with him. “Well, maybe I don’t exactly feel safe being alone in my room with a thief.”

His cheek twitches. “Yet you are still here.”

“Because it’s my room,” I shout, indignant.

He just shushes me and continues his chuckles. “Actually, since I am one of the heirs, everything in this castle is mine, as you so intelligently mentioned earlier, including this room. So I think I shall take a nap in one of my rooms and, because I am a kind prince, you are welcome to join me.”

“Oh, wow, thank you, Your Gracious Majesty.” I roll my eyes, grateful that his eyes are still shut, meaning he can’t see my teeth begin to worry my bottom lip. Is he inviting me to lie down with him?

Well, at the very least, he seems completely cool and unbothered by the situation. It really could do no harm for me to pretend to be the same. With the adrenaline spurring me on, I smooth out my dress and carefully extend myself on the mattress next to him, still leaving a sliver of space between us.

The side of his mouth quirks up as it so often does.

I feel the need to defend myself. “I was trying to sleep before you ruined it, you know.”

His expression smooths over, and his voice is peaceful when he speaks. “Forgive me, My Lady, but I do seem to be trying to remedy that now.”

Despite my nerves, a shaky laugh escapes me, and I relax slightly.

It’s no big deal, right? Besides, there’s no way either of us will actually fall asleep, what with those shill bells ringing like that. We’re just resting our eyes. And there’s plenty of space between us, anyway.

Neither of us says anything more and, within minutes, his breathing becomes deep and even.

I crack open an eye, rolling over slightly to stare at him. How in the Norns did he fall asleep so quickly? And with all that noise? … And with me right here?

A small part of me is hurt that he’s not as affected by my presence in this bed as I am by his, but I quickly dismiss the thought. It’s obvious that he’s much more casual about things than I am, and it’s not exactly a secret that he’s done more in a woman’s bed than sleep. He does have that luxury, after all, being a prince.

I return to lying on my back and close my eyes, trying to use Loki’s even breathing as a metronome to calm my still-speeding heart.

{***}

The room is completely dark when I open my eyes, and it takes a moment to adjust. The high-pitched pealing of the bells is gone, replaced by a peaceful silence. The right side of my body is much warmer than the rest of me. As winter approaches, the castle is becoming unpleasantly chilly, and I burrow closer to the source of warmth, wanting to go back to sleep.

The source shifts and pulls me closer. I shut my eyes, sinking closer to the comfortable heat.

My eyes fly open and my mouth gapes open in a silent gasp.

Loki.

Whaaaaat.

During sleep, Loki had pressed himself against my side, throwing one of his arms around my stomach and coming to a gentle rest on my hip. I had fallen into him and curled against his chest. Covering my mouth in a desperate attempt to mute any noise escaping, I carefully disentangle myself. Once I’m safely free, I ease myself out of the bed and rush to the other side of the room before I’m even fully conscious of my movements.

Holy crap. I just cuddled with one of the most important men in the nine realms.

With one of the most off-limits men.

With the guy that is safely my best friend, and nothing more; nor could he ever be anything more.

I exhale, urging myself to stop making such a big deal out of this. I try to convince myself that it’s fine, but I know that’s a lie. If word got out about this…if anyone found out, my reputation would be absolutely ruined. Father would disown me. No man would want to marry me. There will be no way to salvage my future if people know what just took place.

Because there’s no way to prove that we’d only been sleeping.

Court gossip is insidious, and news of Prince Loki and the King’s Ward spending four hours alone in a dark bedroom together would spread like a wildfire. There would be accounts from ‘witnesses’, claiming to hear sounds of passion as they passed by my bedroom door, or saying they saw Loki sneaking out half-dressed. A well-placed bribe to an ambitious guard could do wonders for the rumor mill.

I trust Loki, of course, and know that he won’t say anything. I obviously won’t say anything. But if someone were to find us….

I gulp, and, before I can act on my decision to wake Loki up and tell him to leave, there’s a knock on the door.

Shit.

The pounding does my job for me, and Loki sits up slowly, blinking in slight confusion.

“Hide,” I hiss, hoping he can hear me from across the room.

He disappears without question.

I smooth my hair, likely quite disheveled from my nap, and open the door to reveal two burly guards.

They use my name as a greeting, and the taller of the two explains their presence. “We’re checking on everyone in the castle, making sure they’re all accounted for. The thief has yet to be found, but the stolen item was returned to the Vault.” Then, he furrows his brow, peering past me into my room. “Why are all the lights off? Lady Y/n, are you alright?”

It’s not difficult to follow his train of thought. No candles or torches to light my dark room is suspicious. For all he knows, the thief is hiding in my chambers. The guard isn’t too far off, seeing as the thief was definitely here a minute ago, and could very well be still, hiding in the shadows. In case Loki is still here, I can’t risk the guards coming in for a search. I have to get them to leave.

I put on my most winning smile. “Yes, I’m quite alright, thank you for your concern. I’m afraid the stress of the warning bells exhausted me, and I allowed myself a brief slumber. Your knock is what woke me up.”

He looks properly abased, and bows his head slightly. “My apologies, Lady Y/n. We will let you return to your sleep.”

I thank them sweetly and shut the door as naturally as I can. When I hear their footsteps retreat, I light a candle and search my room.

“Loki?”

But he’s nowhere to be found.

{***}

At dinner, everyone chatters about the perplexing theft and subsequent return of the missing object. Theories range from Frost Giants to a group of rowdy kids. No one suspects the privileged son of Odin himself.

The prince in question does not look at me as I take my seat to his right. He merely nods, not looking up from his cool surveillance of the room.

“Lady Y/n.”

“Prince Loki.” My response is just as short.

There’s no way for us to look each other in the eye, to discuss our lapse in judgement. So, I assume, we will just ignore it.

Though try as I might, I can’t stop replaying the feeling of him pulling me close.

A/n Let me know what you thought and if you would like to be added to the tag list :)

Link to next part: https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/630198057513943040/odins-ward-chapter-5

Tag list: @80strashbag @dark-night-sky-99

[thedistantdusk]

Can you write anything with the Harry/Ron bromance? Thank you, you are helping me survive quarantine!

Thanks to @floreatcastellumposts for all her help! For once, this is only mildly inappropriate! ;)

On AO3.

Rain patters on the window of the attic, sounding angrier by the minute. For once, the exterior of the house is louder. This is quite a feat for the Burrow ever, but on an afternoon in June, it’s almost unheard of.

Harry lets out a deep breath, running his hand across his eyes. Over the past month, he’s adapted to the silence. He’s started to crave it, to consider it reassurance that everything’s on the mend. There aren’t explosions or calls for help or sobs emerging through the rubble and darkness. There’s simply quiet. Solitude. Even—

“HEY!” The door bursts open, slamming against the wall, as Ron pierces through the aforementioned solitude.

Harry just sighs and gets his glasses from the bedside table. No hope of an afternoon nap, it seems.

“Sorry, were you sleeping?” Ron deadpans, not sounding the least bit apologetic.

Harry rolls his eyes; since he and Ginny got back together, Ron and George have greatly enjoyed taking the mickey anywhere they can find it. Just yesterday, George had interrupted a perfectly good garden snog with a series of nonsensical, thinly-veiled questions (“Have you dipped your nib in ink, Harry? How was it? Please, I’m desperately curious for feedback on all nib-dipping experiences; this could be vital information for restocking a line of magical quills at the shop!”)

Now, though, the girls are off shopping; the Burrow is empty, save for the two of them. To Harry, this seems like much of the same.

“Interrupting a kip is the least of your worries, mate,” he mutters darkly, sitting up in bed. He hopes the meaning isn’t lost there. If Ron’s going to be a cock-block, he’s going to hear about it.

Ron doesn’t respond, though. Which is odd. So Harry slides on his glasses and takes in his appearance. Ron’s looming frame stands near the door, his freckles and red hair more distinctive than usual. It could be the lighting, Harry thinks; after all, it is quite gray and dim up here. Ah but no... that wouldn’t explain why he’s now awkwardly shifting in place, rubbing his palms against his jeans.

Then, Ron clears his throat — and suddenly, his face turns red instead of white. “Erm. Listen,” he starts uneasily, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “I’ve erm... I’ve got something to discuss!”

He ends with a sort of jubilant bounce on the balls of his feet, wearing a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Harry peers back warily. If Ginny were here, she’d suss this weirdness out straight away. She’d know, just from his posturing, what Ron’s getting at. A moment later, he opens his mouth to speak again — but just as quickly, he seems to decide something or other is a bad idea, because he waves his hand and strides toward his bed with an anxious huff. As if that explains anything.

“Right,” Ron says, settling down across from Harry. “Right.”

“Right,” Harry echoes, arching an eyebrow. “You… feeling all right?”

“Mm.” Ron hunches over, his elbows on his knees, and stares at the floor.

As the seconds pass, Harry peers at Ron with a growing sense of dread. It’s rare he’s this quiet around him — and Harry doesn’t like it. It’s too reminiscent of darkness, of the times they’ve been at each other’s throats. Has Harry done anything to make him angry this time? He doesn’t think so. Ron’s been supportive, even, of his renewed relationship with Ginny. Apart from giving him shit for it.

This silence isn’t doing his head any favors, though. So Harry decides to break it.

“Listen,” Harry says uneasily. “I don’t want to pry, but—”

“—So you know Hermione and I are properly together, yeah?” Ron blurts, his words stringing together so fast they sound like a single syllable.

Harry clears his throat and tries to respond as delicately as he can. “Mate, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I think most of the castle knows you’re properly together.”

But Ron’s not on the same page. “No,” he says over a humorless chuckle, his eyes still locked on the floor. “That’s erm. That’s not what I’m getting at.”

Then what…?

Oh.

Oh no.

Harry’s stomach clenches with fear, head filling with memories that seem far more distant than a year old. He remembers Lupin’s drawn, tired eyes when he approached them in Grimmauld Place. He remembers the unflinching expression of horror and shock, the way he distanced himself from Tonks’ baby. He remembers the resigned tone in his voice, like a man marching to his own execution.

Then, of course, Harry remembers tiny little Teddy. The baby who’d charged in and changed everything. Tiny little Teddy, who is undeniably adorable… but also fuck-loads of work.

Shit. Harry desperately blinks up at Ron, pleading with the universe that he’s wrong, that he’s made a mistake in this leap of logic. But there’s nothing reassuring about what he finds. Ron’s still staring at the floor, his eyes wide and unseeing, his back hunched.

This couldn’t be... no.

Hermione’s smarter than that, isn’t she? Hell, Ron — with his six siblings — must also be smarter than that! They’d never let... something… happen.

Right?

But even as Harry tries to deny it, he knows there’s a chance — mostly because Hermione’s a right moron when her feelings get involved. Fuck. Harry’s stomach churns as the memories shift. He sees birds pecking at Ron’s hands in that abandoned classroom. He sees Hermione’s face when Ron returned to the tent last year, her eyes flaring with something unbridled and terrifying.

Best to get it over with, though. Like ripping off a plaster. If he’s going to be an uncle (the word lands like a sour rock in his stomach), he reckons he’d rather know as soon as possible.

With that, Harry clears his throat. “Erm. Ron, I’m not going to push you, but—”

“—Hermione wants to know if you want to arrange something where Ginny comes here at night and I go down there and we sleep there ok.”

Somehow, this string of words comes out even more quickly than the first, leaving Ron in a red-faced, mortified silence; Harry only understands any of it at all because he knows Ron so well, but he gives both of them time to process the exacting wording of the declaration.

After a few seconds, though, Harry’s still not sure what to make of it — and not because he didn’t understand the literal words. No… the real fear is that he’s ignored what Ron actually said and supplanted what he wanted to hear.

So Harry draws a deep breath, guarding his heart as he does. “Ok ok ok,” he says, raising his hand. “I… I need to make sure I’ve understood you correctly. You’ve only come in here to tell me that Hermione’s cooked up a shagging arrangement. Is… is that right?”

There’s another pause.

For his part, Ron only looks impressed. “Yeah mate,” he says fairly. “Sums it up.”

Oh for the love of —

Harry releases a half-laugh, half-sigh as he collapses back on the bed. Shagging! That’s all Ron was after! For fuck’s sake! Harry’s chest feels lighter, his head happier, his future brighter.

“You… seem surprised, though ” Ron notes, peering over. “What did you think—?”

Harry laughs again, cutting him off. “I thought you’d got her pregnant! I was terrified for you! Can you even imagine—”

“Nooo!” Ron says sharply. He shudders, the color draining from his face. “No,” he repeats, raising his eyebrows. “No, I cannot, so please don’t even joke about—”

“Oi, who’s joking?” Harry counters. “You’re the two who ran off to Australia and spent nights in hotels! Your mum was scandalized, by the way. It was brilliant.”

He ends with a grin, but it seems that the word Australia was a bit of a trigger; Ron’s face is now blank and happy, his mouth spread into a gormless smile as he stares at the wall above Harry’s head.

Ugh. Harry looks away. He’s glad he hasn’t volunteered his (rather unfortunate) knowledge that those two shagged before they even left the castle. Harry still can’t decide if Ginny’s ability to wheedle information out of people is a blessing or a curse, but he reckons it’s best to push the subject of Ron and Hermione’s sex life from his mind.

As if on cue, Ron sighs from his bed. Harry’s pleased to find he’s not making that weird Hermione face anymore, but he doesn’t look entirely… settled either. His expression is pensive, his arms crossed over his chest, and it takes a few more seconds for Harry to understand why — but when he does, it’s like a lightbulb goes off in his brain.

Oh.

Harry releases a deep breath of his own. Ron hasn’t said a word, but he’s certain they’re both filled with this sort of… shuddering awareness of the situation at hand. Because this is the first time they’ve broached this, isn’t it? The fact that they’re intimate now, with each other’s sisters. Harry can’t decide if that’s more comforting or repulsive — but more than anything else, he reckons it’s just... different. Nothing more, nothing less.

After all, it wasn’t long ago Harry was terrified they’d get together and leave him. But when they got together — right in front of him — Harry hadn’t been jealous or scornful; he’d been happy for them. He reckons he would’ve been chuffed, even, had they not been in the middle of a battle, but that hadn’t stopped them for long.

Then again, it also wasn’t long ago that Ron yelled at Ginny for snogging Dean. A year ago, Ron had yelled at him for snogging Ginny — mostly because he’d been concerned about his sister’s feelings. Harry hadn’t blamed him for that, not really, but he nonetheless reckons it should’ve foreshadowed Ron’s cock-block tendencies.

Another vacant smile crosses Harry’s lips. They’ve all changed, haven’t they? War changed them, to the core. Age changed them, to the core….

“Erm. But please, don’t give me details,” Ron blurts, apropos of nothing. He shivers again despite the warm afternoon. “I think I’d rather remove my fingernails with a blunt needle than hear about how much you love shagging my sister, thanks.”

Harry raises a brow. Technically speaking, Ron’s wrong in his conclusion. They haven’t… done that. Not properly, even if they’d hedged around it more times than he can count. They’ve done basically everything but shag, actually, but Harry reckons that would be more mortifying to admit than just letting it go.

Not that they aren’t ready; Harry knows they’re both ready. But through either sheer practicality (his reasoning) or misguided chivalry (Ginny’s), Harry couldn’t bear to live with himself if he took her virginity in their usual haunts of the garden or Mr Weasley’s shed.

Now, though, they’ve got… options. That Ron — of all people — has delivered on a silver platter.

Harry feels his pulse quicken at the thought as his jeans start to tighten. Aaand lovely, this is now thoroughly embarrassing. He needs a distraction, now.

So Harry loudly clears his throat and picks up the threads of their conversation. “Yeah, and I’ll trust you to do the same when it comes to Hermione. I’ve no desire to hear about—”

Ron interrupts with a wave of his hand, but when he speaks again, he’s not taking the mickey like before. “Noted,” he says firmly. “Just erm... I guess I also wanted to make sure...” He trails off, biting his lip, but seems to think better of whatever he’d started. “Nevermind, it’s stupid. Do you want to play chess?”

Harry’s not letting him off the hook that easily. “Whatever it is, mate, I’m sure it’s not the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Ron laughs. “Yeah, and that was kind of my point, actually.” He rubs his hand on the back of his neck. When he looks at Harry again, there’s a telltale spark of reassurance shining behind his eyes. “You… erm. You know we’re still us, yeah?”

Oh.

Harry hadn’t realized he’d been that… transparent. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek. They’re together now — all four of them, which is the best possible situation. But he can’t deny there’s a lingering fear that romantic relationships, real ones, will change them forever. That he’ll lose the first friend he ever had. That they’ll finally have found the one thing they can’t talk about, even as the topic voraciously consumes both of their thoughts.

Has any of that happened, though? asks a voice in the back of his head. It sounds suspiciously like Ginny.

Harry’s lips curl into another smile as the answer comes to him.

No. No, it hasn’t.

Because at the end of the day, they’re still Harry and Ron. They’re the two prats from Gryffindor who became best friends on the Hogwarts Express and got detentions together and shared a mutual loathing of Malfoy, all as their voices cracked. They’re still Harry and Ron, who fought bitterly and pretended to hate each other and nearly vomited on each other and discussed wanking techniques.

No matter what, they’ll always be Harry and Ron. Their relationship survived Voldemort. How could Harry have thought it wouldn’t survive sex?

“Yeah, we are,” he agrees. “Just, you know...” He makes a vague hand gesture. “Taller. Wiser.”

Ron smirks, rising to stand. “Actually, I was gonna go with shagging each other’s sisters — but if you’d like to pretend you’re wiser...”

Harry chokes out a laugh. “I reckon Hermione’s still the wisest of us all, seeing how she arranged this. What time were you thinking, by the way?”

“Eleven minutes past ten,” Ron says promptly. “We reckon it’s less suspicious if it’s a bit off the hour.”

“Eleven minutes is highly specific, mate.” Harry raises his eyebrows. “Please tell me that number wasn’t in your head because of some… personal record. Or something.” He makes a face and moves to stand, too.

Ron just jerks his chin towards the door. “Do you want to play wizard’s chess? And I’m not going to dignify that with a response, by the way — but just know, you’re definitely, definitely incorrect.” His lips twitch. “As well as a total wanker.”

Ha! He’s left himself wide open!

Harry laughs and strides into the hallway, too. “Only when I think about—”

“UGH!” Ron groans dramatically as they walk downstairs, but Harry can hear the grin in his voice. “I thought we agreed never to discuss that!”

Harry spreads his palms in surrender, but doesn’t push it; Ron’s been more than understanding today, so he reckons he’ll let it slide — at least until the next time he tries to give him shit.

Then they march into the living room wearing stupid, contended grins, just as they’ve done a thousand times, for one reason or another. Then they play wizard’s chess, just as they’ve done a thousand times. Then Ron kicks Harry’s arse, just as he’s done a thousand times.

Ron pumps his fist in triumph and lets out a jubilant yelp as he resets the board — and although Harry would never admit it aloud, he’s nonetheless reached a comfortable, contented conclusion.

He’s fine with losing at wizard’s chess for the rest of his life… as long as he loses to him.

[hawksmagnolia]

The Depths Pt 3

The Depths: Bucky x reader Mermaid AU

Part One is HERE

Part Two is HERE

Masterlist coming soon.

Part Four release is Friday 31 July!

Warnings: None 

Word Count: 2,315

Author’s Note: Please reblog and leave me some love. It really does mean the world to me! This has been an absolute labor of love and I can’t wait for next Friday. -xo-

The Depths Part Three: The Incoming Storm

&

so

she did

what any

rational woman

would do—

ever so calmly,

she reached out

& she tore

the starts

apart.

-amanda lovelace

I’d never been bound to any kind of schedule beyond the changing of the seasons and the pull of the tides. Those primal things that one who lives untethered to anything other than the sea instinctively knows.

The day it changed he sat on the crude wooden planks that make up his dock as he watched me crack crabs. As I picked out the delicate meat with my fingers I gave him some of the sweet meat of the claws.

“Sometimes, watching you eat is frightening.” I looked up, confused as I chew.

“You have those tiny little hands. They’re the same size as a child’s yet your claws…” He rubbed his chest absently and I know there are four thin scars from them there. I felt a wash of guilt and he must have seen it on my face. “I know it was an accident. And I can promise you that no fairy tale mermaid has teeth like yours.”

That’s because the fairy tale mermaids aren’t carnivorous predators. And I am.

I wrinkled my nose at him and he laughs. I’ve been practicing my human skills by imitating him. He’s a far better teacher than the selkies. He’s also been helping me with my English. When I am frustrated, I resort to swearing in Russian and find myself shocked that he is fluent as well.

He doesn’t explain why other than to say he spent time there. I do not like the expression on his face when he says this so I do not press him.

I cracked the shell of the body with my teeth and flicked the bits of shell back into the water for the little fish there to nibble.

“Why don’t you ever try to come on land?”

I stared into the crab’s hollow body. “I do not have a reason to.” I shifted my weight. I’d been spending more and more time in the shallow water so I can be closer to him. I have to keep my tail submerged to prevent it from drying out and cracking painfully. I can easily breathe in the air or in the water, simply by sealing or unsealing the fragile gill slits on the sides of my neck.

Having lost my appetite, I tossed the crab into the water. “Why do you not come into the water?”

“I can’t swim very well with only one arm.” He gestures.

“It is very shallow. I will help you.” I held out my hand and after a moment of hesitation, he pulls his shirt over his head and takes it. He slides from the dock and lands in the water with an ungainly splash. I laugh as he finds his footing on the round stones and mud at the bottom. I link my fingers with his and pull him towards deeper water. He kicks, keeping his face above the water until I twist my tail to give him some lift.

Now he is the one who laughs as he sits his weight on the end, the delicate fins brushing against the bare skin of his waist.

“I will never get used to the idea of sitting on a mermaid’s tail.”

I copy one of my favorite facial expressions, raising my right eyebrow at him. He laughs again, the sound echoing across the water. I love the sound of it. He likes to say I have taught him to laugh again.

He does not know that he has taught me to laugh again as well.

It all really started when he jumped into the water one day. He had been convinced that he wouldn’t be able to swim with only one arm.

She’d proved him wrong.

The muscles in his back and shoulders began to bulk back up, the muscles in his legs became more defined. Even Steve had noticed the change in him, asked what kind of routine he was doing so that he could copy it.

Bucky wasn’t sure how Steve would have handled the idea of a mermaid as a swimming coach.

The friendship that built between them was easy. Both of them feeling like outsiders around their own kind, a type of kinship between misfits. He knew he sometimes watched her more than a friend would but he kept those feelings pushed deep down in his heart.

And so his days went on like that. He stayed on his little farm near the banks of the lake, spending his mornings doing the work he alone put upon himself and afternoons he spent on the banks, bare feet dangling in the water off the makeshift dock he built.

Spending his time teaching a mermaid how to blend in on land.

He watches her as she practices making herself look human. She’s mastered eyes, bleaching the dark sclera into white, though they have more of an opalescent sheen than blank ivory. He can’t help but notice her chosen eye color matches his own. She also mimics his skin color, not quite the brilliant bronze from her first appearance here but a more subtle tan. Her hair remains a riot of coppers and bronzes while scales that arch over her breasts, curve over her ribs to her hips and tail are dazzling in the sunlight.

He’s taught her to braid her own hair though she learned the hard way she had to put away her fingertip claws, vanishing them into her fingers. When he asked where they went, she thought about it and then shrugged, another one of the human gestures she’d learned from him. Her small fingers are more delicate and nimble than his, she often convinces him to let her braid his hair away from his face since he cannot do it himself with one hand.

He’s careful to unbraid it when they part, lest anyone see it and ask how he did it.

The feeling of her fingers in his hair is soothing and sometimes he hears her humming under her breath. It’s no song he recognizes but it has the same style melody that one would associate with a lullaby. He asks her once but she clamps her lips together and refuses to sing it.

It occurs to him later that he may have literally heard a siren song.

He’s learned she cannot blunt all her teeth. Her canines remain sharp and when he calls her a water vampire, she demands he tell her what a vampire is. When he does, she’s fascinated and he finds himself telling her the story of Dracula. The story that he finds is still locked in his memory from when he and Steve saw the movie in the 1930s.

She asks about his childhood, curious what it’s like to be a human child. She tells him about hers in return, a childhood spent torn between two worlds.

He learns she hasn’t walked on land much since she was seven. When her father died. When he asks how many times, she doesn’t need two hands.

When he helps her translate her way of telling time into his, he learns she is far older than she looks. Based on her memories of significant weather events, he guesses her birthdate to be in the fall of 1920. She is literally just a few years younger than him.

He had guessed she was mid-twenties at the most.

He’d done some discreet research with the help of the Wakandan Princess. Shuri had brought him the information he’d requested with questions in her eyes but none had passed her lips.

Sedna. Inuit Goddess of the sea and marine animals.

Was it a coincidence that his Sedna shared a name with this Goddess? She’d claimed the selkies of Dutch Harbor had named her. Maybe they’d drawn inspiration from mythology. His old self would have brushed it off but hearing Steve’s stories about the God of thunder named Thor…well, the world was a very different place in this century.

All of that changed the day she’d come to him in a panic. The waters were acting strangely, stories of unnatural tides brought to her by the birds. Something was very wrong.

That was the same day His Royal Highness and two of his guards appeared carrying a large rectangular box.

“Bucky!” My voice is higher than normal, threaded with panic. It is early morning. I usually am asleep at this time, curled up on the bottom of the lake not far from his dock. It is safest for me to sleep there.

He appears from the door of his little home. He looks disheveled, dirty. He has animals he cares for, I suspect he has been up for hours.

“Sedna?” He jogs down the path that leads to the dock. “What’s wrong?” He takes in my appearance and comes to the dock, laying flat on his belly and grabbing my shoulders.  

“Something is very wrong. The water…the water is wrong. There are fish coming out of the caverns, they say the tides are acting strangely. The birds, the land animals….everyone is running.”

His spring blue eyes search my face. “Running where?”

“Away. They all say something is coming. Something bad. Evil. Not right. They’re telling everyone to flee, to hide.” My voice shakes and Bucky puts his hand on the side of my face, his thumb tracing over my water-soaked skin.

“I will find out. Stay hidden. I will come back and tell you.”

I shook my head and felt the prick of tears in my eyes.

Apparently sirens can cry.

I hear voices coming from behind him. “I will be right back.”

And then he kisses me.

It’s not gentle. It’s a hard kiss of promise, one that fills me with a small measure of reassurance.

I’m still half-stunned when he pushes from the dock and heads towards the voices.

I hear the words that frighten me to my core.

“Where’s the fight?” He asks.

“On its way.”

Bucky stares at T’Challa. “How serious is it?”

He and Okoye exchange a glance. “Very. Captain Rogers is on his way to Wakanda now.”

“You think this Thanos will attack here?”

“We know he will.”

Bucky sighed and closed his eyes. “Alright. Let’s get it fitted.”

Once the arm is secure and the others have left after he promises to meet them at the palace within an hour, he heads back to the water’s edge.

He finds her waiting for him. She is leaning on the dock, her arms crossed, fingers interlaced. As he approaches, her blue eyes focus on him.

“It is bad.” It’s not a question. She presses her lips together into a thin line.

“Yes.”

“I know it is bad because you have agreed to an arm again.

He lays back down on the dock, propping himself up on both elbows and he puts his hands over hers.

“You have to go.”

Her eyes narrow. “Do you want me to?”

“No, of course not. But it’s not safe. You have to promise me you’ll go to safety.”

“The world is not a safe place. I accept this. I am not running away scared. I can fight.”

Bucky closes his eyes and presses his forehead to hers. “This is not your fight. This is not a fight you can win. I need you to be safe. Please.”

A sigh trickles over his cheeks. “Only if you promise to leave my Tear on.”

“I promise.”

When he pulls back from her, he’s stunned to see tears running down her cheeks.

“I will come back. I’ll come back to you. But you have to stay safe.”

She nods, and part of his heart twists when she doesn’t argue. He tilts her face up and kisses her again, this time softer. This one is full of promise, of possibilities.

“Go. I will see you soon.”

I wait until I can no longer see him before I sink beneath the surface, my fingers clutching the Tear in my hair. A small comfort is feeling the faint thump of his pulse through it.

Underwater, no one can see you cry.

I’m not sure how long I stay there. I fall asleep curled around one of the posts of his dock.

At first, I think it is an earthquake.

I awake in a panic, thrashing free of a nightmare but straight into another one.

Except this one is real.

When I break through the surface of the water, I hear sounds of war. Screaming, explosions, and horrible screeching that is not human or beast. I see black creatures with vicious claws and teeth run past, their frenzy destroying the small building.

They are headed towards the village.

The small fishing village where I have played hide and seek with the children. The ones where the mothers leave baskets of clams and crabs as offerings.

There is no one who can stop them. Bucky is away, at the palace which is the opposite direction. I hear the sounds of battle from there.

There is only screaming from the village.

There is no one who can save them.

Except me.

I push up onto the dock and sit, leaving my tail hanging down. Closing my eyes and gritting my teeth against the pain, the scales begin to part as flesh emerges. Fins become feet as I will myself to the form of a land walker. I grab Bucky’s abandoned shirt and pull it over my body as I breathe through the pain. It hangs over my body.

I pray that it’s not my funeral dress.

I grab my Tear and squeeze it, hating to break my promise, but there are children there.

There is no one else who can save them.

So I stand, raise my hands to the sky and rain down hell upon my enemies.

......to be continued...

Tag List : @nano--raptor @cchellacat @eurynome827 @jobean12-blog @book-dragon-13 @aesthetical-bucky @marvelgirl7 @sallycanwait68 @buckys-broody-muffin @softpeachbarnes @godofplumsandthunder @azurika-writes @ikaris-whore @this-kitten-is-smitten @randomfandompenguin @bucky-plums-barnes​ @bugsbucky​ @littleredstarfish​ @emilylyoness​ @hailmary-yramliah​ @daughterofsteven​ @crushedbyhyperbole​ @theycallmebecca​ @nomadicpixel​ @bluebell-24​  @sevans-is-my-weakness @sebastiansloserclub @justvnash​ @worldofmarvelaficionado​ @undiscovered-misunderstood​ @throwmyheartawayagain​ @jewels2876​

[captain-emmajones]

Love, Emma (2/7)

(Art by the wonderful @carpedzem​ <33)

Loosely based on Love, Rosie (2014).  Killian and Emma are best friends and neighbors. They've always been -- until he leaves for the Navy when his brother dies. When he comes back, nine months later, summer has begun and childhood is ending. Emma can tell something is changed in him, but she doesn't know what. Until she does. He's fallen in love with someone else.

And then, suddenly, they're kissing on her nineteenth birthday. When she asks him to forget their night out, and never talk about it again, Killian thinks she means to tell him she regrets the kiss they exchanged. Except she has no memory of it.

Killian and Emma will dance around each other, until their heads spin and their legs hurt, and everything becomes blurry and it has to stop – for both of their sake.

Title is from Taylor Swift’s August – which clearly inspired the mood of this chapter. Had it on loop while writing, so if you feel like it, do try to listen to it while reading! 

Once again, a huge thank you to @profdanglaisstuffwho beta’d this and gave me very useful advice to tie the plot together! 

Friends to Lovers - Mutual Pining - Angst - Fluff - 6000 words - ao3

Part 1 - Mirrorball, Part 3 - Hoax ,  Part 4 - Peace, Part 5 - This is me trying, Part 6 - Cardigan ,   Part 7 - Invisible String

PART 2 - AUGUST. 

Present Day – 21st of June.

“—I’m really sorry Killian, it won’t happen again,” Emma’s words linger in Killian’s bedroom, long after she’s gone.

He is still lying on his bed, staring at his door, the one Emma escaped from. He stretches his bare feet over the lime green cover and frowns.

Well, once again, he got it all wrong. He really thought she meant their kiss. She really seemed to want him back.

His skin feels tacky under his fingers. He really needs to take a shower.

He finds a small blue plastic ball on his nightstand, and absently plays with it, swaying it in the air above his head.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers to himself.

An odd, nasty hand is gripping his heart. He’s not angry. He’s not even disappointed. He stopped hoping for something to happen between him and Emma a long time ago.

Except he’s lying to himself. Of course he is disappointed.

He called things off with Milah to give Emma and himself a chance, after these past months spent holding back from her. He was so surprised to find her this eager to be with him, once he got back.

He thought she would forget him over the year. He knows he desperately tried to. Milah appeared to be the perfect distraction.

Milah comes with a bigger cost that he is willing to pay, but that he only learnt a few weeks ago, over the phone. She finally confessed. It was a relief to find out he wasn’t being crazy or delusional. She has been seeing her husband again – the very same man she’s trying to get a divorce from.

He rolls his eyes, almost misses the ball. Milah is driving him crazy and he isn’t entirely sure she is worth it. At least, not when Emma’s green eyes look at him in the way he’s always wanted them to.

But that was a mistake, as well. Emma will never see him as anything but her friend. He made peace with that, when he left a year ago. It was too painful to hope, and with Liam gone, he couldn’t rely on Emma to be happy.

So he left, before she could leave him. It’s the most selfish thing he’s ever done, but he couldn’t, cannot bear to lose her.

Better to rip off the bandage straight away. Even if it leaves a wound over his heart, a wound that itches and burns.

His phone buzzes on his nightstand. He gives up the ball and stretches his arm to grab it. Twenty missed-calls. Milah must be freaking out.

And then, as hangovers usually go, his mind goes back to Emma. He cannot go on like this. He must know if she truly doesn’t want him back.

His fingers quickly find her name in his phone. Her contact photo is a picture of them both, from freshman year. They are sitting on Storybrooke’s carousel, near the beach. It’s fall. The wind is gently blowing their hair, as he hugs her from behind. She looks completely and utterly blissful, her head thrown back as a laugh crinkles her entire face. He is gazing at her, of course, he always has.

(He remembers Liam took the picture. The memory twists his stomach.)

It was so easy, back then, easy to love her and not want anything more. But the summer crush soon evolved into something more demanding – infatuation.

Killian presses her name. If Emma answers he’ll ask her.

He waits. For a long time. It is painful. But she doesn’t answer. And perhaps she does not want to. And then he gets a double call, and he knows before glancing at his phone who it is. M.

He reluctantly answers. “I hope you’ve got a whole script of excuses written down, Milah.”

He promises himself he won’t fall for her tricks.

He lies, again. Surely, Emma was wrong. Liam would not be proud of him.

(His eyes suddenly lend on the small, blue box on his desk. Bloody hell. He forgot to give Emma her present.)

.

A year ago, the 29th of June.

“Are you sure everything will be okay, little brother?”

Liam’s paternal tone sends angry shivers up Killian’s spine as he ties balloons around their front door. What an ass. Liam is very well aware that this nickname is, to Killian’s ears, the worst combination of two words.

“Aye. Don’t worry. You can go see Elsa in peace, brother.”

Killian shifts his gaze from the yellow balloon that’s also being a pain – just stick to the door! – to face Liam, standing in front of him with his hands on his hips.

Liam’s eyebrows are raised and it is difficult to know whether Killian is looking at his father or his brother. He winces. He’s going to get the talk, now, isn’t he?

“Alright. I expect to find this house standing when I come back.”

Killian swallows a very sharp answer. Liam’s entire life purpose solely relies on Killian needing him. Except he doesn’t anymore. He turned eighteen in February and he wants to see wider horizons than this bloody town. (The only thing – person – holding him back is Emma.)

“Don’t worry. It will stand just fine—”

“Great because…”

“— we don’t really need all of the walls, do we?”

Liam scoffs, visibly unimpressed by his sarcasm, and disappears once again into their home.

A home that is already filled by a smell of chocolate. After his last exam, earlier this afternoon, Killian made a cake – Emma’s favorite – to properly celebrate her birthday.

He hasn’t seen her in a week now, and for a very good reason: they all sat a horrendous amount of exams. Liam made sure Killian spent his week with his head buried in his books. Which is understandable, but also bloody unfair. (His life is tremendously boring without Emma Swan.)

Killian’s attention gets caught by Liam, coming his way again with a big, leather bag. He passes through the door and one hand finds Killian’s shoulder, presses it, as blue eyes delve into his.

“Be careful, Killian.” For once, Liam’s words seem really directed at him.

Killian simply smiles. “Always am.”

Liam grins as he nods and takes a step outside. “Do wish happy birthday to our roommate for me. She’s a good one.”

Killian rolls his eyes – what a nice way to remind him he probably shouldn’t invite Emma over all the time. Very Liam of him.

“I will. Safe car ride, brother.” With those last words, he goes back to blowing up the balloons.

It really takes a lot more effort than one might think. Emma will owe him a new pair of lungs by tonight. As he gathers all of his strength to blow up a pink balloon, he feels someone staring at him.

He looks up.

It’s Liam, in the car. He is waving at him, car window down. Behind him, the sky is distinctively blue.

Killian frowns but waves all the same. Weirdo.

.

“Alright. Everything’s ready,” mumbles Killian to himself, examining his living room.

He glances at the big clock on the wall. 8:15 pm. He is early, as per usual.

He shrugs his shoulders and dives onto his sofa for some relaxing me-time, getting out his phone. Emma has left him a text: “Leaving in 10, is that okay?” The thought of seeing her face warms his heart, and he quickly answers back: “Come whenever you want, I’m ready!”

As expected, the doorbell rings almost instantly. That makes him chuckle, imagining his Swan lass waiting in front of his porch – not wanting to bother him.

Emma didn’t have the happy childhood he did, with his brother and his father – although that did not last long. When they met, something was already irrevocably broken inside of her.

Chasing his memories away with a shake of head, he jumps to his feet and reaches the front door in a few long strides.

He opens with his heart drumming in his chest.

“Killian!” Her excited cry meets him as he discovers her outside.

She’s wearing a little black dress and white sneakers and her legs are already slightly tan, and she looks very, very pretty in front of this summer night sky and he must be blushing already.

Eyes open wide, it takes him a lot of willpower to exhale correctly. “Happy belated birthday, Swan!” He wishes he didn’t sound like he’s just run a marathon, but there is just so much a man can hope for.

Emma offers him a blinding smile. She’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.

“Thanks, Killian!” And then she shakes her wrist right in front of his eyes, and Killian’s horrified expression transforms into a soft smile. “And thank you for that, too.” The silver bracelet glints against her skin, “It’s beautiful, really.”

(He couldn’t bring himself to wait a week to give Emma her present. Thus, he dropped it on her porch on the twenty-first of June, with a small note: “Happy birthday, Swan. Love, Killian.”)

Killian is glad she does not ask further questions – because he would have had to justify the fact that this bracelet nearly cost him a hand. (Well, it did cost him two months of housework under Liam’s smug smirk, but it was definitely worth it.)

“Wanted you to have a proper gift for your eighteenth birthday,” he begins explaining but then she’s grabbing his neck and quite literally throwing herself into his arms.

He is quite out breath at first – Swan’s always been a little brutal in her displays of affection – but then he feels her fingers tangle in his hair and her breath gets deeper in the crook of his neck, and that is definitely very nice.

Come on, Killian, hug her back. His limbs seem to have turned to stone as he gathers all of his mental power to gently hold her waist. He allows himself to close his eyes, for an instant, as he inhales her perfume – a fresh fragrance of ginger and herself.

“—And thank you for organizing this party for me!” she beams as she backs away, and she sounds ecstatic, which is surprising considering how she reacted the first time he offered to organize it.

(It was a lot of screaming and great sighs and “but no one will want to come!” and, finally, Killian’s hands on her shoulders, “I promise, they will want to, Swan.” He was the one who came up with the idea of simultaneously celebrating the end of the school year and her birthday – so as to divert the attention from her – and it was all it took to, finally, convince Emma Swan to celebrate her birthday.)

“My pleasure, Swan. However, I am going to need you to stop thanking me. I already know how perfect I am.”

Oh, the look she darts at him. She’s all fire, Swan, with her fiery green eyes.  He cannot say he does not love every second of it.

“Can I come in now or are we going to stay here a little longer to admire your door?” And then she’s glancing down at his hands still holding tightly her waist, and he blushes furiously, taking them back in a heartbeat. “Nice balloons by the way.”

Her amused words are a cold shower over his shoulders. He shudders, clearing his throat.

“Jeez, do come in, Emma. Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts,” he mumbles very quickly, grabbing her hand to guide her in.

Staring at the white walls of his living room allows him to cool down a bit. Damnit. He cannot be bloody flustered anytime she talks to him. Emma talks to him a lot. She’s his best friend, for heaven’s sake.

“No worries, your door frame is really pretty, when you take enough time to notice.”

He glares at her, but it’s with a lot of tenderness. “Shut up, Swan. You know what I’m like when I have to organize things.”

When he shifts to face her, she’s staring at the decorations he’s taken so much time to prepare. Everything is calculated, from the distance between the HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign and the crisp bowls on the coffee table and the color of the napkins – yellow of course, Emma’s always been yellow.

“I know, Killian. But it’s just a party. You can relax.” And with her last words, her arms have wrapped around his neck.

She cannot tell, but it’s doing terrible things to his heart rate.

“Thanks, Emma,” he rolls his eyes dramatically and gasps. “Doctors hate her, she found the secret cure to anxiety.”

Oh, how satisfying it is to see her blush suddenly. Why should he be the only one suffering from the heat?

She frowns, her fist gently bumping against his chest. “You know what I mean, Killian.” He hears the tiny bit of fear in her voice.

And smiles at her. “Aye, Swan. I’m teasing you.”

And then he stares at her with a big, idiotic grin and she’s raising her eyebrows and – unfortunately for their little duel –  the doorbell rings. They both jump, establishing a respectable distance between them. He doesn’t want the others to talk more than they already are.

“Ah, got to leave you, Swan. I have to be a perfect host.”

She snorts next to him and dives an expert hand into an open crisp bag on the kitchen counter. “Do go ahead. Do your worst, Killian.”

He rolls his eyes. He hates her.

.

It’s nearly midnight, and everything is going very smoothly in the Jones house. It is nice to see it come to life once again, with all of his friends having fun there.

It distracts him from the void that reigns between these walls, if only for a brief moment in time.

Killian presses a bottle of coke against his lips as David explains to him his last soccer game and Killian is barely paying attention to him.

Oh, David is a very nice guy – in spite of the orange t-shirt he is sporting with confidence that night. Probably one of the best friends he’s made in high school. But it’s really hard not to want to divert his gaze somewhere else when David wears this kind of t-shirt, especially since Emma seems very invested in a girly talk back in the kitchen.

She’s trying really hard to fit in, he can tell, from the way she holds herself – arms crossed over her chest to protect herself, but feet towards the girls, eyes alert, grin impeccable on her face.

He really wants Emma to have other friends – beside him. One cannot rely entirely on someone else. It just will not work out, for her. She needs to distill her affection. Even if it means settling for somebody who wears Yoda on his chest at a birthday party.

“Excuse me, mate. Need some water,” he mumbles and David doesn’t look very concerned.

“No problem, dude. See you later,” and with those words he swiftly joins another conversation animated by Robin – a guy from Killian’s mathematics class.

Killian rolls his eyes at his social ease. It’s unfair. David can just jump from one conversation to another and always feels welcome.

Killian heads for the bathroom, glares at one couple – Zelena, brought by Regina from Physics, and some guy – smooching on the stairs.

And then he really doesn’t mean to pry on the girls in the kitchen – but his ears catch his name.

“And what about you and Killian, Emma?” asks Mary Margaret – David’s girlfriend of two years now – in an impish tone, and he hates her for it.

Something blocks Killian just behind the wall of his kitchen – a crippling, human desire to know. From where he stands, he is able to hear but cannot see or be seen.

There is something very heavy and green, down in his stomach. Fear.

He hears Emma’s chuckle. He’d recognize it anywhere.

“Killian? Nothing! We’re just friends.”

Her words should not burn like this. It shouldn’t feel like someone just ripped his heart out in front of him. She’s merely stating the truth.

“Oh, come on Emma. Everyone can see how close you guys are at school,” Mary Margaret will not let it go and Killian is almost tempted to jump in like a devil to put this conversation to an end.

There’s a silence then. It’s deafening.

The universe conspires to play a slow song at this very moment. Killian can feel his heart beat in his temples.

“No really,” Emma’s voice echoes once again. “To be honest, I’ve been crushing on someone else.”

Ouch. Lava seems to have been spilled in the vicinity of Killian’s heart. It burns. Killian’s hand is shaking as it finds the wall in front of him. He doesn’t know where to look. Nowhere seems fine. Everything is terrible and this place is too loud.

“Nooo! And who would that be?!” Their voices are too loud.

Killian knows the answer before she utters the name, and he is cursing every god above. Not him, not him, not him, please, not him…

“Neal.”

Killian’s heart shatters on the ground. The din is unbearable. He needs to get out.

Why is he so mad? They’re only friends. Surely he knew that all along.

A summer breeze welcomes him outside as he sits down on his porch, and its softness is in sharp contrast with the way his hands shake as he clenches his jaw to hold back something much scarier.  

He takes his head between his hands. It feels like he will never be able to go back inside his house. Except he will, of course. Not only does he simply have to on a practical level – it’s his house after all –  but also nothing is really as unbearable as one thinks at first.

.

Later that night, when everyone is dancing and Emma is searching for his eyes in the crowd, Killian receives an unexpected call.

He is sitting on the couch, surrounded by David and Robin, when Liam’s name flashes on his screen. Something stirs inside of him. Killian presses their shoulders, “I’ll be back, mates” and abandons their card game for the tranquil solitude of the kitchen.

It gives him a good view of the party without being a part of it. Emma, Ruby and Mary Margaret are still dancing in the living room.

“Mr. Jones?” A voice answers him on the phone. It is not Liam’s voice. And it is very distant, as if from another reality.

His initial instinct is to think it must be a mistake. Liam must have lost his phone.

“Aye, Killian Jones. Where is Liam?”

He isn’t even concerned at first, because Emma’s staring at him suddenly and wrath circles his heart. He is so mad at her for not liking him, not like he likes her. And at the same time, his heart cannot help but whimper as she smiles at him, her green eyes creasing. He notices she has smeared her black dress. Clown.

“Your brother had an accident, Mr. Jones. His car crashed into a heavy goods vehicle, and he was hurt in the process—”

A chuckle escapes his throat. What are they saying? Liam is immortal, of course he will heal.

“Did he break an arm or a leg?” Killian snorts. His weary gaze notices the chips spilled over the counter. He will have to clean that up.

“Actually, Mr. Jones, your brother did not make it—”

Another nervous chuckle escapes Killian’s mouth.

He doesn’t know his body has started to react before him. He does not feel the tears that rush to the corners of his eyes, does not control the movements of his face as something very evil swoops down on him. The only thing he knows is that at some point Emma enters the kitchen and she’s frowning furiously at him.

“Killian, what’s wrong?”

His phone is still pressed to his cheek. The paramedic hung up five minutes ago. But he didn’t make sense, and Killian is trying to call him back.

“Nothing, love. Liam is trying to trick me.”

He always used to do that, when he was a little boy. Nine-year-old Liam would hide until Killian wept and asked Liam to find him instead.

He doesn’t know why Emma stares at him in a weird way afterwards, doesn’t know why her brows furrow and her chin starts quivering, and she stammers. “Is he alright?”

She doesn’t make sense then. Why does she sound so panicked? It will be fine. Liam is playing a trick on him, hasn’t she been listening?

“He’s fine, Emma, really, it will be fine—"

Next to the chocolate cake and the chips on the kitchen counter, Killian notices the pink vase holding the yellow irises Emma left on his porch earlier this week as a thank you for her gift. (There was no note with it, but a red ribbon was delicately tied to the flowers.)  

Killian doesn’t know then that Emma’s face starts to reflect the expression on his features. Doesn’t know she’s staring at him as he breaks down, doesn’t see himself suddenly kneel to the ground in a desperate attempt to feel something cold under his skin, to feel anything – anything but this earthquake inside of him.

When she kneels next to him, a shiver of horror shakes his shoulder. “Don’t look this upset, Emma. It’s your birthday party,” he quickly utters. He doesn’t want to ruin her party.

And then, it clicks. Just like that. One second of understanding, and his life as he knows it is over.  

Emma’s hand is suddenly very firm over his knuckles still tensed around his phone, and she forces him to let go. He doesn’t fight back. Death has already taken her reward.  

In his memories, she’s the one who breaks down into his arms. It’s not what happened. The truth is he collapsed between her arms, and she held him so tightly, and with such strength, it felt like she had been ready for this her entire life.

He’s unable to look away from the yellow irises behind Emma’s back as she clutches into him. They’ve started to wither. It makes him sad.

.

Present Day.

Killian waits for midnight to strike before risking a glance at her window.

No light in Emma’s room. It’s now or never.

Grabbing his keys, Killian quite literally runs to her house. He reaches her door like a lightning bolt, and just like that, drops her present next to Ingrid’s doormat.

(He leaves no note. Didn’t know what to write.)

.

Killian avoids Emma all through July and August, and he does so quite well – just enough for it to be bearable and not so much as to make her worry.

One afternoon, he heads for ice-cream at Ingrid’s but his blood freezes before he can get in. He expected Emma to be working, but surely not Neal Cassidy to be leaning against the counter.

Killian fists his hands. Why are you angry? You’re dating someone else, for fuck’s sake.

He doesn’t like Neal. Neal isn’t a good guy. Neal is a terrible idea, one he’s tried to shake from Emma’s mind for a long time now.

Killian steps to the side so as to not be seen, and examines the scene carefully. Emma is wearing the blue uniform. For all he knows, she has been helping Ingrid out in the shop since they graduated from high school.

Emma never did like school very much. It only made sense when she decided she didn’t want to go to college and chose to stay in Storybrooke until she figured out what she wanted.

Killian cannot see her face from his hiding spot, but Neal is all teeth out. His smile sparks fire in Killian’s belly. The air of this summer afternoon is uncomfortably dry and warm and grains of sand seem stuck down Killian’s throat.

Neal suddenly bends towards her, hands her a piece of paper –  his number, Killian gathers – and as Emma takes it, Killian’s gift glints around her wrist. (She added the charm he offered her. That alone nearly makes him suffocate.)

You’re dating someone else, his inner voice stammers.

When Neal reaches to brush a strand of hair from Emma’s face, it is simply too much for Killian. He turns back, his stomach twisting.

With one, heartbreaking thought in his mind – You’ve done this to yourself.

.

Late August.

Saying goodbye is incredibly bittersweet, this time. (So was last time but Liam had just died and it made sense.)

It feels a lot like they are both performing their friendship as they stand a foot apart, by the departure door.

There is so much bitterness in his mouth, on the tip of his tongue, in the rigidity of his muscles clenched around his heavy bag. Emma is tense too, won’t look at him, stares instead angrily at the departure board.

“Well,” his voice finally breaks the silence. It doesn’t sound like a voice, it croaks in the hall. “Time to say goodbye, Swan.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees her nod, blonde hair floating around her face. As he risks a glance at her, he begins to understand she is shaking.

She’s holding back tears. And his anger dissolves into the wind, becomes shame and guilt and tenderness.

He doesn’t want her to be sad.

He lets go of his bag, and grabs her hands, her bracelet ringing playfully as a hello. “Hey, Emma,” he whispers, murmurs her name cautiously to make her look up. She does eventually, and her eyes are bloodshot.

His hands cup her face. “It’s going to be alright, ‘kay?” She nods again, but her chin quivers. It’s killing him. He knows she thinks they wasted their summer. He thinks so too. He only fears they’ve wasted more than that. “We’ll text, and call, and I’ll even write you letters like in those goddamn movies of yours.”

The last part makes her chuckle, but that quickly turns into a frown. She’s determined to not let any tears slip out, but her eyes are working against her.

He traces her features with his fingers, her small nose and her freckles, barely brushes her lips, and he looks up to see a peculiar glint in her eyes.

The weight of unsaid words crushes their young shoulders.

He licks his lips, tries not to stare at her mouth too long. Instead, he leans his forehead against hers, and finds a bittersweet comfort when she wraps her arms around him.

“Come back,” she eventually mutters, her breath tracing the shape of his lips.

He swallows, holding himself back. And holds her tighter, buries his face in her neck, breathes her in. “I will. Always, Swan.”

Then, they don’t say it. They don’t say it but it echoes like a din between them. It’s heart wrenching, and childhood is definitely over.

Summer has never tasted this bitter.

His jaw is tensed as he lets her go to grab his bag. He does not expect her to hold him back, her fingers gripping his hand with strength.

When he turns to face her, she’s staring at him with eyes wide open and lips pressed together.

“I’ll come back, I promise,” he simply states, but she frowns harder and he can tell it is not enough.

Nothing will ever be.

He doesn’t say it then – let me go, Emma – but she hears it anyway and her palm opens abruptly, freeing him from her grip.

And he takes a step ahead. And another one. Until his legs aren’t so stiff, and oxygen finally reaches his lungs.

He doesn’t need to look back to know she’s staring at him the whole time.

.

Four years later – July.

Don’t get him wrong, Killian Jones has had his lot of fucking shitty days, but this one is clearly competing for the highest place on his podium of heartbreaks.

He presses a glass of rum against his lips, drinks it up in a few mouthfuls. David and Mary Margaret are sitting next to him and he is aware that they look genuinely concerned. But he is too mad to look at them. He’s furious, furious that their speeches about hope and “finding the right person” finally got to him.

He believed them – even if it was only for the five short minutes during which he ran like a fool towards Storybrooke’s town hall – he believed them.

Around him, everyone is disgustingly happy. He still feels sweaty in his white shirt and he cannot shake an infuriating strand of hair from his forehead.  

Running was pointless, of course. He was too late. Has been for years now.

From the corner of his eyes, he catches a glimpse of Emma in her white dress. She stands up, and for a moment his attention is caught by the bracelet around her wrist. There are four charms on it, four charms echoing the last years of their friendship. She is still wearing it, in spite of everything. It makes him sad.

But Emma isn’t aware of it, instead rings a spoon against her glass of champagne to catch everyone’s attention.

She is still the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

“Hello everyone. Thank you all for coming to our wedding.” The man at Emma's side, her husband snorts Killian’s inner voice, smiles and watches her with adoration.

And Killian is watching his life fall apart, as he does too often.

(It fell apart a long time ago, mumbles his inner voice, but he is too sober to be thinking about this.)

“I really, really couldn’t be happier to have you all here.” And then her eyes are on him and Killian wants to disappear.

How can she still look at him this way after all this bloody time?

He forces a smile on his face, nodding at her and mouthing “go ahead, Swan, you’ve got this.”

It gives her all the confidence she needs to give her speech, and she does it well.

The teenage girl he knew is long gone. A beautiful, confident woman stands in the middle of the room.

A woman he wasn’t bold enough to love properly.

Killian lowers his gaze as she goes on about how happy she is, how perfect everything is, and he wants to vomit and pass out and forget all of this.

But then he feels her stare at him once again, and he looks up to catch her eye.

Can she tell he’s been in love with her all along? He hopes so, because he will never utter the words now.

.

He definitely expects her to find him, as he sits outside on the balcony of the big mansion by the sea she rented for the ceremony.

The moon plays with the gentle salty waves. It’s one of his favorite views of the world. She knows it.

She takes longer than he thought, judging by the amount of rum he manages to gulp down, but she does find him.

“Hey, what’s up, sailor?” Her voice echoes, breaking the comfortable silence he found himself in.

He doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t want her to see him like this. He makes such a terrible friend, he should be happy for her. Happy that after a bloody bumpy road, Emma and Neal finally found each other.

He hates them for it.

“Not much. How’s the bride feeling?”

Summer crickets playfully sing behind them.

He hopes he doesn’t sound as bitter as the taste on the tip of his tongue. His fingers absently play with his flask of rum.

“Pretty good,” she answers back, and it’s not really the answer one would expect after such a wonderful wedding. “How…how is your hand?”

Oh right, this. The worst part about missing a limb is that everyone can see it, there’s no pretending it didn’t hurt, and they all stare at him with pity. It’s part of the reasons why he didn’t want to come to Emma’s wedding. (Emma didn’t stare, of course. Emma tried to mend him, but there was too much to heal.)

“Well, still missing, but generally good.” His words come out harsher than intended and he blames the rum.

“I tried to call you, to thank you for my birthday present. But you never answered,” she risks once again, and this time the little tremor in her voice makes him shift.

He is urged by a need to look at her, stare at her big, green eyes glinting in the dimness. After all this time, his heart still stops. How is that she still looks the same, only more beautiful, and he’s a wreck?

He paints another smile on his face, fingers clutching hard on his flask.

“I’m glad you liked my present, Swan. And I am, really, happy for you” he finally affirms. He says it because the whole universe expects him to and it is easier to divert her attention.

He really wishes he were good enough to sincerely think the words he utters. But he cannot.

He sees her shoulders fall just the slightest bit forward, as if she is relieved, and he can’t believe he genuinely fooled her. Perhaps she is just unwilling to fight. He cannot blame her.

“Good,” she exhales, smiles, turns a burning knife into his chest, “Because you matter to me. You know that, right, Killian?”

That hurts. It nearly knocks him out, and he has to hold on to the rail of the balcony. The cold metal beneath his fingers grounds him.

An unknown, mystical force – rum – suddenly pushes him to move towards her, against all of his inner principles. “I hope you know, Swan,” he begins, and he has gotten dangerously close to her. Closer than he’s allowed himself in weeks now.  He stares at her lips, shakes his head. She’s staring back just as intensely. “I hope you know how much I love you – ”

The words are out before he’s aware of them, and her eyes widen. Fuck. He thinks he sees panic in her eyes.

He’s quick to utter the end of his sentence. “—as my friend, my oldest friend, and I’m so glad you finally found your happy ending.”

He sees her glance go back and forth between his eyes, and he can tell she’s not breathing any more than he is. Fuck. He’s ruined everything again, hasn’t he?

Finally, a smile cracks her face open and he knows she does it for both of their sake. “Right. Of course. You’re my best friend, Killian.”  

And she reaches for him, for his good hand – touching his missing limb would have just been too much for both of them – and wraps her arms against his chest. He hopes he doesn’t stink. He very solemnly hugs her back, thanks the darkness around them for hiding the one tear that goes down his cheek. This is nothing like the embraces they used to exchange with a very desperate, very innocent affection years ago.

She’s touching him but she still feels a thousand miles away as he gently rubs her back, lost in her scent, and somehow it feels like if he tried, he could bring them back. But he cannot.

And when she backs away, his grip gets a little bit tighter around her knuckles, panic rising in his chest, and her bracelet rings one last time. He cannot lose her.

But she isn’t his to lose.

And then she smiles at him, and in that smile she reminds him there is no war to be fought anymore.

It kills him. “Go back inside, Swan. I’ll join you quickly,” he finally whispers and presses a kiss over her knuckles.

He would burn in hell to kiss her again. She won’t let him. That’s only fair.

Questions echo in her eyes as she gazes at him one last time, and he swears a gentle, pink hue colors her cheeks. The time for asking questions and pondering over answers is over, too. That was a long time ago. They never found any answers.

“Sure thing,” Emma eventually replies, and the few steps she takes to disappear into the night leave him boneless.  

She did not look back. Of course not. She never looks back, now. (He left her hanging with her eyes twitching too long for her to ever look back again.)

And he is stuck looking at the door behind which she disappeared, wondering if he could have held her back.  

If he could have held them back.

[alecmagnuslwb]

Get A Room, Literally

Writer’s Month 2020 Day Thirty-One

Read on AO3

Alec doesn’t know how he got here. That’s not true he knows exactly how he got here, what he can’t figure out is why at no point his own brain didn’t try to stop him from ending up in this exact situation.

It had all started this afternoon when his frantic boss decided to send him and his co-worker and friend Magnus on a roadtrip to get the broken down espresso machine fixed. Two and half hours alone in a car with Magnus looking stunning, teasing him into some karaoke and talking at length about the debate teams next meet with a passion Alec had to admire was torture enough.

Then when the repairman informed them it could take until the next morning for repairs to be finished and their boss had told them she’d pay for a hotel room for the night to ensure they got it back first thing in the morning Alec’s brain had fried. There was no way he could survive spending the night in a hotel room alone with Magnus. There was no way he could safely maintain the secret crush he has kept quite secret for almost four months now since he and his family moved to town on him if they had to share a private space for that long.

The two hours killed at a local second hand store had eased Alec’s gay panicked brain trying on dumb outfits and being constantly astounded at how Magnus managed to pull of the most ridiculous of looks.

The phone call he received while they were in line buying a few of their finds should have been his saving grace, the espresso machine was ready, they could pick it up, head home and Alec could fall asleep dreaming about Magnus like he does at least four nights a week.

But one look at Magnus smiling back at him while he paid at the register and Alec’s brain took a detour.

“Looks like we’re gonna have to get that room,” Alec said even though it was absolutely not the truth and in no way necessary for them to do, the little voice in the back of his head quiet for once not screaming at him to shut up.

So, here they are now alone in a hotel room two and half hours away from anyone they know with one bed.

Alec stands hands braced on the sink looking at himself in the bathroom mirror for so long that he’s sure Magnus thinks he’s doing something weird in here. He looks down, grateful at least that he wore plain black boxers today instead of any of the colorful patterned ones Jace likes to buy him every Christmas as a joke.

“Just be cool,” he says to himself meeting his own eyes in the mirror. “You can do that.” He doesn’t believe his own words one bit.

He steps out of the bathroom to find Magnus has changed into something from the gym bag he found in the trunk of his car while he was in the bathroom giving himself an unsuccessful pep talk. His arms are now bare in a black tank top and his ankles showing in rolled up sweatpants. The small strip of skin has Alec reacting in ways he cannot explain.  

Alec, what are you a fucking Victorian socialite swooning at a bit of ankle showing? He thinks to himself shaking his head to clear his mind as Magnus looks up from the random magazine he’d found in the lobby and smiles at him.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Alec offers looking at how Magnus has already settled comfortably on the bed.

“No way,” Magnus says tossing the magazine off to the side and moving back the sheets on the empty side of the bed, an invitation for Alec to get in. “There’s plenty of room and I checked the bed for stains and bugs while you were in there, it’s clean, but I don’t feel anywhere near as confident about the state of the floor.”

“It’s fine, really,” Alec says trying his damndest to get out of this. Being alone with Magnus here and not losing his mind and kissing him is hard enough, sharing a bed might actually kill him.

Magnus shoots his protest down immediately.

“I insist,” he says patting the empty space on the bed. “Come on, I don’t bite, promise.”

That’s problem, Alec wishes he would bite. Or something like that, his experience level of what he wants isn’t really existent yet, but he’s pretty confident that if Magnus did it to him he’d be into it.

From the second he saw Magnus four months ago in the halls of his new high school he was attracted to him, then he really met him and all hope of Alec ever being just friends with him flew out the window. Blissfully at first he could ignore that though, Magnus had only ever mentioned an ex-girlfriend leading Alec to believe he was off the table, until the day Magnus casually mentioned he was bi then all hope of Alec ever keeping his feelings platonic really were lost.

Working with him at the coffee shop every day only made his crush worse, because Magnus isn’t just pretty he learned quickly, he’s incredibly smart, creative as hell and has the kind of bravery Alec could never dream of mustering up. He also just takes an interest in Alec, in who he is and what he likes a thing not many people have ever really done, always more distracted by the shining lights of his siblings. And while Magnus is kind to them, another thing that makes Alec’s feelings even stronger, they’re not who he pays attention to, Alec is.

Alec has managed to come out to all three of his siblings and most of the school all with Magnus’ kind guidance and support.

“Gay/bi solidarity is a cornerstone of our democracy,” Magnus always jokes with a wink and brush of his hand against Alec’s whenever he thanks him for just being there. It in no way helps Alec’s infatuation lessen.

“If you’re sure,” he says stepping over to the bed and sliding in. He stays upright leaning against the headboard his eyes locking with Magnus’. He’s not sure how long they stay there just staring at one another but eventually Magnus breaks it with a small laugh running a hand through his dark hair.

“Well, then we should probably go to bed. Early start, long drive and all that,” he says reaching over and turning off the light.

“Right,” Alec says scooting down in bed and settling on his pillow. “Goodnight, Magnus.”

“Goodnight, Alexander,” Magnus says as he rests on his side of the bed facing Alec. It takes Alec nearly four hours to actually fall asleep, too enamored by the vision of Magnus sleeping peacefully under the pale moonlight to close his eyes.

When he wakes the next morning, his phone alarm blaring, there’s an arm around his waist that isn’t his and warmth pressed up against his back. Both he and Magnus had clearly shifted in the middle of the night.

Magnus grumbles burying his face between Alec’s shoulder blades mumbling something about turning it off. Alec thinks he might be having a stroke, because Magnus feels warm and solid against him and oh so right, but he’s barely awake and probably doesn’t even realize what he’s doing.

The alarm gets a little louder and Magnus seems to shoot up at that looking down at Alec and quickly pulling his arm away when Alec’s face betrays him and sports a no doubt dopey looking smile.

“Sorry,” he says rubbing a hand over his face. His makeup is smudged and his hair is flat on one side and he’s absolutely beautiful. “I’m gonna go,” he says not really finishing his thought scrambling up from the bed, grabbing his clothes and hurrying into the bathroom.

Alec waits until he hears the sounds of the shower and groans audibly shifting to lay on his back.

“Well fuck,” he says rubbing at his eyes as he lets his alarm just keep on blaring.

The rest of the morning is awkward at best. Every sentence they say to each other is stunted, both talking more to the repairman who blissfully doesn’t question why they didn’t just come by the evening before than to each other.

The drive back is a stark opposite to the drive up. Filled with quiet music playing and aborted glances at one another instead of cheerful conversation and karaoke. They don’t talk about how they woke up wrapped around each other or about much of anything and Alec hates it.

Hates that what could have been written off as an innocent in their sleep mistake is now making everything thick with tension between them because he caught feelings that he’s getting worse and worse at hiding.

They drop off the machine at work and are gratefully sent home. Magnus pulls up outside of Alec’s house and drums his fingertips on the steering wheel.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you at school Monday,” Alec says unbuckling his seatbelt and moving to open the door, but a hand on his other arm stops him.

“Wait, Alexander, I’m sorry,” Magnus says running a nervous hand through his hair.

Alec wishes he wouldn’t call him Alexander, it’s lovely and doesn’t feel right coming from anyone else, but it makes his feelings all sorts of twisted up inside. Alec is confused at his words, he’s the one who made things weird not Magnus.

“Sorry? Magnus why are you sorry? I should be the one who’s sorry,” he says frustratedly.

“No, I made things awkward this morning after I cuddled you in my sleep and it made you uncomfortable,” he says hands going back to the steering wheel. He chews nervously at his bottom lip, pausing for a second. “Wait, why should you be sorry?”

Alec lets out a frustrated groan running his hands through his hair.

“Because I’m the one who made you uncomfortable not being able to hide my feelings when we could have just laughed this morning off and moved on,” he says and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth like he can put the words back in if he tries hard enough.

“Your feelings,” Magnus says unbuckling his seatbelt and turning towards him. He kills the engine intent on staying put now it seems. “For me?”

Alec drops his hand from his mouth and just nods. There’s not point in denying it now, his brain to mouth filter has already burst the bubble and betrayed him.

“Alexander,” he says with a little laugh. “I thought you were uncomfortable because I was being obvious about my feelings for you.” He says it pointedly like he really, really needs the words to sink in for Alec. It takes a few beats, but eventually they do.

Magnus likes him. The same way he likes Magnus and while he’d been struggling with how it was his fault for making things awkward all morning Magnus had been doing the exact same thing.

“Wait so you mean, you have feelings for me too?” he asks anyways just to really be sure. He’s only running on two hours of sleep so he could just be hearing things he wants to hear or quite possibly he fell asleep on the ride from the coffee shop to home and is dreaming that things aren’t still weird between them.

“Yes, Alec,” he says with a twist of his lips saying it very slowly like Alec is being particularly slow in this moment.

“Oh,” he says turning to face Magnus. “Well, that’s good.”

“I’d go as far to say great actually,” Magnus says with a chuckle. He bites his lips for a second nervous for a different reason than before and Alec can’t fight it anymore.

Before he can even really think about it he’s leaning over the center console connecting his lips to Magnus’. As far as first kisses go it’s probably not perfect or ideal, but Magnus’ lips are soft and warm and part his expertly and when his fingers move up into Alec’s hair he feels more content than he ever has so as far as Alec’s concerned it is a damn perfect first kiss.

“We are so dumb we could have been doing that for months,” Magnus says when they pull back his hand still resting on Alec’s neck. Alec moves his hand circling his fingers around Magnus’ wrist and pulling it softly so he can lay a kiss at the center of his palm.

Magnus lets out a wounded little noise like Alec is absolutely shattering him with a soft gesture.

“We got there eventually,” he says with a shrug smiling at Magnus. “Maybe now I won’t have internal crises every day about how good you look.”

Magnus laughs entwining their fingers together.

“Doubtful,” he says with a smirk eyes locked on Alec’s.

Alec snorts. “Good point,” he says, knowing that even if they’re together he’ll still lose his mind over how good Magnus looks. He thinks for a second then speaks again. “I should probably confess something to you,” he says a little more serious than he means to.

Magnus straightens up a little furrow in his brow.

“We didn’t actually have to stay overnight last night, you just kinda smiled at me and my brain went offline and decided to lie so we could spend more time alone together,” Alec confesses wanting to start their relationship off right with total honesty.

“Alexander,” Magnus says with a little dreamy sigh the furrow in his brow disappearing. “I don’t know if that’s romantic or weird, but either way I’m glad your brain stopped functioning.”

Alec laughs tugging at Magnus’ hand and bringing him in a little closer. Magnus smiles in response before pulling Alec back in kissing him breathless.  

[himbowelsh]

Thank you for answering my earlier questions! I know you've written for Grant and Talbert before (I cannot remember their ship name for the life of me) would you be willing to write any modern head cannons for them? Or any general relationship head cannons for them? Those two don't get enough love together! 🙂

gralbert.  talbant.  grantbert?  tabant?  fluck?   there are no good options here.

Modern Headcanons (this turned into a coffeeshop au i’m sorry):

Grant’s really just vibing through life, to be honest. Out of all his friends, he’s the one who’s got his shit most together, and that’s something to be proud of. So what if he’s still not sure exactly where he wants to be in ten years, or how he’s going to get there? It’s enough to just...  exist in the moment.

That moment, currently, puts him in charge of managing a small coffee shop which has become the social hub for his entire social circle. Not only is he making great cash, he gets to stay connected with old friends and meet new people every day. Plus...  he’s never short on coffee? Literally nothing to complain about.

It’s not that he doesn’t feel...  well, connected is the wrong word, because he definitely is. There are just times when he feels...  lonely. Chuck’s got a lot of friends, but he’s also the sort of guy who could stand in the middle of a crowded room and suddenly feel like he’s the only one there  ---  like no one’s really looking at him at all.

He craves attention, affection, warmth.

That’s when Dog Boy happens.

In Chuck’s defense, Dog Boy is a complete accident. The coffee shop is just supposed to be a canine free zone...  so he’s completely baffled to see a guy walk in with at least five dogs, all on leashes, and order an iced coffee to go.

The guy definitely seems like he’s in a hurry  ---  like he really, really needs a coffee  ---  but Chuck can only stare.  “Are those all supposed to be service dogs?” he asks.

“Um,” Dog Boy says.

Chuck points to the sign on the wall, which very clearly reads the coffee shop’s animal policy. Dog Boy lets out a weird noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Okay, I’m sorry, I know, but can I please please just get an iced coffee?”

It looks like he has his hands full. More than full. This coffee is going to end up spattered on a sidewalk somewhere, and Dog Boy will probably cry. He looks like he might cry right now, just for the hell of it.

Chuck gets him an iced coffee.

That should be the end of it, but a few days later, Dog Boy comes back. He doesn’t have any dogs in tow this go ‘round, but looks five times as relaxed  ---  which is really, really a good look on him  ---  and promptly deposits a twenty dollar bill in Chuck’s tip jar.   “For you,”  he declares, and winks.

Chuck just stares at him.  “We, uhh  ---  we have to split the tips between everyone on shift, and there are, like, four other people here...”

“Christ,” says Dog Boy, and plucks the bill out of the tip jar  ---  can he do that?  is that allowed? ---   and tucks it in the pocket of Chuck’s apron.     “For you. You saved my life the other day, with the coffee. Can’t tell you what sort of day I was having, but...”

He smiles, and it’s the ridiculous sort of smile that shouldn’t be allowed to exist on anyone who’s not in Hollywood   ---   casually blinding, bright enough to leave Chuck feeling warm all over.

If he had to pick the moment he knew he was in trouble...  right there. There is it.

Floyd Talbert becomes a regular in the coffee shop after that. Turns out, he knows a startling amount of Chuck’s friends.  It’s not long before Tab’s popping in nearly every day to joke around with Bill and Babe, cause trouble with Liebgott, or even confer quietly with Mr. Winters in the corner. Seeing Tab becomes one of the highlights of Chuck’s day; they never really talk, but he’s got his coffee order memorized, and everytime that bold smile flashes his way, he feels a little dizzy.

Is this...  what it’s like to have a crush?  Strange.  Unnerving.  Chuck hasn’t had a crush since middle school.   Why now...  and why, of people, on Talbert?

One look at him and that becomes a stupid question. Who wouldn’t have a crush on Talbert?

Chuck comforts himself with that knowledge   ----   no doubt, Tab’s got girls lining up around the block. What interest would he have in a barista who always adds a little extra sugar to his coffee, just because that’s how he likes it?

Tab is the sort of guy who draws people to him like moths to a porch light; he’s dynamic and popular wherever he goes. Chuck has a tight group of friends who he sticks to like glue, and would do anything for; he’s always been more content to wait in the background, observing and working silently. He doesn’t enjoy the limelight. Tab attracts it.

There’s no way they’d work together, because Tab would never notice him.

Until the day Smokey Gordon comes up to the counter with a big grin on his face, and drops something in the tip jar.  “Just for you,”  he declares, and winks.

It’s a folded up piece of paper...  and there’s a phone number written on it. Chuck blinks for a moment, confused, before putting two and two together. Smokey gave him the number as soon as Tab left the shop.

He texts it that night.   “smokey gave me this number...  this is chuck, the barista from the coffee shop”   Waiting restlessly on his balcony with a cigarette in hand, bouncing his leg like it’s running a marathon...  Chuck has nothing to do but hold his breath.

Suddenly, the phone buzzes. It startles his cat into falling off the table. Chuck nearly jumps out of his skin.

“why am i not surprised?  typical smokey”    comes the response, followed by a startlingly accurate bitmoji.   (He uses those instead of emojis?  That’s kinda narcissistic but also really cute?)

After a moment of Chuck holding his breath, searching for how to reply  (he’s a very slow texter, and it drives his friends insane)  another message comes through from Tab.

“good thing he did tho, because i’d have spent a few more weeks working up the courage”

Chuck has a heart attack on the spot.

“honestly,”   he replies,   “i’d have skipped the number and gone straight to asking you to dinner”

“wow, a gentleman!!!”      His enthusiasm is adorable.       “sounds great to me.   are you free friday?   i know a great place for burgers”

It’s across the street from a 24-hour vet clinic.

That’s why Tab wanted to go there.

They make it through half an hour of the date with Tab obviously getting restless, and Chuck is terrified he’s boring him...  until Tab abruptly sets his glass down on the counter and turns to Chuck, fresh brightness in his eyes. “Can we actually go somewhere else? I’ve got some friends you might like to meet.”

Tab works at the local vet clinic, and he’s the one tasked with walking all the dogs each afternoon. Usually they go in shifts, but on that particular day, Tab was in a rush and decided to take them all at once.

“They ran me all over town,” he declares, a funny note of pride in his voice. “I was that close to passing out...  but then I saw the shop, and I saw you, and...”

He trails off, gnawing at his lower lip  ---   his hands are occupied roughhousing with a golden retriever, while a persistent beagle noses at his elbow. Chuck blinks at Tab over the head of an enthusiastic Yorkie, and feels something warm bloom in his chest.

“Next time, I decide the date location,” he declares. Tab grins, bright and blinding as a solar eclipse. To his own amazement, Chuck feels like he’s come home.

General Relationship Headcanons:

Chuck’s mellower than Floyd in a lot of ways. He’s less emotional, better at thinking things through; when their friends are causing havoc, Tab will eagerly be swept along in the chaos, while Chuck will follow to make sure no one causes too much trouble. They both know how to have fun, though, and have equally adventurous streaks that match well together. Hiking, rock climbing, bike riding...  these are all dates they’d enjoy.

Floyd appreciates Chuck’s honesty. Sometimes he can be too blunt (”What do you think of these jeans?” “Eh, you’ve worn better.”), but he never beats around the bush, and there’s never any question whether Floyd can trust his judgement. Chuck says what he thinks, and means what he says.

Floyd is gentler in a lot of ways, and this is something Chuck isn’t used to. He’s never...  been taken care of before. He’s never been doted on. Floyd loves doting on him, and this takes a lot of getting used to.

Chuck is the first one to say “I love you”, and it shocks them both. Sure, they’d been thinking it for a while, but...  Chuck never thought he’d find the courage to voice it, but it slips out almost unconsciously. Floyd pauses in the middle of making dinner...  then chuckles softly, almost to himself, and glances back over his shoulder.  “Love you too,”  he replies, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.  To both their surprises...  it is.

Floyd’s morals run deep, and he’s got a sensitive side that’s easily stoked. Tug on his heartstrings, and he’s open to anything...  which scares Chuck, who doesn’t trust as easily. Floyd’s more than capable of taking care of himself, but a part of Chuck feels like he needs to protect him from getting hurt. That’s impossible. The first time something hits Floyd hard, and he’s left pacing into the early hours of the morning, chewing his lip raw and agonizing over what he could have done differently, Chuck stays up with him. He doesn’t try to stop him, doesn’t try to calm him down...  but when Tab finally collapses in a chair, exhausted, Chuck’s the one who coaxes him up and to bed.

After that, it’s his turn to take care of Floyd.  This is a role he falls into with much more ease...  and Floyd, as it turns out, enjoys being pampered as much as he does giving the love.

[retroandreal]

Hanging by a Moment (Lucien Rivercrest x MC)

Hey guys, its ya girl with another ficcy fic. So while I was writing this one here, I unconsciously took a massive left-turn and this turned into a “His POV” type of situation. I’m not even mad because I loved when Lovestruck did those little extras for the characters. I was also jumping for joy when they brought them back for Havenfall is for Lovers. Tagging @official-alex-cyprin

AN: Four snippets of Lucien’s POV from when he first met MC to winning the bake off, the most iconic scenes that stuck out in my opinion. Especially that spat with Vallia. (lil biss). This is inspired by the song ‘Hanging by a Moment’ by Lifehouse and this called for major fluff feels. TBH, all my fics have had major fluff feels. Guess it’s time to change my Tumblr banner name…

Sweet Enchantments café; my second lifeline. I’ve basically be annexed from my family after I landed myself in this rehabilitation center. I don’t resent it; I love to bake since it was what my grandmother raised my brother and I with. Now, It seems like my brother doesn’t even know me as well. Once you’re charged with a federal offence, I guess not even your family will back you up. Grandma was really the only one that believed in me. I was meant to inherit the Rivercrest business, but I knew it wasn’t ever going to be for me. Grandma knew that baking was all I had and that’s exactly how it led me to be the pastry chef at Sweet Enchantments. The owner and coordinator, Liora, has been more than welcoming of my desires and use my magic for presentation. Every day done; I would make the daily sweets for the display case but save the dessert acrobatics for the crowds of women that formed my fan-base. They feed my confidence and my ego, I know I’m good at what I do but it’s all on a day-to-day basis, no sustenance or real joy but I know I have to make the most of this second chance.

“Lucien! Pay attention!” Runa snaps at me, she’s the head waitress here at the café. I respect her as a coworker and a friend; we’re all in the same boat here

“Yeah yeah, sorry. I need to prep anyway before we open” I stand up abruptly and the chair that I once occupied screeches across the tiled floor. Another day, another day closer to the end of my sentence and I promise you, grandma, I will make you proud.

The afternoon rush hits; and my pastry counter is the busiest in the café in exception to the main dining floor

“Hello ladies, ready for today’s spectacle?” Met with squealing cries of excitement, I begin my magic-filled performance. ‘Oooohs’ and ‘ahhhs’ overcome my senses as my ego is constantly being fed, this is fine. The temporary bliss of adoration is enough to get me through the day, never more but only just enough. That’s when I see her; lost, wide-eyed, in awe of her surroundings. Like a lost puppy looking for its owner, or maybe in hopes of finding something… or someone. She is probably a first-timer here. I turn my back to fetch one of my enchanted whisks and cast a spell to beat my egg-whites into soft peaks to form the perfect meringue.

I turn back, she’s there

Looking just as starstruck as she did before

Then meets my eyes as I finish the final touches on the tarts just assembled for the crowd in front of me.

The wind subtly shifts around me

“She’s different” I murmur under my breath

“I-I was looking for my scarf and I stumbled across this café! I’m sorry” she stammers, as if she’s in the wrong. I shake my head in disbelief, this girl is so naïve. I hold out the last of the batch of tarts.

“Try one” I offer her

She accepts gratefully and our hands briefly touch, with little jolts of energy travelling between us.

“She’s different”

~~~~~~~

“Lucien! Come join me!” as she pats the bed just beside her energetically. She’s always been one for stories; telling and reading them. Standing still in my place, I debate whether I should join her since, lately, I have been growing some sort of feelings for her. I cannot fathom what these feelings are yet. I wouldn’t say I love her or even have a crush on her, but I’ll say that I do care for her.

“Ok, I’ll take your invitation” I make myself comfortable next to her. God, I can still smell the buttery pastry scent on her from when we were preparing the tart base for tomorrow’s day.

She smells like home, not the home where my parents are.

But the home where grandma raised me.

Surrounded by the same scents.

She smells like home, and I feel the most at ease with her presence here.

The sound of her voice and narration just becomes white noise in my ears as all that I can concentrate on is the engulfing scent radiating off her clothes from today she still has on, refusing to change until we have finished our platonic pillow-talk. She’s constantly pulling me in with how much she eases my incomplete heart with just her being beside me. I have not felt this way in a long time. She’s filling a void within me that hasn’t even been filled by my daily ego boosts but yet she makes me feel like I can conquer the world with just a whisk, oven and a few ingredients.

I’m closer to where I started, I was desperate for changing, but now I’m chasing after you

She swats my shoulder closest to her

“Hey! Get your head out of the clouds! Are you even listening to me?”

I chuckle deeply at her childish whining

“Don’t laugh, Lucien! It’s not funny! How long was I even talking to myself” she complains as she makes a god-awful attempt at an angry, threatening face and burying her face into my pillow

Dammit, is this what I’ve been missing? Comfort? I find myself not missing the presence of grandma as much ever since she’s been appointed my pastry apprentice. She’s made baking for me an enjoyable experience again, not just some monotonous chore just to by myself time throughout my sentence. She’s learnt so much within the past few days, she reminds me from back when I used to learn how to bake with grandma and my brother in the kitchen when I was just a kid. I’ve learnt how to accept and share my love of baking with other people and not just put on a show for my own reputation, to share my love of baking with her.

She forgets all that I’m lacking, how I’m completely incomplete

I’m done living for the tedious days in and days out, I want to make her life as filling as mine has become with her in it. I feel a little bit self-conscious and guilty that her basically being held hostage in Sweet Enchantments is my fault; If I had not shamelessly tried to show off my magic in front of her on that very day I met her, she would probably be home safe and sound. Not stuck here, illegally, glamoured, and awaiting the official response from the government which is, frankly, taking a decade and a half.  

I have this need inside me to keep her happiness. Selfish as I am, I hope to wake up to that smile of hers for as many mornings as I can.

~~~~~

Vallia is relentless. Giving her a piece and half of her mind. But she’s not taking it herself.

My headstrong angel. The way Vallia is giving her a threat. Maybe it’s the way she’s looking at her, or maybe how long she’s been tormenting her. She doesn’t back down. Instead, she holds her own against the force of nature which is Vallia. She advances on Vallia, thrusting one of her perfectly delicate fingers towards her.

“I did NOT do anything to you, and I don’t deserve the way you have been treating me”

“Well, it’s not my fault that you are a screw up”

Oh my, Vallia. You couldn’t have said anything else as wrong as that to her. The bickering goes back and forth. I want to defend her. I really do. But I know I have to trust her that she can stand up for herself, because I have full faith in her self-defense as much as her ability to keep up with me; in the café as my apprentice as well as dealing with everything that has been dumped on her… because of me.

My mind is running and not quite sure where to go, so I continue to stand there. Proud of her, and her willingness to stand up for her own rights, self-worth and our relationship that was ungratefully exposed by Vallia herself.

“You’ve pushed and pushed me. I should CRUSH you”

I’m shellshocked by the hardness of her words, usually in the place of words of encouragement and love for me. But now, she’s furious. I try my hardest to hold back a small grin but fail when she catches the corners of my mouth twitching, unable to hold back the proud feeling I have toward this woman at this very moment.

I haven’t stepped in yet. I’m surprised I haven’t, But I trust her with my life. I’m letting go of all that I’ve held on to; my reputation, my image… for her. But I don’t care, I would give up a lifetime of fangirls and temporary loyalty just to make sure she’s the only one standing by my side at the end of the day. If the previous weeks haven’t proven anything to me, at this moment, I know that she is the one that I want; to support me throughout the rest of my sentence and the rest of my life.

I was living for the only thing I ever knew

But now, I want to live to make her happy

Right beside me

And I don’t intend on letting her get away

She’s taken all of me now, and I’m damn lucky to have her

Since that fateful day she literally stumbled into my life, till even now, I don’t know what I’m diving into. My little firecracker, she ignites a new light within my self to continue, to continue to grow. I want to grow and learn alongside her. Life has become so unpredictable with her in it, from the slight points of contact while we work in perfect harmony behind the pastry counter. To the secret rendezvous in the café storage room. While I run my hands through her hair and place soft, peppery kisses into the junctions of her neck where I know will ignite the most delectable of reactions from her. Those little moment where I can be myself with her in my room makes me proud to stand next to her. Hanging onto these little moments that I’ve had with her urge me to keep going. And I’m going to make sure that she is with me, every step of the way.

~~~~~

“And the winner of the bake-off is…”

I’m nervous. The most uneasy I have ever been in my life, but not for my own sake. For her sake. She encouraged me to compete as a new baker and, frankly, I fear to disappoint the love of my life. The past few days on the island have been the most emotionally tiring time in my life, but I know I’ve grown as a person, for the better… for her sake. Everything up until now I have done for her. To reconnect with my brother, bring myself closure from the passing of grandma… Grandma. I know you would have loved her. She brings as much joy in my life as baking did when you were still here. You would have loved her, maybe as much as I do now. She’s urged me to move on, to become a better man. She’s made me a better version of myself that I, if you would have asked me the same question a few months back, I would have laughed in their faces.

But it’s true

“LUCIEN RIVERCREST!!!”

She’s my rock

Cheer from all around me invade my ears and a seawall of loyal and new fans have gathered around me to celebrate my victory over that vindictive pixie.

I’m closer to where I started

I lock eyes with her from an opening in the crowd

I’m chasing after you

I part the crowd and make a hasty beeline towards her. I could spot her from a mile away.

I’m standing here until you make me move

As I get closer, she starts to push through herself in hopes of meeting me halfway. But I get there first, because I’ve been chasing after her since the beginning.

My new beginning.

My new life.

With her.

But right now, as she barrels into my arms, I lift her up into a Hollywood worthy kiss in front of the floating camera orbs.

I’m hanging by a moment here with you

[a-franciscan-spirit]

Please, please say a prayer for my dad. And for my family too. Long story under the cut.

My dad had major back surgery on Monday. They sent him home on Wednesday even though my mom told them he wasnt ready to leave the hospital yet. He requires constant care because he literally cannot do anything for himself right now. I can see the strain my mom is under right now, and Im trying to do everything I can for her in between work shifts. Im struggling to adult for three people so she can give him the continual care he needs. Neither of us have slept much all week. I woke up this morning, and my mom told me she almost had to call an ambulance for him last night. He couldnt walk, he couldnt breathe. My teenage brother had to help--cause I passed out and he was still awake--and they managed to make it through to morning thanks to the extra oxygen of his CPAP machine. Though apparently he is rather incoherent. But not even ten minutes later, my mom tells me that the doctor said he had to go to the ER cause he may have a pulmonary embolism. So my mom did have to call an ambulance.

I can hear them upstairs right now. God, Im so scared. And I cant afford to sit down and cry cause everyone needs me to be strong right now. And Im aware that the moment Im actually alone, Im probably going to collapse in a fit of anxiety.

I know Ive been bad about praying this week. I know I havent turned to God as I should have. I know Ive been trying to carry it all by myself. But I also cant help but feel like Ive let my mom down; like I havent done enough. Just because I end up being the one to hold up the home front, and attempt to keep things looking normal for my brother when Im not at work. There’s a small voice in my head that says “look at you. you cant keep trying to do more. youve done as much as you can. dont feel guilty about not doing more than you are able.” But its really hard to listen to it at the moment. I was planning to go to Mass today, but I dont know if I’ll be in a fit state to drive.

Anyway, before I end up babbling, I should go check on my mom... and make sure she cant tell Ive been trying not to cry for the last hour. It would be a big comfort to me to know at least someone is praying until Im alone enough to bawl into a rosary later. Edit: I forgot she said she was going to follow the ambulance to the hospital. And now it is eerily quiet... Update from mother who just got to the hospital: He’s apparently in sepsis, high fever, low blood pressure, etc etc. And shes beating herself up for not calling last night. I told her “you didnt know, you cant blame yourself for something you didnt know.” And the neighbors are already asking questions. Which, bless them, are well-intentioned, but that means I have to do damage control later. Afternoon update: He has been admitted to ICU with pneumonia and a slew of other things. I have no idea how long its going to be until he can come home again. And Im worried. At least he will get the care he needs and hopefully he will improve soon. 

Evening update: No sepsis, but he may have had a small heart attack... and had a liter and a half of fluid drained from his lungs. He also has very low kidney function and his liver is struggling so, he has a lot of things not working so well right now. Please keep praying.