#I AM BACK TO FEELING ASHAMED OF UNFINISHED THINGS

[greenskellyblob]

[thankshermin]

About the Scene Where Dazai Tells Akutagawa “You got stronger“

...and some rambling about their relationship, featuring a few lines about Kyouka and Mori at some point.

I think about that scene a lot and the fact that it is not talked about is really bugging me off so I need to get some things out of my chest,, let’s gooo 

CW: mentions of abuse

First of all, it is not equal to an apology. It simply is not. There is a high chance that Dazai probably didn’t even say it as an apology. He merely stated the fact that Akutagawa got stronger. What is more important about this scene is not what he said but rather how he said it.  

Dazai has changed and he is still changing for the better. The way he looks at Akutagawa and praises him in that soft tone is not how would Dazai express his thoughts to Akutagawa in the mafia.  

Now, for another matter about this scene; those words obviously meant a lot to Akutagawa but it doesn’t have to mean much, if anything, to him. 

Dazai doesn’t apologize to him. He doesn’t mention anything about his treatment to Akutagawa and doesn’t acknowledge it. We don’t know for sure if he truly doesn’t regret it or if he does feel ashamed about it and decides against saying something.

Why was Dazai even that awful to Akutagawa, anyway?

Well, obviously not because he takes sadistic pleasure from hurting Akutagawa. He believed that if he didn't, Akutagawa couldn't survive in the mafia. Akutagawa turned out to be the mafias one of the strongest attackers, due to this. Was it necessary? Of course not. He was very abusive towards Akutagawa. Is it an explanation? Yes, it is. That is what Dazai thought he was supposed to do, and since he didn't have any direct subordinates he mentored; we can't really compare but there is this conversation he had with Odasaku;

“Ah, Akutagawa is a sword without a scabbard.” Dazai smiles slightly. “It won’t be long before he becomes the mafia’s most powerful ability user. However, someone needs to teach him how to keep his blade.” I am startled. I have never heard Dazai praise his subordinates so unreservedly. “Is he really that outstanding?” “When I first saw him in the slums, I shuddered. His talent is far above that of others. His ability is extremely destructive, and he is fairly stubborn himself. If left ignored, he would be at the mercy of his ability. It wouldn’t be long until he self-destructs.” Dazai has never taken the initiative to take in a subordinate, much less a starving youth in the slums. But Dazai seems to have his own plans.

This makes me sad because Dazai never disliked Akutagawa or thought he was weak. He always thought Akutagawa would be strong. But the thing is, Akutagawa doesn't know that. Dazai never made it clear to him. Kind of a shame he was a shitty teacher most of the time. Makes me wonder why Mori never said anything about it to Dazai. I am curious about lots of things about Mori and Dazai's relationship, to be honest. Dazai was always messed up but Mori messed him to a further point, whether he meant it or not. Dazai was also really mentally unstable when he was still in the mafia and couldn't bother trying to be gentle. Dazai is still not healed but he is doing a lot better in the ADA.

Back to Dazai never saying anything about it, that behavior itself is very weak on Dazai’s end. He desperately tries to change but there are just some things that he still can not work on. One of them is this. He has unfinished businesses with many people and one of them is Akutagawa. Maybe he can’t bring himself to show that vulnerability towards him, maybe he truly doesn’t think what he did was something he should be apologizing for, maybe he thinks apologizing could make it worse instead of fixing it, etc. etc. I can still count.

But there is one thing and it’s that Dazai doesn’t go out of his comfort zone in his relationships. I am not saying that he would return back to his old tendencies in time since that goes against all of his character trying to find his place in a better world but I’m just saying that Dazai probably finds it more convenient to treat Akutagawa the way he always did and even that little “you’ve gotten stronger” was a milestone for him. 

Akutagawa really had the right to say fuck off to Dazai and his half-assed apology, he really did, but I believe that scene was as equally important on Dazai's end as it is on Akutagawa's side. It means something. It isn't supposed to fly over the viewers' heads.

Progress isn't linear and Dazai shows it in a very slow way. A lot of things get in his way. He sometimes struggles, but that's what makes it realistic. you know what they say; one step forward, two steps back.

What the larger part of the fandom refuses to understand is that Dazai is not on the polar end of something. He is very mixed in that part. He is not a pure angel and probably would be one of the worst people you could have ever met if he were a real person. But he is not the devil's respawn on Earth either. Most of y'all forget that he was a lost child who got guided by the worst possible person ever. (I really like Mori's character too but that's a different topic, he is still a terrible person) If he is trying to change and do better, I'm always going to be rooting for him.

There is this saying, you can't teach an old dog new tricks and I really want Dazai to prove this wrong. His words to Akutagawa were not his destination on this journey, it was more like a milestone.

Akutagawa is also showing development too and that is mostly thanks to Atsushi. I kind of doubt this but maybe Akutagawa understands the meaning of Dazai's words since he was also giving Kyouka a half-assed apology type of thing. Their situations are so similar that I don't need to say much about it.

Akutagawa has grown so much and he probably will continue to do that, but it doesn't erase his trauma, not really. Dazai really messed Akutagawa up. Even though it doesn't count as an apology, this shows that Akutagawa has come to terms with Dazai's abuse and his own treatment of Kyouka and he deserves a kudos for that. acknowledging that your mentor messed you up and also acknowledging that you traumatized someone takes an effort.

Akutagawa may have learned most of the cruel things he did from Dazai, but he has grown enough to realize that he is actually his own person.

Ending;

I like most bsd characters because of how real and how grey they are and the abuse circle/web is really well-written. I really do want to explore it better some other time. As I said, not everyone has the guts to come up to terms with the fact that they were abused, let alone that they were shitty to other people. Akutagawa and Dazai are really different characters on their own but their relationship shows that they truly are influenced by an upper power and even though they both individually have a long way to go, this scene of Dazai telling Akutagawa he got stronger does mean a lot than an interaction between them that lasted two seconds.

[na-t0]

𝘚𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳

Nicholas D. Wolfwood x reader (fem)

nsfw . male masturbation . multiple mentions of religious themes . minors please do not interact

"I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth...shit, what's next?"

Despite of what others think, Nicholas D. Wolfwood has come to the conclusion that he is indeed, the perfect example to belie the thought commonly held by people that him, and all the other children of the Lord who is high in the heavens, are made in his image and likeness. He is just a man, a mere mortal, vulnerable and weak in the face of temptation, son of original sin. Trying to atone for, and amend, the errors that life has brought within his path, and from which he cannot seem to escape.

Same life that unfortunately has also placed him in the way of your so intoxicating self. As if it were an unforgivable and cruel test to endure the strength of his already cracked spirit, a test to prove how much he is capable of resisting when the sharp claws of lust slowly scratch his back when he tries to sleep and the image of your beautiful face invades his mind. He also claims being able to feel them scratching once again when, after what seems like an eternal week of waiting, he manages to spot you sitting among the 47 people that fit in the orphanage’s chapel at the time of the religious ceremony he presents on Sundays at 10 in the morning.

Nicholas talks to himself all the time. He talks about a whole bunch of different things to stay busy and distant from the loneliness that his profession entails. He also writes, on a small black notebook that shamelessly reads Holy Bible on its cover, which he keeps in the inside pocket of his suit all day. It is possible to find random thoughts scrambled between its pages, occasional unfinished sketches of the kids who visit him frequently, prayers and attempts at poetry that, despite the ease he possesses to release a speech towards an audience made up of people full of faith in the word he preaches every weekend, the simple idea that one day you might inadvertently read what lies on those yellowish paper sheets terrifies him to the point where he can feel each and every one of his nerve endings on the surface of his skin, pulsing with the same intensity as the wings of a flying hummingbird.

He writes for you, more specifically. Even though in life, there are weaknesses that sometimes, do not allow the deepest feelings of the heart to flourish freely.

"I am just an object waiting to be ashes, and it is precisely for that reason that I would like my body to burn until it is consumed as one with yours. So at the end, dust will be the only thing that remains of our spirits, mixed together, to be later carried away by the wind of this unforgiving desert we call home."

“I have reached such a degree of insanity that, not even with the help of a thousand divine healing rites, my composure will return. I have even considered exchanging the blood of as many sinners as necessary to the Devil in order to melt into the blazing but purifying fire that surely arises with the single touch of your lips, and if you allow me, to endulge in the perfect contradiction that lies between your legs. A place both sacred and infernal, a place where good and evil converge and is powerful enough to drive even the most righteous and ruthless of religionists to an infinite madness. A place that I can only imagine feels like heaven and hell at the same time, capable to burn but also soothe the wounds in the soul of a disgraceful believer, one such as myself, your humble servant.”

“And I am not ashamed to affirm in front of the cross in which the son of God was punished because of filth like me, that, your mere presence encourages me to violate every order imposed by the invisible power of my belief, all that for what he, the same guy I mentioned earlier, sacrificed himself for in the first place. He sacrificed himself for you and especially for me, and above all, for the atrocities that come with the human race to disappear from the world. Such as the kind of things that flood my mind when my gaze manages to distinguish a little glimpse of your underwear when you put on that pretty dress of yours and you take a seat in the front row. A dress I like to imagine you only use for me.”

When Sunday comes, the ceremony starts and it's your turn at the moment of communion. It all happens in a matter of minutes every single time, a fleeting contact that is difficult to remove from his system. The host is delicately held by Wolfwood's hands as he stares at you, the abyss of his obsidian orbs capturing your attention to ask for your permission. You nod and look back at him too, subtly batting your eyelashes and slowly sticking out your tongue in an inviting way, that more than innocent, seemed diabolical, as if you knew which cards to move to obtain an absolute victory. And he feels it, he feels something struck his chest. Like a pair of magnets who can't fight the silent attraction that tries to unite them. You glance at the thick fingers infront of you for an instant, and then once again, you lift your stare towards him to take the host. His breathing stopped the moment he felt the back of his fingers get in contact with the wetness of your tongue while accommodating the wafer on it, and he almost, just almost, stutters in his words, but he doesn't, it takes all of his will not to. He blinks and his hand moves away from your lips to continue with the the other presents. You turn around and go back to your place without looking back. Luckily for him, the robe that covers his body does not allow to reveal any trace of what could give away his growing hunger for you.

Reminiscing something that he himself already wrote once in his notebook.

“It’s a disgusting sight, truly. How you take the sacramental bread from the hands of a sinful bastard, how you try to be purified by the same hands that are permanently stained with the obscene thought of consuming your body, your entire being. But you don’t have an idea of how much I love it, how much I want you to be mine.”

The lecture finished at 10:57 a.m. Nicholas remembers glancing at the watch on his wrist to regain the track of time he lost when you got close to his body. Seeing that people were starting to get up, he decided to clean his instruments to leave everything in order, and at the same time, bring some peace to his mind. He didn't have long arranging his space when Wolfwood felt a sudden and intense urge to look back, and when he did, you were the first thing that he focused on, stumbling upon the surprise of your eyes already searching for his while walking to the exit, wearing the most precious smile he’s ever seen on your face. A smile just for him.

By 11:23 a.m. the chapel was completely empty and Wolfwood walked with an unbearable weight on his feet towards the confined space of the confessional, along with a box of matches in hand that he took from an old cabinet. He closed the door, took a seat and leaned his head against the wall, which protested with a slight screech, as if it knew what was going through the troubled man's mind. Of course you appeared immediately, the images of every time you two have exchanged greetings in the streets, in the market, or even at the events to raise funds for the orphanage.

First came the color of your eyes, which seemed to dominate and illuminate the darkness of the small space he was in, then your eyebrows and the expressions that characterize your words while speaking. Thirdly, your mouth, the Eden he dreams of so much, reflected in the shine that your lips acquire when you bite and wet them with saliva. Imagining how they move to the compass of your voice, if they are rounded, if you smile or if you stay quiet. Nicholas raised his right hand and gently touched his own mouth to try to calm the urgency of joining it with yours. He closed his eyes and remembered the slight meeting he had with it an hour ago. The warmth of your breath on his knuckles and the softness he touched with the pads of his mistreated fingers. How easy would it be to draw a whimper out of you, the sweetest sound he can think of. His pants began to feel more and more uncomfortable with every passing minute, the pressure exerted by the growing erection in his groin started to become unbearable. Will he be able to obtain salvation if he confesses everything, here and now?

"God...please" And just as he often does, he began to talk. "I want her more than...a-anything in this world...can't I have her either?" The hand that previously touched your lips, traveled up to his crotch and gave a first cautious squeeze, allowing himself to be carried away by the venom of the serpent that condemned us all as sinners centuries ago, which little by little contaminated his veins and blinded his sight. Now not only did he imagine the Eden in your beauty, he was about to enter that precious place, only to break the rules. "I haven't been...a g-good man, but..." His breathing began to falter, with great gulps of air, his chest rose and fell, trying to oxygenate his racing heart. "I swear I...I can treat her right." The restraint of the stiff bottoms was starting to be painful for Nicholas, so he reached for the button, hastily undoing it to reach into his underwear. The burning heat of desire greeting him. And as he could, he pulled out his member from the base without removing his pants. The cold edge of the zipper brushed against the prominent veins of his rigid sex while his hand tried to conciliate the relief he so desperately needed. He kept traveling with his mind through your neck, your chest, your waist and your navel, the unknown nudity that he longes for unfolding before him in an imaginary scenario within the four small walls of the confessional. His breathing became more and more disturbed and growls began to sprout from the depths of his being.

"I'm sorry, God...I'm so s-sorry" He started to apologize because he knows exactly what is next. He enjoys being rough with his wicked self, he is violent. Pulling his own hair with one hand while the other strokes himself harshly. He spits on the tip, and watches how saliva slowly rolls to the base. He grunts, an animalistic type of sound that reveals the wildest part of his existence, his human predatory instinct, the part that he tries to repress with calling himself a preacher of the Lord’s word. He likes to tighten the grip in his member to the point where the veins on his forehead begin to become visible and the color of his shaft changes entirely with the accelerated flow of blood. Suffocating in his own body, a prisoner of his dark desires.

"Our Father, who...a-art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is...i-in heaven." It was in that moment when he began to pray. And the drops of fluid that came out of his slit with anticipation gave his hand more access to stroke with a quicker pace. From outside the confessional, it was possible to hear the faint slippery sound of friction from skin to skin and the murmured pleas of a man sunk in perdition.

"Give us this day our daily bread, a-and forgive us our trespasses...as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temp-temptation...but deliver us from...evil."

Would God be able to truly forgive such an act?

"A-Amen."

And it's just when he finishes his pleas that he finds himself betrayed by his own mind, letting your name slip from his lips, over and over again, like a renovated prayer, but profane and corrupted. The peculiar burning sensation in the lower part of his abdomen starts to approach. He bites the collar of his white camisole and drool escapes from the sides of his mouth in the delirium of a near orgasm. Squeezing his eyes shut he imagined your breasts swaying in front of his face as you grind on top, your angelic face contorted with the ecstasy of a fictional encounter, and your core eagerly receiving each of his thrust. The sweet aroma that your sweat must have and all the possible ways you could moan his name.

"Ni..cholas, ah...Nicholas...Nic..."

The entirety of his skin crawls to the thought. And his hips begin to move with an unbridled, involuntary frenzy, consequence of the carnal instinct that species keep hidden in their bodies.

"Oh...God..please, please...ple-please." He calls uselessly for the only one who could redeem him, the only one who could accept a sin like this. Finally, he rapidly drags his hand a couple of last times and the orgasm begins to hit his senses. A last growl comes out of his chest before his teeth unconsciously loosen the fabric of the shirt to let out a deafened cry. With some last thrusts, his hips rise in a lost rhythm from the bench on which he is sitting as his seed spills violently into his right hand, staining some of the fabric of his black pants along the way.

The warm sensation of contact with his own release brings him back to himself, and he can only at this point, contemplate more clearly the mistake he has made.

“Divine forgiveness, what a bunch of shit.”

He drops the other hand that was tugging at his brunette locks in the heat of the momentum inside his pocket, pulls out a cigarette, places it in his mouth and proceeds to wipe the remains of cum on his right palm with a handkerchief, so he can pick up the matches he had brought with him, light the stick, and take a hit, trying to quell with smoke the latent nectar of lonely intimacy impregnated in the air. He takes a few moments to let the haze of the moment pass completely as he watches the mess in his lap and his now softened member.

The cigarette is half finished, he is a fast smoker.

He inhales and exhales once more, and then, there’s a subtle, almost silent, knock on the door, followed by what he recognizes is your voice coming from the rusty confession room's grate.

“F-Father Nicholas...?”

[harmonyfriends]

On Being Fictional

We decided to take a sort of survey in our system on what being a fictive or a character kinnie means to those of us who are affected by that sort of thing, and we came up with lots of interesting responses! I hope it helps show that there's many diverse relationships one can have with that sort of identity, even within just one system.

Had a lucid dream about being our own fanfic self-insert and it made me realize a fantasy life wasn't a life.

Was in the lucid dream as our own fanfic's other self-insert slash love interest. She told me I was real and I said "uhhhhh, really? I guess?" Well, turns out…

I'm a fictive of a male character who transitioned to female… now I go back and forth, but have a new masc name instead of my deadname. How much my fictional life feels like memories fluctuates a lot with me.

I Dunno I Kinda Just Thought It'd Be Fun And Comfy To Be Me :> ( And I Was Right ! )

Supporting character from the fanfic, supporting character in our brain. I try not to think too hard about it.

I was so fucking pissed off about being here until I realized I could just stay asleep most of the time. My identity confuses me though.

Got hurt bad while roleplaying a lifetime ago and got stuck in her headspace as some kind of trauma response. It feels like I have memories from that world.

I'm just me… I don't know how to describe it any more than that…

I knew I was her from the moment I laid eyes on her. I'm still figuring out what that means, but I don't feel like I ever lived in that world.

I dunno how much I'm her 'cuz I haven't watched the thing I'm from yet! I dunno if I'm even going to, but maybe some day?

we dreamt we had a headmate of a character we had no particular attachment to and for some stupid reason I was still there when we woke up. now I basically only show up when it'd be funny

Whatever I am, I just can't let go of my mental self-image and inner voice being of this character. I'm learning to accept that I am loved for this. Genderfluid now.

I believe a cosmic stroke of luck caused me to reincarnate into this world with my platonic soulmate, after both dying in our source. I'm just grateful for a chance to spend some more time together.

I just asked myself what kind of identity would make me not want to die, and this character is the first thing my brain came up with. I dunno if I'll stay this way forever, but for now, it suits me.

I'm me 'cuz I said so!! >:3

I passively thought about kinning this character for like one second and no one else in here let me live it down!!!

I fell in love with my headmate the moment I saw her… I'm more or less just perma-roleplaying a character that fits as her girlfriend, but that's basically all I do, so if I'm her all the time, I'm her, right?

I'm so grateful that that horrible cartoon where all those terrible things happened to me and my friend was just a bad dream…

I'm here because she needs me.

I'm deeply ashamed of my kin, but the shame renders me unable to escape it. I have an alternate sona I like though. Mostly dormant.

Our forever-unfinished story means I'll be on the precipice between the final chapter and the epilogue for the rest of my life. I don't know why I gained self-awareness of this, but I think I've finally made my peace with it.

Ohohoho~ pay me no mind; I'm just roleplaying, dear.

[writeblrfantasy]

lila's 2023 writing wrap up!

we continue my yearly tradition of taking stock of what i wrote this year!! this year was a little different, in two big ways: the first was that i spent months editing and proofreading and publishing two books.

the red king's mystical suitors, which is out now

and the lover with five names, which drops january 23rd!

as well as managing all the work of being a self published author. (tldr it's no joke! not for the feint of heart! i feel a bit like the meme of the boy drowning!)

the second reason was that i spent a huge amount of time writing fanfiction this year, which was huge for my mental health but not forgiving when it came to original books. these two things combined means that i didn't spend as much time drafting new books as i typically do. not something i'm unhappy about, or am ashamed of, just a change! without further ado:

projects i finished this year:

skyriders (73k)

jack of fools (65k)

queen of crowns (74k)

the night auction (73k)

and 230k of fanfiction across 3 different fandoms! (hannibal bullet train and loki if you're wondering. if you want my ao3 then message me lmao)

unfinished things i wrote this year:

king of aces (51k)

weavers (17k)

untitled wip i called art gays: 12k

daybreakers: 11k

miscellaneous other 10k, let's say

projects planned for next year (a fun addition because i almost never end up going through with what i have planned, fun to look back on from the previous year)

the night auction sequel

secret wip #1 (mlm romcom)

secret wip #2 (sapphic romance)

secret wip #3 (no hints on this one)

i tried out secret writing for the first time this year, too! won nanowrimo for the first time since 2019, and it worked an absolute dream! 10/10 would and will do again.

(edit: realized i actually did win nanowrimo in 2021 and 2022. i'm an idiot)

until next year, everyone!

GENERAL TAGLIST: @worldbuildng @muddshadow @nikkywrites @47crayons @directionoftime @chayscribbles @magic-is-something-we-create @rodentwrites

[protect-daniel-james]

WIP asks: what is your oldest? What is the one you will probably never finish?

Omg, do unfinished chaptered fics count?

AO3 tells me the oldest non-finished chaptered fic is Silent Freeway, an Alex Turner/Miles Kane fic from ancient times. I am kinda ashamed of it now, because ultimately it was too much for me to write about - I chose the light topics of mental health and psychosis with my poor English skills, and obviously it was a pain in the ass to write in the end. I wasn't brave enough to go back and read it but I can imagine the shit I wrote back in 2016 in English. It was too much drama for the sake of drama, no characterisation, no reasonable behavior... I will definitely never finish that one. I'm not that much into Milex, and the whole story seems childish today.

Fun fact - it has over 11 000 words making up 11 chapters. Yes, 11 chapters. Which means about 1 000 words per chapter (I was so proud of it back then, lmao). Good old days. Nowaydays I write a 11 000 word fic about Inzaghi brothers fucking.

WIP which I might actually finish one day is definitely Let's fade together, let's fade forever. No football. Historical Figures RPF combining two of my favorite fruity couples from late 18th century, Alex Hamilton/John Laurens and Frederick II/Hans Hermann von Katte. As the tag says, I imagine Heaven as a waiting room. A waiting room where Laurens and von Katte meet and talk and wait for their loved ones. I think it was a nice lil' idea, a fic that became known as "sad gays in heaven". Yeah, it is still rather naive and silly looking back, but I am still quite proud of that one. It's literally missing one chapter.

My problem is I get too excited about a new thing, and I am able to produce quite quickly a new fic when I am excited. A planned out multichaptered fic even. But then, the excitement fades - either because I find a more interesting new thing, or because the response is non-existent, and I see that something I was excited about and cared about isn't really interesting "to the outside". Now don't get me wrong, I'm not one to count kudos and comments because I know that the ships and themes I write about are very niche (I am well aware that if I write a Pedri/Gavi fic, it would get to 200-300 kudos, if I write a Grizione fic, it would be around 50, but if I write about Unai Emery, there will be like 5) - but even with this awareness, if a fic I truly was excited about doesn't really get a response, I just don't feel motivated to prioritise it, work on the next chapter, or write something about the pairing again (unless it's Unai and Football, because those fics I take as a form of experience, exploration, and almost academic work so I don't care if y'all aren't reading those; they are for me to explore the unexplored. although it's nice when people read and comment on them, and want to discuss its topics, obviously).

When it comes to unpublished WIPs, I don't really have many of those because I tend to start my WIPs when excited and then I usually work quickly (unless it's literally a 10 000+ words fic like the yacht fic or like the Inzaghicest one might be). One that I promised to do was a Henderson/Stevie G in Saudi Arabia engaging in bad, sleazy, desperate sex because they have no clue what they are doing there, but I haven't really started to work on that.

I started working on a Mourinho/Abramovich fic (with a flavour of Abramovich/Sheva).

"Mr. Abramovich - " José made a significant pause, spread out his hands over the edge of the desk that separated him from the addressed man. "I know you like him. Is easy to see." For a moment not a single muscle in Abramovich's face moved. Then, his eyebrows rose up, and he tilted his head, smiling; not just smiling but amused at such a simple yet daring statement. "Is it?" he asked, although José wasn't completely sure about the wording. It might have been just a simple, bemused repetition of the word he himself used to describe his reading of the situation - easy.

I think it's now the oldest actual draft that I have, but it's only 2 months old lmao. As I said, I finish my fics pretty quickly (after all, I usually write directly in AO3 - believe me, I did regret it a few times), and the one month due date on drafts works miracles.

[blooming-violets]

In joy with FILE Peter and Charlie? I just like the idea of them adopting a little goth baby and being happy they have the family they deserve I'm sorry Katie I'm so soft for them

[link to original ship prompt]

[link to Forever Isn't Long Enough]

“Peter?”

Charlie lounged in the conservatory, laid out on her favorite wicker chair, as she stared through the glass roof at the blackened sky. A few persistent stars shone back but most were drowned out by the town's light pollution. A strange part of her memory could still see through Charlotte's eyes to look up at the same night sky over 300 years ago. Like she was seeing the same image from two perspectives throughout time. The difference in the number of stars now was depressing. 

She had been doing that a lot lately.

Sharing more and more memories with Charlotte. 

“Hmm?” He glanced up from his novel with a relaxed smile on his pale lips. His eyes softened the moment they caught her in his gaze. The ruby red of his iris gave off a faint glow in the dark room. 

Through Charlotte’s eyes, she could still see glimpses of his warm, chocolate brown one’s staring back at her. Even though he had been frozen in time, Peter had looked like such a boy back then compared to the man sitting here now. His body might never physically change but time will always change the way one carries themselves. The eyes don’t lie. 

Charlie placed an absentminded hand over her stomach with a soft sigh, “Do you ever think about the child?” 

His shoulders tensed and he tucked the book away at his side, “Which child would that be, dear?” 

She sat up and shot him an unimpressed look. He knew exactly which one she was talking about. 

“Your child.” She still didn’t feel right saying “our” child. She wanted to separate herself from Charlotte as much as possible. It wasn’t her baby who died in her womb but, somehow, the grief of that loss was becoming a constant nagging in the back of her mind. Her stomach would ache with a hollow emptiness whenever she thought about it. “The one Charlotte was pregnant with when she died.”

Peter was still for a long time. Charlie counted the tiles on the floor under them while she waited for a response. He was prone to doing that. Time worked differently for him. He would often take his time to think and process before speaking. What felt like ten minutes to her, would only be a few passing seconds to him. 

Finally, he stirred, letting out a long, deep sigh. His jaw tightened then relaxed and he leaned back in his seat. 

“Yes,” his reply was stiff and calculated. “I’ve thought about it every day of my agonizingly long life before you got here.” 

Charlie chewed at her bottom lip, trying not to feel ashamed for asking him the question. She was trying to learn how to be more assertive. She was allowed to talk to Peter. She was allowed to ask questions. Even if he didn’t like what she was asking. He would never hurt her for being curious. He was a safe person to talk with. 

“And?”

“And what?” He forced a tight smile, his fangs flashing under the moonlit night. “It’s something I can’t change. The past is the past, Charlie. This is the present. I am here, with you, happier than I’ve been in centerties. I no longer feel the need to torture myself over what could have been. I have you. I don’t need anything else.” 

The past wasn’t just the past for her. It was flooding into her life like a ghost with unfinished business. She kept flashing between the present and past. Little glimpses of memories. Overwhelming feelings of Charlotte’s emotions. She wasn’t allowed to just be Charlie until Charlotte got put to rest. 

And there was one thing that Charlotte wanted more than anything. 

She had found her Peter again. She had found a place for them to be safe with their love. But there was still something important missing. 

“Do you think I would be a good mother?” Charlie asked quietly, looking at her lap to not over analyze his expression. 

She heard him stand up. He silently strode the few steps towards her and leaned down between her legs. His cold hands wrapped around her cheeks and lifted her head up to face him. He wore a look of soft love plastered across his sharp features. 

“Do you think you would be?” He brushed his lips over the tip of her nose. “Because I know what I think but you’re the only one who knows your true self. I could sing your praises for years but only you know what is in your heart.” 

“Charlotte wants her baby.” 

Peter gave her a sad smile, “Charlotte is dead. Charlotte can not want. She is not here. What does Charlie want? Because that is who I care about.” 

She closed her eyes, nestling her head deeper against the safety of his palm, “I don’t know. Something is missing, though. There’s a piece still not in place.” 

Peter dropped an arm down to hook under her knees and easily lifted her into his arms. He sat down in her place instead with her draped over his lap and snuggled into his chest. His hands tangled in her hair with soothing strokes over her scalp. 

“Our lives are not normal, Charlie.” He whispered into the top of her hair, leaving kisses peppered over her. “I can’t…I can’t give you children. Not like before. Not like a normal man could. If that’s a deal breaker, I can figure something out, I can-”

She cut him off with a swift kiss to his lips, “It’s not a deal breaker. I don’t need you to give me children like that. There are other ways, though. There are kids out there. Sad, lonely kids who have known nothing but abuse and pain. Kids who long for someone to just love them. Why can’t that be us? I know what it’s like to grow up in a broken home. I think- I think I could love a broken kid better than anyone.” 

Peter smiled at the thought, “I think you could, too.” He tightened his grip around her waist to hold her closer. “I raised a child once. A long time ago. Late 1800’s. I was living in Queens. He was living on the streets. I used to buy newspapers from him. He was always around in the evenings when I would be out. One day I let him come inside for a meal and, next thing I know, he’s become my ward. His name was…was…” 

She waited patiently while he thought through his old, foggy memories. 

“Miles! That was it!” He planted a sloppy kiss to her cheek. “He was a good kid. I kept watch over him until he was 18. I sent him off to college with my money and left him a good fortune to do with as he pleased while I traveled around. I wonder what he made of it…” 

Charlie leaned her head against his shoulder. She liked the idea of Peter picking up stray children throughout time to help improve their lives. 

His mood darkened to a sulk, “But that’s the curse of living forever. People you love, they keep growing, they outlive you, and then they die. We might be able to have forever but they won’t. That’s the price you need to think of before you decide what you want to do.”

She lifted herself up to straddle her legs on either side of his lap so she could properly face him. 

“Peter Parker, that is not a curse,” she chastised him. She squished his cheeks between her palms to make sure he was paying full attention. “That is a blessing. Think of how many lives we could change with our forever. You changed a little boy’s life over a hundred years ago. He might be dead now but who knows what he went on to do. It sounds like you never stuck around to find out. He could have changed the world. He could have saved lives. He could have gotten married and had children of his own who were able to grow up in a financially stable household. Those kids could have gone on to do something great. His life got to open up because you showed him an act of love. Imagine what we could do. Together. Imagine the lives we could change if we really wanted to. I was a sad, lonely little girl who did not know what love felt like. I want to use that pain to make sure I can help someone else. I want…I want a child! Me. Charlie wants this. Please, Peter. This is what I need.”

A wide smile spread across his lips, showing off his pointed teeth that she loved so much, and he let out a quiet laugh, “You know I would give anything in the world, right? I would give you anything you ever asked for. Your wishes are my command. I am nothing but a humble servant sent to do your bidding.” 

“Then give me this,” she whispered, leaning in closer to bump foreheads with him. “Let’s adopt a kid. Foster a child. Open an orphanage. Fuck it, let’s steal a kid from some assholes if we have to! But let’s do this. I want it.” 

She could swear his eyes were sparking under the moonlight. 

“If you want it. I want it,” he grinned. 

Charlie threw her arms around his neck and crashed her lips onto his, smiling into the kiss with a squeal, and mumbling happily against his mouth, “I love you, Peter.”

He replied with a happy, satisfied moan, “Forever.”

They for sure go on to adopt a little girl who never smiles and scowls at everyone and has dark bags under her eyes and doesn't trust a single soul in the world. And they slowly let her open up to them on her own time while providing her with a stable environment. AND THE FIRST TIME THEY HEAR HER LAUGH?? omg they both look at each other with tears in their eyes. She loves to explore the house and look at all the old antiques Peter has around. She steals the one's she likes most and keeps them under her bed in a growing pile like a magpie collecting her trinkets. She falls in love with Charlie first because she has a lot of mistrust around men but eventually Peter wins her over by clearing a spot in his library just for her and her children books. They have a vintage style nursery set up for her with all her toys. Peter handmakes all her wooden toys and sews her stuffed animals. He paints murals around the house for her to admire like he one he painted behind Charlie's bed. She gets to grow up with parents love and adore her and have all the time in the world to just experience life with her.

[ashilrak]

ahhhh i've been trying to subscribe to that idea of posting despite it not being "perfect" and for the most part i'm happy with it and totally recommend. but sometimes i get such intrusive thoughts when i read other fics and they're so good and i think about mine and i know i shouldn't compare, it takes time and work and it doesn't mean people don't enjoy my fics etc etc but there's a shame that creeps in that makes me want to hide and delete them sometimes. 😅

oh and i also have adhd so i get so many ideas but i keep bouncing between them. sometimes they're for multi-chapter fics but i disappear in-between bc my brain decided to jump into a different fandom for x amount of time before bouncing back. i know i write for myself and all but i still feel guilty and ashamed when i leave people who clearly enjoy the story for months before updating. have you ever experienced this? how do you deal with it?

Hi! I've experienced all of this. At some points, it's been the sort of thing that has torn me up and at others it's been negligible.

For me, it comes back to writing for myself. It's very easy to get caught up with wanting to do something for the readers, especially when I know how haunted I personally am by fics that I've adored reading that remain unfinished. There are some unfinished fics I have that I've tried to come back to when I've returned to fandoms and it'd take re-outlining to get back into it, and at that point I'd rather start over.

The key to accepting this is accepting the nature of fanfiction. Every creative has started an idea and just not had it take flight — maybe it's not the right time, maybe it's not quite a full idea, or maybe they realize it's not one they care to do anything with. If you try an idea for a novel and it doesn't go anywhere, no one will ever know. If you try an idea for a fanfiction, you probably posted those first couple chapters online.

I have friends of mine who have gotten 80% into writing a novel and couldn't decide on an ending so abandoned it for another project. This is the sort of thing that happens all the time, it's just that with fanfic you're usually sharing the rough draft as you go.

Discipline does play a factor in finishing fic, of course, but I think there's a line between having the discipline to keep writing a story you're passionate about when motivation is lacking and continuing to force an idea that just isn't taking shape (for whatever reason).

The only way you're going to ever avoid this entirely is if you write a fic beginning to end before you ever start posting. That's not the most fanfic writers' experience, and that's okay! But it means writers and readers risk fics that will never be finished (for any number of reasons). This is why there are a good number of readers out there who only read completed fics.

Fanfic is a hobby, and I don't think it's healthy to tear yourself to shreds or force yourself through something you hate for something that's supposed to be relaxing and fun. Parts of it can be stressful — I've run several gift exchanges and loved doing it, but that doesn't mean there weren't points I was tearing my hair out over defaults and unresponsive participants — but ultimately, it's supposed to be something that brings you joy.

Long fics are an undertaking, and sometimes writing is the last thing you want to do, but the project as a whole is satisfying. I do think there's a lot of value in long-term projects, when the day-to-day can sometimes suck but you know you're working toward a goal. Achieving that goal is huge, but it's also hard, and it isn't the only goal someone could have with writing fic.

If that is a goal you have, there are ways to work toward achieving it. But, how to do that (especially in the face of ADHD) is an entirely different conversation.

And to address the point of comparisons, I don't think it's something that will ever go away. It's to be human, I think. But I have two favorite ways of dealing with that. The first is to separate myself as a reader and a writer. I write because I enjoy it and I read because I enjoy it. If I am reading something that is absolutely amazing, sure I'd love to one day be able to produce that, but more importantly in that moment, I'm really enjoying reading it. The second way is to try to learn from the writing I love. I'll take a step back and ask myself what about it do I love and how are they achieving that? How can I learn from that and bring it into my own work? For me, these are two separate actions. I could read the same work twice through these different lenses and have entirely different experiences.

Ultimately, fandom is for fun and that's the most important thing 🩷

[likelightinglass]

Fic Stats Tag Game

Rules: Give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

Thanks for the tag @danpuff-ao3 this looks fun!

Most Hits

In which Severus is stressed and needs Daddy to treat him like a dumb little cumdump. We're both gay and obsessed with tender, intimate kink; moved, we wrote this fanfic

Summary:

Severus spends a morning serving Daddy like a proper little cockslut, since that's what he's good at. Lucky for him, Daddy loves him that way.

Yeah I see all you perverts out there. So many hits on this one and comparitvely so few comments and kudos--and twice as many private bookmarks as public!

I think this may be the fic of mine people seem most ashamed to have read. But I hope people enjoyed it nonetheless haha.

This was so fun to write and it was a hoot to explore some very niche kinks. It was a blast to cowrite with the wonderful alhaz and that excellent naming convention was my crazy idea. I still get such a kick out of it whenever I see it.

Second Most Kudos

World Enough, and Time

Summary:

Soulmate clocks start ticking when you first lock eyes, and count down until your time with them is over. Harry’s starts ticking on September 1st, 1991. He has only six years, eight months, and one day.

This is secretly my favorite fic. I wrote it all at once stream of consciousness style while out shopping. This fic brought to you by eating fast food in my car in a parking lot.

I love the soulmate trope and I loved this take on it. And I am quite pleased with myself that I took the angst and managed a happy ending anyway!

This one had a recent popularity spike due to the amazing podfic by Cailynwrites!!! I am so grateful for it.

Third Most Comments

What Comes Next (and How to Like it)

Summary:

A choose your own adventure fic!

You are Severus Snape. You survived against all odds, and now it's time to take life into your own hands. What will you do with this gift of a second chance, and how will you find your happy ending?

Your happy ending is pretty much always Harry Potter, but there's so many fun ways to get there.

I was so inspired by @lizzy0305 's Choices that I just had to write my own choose your own adventure fic. I am so insanely proud of this one although the plotting was a bear haha. It was very fun writing basically a bunch of mini fics and using so many different tropes. And I got to give Severus over a dozen different happy endings. It's what he deserves.

I feel like this one doesnt get as much love--maybe the interactive nature of it can be off putting? But its one of my favorite things that I have ever wrote and the fic i tend to self rec the most. Most of the comments on this are telling me what their favorite endong was and its so nice to see! Especially since several have been recieved unexpectedly.

Fourth Most Bookmarks

So actually World Enough, and Time again but it is SO CLOSE to More Than Dark, I'm cheating a tiny bit in order to pimp this one out

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31757209/chapters/78608503

More Than Dark

Summary:

Severus is imprisoned in solitary confinement in Azkaban with no idea of who won the war. He is ill, underfed, and slowly losing his mind.

When Harry eventually takes him in and nurses him back to health, he can scarcely believe it's real.

My white whale. My magnum opus. My only published WiP. It haunts me every day that it remains unfinished. I promise its not abandoned, I love it so much and I've written and outlined so much of it but its going to be novel length (in a thousand years when its done) and its been over a year since the last update. I am pouring my heart and soul into this one and its jjst taking a really. Really. Really long time. But if anyone likes WiPs, please try it. I think its one of my best.

Fifth Most Words

Sly and Songful

Summary:

One of the those animagus fics, in which our heroes would rather secretly spy and pine instead of just have an honest conversation.

But where would the fun in that be?

Everyone lives AU, in which you will encounter birds, foxes, pining, stubbornness, falling in love, and scars.

This was one of my first ever fics and it was a birthday present for the magnificent @bleedcolor .

I loved working on this and feeling like I was finally writing a "real" fic with a plot and everything. Its got nightingale animagus Harry and fox animagus Snape and gnarly scars and its very soft and probably a little out of character and amateur but I love it very much.

Theres also a sequel to this, A kind of love called maintenance that I am particularly proud of.

I also commissioned art of this one from Madfantasy! I will reblog it now so it appears right above :)

Fic with the Least Words

AITA for not going down on my boyfriend?

Summary:

Severus takes to the internet to determine if he is, in fact, the asshole.

This was inspired by my obsession with Reddit's Am I the Asshole? And a conversation with Zalil after her spectacular fic where we agreed her fic's Severus was an incredibly selfish lover. It still makes me laugh, I added a couple "in charachter" comments and encouraged others to do so, got some hilarious ones back! If anyone reads this, please comment in the style of AITA hahah.

Tagging: @bleedcolor @perverse-idyll @coconutice22 @givereadersahug @lizzy0305 and absolutely anyone else who wants to!!!

[jacepens]

Discipline

Intro: This is another pretty simple kinky smut that was just left unfinished.

Fandom/Tags: Hamilton, Washington/Lafayette, explicit, daddy kink (Sorry lol), dom/sub undertones

Explicit warning under the cut!

Lafayette had always shared a certain...intimacy with the General. Ever since his arrival he was granted special attention and affection that the others did not receive. Those affections soon turned into...certain comforts that can only be attained with another until it became a regular and quite frequent occurrence. There was no telling what sort of temperament Lafayette would find the General in when he entered his tent late at night. Whether it be exhaustion, frustration, despair, or desire, Lafayette saw it all. He was one of the few who was granted the fine rarity of seeing all the General’s moods. And when he felt, he felt with passion and fervor unlike any other Lafayette had ever witnessed.

The air around them felt suffocating and stagnant, as unyielding as the General was now, sitting above him. Lafayette could practically feel the anger radiating from him as he silently fumed. Lafayette gulped and bowed his head to stare at the ground. It was him he was mad at. After his terrible blunder on the battlefield, it cost them not only the skirmish, but the lives of men. There was no getting them back.

Lafayette’s breath hitched when the General yanked his hair and held the solid eye contact. Lafayette gulped and shifted on his calves, his feet losing feeling from how long he had been sitting on the floor at the General’s mercy. He let out a sigh, his mouth twitching as he stared at Lafayette. Lafayette sat patiently, heart furiously pounding in his chest expecting to be yelled at, chastised, scorned until he was ashamed to show his face in public.

The General let go of the tight grip in his hair and sunk back into the chair. Lafayette’s gaze fell downwards again, ashamed of himself. He felt tears sting his eyes as the silence continued, as Lafayette continued to play over and over what he had done wrong. His breath faltered as the tears traced down his cheeks.

“Why do you cry?” Lafayette suddenly stopped, surprised at hearing the General’s voice after so much silence.

“I am ashamed.” Lafayette whispered after he composed himself better.

“As you should be.” He spat furiously, voice barely hovering below a full shout. Lafayette slouched further into himself and willed back tears that formed in his eyes once more.

“I am so sorry.” He hoarsely cried out, too afraid to meet the General’s cold gaze.

“And what good do your sorry’s get us now?”

��Nothing.” He shook his head, “nothing.”

“You will look at me when I speak with you.” He snapped, yanking on Lafayette’s hair. Lafayette gasped and continued to cry as the General glared at him from above. He ran his fingers through Lafayette’s hair in an almost tender gesture, the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

“There is very little you can do to mend what is broken.”

“I know, sir.” He whispered, strength returning little by little as the General continued to stroke his hair. Perhaps he wasn’t as angry as he thought, and Lafayette was sure he would do anything if it meant being number one in George’s eyes once more. He couldn’t live his life with being scorned by him.

“And just what are you willing to do to make things right again?”

“Anything.”

“Good answer.” He purred, making Lafayette blush at the implications of his General’s statement.

The hand in his hair left and Lafayette had to control himself to not whine or beg for more. He would have to sit and wait as he wouldn’t dare upset his General anymore. His heart began hammering even faster when he saw the General’s hands move to his pants. It took all the strength Lafayette had in him to not lean forward or help him in his excitement but he still squirmed, needing to be closer.

“And what are you so excited for?” He teased, threatening nature seemingly replaced by the one that drove Lafayette crazy. He sat forward on his knees and pouted when he would still not lavish him with attention or allow him any closer. His gaze trailed lower and fixed itself on the General’s hard cock, his mouth already salivating.

“What did I tell you about where you must look?” He snapped and Lafayette immediately responded. “This is no reward for you, you do not get rewards for failing me.” Lafayette frowned and let out a little whine, but the General was not amused. Lafayette wanted to rest his head against his knee, wanted to feel his hand sweetly petting his hair, oh it was torture to sit so still and not be granted what he wanted!

The General chuckled and Lafayette whined, becoming more and more impatient.

“You have always been such a needy, demanding thing. I’m shocked to see you acting with such restraint as you are now.”

Lafayette licked his lips and batted his eyelashes, turned to tempting him any way he could. He only chuckled once more as Lafayette pouted, his tricks not working.

“You know I think you a beauty.” Lafayette smiled, face lit up by the praise. “But even beauty’s make mistakes and I simply cannot let you go without punishment.” Lafayette sighed. The General pulled his head closer as he leaned down to whisper against Lafayette’s ear. “And if I catch you touching yourself, you’ll be in worse trouble than when we began, you understand me?” Lafayette shivered and gulped.

“Yes sir.”

[beechersnope]

Tagged by @hrhgeorgerussell to post the first sentences of my WIPs thank you!!!

OK first off: the state of my WIPs folder is dire. I literally have hundreds of docs and I am notorious for starting something 5+ years before I actually sit down and finish it. I'm gonna choose ones I'm either actively working on or actively rotating, or started semi-recently before getting sidetracked.

Some NSFW under the cut.

Welcome to My Island (F1, Max/George): Somehow, George manages to log a solid chunk of REM sleep despite his neuroses. He only has a second or two to feel relieved about this before realizing that he’s hard, and that his erection is nestled perfectly against the small of Max’s back.

This one is on AO3 already so this is from the second chapter (unfinished).

Untitled F/F Lestappen Fic (F1, Max/Charles, Charles/Lewis, Max/George):

“George, I swear to God if you move, I’ll—” Max doesn’t have an actual follow through, but the half-threat is enough to still George underneath her.

This was the very first fic idea I had for F1 so it's very messy and I didn't know where I was going with it. Now that I know more about how races work and such I'll probably come back to it.

Summer Sun & Wildfire (F1, Max/Daniel): Max was supposed to die in Las Vegas. Sometimes she wishes she had.

This was the second thing I tried writing in the fandom so still in the awkward exploration phase trying to find out what works. I do want to come back to it someday because it had a lot of potential.

Red Light Spells Danger (F1, Max/Daniel): "I wish I could tell you how it feels without telling you what I did."

Still in the rotation phase for this one so this isn't necessarily the first sentence, just the only actual sentence I've written. Everything else is vague outline.

Untitled BBQ fic (F1/Seb/Mark): Seb is sprawled out on the tiled floor of the guest bathroom with the handle of her hairbrush stuffed in her cunt when the doorbell rings.

This entire fic is just toxic filth so we'll see when/if I finish it.

Untitled Succession/Yellowstone AU (F1, Max/George, Max/Charles): “Is it mine?” Max had been dreading—anticipating—the moment when Charles would ask, but she hadn’t been expecting to be ambushed in her childhood bedroom during a nap, before George had even arrived with the rest of the Russell clan in tow, before Max had even gotten a chance to make her announcement in the first place.

This is more inspired by the above shows than a true AU. I had a lot of ideas for this but got distracted by other projects before I could put together a true outline.

These are all longer fics; the rest are first lines from some shorter fics I've half-written.

They’re two-hundred miles off the coast of Western Australia when the storm hits. “Power’s fucked,” Seb reports after emerging from the engine room looking considerably sweatier than before he’d gone in. “It’ll take a few hours to fix, but I don’t want to risk frying the backup now while we’ve still got some daylight left.” (F1, Max/Daniel/Seb/Mark/Alex/Pierre/Kvyat)

They send porn to each other sometimes. Usually, it’s Daniel who sends it, feeling a bit vulnerable, a bit embarrassed, every single time, no matter what the subject matter is. And it’s not like he sends Max anything weird—most of the time, it’s just the same old shit, a blonde girl taking a big cock, getting her pussy fingered so hard she squirts, so on and so forth. It’s normal. He doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of. (F1, Max/Daniel)

“What is this meant to be, like some couple’s therapy?” Max complains, crossing her arms over her chest with an exaggerated pout. (F1, Christian/Max/George/Toto, Good Battle continuation)

[emptymanuscript]

An additional problem with Brevity is that I always seem to want to:

be the center of attention without it actually being people scrutinizing me for myself because then I would feel awkward. I want people to be entertained not turn me into the entertainment.

make it long enough that I am getting some kind of visible ratio between the amount of time I spend on something compared to how fast people can consume it... leaving me feeling like I've worked hard for nothing.

Indicate who or what I am responding to so I don't look like some rando just yelling on a street corner for no reason

give credit to where I got an idea from... as an appeal to authority to show a good reason to listen to what I'm saying when I assume there's no good reason to listen to me for me.

give an example to show that there is reason to think about things in my way and no one immediately invalidates me.

give an example of a parallel to show a system in play so as to reassure people that this is useful even if you don't want to think like me, see we can get along.

mention an alternative or counterargument so it seems like I considered the problem and am not being unreasonable or didactic or out to be hurtful because I don't want anyone to fight back and be mean to me. I'm just being helpful, see.

make as sure as possible that I won't offend anyone that I don't intentionally want to offend

wrap things up so I won't have to expend more energy dealing with the additional factors that I can think of right now (which is a part of:)

protect myself from more social interaction than I can handle when I don't know how much I can handle ahead of time

lay out some kind of firm logic for WHY so even if I'm wrong I won't feel ashamed of being so stupid

Double check all my facts so I won't feel ashamed of being stupid

avoid delving into my depression - which is why I have a few hundred unfinished essays in my drafts

connect it to something else important so a greater number of people will be entertained so I'm less likely to be a waste of people's time... since I'm taking up so much of it... <_<

make it at least a little better so I seem smarter than I am so people won't make fun of me for a simple mistake that I actually do know better about ... hmmm

You know... that's a lot of incentive to be long winded now that I'm looking at all that laid out.

That's a LOT of fear in need of addressing in addition to whatever else I happen to be writing about.

Maybe... if I could say a few oms and try to let all that go... I could say something of reasonable length.

[all-for-geek]

Unfinished Business - Family, Love, and Possession Chapter 3: You Always Hurt The One You Love

Chapter 2

Chapter 4

Fandom: Julie and the Phantom

Word Count: 3,829

TW: mention of refusal to eat (not related to an ED)

Summary:  After Reggie returns from his meeting with Alice, the boys have questions. Meanwhile, Julie and "Nick" begin work on a school project together.

Reggie poofed back into the studio in a manic state. In the seconds it had taken to travel from the beach to Julie’s house, a million thoughts had run through in his head. Most of them centered around the last time he had lost track of time and Julie left the band. He knew that it was not the same situation, but a part of him felt guilty they had promised to be better, and here he was, late because he had gotten distracted by a pretty girl again.

His dramatic entrance caused the music to stop. He panted as he looked over to them guiltily. A part of him was upset that they hadn’t waited for him. A quick glance at the clock revealed that Reggie was only 3 minutes late. The other part of him was ashamed at how selfish he was for even thinking that. He rushed over to Julie to beg for forgiveness. A process he was intimately familiar with. 

“Julie, I am so sorry that I am late! I went out on a walk and ended up on the beach by my parents old place and I got talking to this ghost girl that I met and I lost track of time but I swear the second I heard the music I was rushing over here and-”

Reggie’s word vomit was interrupted by his bandmates.

“Reggie, it’s okay. We figured that you would hear the music and come back,” Julie reassured him.

“Wait, what did you say about meeting a girl?” Luke asked teasingly.

“You met another ghost?!” Alex proclaimed, always the one to have his priorities straight.

“Yeah, it’s kinda a long story. I’ll explain after practice.” Reggie poofed over to his bass and threw it on. Julie walked over and grabbed his arm as he began to tune it.

“Reggie. It really is okay. We, uh, we saw your note. We figured you had just lost track of time.” 

“Or were just plain lost,” Alex added. Julie glared, but Reggie laughed as the tension released from his ghostly form. If Alex was being snarky, then Reggie wasn’t in trouble.

“Thanks guys.” He strummed his perfectly tuned bass. “Now let’s rock this!”

Music once again flooded the studio. The band practiced both old songs that would be kept on their set list and new ones that were being play-tested. When it came to finalizing Perfect Harmony, Julie let Luke take the reins. She claimed it was because she didn’t know the bass and drums as well as they did, which was partially true, but Julie left out the part where she didn’t trust herself to not blurt out the song’s true intentions. 

Julie and the Phantoms continued like that for the next few hours. Even Julie, who still had to deal with mortal worries like eating and bathroom breaks, could have continued long on into the night. The energy that sparked when they played was something that Julie had only ever felt with one other person. It was a different energy than when she played with her mom, but it was no less strong. The core of it, the feeling of making music with those you love about those you love, was still there.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. As she eyed the clock, she knew that Nick would be over soon for dance practice. There was a part of her that wanted to flake on Nick and continue playing until she was called for dinner. Julie knew that from Luke’s puppy eyes as she packed up the equipment that she wouldn’t be judged if she did. But she knew better. Nick and her needed to practice their new routine. 

Julie had just enough time to change into her comfy dance clothes before her dad called her downstairs. Nick, or Nick’s body at least, was waiting in the doorway. Caleb grinned at Julie with the same enthusiasm he provided new club guests. 

“Hey!” Julie called from the banister. Caleb waved innocently. “Dad, this is Nick. He’s my partner for my dance class project. The choreography assignment?”

Ray snapped his fingers as the memory returned to him. “Right. Well, I will let you two get to it then.”

Ray disappeared back into the kitchen. Caleb climbed the stairs and followed Julie to her room. It was…small. And quaint. Sheet music and homework were strewn across the floor. In an odd way, it reminded Caleb of his own childhood room where he first practiced magic. That room had been less pink, but it held the same drive. The same ambition. He chuckled at the thought.

“What’s so funny?” Julie asked innocently.

“Nothing,” Caleb responded, thinking quickly of a cover story, “I just never would have thought your room was so…messy.”

“Yeah, one thing they don’t tell you about joining a band is how messy it makes you.”

“How has your band been lately?”

“Good. They’ve been good. We’re working on some new songs.” Julie giggled as she recalled Reggie’s belated arrival. “Our bassist, Reggie, was running a little late. I felt so bad because I could tell he felt bad-”

“How late was he?” Caleb took a risk in interrupting Julie. He didn’t want to push the boundaries just yet, but he was curious.

“Only a few minutes. We hadn’t even finished running the first song.”

“Why would he feel bad about being a few minutes late?”

Julie suddenly became quiet. Caleb contorted his face to look sympathetic as she spoke. “You remember at the dance when I canceled the show? It wasn’t just nerves. The guys had kind of bailed on me that night. I got really mad after. I think Reggie was afraid that the same thing would happen again.”

Inwardly, Caleb smiled as he saw the cracks he could play with. “What could have been more important than your first official performance?”

Julie shrugged. “It’s a long story. Besides, it’s all in the past now. Water under the bridge and all that.”

Caleb nodded. He decided not to push the subject anymore tonight. Not before he could set his newfound plan in motion. 

He pulled a CD out of his black overshirt. “I found a song that I think would work really well for the project. Do you mind if I put it on?”

Julie nodded and put the CD in her mom’s old stereo. She was shocked when the song that came on was an old jazzy song. She didn’t know that Nick was into the old classics. 

Caleb offered his hand to Julie as he began to show Julie the choreography that he had developed just for this number. It was difficult to maneuver in the small bedroom, but he made it work. 

You always hurt the one you love

The one you shouldn't hurt at all

You always take the sweetest rose

And crush it till the petals fall

After one particularly complicated twirl, Julie stared back at Caleb, impressed. “Wow. For someone who claims to have two left feet, you sure do have some nice moves.”

“I guess I had a good teacher.”

As the music picked up tempo, Caleb spun Julie at a speed she knew she wouldn’t be able to recover from. Her feet tangled around themselves as she fell onto her bed.

“Woah. That gets fast.”

“You will get the hang of it, I’m sure. The trick is properly spotting, I believe.”

“And the student becomes the master,” Julie responded jokingly.

Caleb chuckled. “Perhaps we should move into an area with a little more space. Your music studio perhaps?”

Julie hesitated. She knew that that wasn’t an option. The guys were in there, and it was hard enough to deal with her complicated relationship with Nick without three invisible voices teasing her. She just needed a convincing enough reason not to.

“Uh, actually I don’t think the studio is a great idea. I haven’t had a chance to clean up after practice yet, and if you think my room is messy…”

Caleb nodded. He figured it was a long shot. 

“But we could move the coffee table and practice in the living room,” Julie suggested. 

The two did just that. Once rehearsal resumed, Caleb had to fight the urge to grit his teeth at Julie’s suggestions to modify his perfect choreography. Even he had to admit, though, some of the moves were suitable for the dance.

“Ahem.” Caleb and Julie turned to see Carlos standing in the entryway. He appeared to have been standing there for some time. “Dinner’s ready. Dad said that Nick is welcome to come if he wants.”

“Care to stay for dinner?” Julie asked.

“No thank you. I should be heading home.” As much as it would have helped to further his plan, Caleb felt himself gagging at the thought of having to eat mortal food again. 

“Alright. See you in class tomorrow.” Julie saw Nick out. He gave her another signature bow which caused her to laugh. She turned to see Carlos squinting at the door.

“What?” Julie asked her brother.

“Has he always been so weird?” Carlos had never officially met Nick, but he had seen him at Julie’s concerts and heard about him from Nick’s little sister, Emma. Carlos couldn’t quite pin down what, but something about him seemed…off.

“You’re one to talk you weirdo,” Julie brushed off, jokingly ruffling Carlos’ hair. “Come on.”

Carlos followed Julie into the dining room, but not before looking back at the door. He hadn’t felt an itch like this since he saw the orbs in Dad’s photos.

“So are you going to tell us about this girl or what?” Luke hadn’t wasted any time in goading Reggie once Julie left. It was the perfect distraction from thinking about Nick and Julie up there, all alone, dancing-

“There’s not much to tell yet.” Reggie tried to brush it off, but he could barely stand still as he recounted his afternoon. “She was tagging at the pier, we started talking, and we totally hit it off.”

“A tagger? Our precious little Reginald fell for a bad girl,” Alex teased.

“Hey, I can be bad! I’m a big bad ghost in the rock band!” Reggie straightened his leather jacket and puffed up his chest. Contrary to his belief, it did not help his case.

“Right. Of course.” Alex patted Reggie on the shoulder before looking behind him. “How did a dog get into the studio?”

“Puppy?!” Reggie whirled around, his face lit up like a little kid on Christmas. He slumped at the vacant garage. “Fine. Point taken.”

“So when are you seeing her again?” Luke asked, cupping his face in his hands as he watched the drama unfold.

“Tomorrow,” Reggie answered. “She said she hangs out over at Orange Grove, so…”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Alex asked. His bandmates were stunned into silence.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Luke asked. “It’s not every day that our boy gets asked out on a second date!” He poofed over to Reggie and started playfully roughhousing.

“I wouldn’t call in a date, but you know-”

“What if she works for Caleb?” Alex blurted out. Luke and Reggie immediately went quite once more.

“I don’t think she does,” Reggie said, unsure, “I didn’t see her at the Ghost Club either time we were there.”

“Right. Because we were given the full employee directory of the place.”

As Reggie began to get into his own head, Luke turned to face Alex. “Come on, man. Caleb can’t have every ghost in LA under his control. Besides, that doesn’t mean that she’s evil. I mean, Willie wasn’t-”

“Yeah, Willie is not as good a comparison as you think,” Alex responded, growing cold. 

Luke and Reggie eyed each other in confusion.

“What do you mean?” Reggie asked. “You still like him, right?”

“Yeah, I do,” Alex answered as all the pent up feelings about Willie and their relationship came flooding out, “I really like him. I also have been searching for him for the past two days with no trace of him in sight. I don’t know if he is okay, or if he is even still here. And if he is, I know that I can never be with him because Caleb would use that to hurt both of us. And that hurts. It hurts so much knowing that you can like someone so much, and never be with them. Not because they don’t like you back. But because you just can’t.” He turned to Reggie, full of sincerity. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Reggie walked over and wrapped Alex in a giant hug. The tears that had been welling in Alex’s eyes began to pour. Hesitantly, Luke came over and joined them. His own eyes were beginning to tear up. He couldn’t admit it yet, not even to himself, but Luke knew exactly how Alex felt.

“Why don’t you guys come with me tomorrow?” Reggie asked as he pulled away. “That way, you guys can meet Alice, and we can do, like, a collective vibe check.” Reggie hoped that he had used the slang Carlos taught him right, but the other two were no help.

“I’m not entirely sure what the last part meant,” Alex started, “But that’s actually not a bad idea.”

“Totally,”  Luke added, “And who knows, maybe she has a clue on where Willie is.”

Alex nodded, but the smile he gave had no heart behind it. Luckily, before he had to say anything, Julie came running in out of breath.

“Hey guys…there’s something I have to tell you…”

The Molina's dinner table had been abuzz in a way that it had not been in a very long time. Julie and Ray laughed as Carlos recounted a story from baseball practice earlier that day. He got into it as he ran around the table and acted out all of his teammates. They were laughing so loud that they barely heard Tia Victoria come in. Carlos had to slide the spare plate for their Mom over to Julie who hid it under the table as Tia rounded the corner.

“Hola everybody!” She shouted as she approached the table. She gasped at the sight in front of her. “No leftovers! That is excellent!”

“Well, after Julie’s performance the other day, I’ve been inspired to try some new recipes.” Ray smiled over at his daughter.

“I love to hear it. And excellent job on your performance, mija.” Tia ran over and squeezed the life out of Julie in her embrace. “Just remember to keep up your studies. You’ll need good grades when you get a real job one day.”

Julie’s shoulders slumped as she tried to keep up her fake smile. She loved her Tia, and she had been a godsend after Mom died, but there had always been a disconnect when it came to music. She had only ever viewed Julie’s love of music as a hobby, one that Julie was really good at, but a hobby nonetheless. Julie couldn’t help but feel a little angry that Tia always put down the one thing that made Julie feel closer to her mom.

Luckily, Ray came to the rescue. “Actually, Julie has a real shot at going professional.” Before Tia could roll her eyes, Ray continued, “I was meaning to tell you this after dinner. I did some digging, and it turns out that Destiny Management was looking for a freelance photographer for a recent photoshoot.” Julie’s eyes widened as she recognized the name. Destiny Management was one of the biggest record companies in a city full of big record companies. Where was Dad going with this?

“You remember the woman who talked to you after your performance at the cafe?” Ray asked.

“You mean the night that she snuck out after you expressly grounded her,” Tia reminded the table.

Ray ignored the comment. “Well it turns out that her name is Andi Parker. She’s of the uh, higher ups there. I ran into her while at the photoshoot, and she gave me this.”

Ray handed Julie a business card with the Destiny Management logo on it. Butterflies exploded in Julie’s stomach as she realized what was happening. 

“She’d love to meet with you and the band,” Ray confirmed. “I’m welcome to of course, seeing as you're still a minor. If you’d like I’d be more than happy to make the call and set up the meeting. I don’t know anything about band contracts, but I have some knowledge from my freelance contracts and-”

“YES! Thank you thank you thank you!” Julie ran around the table to tackle her dad in a massive hug. “I have to go tell everyone.” Julie quickly put her dishes in the washer and ran out of the room. 

Her adrenaline spiked as she ran to the studio to tell the guys the good news. In a few days, that might have a manager or a record deal! Julie came bounding through the garage door, only stopping briefly to catch her breath.

“Hey guys…there’s something I have to tell you…”

If Julie was riding an all-time high, Nick was at an all-time low. Not long after Caleb left, he collapsed onto his couch from pure exhaustion. It hardly felt fair that he could still feel the workout from dance practice today. If Caleb was going to hijack his body, the least he could do was take the muscle fatigue with him.

The thought sent Nick’s blood boiling once again. He had been trapped in the darkness, clawing for any semblance of control that he could cling to. Finally, he managed to regain his sight. He couldn’t control his body, but he could see what Caleb was doing with it. And did he see? Caleb and Julie dancing along to some oldies music. It made Nick thankful for when the darkness consumed him once again.

“Here.” Nick was brought out of his thoughts by a plate of hot food being placed on the coffee table. William shuffled back into the shadows as he mumbled, “You’re…you’re probably hungry, so.”

Nick cautiously picked at the chicken and rice in front of him. There was a part of him that wanted to throw it across the room. Refuse anything that was given to him by Caleb or his lackey. But Nick hadn’t eaten much for breakfast, and judging by the grumblings in his stomach, Caleb hadn’t eaten anything today either. He tentatively took a bite. It wasn’t bad. As far as prison food went, it was actually pretty good. It satisfied the hunger at least.

“So, how long is this expected to last?” Nick asked. He figured that he might as well try talking to William again. Not like he had anything else to do.

“What?”

“This.” Nick gestured vaguely into the air. “Should I expect to put regularly possessed by a ghost on my college applications?”

“No,” William answered. “It shouldn’t take long. Just long enough for Caleb to get what he wants.”

“Which is?” Nick was met with silence once again. He sighed, deciding to try a different tactic. “What about you?”

“Huh?”

“What about you William-”

“Willie.” Willie interrupted, spitting acid as he corrected Nick.

“...Willie. When you’re not guarding possession victims, what do you do?”

“I…I like to skateboard.” A small wistful smile grew on Willie’s face.

“Where?”

“Anywhere, honestly. Skateparks, the streets, the road, museums. When people can’t see, hear, or touch you, I can skate pretty much anywhere.”

“Wait, if people can’t see you, then how are we…” Nick trailed off as he gestured between the two of them.

Willie shrugged. “Caleb’s magic, I guess? I’ve never been quite sure just how much he is capable of. Just that he’s capable of a lot.” Willie absentmindedly rubbed the stamp on his forearm.

“How’d you even end up tangled with him?” Nick asked. So far, Willie seemed like a decent dude. Not what one would expect as a goon for an evil mastermind.

Willie chuckled. “It’s a long story. The short version is that I was promised something too good to be true. I found out too late that it’s because it was.”

Nick sighed. As much as his sympathy was growing for Willie, there was only so much small talk he could take before his mind circled back to the reason they were even able to talk in the first place. “Look, I know you probably won’t, or can’t, tell me, but I have to know: does he plan to hurt Julie?”

Willie was silent for a long while. He knew that talking to Nick was a bad idea. The longer he talked, the more Willie was liable to do something to get him into more trouble. But when he looked at Nick, at the sorrow and fear in his eyes, there was only so much that Willie could take.

“The truth is I don’t know. I don’t even know if Julie is the one he is actually after.”

“What?”

Willie sighed, realizing that he had already said too much. “Julie is connected to people Caleb is interested in. Ones that he wants working for him. They managed to escape, but he is not sure how. It’s possible that he is after Julie, but she might just be a means to an end.”

“Well then maybe we can warn them and they can help-”

“NO!” Even Willie was shocked at how forceful his shout was. He immediately shrunk back on himself. “No, no, if they're not involved anymore, I can’t risk dragging them into it. I won’t do that to him again.”

“Him?” Willie turned away from Nick, remaining silent. He knew that talking would be a bad idea.

“Willie,” Nick stood and approached the ghost slowly, “One of these people, you care about him a lot, don’t you?”

Willie stood back in the kitchen. He refused to speak. He knew that if he tried to open his mouth, he would either begin to word vomit about Alex or break down and cry. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

Nick gently tried to place a hand on Willie’s shoulder. To both of their shock, his touch landed. “Willie, if this person is connected to Julie, he could still be in danger, couldn’t he?” Willie slowly nodded his head. “Then help me get out of here. I can find him and warn him about what is going on-”

“He’s a ghost too,” Willie interrupted, the water works going in full force, “You wouldn’t be able to see him anyway.”

“I can figure that out,” Nick countered. “Please, Willie, help me escape. If not for me, do it for him.”

Those were the magic words. Willie slowly nodded and was greeted by Nick’s thankful smile. He wasn’t sure how he was going to pull it off, but Nick was right. Alex could still be in danger, and Willie would rather die again than see that happen.

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

The Hell he’s been through;

The Knights have no clue of the suffering Merlin has endured… until one day, they do.

TW: Scars, panic attacks, nightmares, PTSD except they don’t have a word for that, non-graphic description of scars/injuries

Part 2(final part)

It was the height of summer, the bright blue sky was utterly free of clouds and the noon sun beat viciously down onto the training field.

Only the central six knights, their King, and Merlin braved the exhausting heat, the other knights had chosen to train later in the day, when it was cooler, so the field was empty of anyone else. Merlin was sat cross-legged in the shade of a tree, jacket and neckerchief removed (not that Arth- anyone noticed. Definitely not.), though his sleeves were still pulled low over his wrists and his tunic was fastened high up his neck. Despite that, the lack of an extra layer definitely displayed Merlin’s surprisingly broad shoulders more than normal (another thing that Ar-no one noticed). 

The knights were shirtless, despite Merlin’s warning of sunburn, sparring semi-playfully with wooden dummy swords, the type squires train with, and no armour.

Merlin rubs absent-mindedly at the dull, almost gone ache in his ribs, just below his armpit, as he rolls his shoulder. The injury, if it could even be called that, had never been serious and hadn’t even hurt that much when he’d gotten it on the last patrol (a stray mace swing from a bandit just clipped him), at least, not compared to other injuries he’s sustained over the years, but it was an annoyance that made his shoulder stiff on occasion.

Unfortunately, the movement caught Arthur’s eye, and the King frowns, stopping his observation of Elyan and Mordred’s spar to lay a crudely hidden concerned gaze upon his manservant. 

He’d fussed endlessly when he found that Merlin had bandaged his own torso after the fight, demanding that he let someone help next time; Merlin just rolled his eyes at that. The other knights had wisely chosen not to comment, knowing that the attack, and Merlin’s subsequent injury, had already put Arthur in a bad enough mood; though admittedly, the only thing stopping Gwaine from ruthlessly taking the piss out of Arthur’s mother-hen tendencies all the way home was Percival harshly clamping a hand over his mouth and pushing him away.

Merlin looks up to see Arthur staring at him, and the King quickly covers his concern with a look of annoyance when the manservant raises an eyebrow:

“If you’re not going to do anything useful Merlin, get up here, you clearly can’t be trusted to even cower effectively, so you’re going to have to learn to defend yourself.”

Merlin’s eyebrow just rises higher as the rest of the knights’ attention is drawn to the conversation. Lancelot and Mordred hide knowing smiles, well aware than Merlin was more than capable of defending himself, if he really needed to. Gwaine went to open his mouth with teasing grin, though quickly pouts when Percival punches him on the shoulder, and Leon and Elyan smirk at each other before moving their amused gazes to Arthur.

When Merlin doesn’t move, just stares at him disbelievingly, Arthur rolls his eyes and gestures at the half-empty rack of wooden swords:

“Come on, Merlin, up on your feet, grab a sword.”

Merlin just snorts in amusement and shakes his head, settling back against the tree trunk even more:

“Absolutely not. I can handle myself just fine, thank you very much.”

The knights (bar Lancelot and Mordred of course) raise their own eyebrows. Gwaine snorts out loud, stepping up next to Arthur and dropping an overly-friendly hand on his shoulder, much to The King’s displeasure:

“I know you can hold your own in a tavern brawl Merls, but that’s not the same thing as facing bandits and assassins and shit. Princess is right, it might be worth it for you to at least know how to use a sword.”

Arthur turns an accusing gaze on Gwaine, shrugging his hand off as he says:

“And I presume all the tavern brawls Merlin has apparently been getting into are your fault?”

Gwaine grimaces slightly before shrugging with a smirk, and Merlin hides his laughter with a cough before inserting:

“Entirely his fault. Gwaine starts the fights, promptly passes out, and I have to finish them.”

Arthur laughs incredulously; Mordred has to hide the angry clench of his jaw and Lancelot has to hide his sorrow when Arthur replies in a taunting tone:

“I’m meant to believe that you are regularly winning Gwaine’s unfinished fights, am I?”

Merlin shrugs in mock defeat, a grin on his face:

“Believe what you want, Sire, I’ve faced worse than you lot and come out singing, I don’t need training.”

Arthur resists the urge to smirk at the appealing way Merlin manages to make his title sound insulting, and he instead raises his eyebrows:

“You’re not getting out of this, Merlin. I can’t have you bruising yourself every time we leave the city.”

Merlin takes in a deep breath, settling a disconcertingly assessing gaze on The King for a few moments before he sighs and stands up, walking towards the equipment and picking up a sword before turning back to Arthur:

“I suppose you’re right, I doubt any of the other servants would be willing to put up with you if I got too injured. Who would you like me to spar, My Lord?”

Arthur scoffs and shakes his head as the others step back, looking upon the whole scene with fond amusement, bar, once again, Lancelot and Mordred, who are looking an odd mix between concerned and proud. They know that Merlin is capable of more than he lets on, even with a wooden blade.

“You can’t spar with any of us, Merlin, that would be far too dangerous. We’ll start with some basic moves, and then maybe we can move on to a slow, choreographed spar.”

Merlin twirls the sword expertly in his hand, and he’s vaguely away of Gwaine nodding approvingly and Leon raising an eyebrow out the corner of his eye, though he pays them no mind, raising an eyebrow of his own at Arthur:

“Surely starting with a simple spar will tell you my exact skill levels so you can tailor the lessons? You need to know how crap I am before we start.”

Lancelot hides a snort behind a hand, knowing full well that Merlin is just trying to goad Arthur into letting the servant show off his skills without too much effort beforehand. Or without giving Arthur the satisfaction of thinking that he was the one who taught Merlin how to fight. Thankfully, Arthur takes Lance’s snort as a teasing one aimed at Merlin, as opposed to what it really is, so waves him into the ring with a smirk.

Merlin just rolls his eyes, moving to stand opposite his best friend and muttering, just loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Fine, but I’m not taking my shirt off, I’m not as arrogant as you lot.”

Lancelot widens his eyes as Arthur freezes, dread growing in his stomach at the knowledge that The King would take that as a challenge. Arthur turns slowly, a shit-eating grin on his face, and Lancelot grimaces as Arthur claps his hands together:

“Right! I wasn’t going to mention it, but you do have a point, Merlin, if you are to train, you must train as one of us. Come on, tunic off.”

Elyan, Percival, and Gwaine just laugh, but Leon rolls his eyes exasperatedly, and Mordred and Lancelot frown in concern. Neither of them have seen Merlin’s scars in their entirety before, but knowing about the servant’s secret second life had definitely made them more observant than the others, and they had seen hints of old injuries here and there. That’s not even mentioning the times he’s shown up in their chambers, bloody and bruised and in need of treatment, but not wanting to worry Gaius.

Merlin just flushed and stared at him indignantly and Arthur’s teasing grin grew:

“Don’t be shy, Merlin, I’m sure whatever horrific mole or ugly birth mark you’re ashamed of isn’t that bad.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, stepping away from Arthur when he moves towards him. The demand to de-robe, even partially, had immediately put him on edge, and he had gone from playfully annoyed to genuinely irate in a split second. He crosses his arms over his chest protectively when Arthur gestures at him demandingly:

“I don’t have a weird mole, Arthur, you Clotpole, but unlike you lot, I’m not all that keen to show off my old scars.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Merlin was hoping that mentioning his scars in passing would appeal to the knights’ warrior sides, would make them sympathetic to his… shy-ness. It did not. It just made them laugh, even Leon, and they all began to point out various scars they had on their chests and back, remarking that he couldn’t have worse than them. 

Gwaine twisted to the side, patting a pink, jagged circle halfway down his back, a grin on his face:

“This beauty is from when I propositioned a lovely fella who was, apparently, already taken. Man’s wife smashed her bottle on the counter and damn near took my eye out with it.”

Elyan cackles at Gwaine’s story, pointing to a perfectly square burn on his shoulder-blade:

“Yeah, well at least you didn’t fall back into a red hot brand at the ripe old age of fifteen because a girl smiled at you.”

Merlin’s back-up plan, which was sneakily sulking off whilst the knights compared their most embarrassing scars, was cut short basically immediately when he heard Arthur yell out:

“Absolutely not, Merlin, I’ve already told you that you’re not getting out of this. Tunic off, spar Lancelot.”

Merlin huffs, annoyed, feeling rather like he was backed into a corner, and Mordred walks forward, to be between him and The King, quietly saying:

“You don’t have to Merlin, just fight with it on.”

Arthur narrows his eyes in suspicion, but before he can say anything, Merlin squares his shoulders and looks at him defiantly, dropping his sword to the floor as he begins unlacing his tunic, his words coming out harshly, his tone dark:

“No, no it’s fine. The King wants to see my scars, and we all know that The King gets whatever he wants.”

The smiles melt rather quickly off the knights’ faces as Merlin speaks, and Arthur flinches slightly at his tone, starting to realise with just a little guilt that maybe this wasn’t funny anymore. He opens his mouth to take it back, to tell Merlin that he was only teasing and he could keep the tunic on if he really wanted to, but before any words come out, Merlin is gripping the collar of his shirt, pulling it over his head swiftly and screwing it up before tossing it to the side, not once breaking his stare on the now pale King.

Arthur lets out a sharp breath at the patchwork of scars that cover Merlin’s chest, and he’s vaguely aware of the various low cries and gasps of outrage coming from the knights behind him. There are so many, some are large and some are small, some look to be from clumsiness, but others look like they should have been fatal. Arthur’s eyes can’t focus on just one, he’s barely taking in each scar before his gaze is drawn to another, and then another, and then another; it’s a little overwhelming, and it’s only when he starts to feel a little woozy that he remembers to breath.

When he finally comes to the conclusion that his brain isn’t going to able to process this for a while, he looks up to Merlin’s face, instead taking in his resolute expression and hard eyes:

“Merlin, what… what happened to you?”

Merlin raises a slow, mocking eyebrow before breaking his statue-like stillness and picking his sword up again, turning to face a distraught looking Lancelot. This movement only reveals the second mosaic of scars covering his back, but he speaks over the next round of gasps and muffled curses, his tone still unbearably dark as he gestures Lance to get into position:

“I told you, I’ve faced worse than you lot and come out singing.”

The knights are so distracted by the myriad of scars covering Merlin’s torso that it takes the servant’s first harsh, well-aimed blow with his sword to break them out of their stupor. They watch the ensuing spar with morbid fascination, finding that not only can Merlin hold his own, he’s winning. Lancelot loses his breath and rhythm much quicker than Merlin does, and the fast-paced spar only lasts around three minutes before Merlin lands a strong punch to the centre of Lance’s chest and the knight stumbles back in shock, lowering his sword just enough for Merlin to step forward and trip him up.

The scarred servant’s chest rises and falls deeply, but not too rapidly as he lowers his sword and offers a hand down to the beaten knight. Lancelot takes it with a slightly shocked smile, patting Merlin on the shoulder as he stands. Merlin flinches away from the touch, no one misses it, clearly not too fond of people touching his bare skin, and Lance drops his hand rapidly, frowning only briefly before he smiles again:

“Bloody hell, Merlin. I knew you were good, but not that good.”

Merlin gives him a strained smile, grateful for the distraction. Everyone sees the moment Merlin’s mask goes up again; he gives Lance a smug grin and twirls his sword once again as he shrugs mockingly:

“I’ve been watching you lot train for ten years, and I’ve been in a few sword fights in my time. I picked up a few things.”

Arthur finally reacts, scoffing as he shakes his head in disbelief, scars momentarily forgotten:

“There’s no way that you can- that was a fluke.-”

He looks smug as he says it, like he’s figured out some great secret, and Mordred lets out a low, annoyed growl; no one notices thankfully, but Merlin shoots him a quick frustrated line across their mental link:

“Please try not to antagonise him any further.”

Mordred looks to him, keeping his face blank as he nods almost imperceptibly. Lancelot and Gwaine look openly disapproving of Arthur’s assertion, but Leon, Percival, and Elyan look almost convinced. Arthur nods decisively, picking up his sword once again and waving it in Merlin’s direction:

“-My turn. And once I’ve beaten you, you’re going to tell us about all of… that.”

Merlin’s eye twitches, but he doesn’t say anything, just nods slightly as he holds a placating hand out in Lancelot’s direction when it becomes obvious that his best friend is going to start trying to defend him.

Arthur takes Lancelot’s place in the ring and Merlin grips his sword tightly, his shoulders tense and his face showing only mild annoyance, despite the anger that Lancelot and Mordred were sure was simmering under his façade. At Arthur’s nod, Leon reluctantly counts them in, and the match begins.

This one is somehow even more fast-paced, though no one is surprised. The last ten minutes had caught Arthur extremely off-guard. An off-guard Arthur is a grumpy Arthur, and a grumpy Arthur is, unfortunately, still the type to take his frustrations out on others. Arthur wasn’t good at dealing with his emotions, meaning the disturbing mix of horror, guilt, and anger at Merlin’s scars, slight… shock, (because he refuses to call it anything else) at his deceptively strong physique, and surprise that apparently his servant can take out one of his best knights without all that much effort, all together have The King bursting with adrenaline. 

He throws blow after blow, but Merlin’s defence is incredibly strong, and Arthur has yet to land a hit anywhere other than the opposing sword. After a couple of minutes, Merlin switches styles, and Arthur almost trips when he realises his servant has, in the space of a second, gone from fighting like Arthur, to fighting like Leon. The knights notice it as well; Gwaine lets out a low whistle and Elyan smacks Leon on the shoulder, pointing incredulously at a sequence of complicated footwork that usually only the First Knight can manage so gracefully. Apparently Merlin can do it too.

Arthur adapts to this quickly; Leon was his sparring partner most often, meaning that he was accustomed to switching between their styles, and they were the most similar fighters in all the group. 

Another minute passes, and the pair still don’t slow, seemingly unbothered by their dumbfounded audience and the sweltering heat, and this time Merlin suddenly starts fighting more like Gwaine. Instead of staying on the defensive and trying to trip Arthur up, he goes on the attack, landing heavier and heavier hits as The King barely manages to defend himself in time.

Merlin is quickly growing tired, his stamina not nearly as good as Arthur’s, but The King grows complacent, even with the vicious pace, certain that he just has to wait Merlin out. He was wrong. Arthur finally gets an attack of his own in but Merlin dives to the side instead of blocking it, rolling and coming up to Arthur’s left before the blonde has time to regain his balance and turn around. He freezes in place when Merlin touches his wooden sword to the side of Arthur’s neck. He can feel it shaking, but it’s undoubtedly a killing blow, and when Merlin drops the sword to the floor in favour of bending over, one hand on his knee and the other on his side again as he pants, Arthur turns around faster than he thinks he’s ever moved before:

“How the fuck did you do that?”

Merlin is vaguely aware of the knights all clapping and shouting encouragement at him, but he doesn’t look up, just waves dismissively in Arthur’s direction:

“I told you, I’ve been watching you lot train for years. It’s easy to imitate you after a little practice.”

Arthur just stares at him in disbelief, but Leon hands the servant a water-skin, ripping his gaze from the whip marks on his back with clenched teeth before schooling his tone and face into something more friendly:

“Merlin, you switched styles twice in as many minutes… you beat the best swordsman in the Kingdom after already being tired from another spar, that’s… that’s incredible.”

Merlin drinks the entire skin as Leon speaks, looking up with another playful mask on his face:

“Well believe me, I’m so sore I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do it again.”

Merlin’s smile drops when he realises everyone is back to staring at him, more specifically, his scars. He steps away from the curly-haired knight, who furrows his brows in concern and resists the urge to reach a comforting hand out to him. Merlin crosses his arms over his chest defensively, hunching his broad shoulders slightly as he frowns at the floor.

Lancelot quickly throws his tunic to him, and Merlin scrambles to pull it on as quickly as possible, but before he can even get his arms through the right holes, Arthur snatches it away, a stern, angry look on his face. Though every one of then can see the badly hidden concern as well:

“No, you agreed to tell us.”

Merlin makes a move for his tunic, but Arthur jumps out of his reach. The servant huffs, annoyed and close to tears all of a sudden as he petulantly replies:

“Actually, you said once you beat me, I had to tell you. I won.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, taking another step back:

“I’m happy to go another round if you are, Merlin?”

Merlin glares at him angrily for another few moments before completely sagging, staring at the floor with sad, tired eyes as his arms drop to dangle at his sides. Arthur and the knights are completely taken aback at Merlin’s sudden change of disposition, though it heartbreakingly strikes them as less of a change and more of a... reveal. A reveal of some kind of sadness that’s been there all along. How did they not notice this??

Arthur’s breath hitches and his tight clutch on Merlin’s tunic loosens slightly as he all but whispers:

“Merlin... who did this to you?”

Merlin finally looks up at him, letting out a humourless chuckle as he rakes a hand through his sweat-dampened hair roughly:

“Does it matter? Most of them are dead, I-”

His eyes narrow and his voice lowers. The knights hear it nonetheless:

“... I made sure of that .”

Arthur lets out a huff of frustration, not bothering to hide the desperation in his eyes as he pleads:

“Please, Merlin, you’re my... subject, you’re meant to be under my protection. And don’t lie, none of these are more than eleven or twelve years old at most and you got here ten years ago, so they happened in Camelot, under my watch. Please, Merlin.”

Merlin sighs, walking towards the tree’s shade once again. For a moment Arthur panics, thinking he’d pushed Merlin too far as he turned away, knowing that if this conversation wasn’t had now, their relationship would never be the same. But before The King can say anything, the servant slumps back into place against the tree trunk, sitting cross-legged again and biting his lip as he looks at Arthur expectantly.

Before anyone else can move, Mordred and Lancelot take the places either side of Merlin, sitting protectively close. Lance gives Mordred a pointed look, to which the younger knight nods before settling a blank expression on the side of Merlin’s head. Merlin doesn’t look back at him, but pats the knight’s knee as the corner of his mouth turns up briefly in a barely-there smile.

Arthur narrows his eyes, but stores that odd exchange in the back of his mind to deal with at a later date before sitting across from Merlin; the other knights look to each other, worried, before settling in the empty spaces to complete the circle. The group is silent for a while, all staring at a statue-still Merlin who in turn is staring at the grass in front of him; he doesn’t move even when Lancelot brings his hand into his lap, stroking his thumb over the servant’s knuckles absent-mindedly.

It’s Percival that finally breaks the silence, asking in a quiet voice:

“What happened, Merlin?”

Merlin looks up suddenly, as if he had forgotten he had company, taking in a deep breath and tightening his grip on Lance’s hand. He gulps before once again running his free hand through his hair, shrugging slightly as he mutters:

“I don’t recall all of them in perfect detail, just ask about... whatever catches your eye I guess, and we’ll see what I can remember.”

The knights all nod, looking to each other expectantly, no one really wanting to go first. Eventually Leon clears his throat, his voice gentle:

“Why don’t we start with the whip marks on your back?”

Merlin nods, grateful that they were at least starting off with the non-magical injuries. He doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as he speaks, his voice croaky and quiet:

“The newer ones are from Cenred, from a few years ago. He wanted information and I spat at his feet and told him to fuck off. He... he didn’t take too kindly to that.”

Gwaine lets out a quiet curse, and Arthur sits up straight, saying in a crackingly authoritative voice:

“Merlin, if anyone ever tries to extract information from you again, you give them anything. Everything. We’ll deal with the fall-out afterwards, it is not your job to withstand torture.”

The other knights nod approvingly but Merlin just looks up at The King with a raised eyebrow:

“Like hell. I can put up with a remarkable amount, I’d never sell Camelot, or you, out. Never, Arthur.”

Arthur huffs and resolutely ignores the tears gathering in his eyes, but Elyan beats him to the mark:

“That’s not... you shouldn’t have to put up with anything Merlin, it’s not necessary. You just... keep yourself safe. We’ll worry about everything else.”

The other knights nod again, but Merlin scowls and tenses even further, even as Lancelot squeezes his hand comfortingly:

“I’ve been through literal hell, multiple times, in order to protect my home and the people that are important to me. I’m not going to stop that just because it makes you lot uncomfortable, and you have no right to tell me to it’s not my place.”

Everyone looks desperate to argue, but they can’t deny that, after what they’ve seen today, in the last half a candle-mark only, Merlin is evidently a lot stronger than they’ve ever given him credit for. Both physically and mentally. Leon just gives Merlin a small smile and nods; he’s the only one here who has known Merlin just as long as Arthur, and he may not be as close to the younger man as The King or Lance or Gwaine or Mordred, but he’s seen his loyalty in action several times over the years:

“You said the newer ones were from Cenred. You’ve been flogged more than once?”

Merlin nods at the knight, grateful for his understanding and change of subject, even if said change of subject was back to his scars. His expression turns slightly guilty as his gaze moves to Arthur, and The King has a feeling he’s going to feel incredibly terrible at whatever it is Merlin is about to say:

“The others are from... uh.... Uther.-”

Arthur takes in a sharp breath as the tears he had just about managed to get under control gather again. The other knights just look angry, bar Leon, who, though miserable, looks as though he sort of expected it:

“-He didn’t like me very much.”

Arthur whispers his response:

“When? Merlin, when and why did my father have you flogged, and how did I not know about it?”

Merlin tenses his jaw, going from guilty to angry in a split second, snapping his response:

“Why do you think?!-”

Arthur recoils and Merlin closes his eyes briefly as he takes a deep breath, looking back to Arthur with a blank mask and speaking in a monotone voice:

“What did you think he would do every time I took the blame for you missing a meeting or a meal or a training session because you were entertaining a woman or pissing about with your knights? I had to walk into the council room and apologise for your absence because I slept in or I forgot to tell you or I sent you on a hunt on the wrong day. Uther was in the habit of burning people and chopping off an alarming number of heads, did you really think I would get away with it punishment free??

Arthur goes pale as a sheet and his hands tremble with the understanding. He shakes his head slightly as he looks to his lap, ignoring the tears on his cheeks as he murmurs:

“Merlin I am so sorry, I didn’t... I didn’t think... if I had known I would have duelled him in the damn town square to protect you.-”

Arthur looks up sharply, wiping his face clean as he settles an assessing gaze on his servant, ignoring Gwaine’s murderous glare as he slowly continues:

“-... which is exactly why you never told me, isn’t it?”

Merlin shrugs, a small smile on his face:

“You may never admit it, Arthur, but you were protective of me, even then.”

Arthur flushes slightly, before frowning again and shaking his head:

“You should have told me, it’s my job to protect you.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly:

“I think we’ve already had this conversation.”

Arthur huffs and narrows his eyes again, good-naturedly this time, and Merlin just rolls his eyes before seeming to sag again, speaking quietly:

“Come on, next one.”

Elyan raises his hand slightly before pointing to the centre of Merlin’s chest:

“How the hell did you get a burn like that?”

Merlin tenses, rubbing a hand over the roughly circular, pink and white scar in the centre of his chest. The flesh looked melted in places, white scar tissue spider-webbing out from his sternum, beginning to fade just before it stretched around his sides, and stopping a few inches above his naval:

“Witch threw a fireball at me. Hurt like hell, but there was quite a lot of adrenaline at the time so I didn’t really notice the pain until later.”

Gwaine raises an eyebrow, evidently trying to control his anger as he asks, in a shaking, though forceful, voice:

“And what were you doing fighting a witch powerful enough to throw fire around?”

Merlin stops rubbing at the scar when Lancelot tugs his hand and Mordred mutters “You’re going to hurt yourself, Merlin.” in his head, curling his hand tightly in his lap instead and speaking slowly, as if he were choosing each word individually:

“Only Leon and Arthur were in Camelot for that. Arthur was dying from the Questing Beast bite, I... went to the Isle of the Blessed to speak to the followers of the Old Religion. There was said to be someone there who had power over life and death and I... Arthur was dying, I had to try.-”

Arthur’s eyes widened at Merlin’s words, mostly the mention of such a power, but stays silent, nodding at him to continue:

“-But the Old Religion requires balance, a life for a life,-”

Leon releases a deep breath, looking to the floor at the implication with his eyes closed, and Arthur lets out a whispered whimper, knowing the depths of Merlin’s loyalty:

“-I offered my own in exchange for Arthur’s. She, Nimueh, that is, accepted,-”

Arthur opens his mouth to say something, he’s not sure what, but before he can yell about Merlin’s self preservation, he notices the darkness on his dearest friend’s face and his voice catches in his throat. Merlin stares at the floor, his face drawn and angry and his voice stormy and clipped:

“-but she tried to trick me. I didn’t appreciate that, we fought, she died. Her life for Arthur’s: the deal was done.”

An audible gasp goes up around the circle, and Percival, who is (other than Merlin and Mordred of course) the most well versed in Magic Info, responds breathlessly:

“Merlin... Nimueh is a High Priestess, The master over Life and Death, she’s very very powerful.”

Merlin looks up at the gentle giant sharply, his gaze unforgiving and his tone harsh:

“Yeah, and she’s also very very dead, because she pissed me off.”

Percival gulps and lowers his gaze, but Arthur seems to have missed everything the two of them just said as he stares blankly at his servant:

“You’d barely known me a year, and I’ll admit that I was an arse back then, and you tried to give your life for mine. Why?”

Merlin looks at him curiously, not responding for a few moments as his anger dies down and his pride grows:

“I had it on good authority that you would become a Great King one day. It only took a little squinting to see it, you were a good man, a man I was, and still am, prepared to sacrifice myself for. You were an arse, yes, you still sort of are, but I have faith in you, always have, always will.”

Lancelot and Mordred smile fondly at him as the other knights stare dumbfounded, but Arthur clenches his jaw, ignoring the shaking in his voice as he says:

“Well, I... I forbid it. You are officially forbidden from sacrificing yourself for me, legally.”

Gwaine perks up slightly:

“Out of curiosity, do we all get the same-”

Arthur interrupts him with a forceful, though slightly amused:

“Shut up, Gwaine. And no, you’re a knight, your entire job description is to jump head first into danger so I don’t have to. I have every faith that you’ll die for me one day.”

Everyone lets out quiet snorts at that, bar Gwaine of course, who looks jokingly affronted before he nods and shrugs, quietly muttering “Yeah, fair enough,-”, the rest of his sentence (”especially considering you’re in love with him but not any of us.”) goes unheard and unchallenged.

Merlin chooses not to respond to Arthur’s demand, but everyone knows that’s his way of not committing to anything, knowing full well that Merlin had never listened to Arthur’s orders before, and sure as shit wasn’t going to start now.

“Next one.”

Merlin’s face had fallen slightly, knowing he wasn’t going to get away with explaining only two sets of scars, and Gwaine asks next, his eyes being drawn to Merlin’s gesturing hand:

“The red bands around your wrists and neck. They look like burns, but not very deep ones. How did they scar if they weren’t deep?”

Merlin looks down at the scars on his wrists, resisting the urge to absent-mindedly claw at the one he knows sits low on his neck. They’re about two inches wide, pale pink and almost impossible to see in the dark but impossible not to see in the light of the noon sun, even sat in the shade. The edges were clean cut and perfectly straight, and Merlin winced slightly at the memory of his magic being contained in such a way.

He looks around the circle, speaking easily. Though it was painful, it was no where near the worst Merlin has ever had, and even if he couldn’t tell the full truth, it felt sort of nice not to have to hide these ones:

“Some sort of enchanted chains, they drained my energy, made me sick and tired, but the magic in the metal sort of... stung, I guess. I don’t really know. I’d been captured by Morgause (is Morgana not mentioned in this entire fic but still Good? Yes.) again and I suppose she didn’t want to take any chances.”

Everyone looks shocked at his casual admission, and Leon is the first to break the tense silence:

“When were you captured by Morgause?”

Before Merlin can respond, Arthur pipes up incredulously:

“Again. You said again. Merlin, how many times have you been kidnapped by Morgause without anyone realising? How many times have you been kidnapped in general?!”

Merlin winces slightly, speaking in a slightly defensive tone as he stares at Arthur as though the answer is obvious:

“Arthur... I’m The King’s personal manservant. I have the power to overrule the Steward and the Housekeeper if I wanted to; as far as servant’s go, I have the most authority, even more than some low level nobles, especially when it comes to running the citadel. I’m sort of... a big deal. I have access to pretty much any information I could want, even more than this lot-”

He gestures to the knights around the circle. Mordred and Lancelot look a little proud once again, Leon is staring at Arthur, shocked that The King didn’t know this, and everyone else stares at Merlin, only just realising that... Merlin was right. None of them have considered it before, but he practically runs the castle.

“-most of the time, and I’m the only one who knows every single state secret, simply from my proximity to you and your council and your paperwork. That is rather... desirable to people like Morgause, people who want to attack Camelot.”

Merlin purses his lips awkwardly as everyone stares at him blankly, but Gwaine is the first to break the silence:

“... and we’ve just been letting you walk around, unprotected.”

Merlin raises as eyebrow:

“I think we’ve already established I don’t need protection.”

Arthur huffs and throws his hands up awkwardly:

“Well you obviously do, if you’re getting kidnapped so often. When even was this?? You haven’t disappeared for a while, and we haven’t had any trouble from Morgause in months.”

Merlin’s face falls, and the knights are taken aback at the reappearance of the... cruel darkness in his expression:

“Believe me, I know. She... won’t be bothering us any longer, I wasn’t fond of her repeated attempts to kill me or you so I... took care of it.”

The knights go pale at Merlin’s casual admittance of killing yet another High Priestess of the Old Religion. He smirks into his lap briefly until Lance once again squeezes his hand, as if reminding him of the mask he should be wearing. Arthur stares at his servant and long time friend, struggling to reconcile the clumsy ideal he has in his head with this... hardened, tortured protector:

“How? Nimueh and Morgause... just... how??”

Merlin’s eyes slowly move up to meet Arthur’s gaze, and The King gulps at the assessing way the servant tilts his head:

“Playing the role of clumsy rural idiot can be a little demeaning sometimes, but it also means that people tend to underestimate me. They think I’m an easy target, and by the time they realise I’ve played them, it’s too late.”

Arthur recoils slightly, and Merlin once again changes dispositions, shrugging casually and smiling easily, his tone light:

“You can get away with a remarkable amount when people think you’re stupid.”

The circle lets out an in-sync breath. All of them knew that Merlin wasn’t stupid by any stretch of the imagination, but they didn’t realise just how smart he is. None of them would admit it, but Elyan, Leon, Percival, Arthur, and even Gwaine on some level, still subconsciously considered Merlin “just a servant” in the back of their minds. At least... they did. 

(Not that that old thought process made them think any less of him, they just didn’t think of him as complicated, as a warrior.)

Merlin takes a deep breath, knowing that his friends would never see him in the same way, but sort of hoping that that was a good thing, gesturing vaguely to the circle once again. Arthur asks the next question, touching his hand to the back of his own neck softly:

“There’s a cut on the back of your neck. It looks deep, like it was reopened over and over, what is it?”

Merlin grimaces slightly, wiping his free hand over his face in exhaustion as Lancelot squeezes his other hand, and Mordred pats his knee comfortingly:

“That one was a few years ago, courtesy of Morgause again. She put something called a Fomorrah in me-”

Percival gasped slightly, harshly whispering “Gods.” under his breath. Arthur spares him a quick glance, making a mental note to question how his knight seems to know so much about sorcery at a later date:

“-so she could try to make me kill Arthur; it sort of... controls you. Makes you only able to focus on whatever instruction you’re given when it’s first put in you. Gaius kept having to cut it out of me, it wouldn’t stop re-growing until we killed the rest of it’s body, and that was with Morgause somewhere out of the city.”

Arthur looked a little outraged, hiding the worry of “I now know that Merlin could kill me without any trouble at all so how the fuck am I alive?”. Apparently he doesn’t hide it well; Merlin gives him a comforting smile and shrugs his shoulders slightly:

“I fought the compulsion pretty well, kept coming up with increasingly complicated assassination plans instead of just... stabbing you in your sleep or something.”

Arthur goes to respond, but he’s interrupted by Leon loudly cursing, his eyes wide as he stares at Merlin with flushed cheeks:

“I just... gave you a crossbow!! You said you were going to kill Arthur and I thought you were joking and I let you walk out the armoury with a crossbow and a handful of bolts!!”

Merlin chuckles, a blush of his own rising as he responds, rubbing the back of his neck again:

“Yeah... I don’t really remember it, but Gaius and Gwen filled me in on what had happened. To be fair, it’s kind of flattering that you never considered that I was the assassin, despite the repeated attempts being made on Arthur’s life and the fact that I admitted it to your face.”

Leon stares at the floor with wide eyes, seemingly trying to process the fact that he had pointed a would be assassin in the right direction, muttering something along the lines of “oh my Gods oh my Gods oh my Gods” over and over until Elyan awkwardly patted him on the back, breaking him from his embarrassed horror.

Arthur clears his throat, staring at Merlin with an almost unreadable expression:

“I did wonder why the attempts just... stopped?”

Merlin understands the question in his tone and nods slightly before replying:

“Hmm. Gaius and Gwen figured out it was me, found a way to paralyse the thing in my neck until I managed to get back to Morgause’s little lair and kill the main body.”

Arthur nods distractedly. How many times had this happened? “This” being something entirely ridiculous and/or incredibly dangerous right under his nose.

Percival clears his throat and Merlin looks to the nervous man, nodding at him to ask whatever it was that was on his mind, despite his growing discomfort:

“There’s... on your back, it looks like a stab wound but... worse. The veins around it are black and it looks painful despite it’s obvious age and... well... it looks like a Serket Sting, but it... it can’t be, right?”

Merlin tenses, back to looking as exhausted and scared and as ready to bolt as he had at the beginning of the conversation. Lancelot squeezes his hand again, tightly this time, and Mordred takes his other to stop him from clenching it too harshly, murmuring:

“You don’t have to, Merlin, not this one.”

Arthur clenches his jaw at the knowledge that two of his knights had known about this. Had known the collage of agony on Merlin’s body, had known what he’d been through and done nothing. Hadn’t prevented it, hadn’t brought it to Arthur, hadn’t protected him. But equally, with how protective and loyal and secretive Merlin is, and how heartbroken the two of them had looked when Merlin first took his tunic off, they likely hadn’t known the full extent of damage.

Merlin just sighs and shakes his head, sensing the curious stares of the others before rising to his knees and turning around, running a shaking hand over the scar briefly before dropping his hand to his side again. The others stare, astounded. They’d only caught brief glimpses of it before, but now they could see it properly it was undoubtedly a Serket Sting. 

The deep puncture mark on his lower back had closed up, but the skin was still sunken in slightly, red and angry looking with hints of purple towards the middle. Percival was right: dark veins, as if permanently poisoned, stretched out from the centre of the wound, dipping below the waistband of his trousers and fading about halfway up his back. 

After a few moments, Merlin turns around again and sits back down, placing his still shaking hand back in Lance’s lap without prompting. Arthur’s one-word question is whispered and cracked, and no one judges him for the tears in his eyes; most of them have tears of their own gathering and falling at their friend’s pain:

“How?”

Merlin gulps, not looking up as he leans slightly into Mordred’s shoulder. The young knight presses back, knowing how fond the servant is of warm pressure, not minding the sticky sweatiness of their still uncovered torsos in the noon heat:

“Morgause again. She got annoyed with me always ruining her plans, getting in the way. Left me chained up in the middle of a nest of... in the middle of a nest.”

Leon takes a deep breath, rubbing his eyes harshly and sniffing before asking, his voice strong despite the slight waver:

“How did you survive that? I’ve... I’ve seen men get stung by serkets and it’s not... nice.”

Merlin breathes shakily, his mouth open slightly as he stares at the floor, memories flashing through his mind and the scar on his back twinging uncomfortably. Again, Percival was right, despite it’s age, it did still hurt. He takes one last deep breath, clenching his eyes shut tightly before looking up at the curly-haired knight, not quite making eye-contact:

“I uh... a lot of screaming, and the help of an... old friend. I was out of Camelot for a few days whilst I recovered, my friend didn’t fancy being executed for helping me, for just existing.”

Arthur furrows his brows but the others, bar Leon, nod in understanding, looking only slightly guilty and not looking to The King as he asks:

“What do you mean? If someone has found a way to cure a Serket sting then they most definitely wouldn’t be executed for it.”

Elyan snorts and Mordred and Lancelot frown at the floor as Merlin stares at Arthur with poorly concealed contempt:

“Arthur... the cure for a Serket sting has been around for centuries, it just involves very strong, very complicated magic. I didn’t fancy dying in absolute agony, and my friend didn’t fancy being executed for the act of saving my life so we stayed away from the city whilst he treated me.”

Arthur looks at his servant, dumbfounded and confused, and the knights stay silent in their awkwardness. Leon, a lifelong citizen of Camelot, is the only other person to look surprised at Merlin’s explanation, though he nods after a few moments, conceding that it... makes sense. Of course it does.

Mordred frowns when he notices Merlin’s knee begin to bounce up and down slightly, but it’s the way he gulps and tightens his grip on Lance’s hand that has the two knights begin to properly worry. They share a quick look, obviously agreeing on something, before Mordred takes Merlin’s other hand and settles a soft touch on his vibrating knee whilst Lancelot looks to Arthur:

“I think we’re done for the day. This has been... a lot.”

Merlin is getting paler by the second and Mordred can sense the man’s distress, shooting Lance a desperate look before subtly trying to shuffle closer to Merlin, who leans even further into his touch. Arthur doesn’t seem to notice, looking annoyed at Lancelot’s assertion and rolling his eyes before moving his gaze back to Merlin’s quivering form:

“No, Merlin’s suffered and I need to know why. There are mace wounds on both your shoulders, I remember one, but not the-”

Arthur is interrupted by a low whine from the back of Merlin’s throat as he thumps his head back against the tree, eyes still shut tightly. His words out come quietly and broken, as if it were a struggle to breathe, let alone speak:

“Can we please stop now?”

Mordred ignores Arthur, moving to kneel in front of the servant whilst Lancelot glares at The King. Arthur just huffs slightly, though he obviously completely underestimates the distress his friend is in, looking concerned, but not letting up:

“Merlin, we’ve barely gone through a third of them, we can’t stop-”

Lancelot lets out a low growl, letting go of Merlin’s hand and moving towards Arthur, glaring as he says:

“Arthur, we need to stop. Now.”

The young King looks taken aback, though the argument is stopped in his throat when Mordred’s quiet voice interrupts him:

“Merlin, you need to breathe.-”

He peers around the young knight as best he can, but Lance’s still vicious glare stops him from moving too close. Mordred brings one of Merlin’s hands up, pressing it against his chest and continuing his soft instructions:

“-Copy my breathing, alright? Can you tell me where you are right now, Merlin?”

The knights all stare on in horror at Merlin’s pale skin and ragged breathing, staying still in their places when Lancelot gestures at them firmly. It’s Merlin’s next word, cracked and whispered, that trigger another round of tears to gather in their eyes:

“C...cave.”

Mordred shakes his head slowly and Lancelot curses under his breath, kneeling back next to Mordred and retaking Merlin’s other hand, holding it between his own securely. Mordred’s soft voice floats in the wind, and if the knights weren’t so distracted by their friend’s pain, they would think it sounds almost magical:

“No, you’re safe, Merlin. Think, listen, feel. Can you try to tell me where you are again?

Merlin shakes his head roughly, his still-shut eyes not stopping the tears from squeezing out as he flinches, strikes of lightening-like agony shooting out from the scar on his lower back. Lance worries his lip between his teeth, rubbing one of his hands up and down Merlin’s shivering arm; a nod from Mordred has Lance speak, his words soft and low despite the waver in his voice:

“Merlin, you know where you are, and me and Mordred are right here with you. You need to open your eyes buddy, tell us where we are.”

Merlin’s breathing instantly seems to calm a little at Lancelot’s voice, and he cracks his bloodshot eyes open, immediately sighing when his blurry gaze lands on the canopy above him, whispering:

“Tree... sky... Camelot.”

The others can see Mordred let out a relieved sigh, and they force themselves to relax slightly. Merlin’s body sags again and Lance frowns, but the young servant’s stuttering words as he stares blankly up into the tree interrupt any reassurance he could have offered:

“Please, I can’t... I don’t... please don’t make me-”

Lance stills his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, not even paying the slightest bit of attention to anyone else as he replies:

“No one’s going to make you, Merlin, we can carry on another day-”

Arthur’s interrupted “But-” is quickly shut down when Lance turns around to glare at him, a sharp “-I said we’re done for the day.” sent his way.

Merlin flinches again, the pain in his back getting worse and worse and making it harder to keep a grasp on reality, so damning the consequences, Mordred presses a hand to his forehead, closing his eyes and he mouths the words to a sleeping spell as quietly as he can. Thankfully, everyone’s attention is on the glaring contest between Lancelot and The King, so no one immediately notices the way Merlin falls forwards into Mordred’s arms, not until he nudges Lance in the leg and mutters:

“He passed out. We should get him to Gaius, he needs proper rest and pain medication.”

Lancelot nods his head firmly, back to ignoring Arthur and the others as he moves to Merlin’s side, pulling his arm over his shoulder as Mordred does the same on the servant’s other side. Mordred’s eyes scan over the knights, searching for whoever looks the most likely to help without question; his gaze stills on a terribly worried looking Gwaine:

“Gwaine, run ahead to warn Gaius, tell him that Merlin had a really bad episode and then passed out.”

Gwaine gulps but nods, gathering his tunic in quick hands and putting it on haphazardly as he sprints back to the castle. Mordred and Lancelot adjust their grips, standing and bringing Merlin up with them as they turn in the direction Gwaine had ran and begin the careful journey back to the citadel. The knights follow behind them closely, hastily dressing themselves and desperate to ask questions, but knowing that now was not the time. Elyan jogs ahead of them to open doors and clear a path, and Percival had grabbed Merlin, Lancelot, and Mordred’s tunics as Leon put all of the swords away before catching up.

Thankfully they don’t come across many people, though Lance and Mordred still do their best to conceal Merlin between them, knowing that he would be distraught if anyone else saw his scars. They make good time to Gaius’ chambers, and they find the Physician preparing a few strong pain potions and sleeping draughts as Gwaine paced.

Gaius looks incredibly worried, but unsurprised, and Lance and Mordred carry Merlin up to his room without prompting; the sick feeling in Arthur’s stomach tells him that they’re practiced at this. The King goes to follow them, but they kick the door shut behind them so they can have at least a little privacy whilst they settle their friend in his bed. They leave the covers off, knowing that he’d just overheat or kick them off in the nightmares that they know are coming. Lance nods knowingly at Mordred, and the younger of the two moves swiftly back into the main room, shutting the door behind him again softly, avoiding eye contact with anyone bar Gaius, even as Percival hands him his tunic.

The elderly Physician raises an eyebrow, and Mordred answers the wordless question quietly, though not quiet enough for the other knights to not hear him:

“Not yet, but soon, he’ll definitely need a sleeping draught to get him through it. It was his back, so he’ll need the strongest pain one you’ve got.”

Gaius nods, picking up two of the many concoctions he had prepared, not reacting to Arthur’s desperate questions, leaving the conversation to Mordred:

“What are you talking about? Get through what??”

Mordred sighs and frowns slightly, unable to get over all of his anger at the King for pushing Merlin so far:

“The nightmares. He always gets them, especially after an episode that bad.”

Arthur recoils, just a little horrified, but Gwaine beats him to the mark, asking in a shaking voice:

“Episode??”

Mordred moves his gaze to the worried knight, a little more sympathetic to the man he knew was more loyal to Merlin than he was to The King:

“Flashbacks, panic attacks. Merlin has been through... a lot. Chronic pain or difficult conversations sometimes trigger a sort of... breakdown, he struggles to differentiate between memories and reality. Normally he can just wait it out with a little help. When it’s really bad we put him to sleep, it’s the only way to stop him from hurting himself accidentally.”

Everyone looks horrified at that, their focus on Mordred rather than Gaius, who was stealthily ascending the steps to Merlin’s room, potions in hand. Arthur is the first to break the tense silence:

“How long? How long as he been getting these episodes, and why the hell did no one think to tell me?!”

Mordred moves his harsh gaze back to The angry King, glaring at him when his voice rose:

“With all due respect, My Lord, lower your voice. Merlin needs rest, he needs to not be disturbed.”

Arthur looks annoyed, though still heartbroken, but nods slightly, almost whispering as he responds:

“You didn’t answer my questions. How long, and why wasn’t I told?”

Mordred sighs, looking to the floor briefly as he crosses his arms over his chest . After a few moments of considering his answer, he finally looks up again, suddenly appearing exhausted and resigned as he replies softly:

“I don’t really know. He didn’t tell us, we just... found out. It took us a while to convince him to explain it properly and let us help. He didn’t want anyone worrying or treating him like glass; it doesn’t happen very often at all, and this is... this is the worst one I’ve ever seen.”

Arthur frowns and shakes his head slightly, but it’s Leon that speaks next:

“Why not tell us, at least? What if something had happened and you weren’t with us? We wouldn’t have known what was wrong.”

Mordred takes a deep breath and shrugs, nodding slightly, obviously aware that he couldn’t tell them about his and Merlin’s mental link:

“We tried telling him that, but he wouldn’t have it. We were maybe one more conversation away from convincing him to tell Gwaine or Guinevere, but I guess that’s not necessary anymore.”

Arthur pushes down the twinge of jealousy that Merlin had never even considered telling him, but it obviously shows on his face; Mordred scowls slightly, clenching his hands to try and cover his annoyance. Before either men can say anything, Lancelot comes back down from Merlin’s room, leaving Gaius with the young servant:

“It’s starting, Mordred we need to go, everyone else, out.”

Percival throws Lance’s tunic to him as the knights move to the door, albeit reluctantly, but Arthur doesn’t move, glaring down at Mordred angrily when the younger man stops him from going into Merlin’s room:

“He’s my manservant, I want to be there when he wakes up.”

Mordred narrows his eyes, and Arthur kicks himself for never realising how much Merlin meant to him before now, but before the knight can say anything, Lancelot steps up next to him, answering in his stead:

“No, me and Mordred will be there, that’s all he needs. You need to go, My Lord.”

Arthur gears up to argue, to pull rank, squaring his shoulders and snarling slightly, but an angry Lancelot is something he’s never seen and never had to deal with before, so he’s far too surprised to say anything when the knight interrupts his posturing:

“I said no, Arthur. He has to pretend in front of you. You’ve already done this to him,-”

He gestures angrily to the door to Merlin’s room:

“-he needs to not tense up and stress out immediately upon waking up.”

Arthur steps back slightly, but clears his throat, pushing through the slight heartbreak and guilt to argue:

“Oh, and he doesn’t have to pretend in front of you two?”

Mordred rolls his eyes, giving Lancelot a pointed look before stalking up to Merlin’s room, leaving the older knight to deal with the angry King. Lance clenches his jaw and lets out a harsh breath, looking away briefly, as if trying to stop himself from saying anything cruel, before giving up and glaring back at Arthur:

“No. He doesn’t. Because we, and Gaius, are the only people who actually know the first thing about Merlin, and he trusts us. He needs space, and time to heal, and comfort, not the demanding presence of a King whose already pushed him too far, who treats him like shit and forces him to think he has to hide who he is. For God’s sake, Arthur, can you please, for once, think of anyone but yourself.”

Arthur widens his eyes, and though Lancelot looks a little like he regrets what he said, he doesn’t back down, nodding to the door behind Arthur and not moving away until The King steps back again. Arthur takes a deep breath, turning to exit the Physician’s chambers before the knight could see the guilt on his face and the tears in his eyes. He leaves without looking back, ignoring the gaggle of knights waiting worriedly in the hall and stalking straight to his chambers, only just managing to shut the door behind him before the tears finally started falling.

Back in Merlin’s room, the servant thrashes in his sleep, whimpering despite Mordred’s comforting whispers in his head, Gaius’ hand in his hair, and Lancelot’s soft lap as a pillow. 

This... was going to be a tough one.

~

The End of part 1!!!

This was legit supposed to only be one part buuuuuuut we can all see how that went. Part two will follow on really quickly, but it was getting far too long to leave all as one 😅

I hope y’all enjoyed it, link to part 2(the final part) at the top!! :)

[inhum3n]

Welcome back to me being bitter that Maladaptive daydreaming disorder is thing literally no one knows about. I mean we know about it, but like people without MaDD. Yeah very slim chance.

I’ve been thinking about this and how much MaDD affects my behavior. Which it does to a great extent. It affects all domains of my life, so for my family and friends to not know about it is for them to lack a vital piece of information needed to understand how I work. And ya know, its sad. And frustrating. Because I feel like there are so many situations and problems and struggles that involve my daydreaming. But because no one knows about the daydreaming, I cannot be adequately understood. And since I can’t be understood I am isolated. I am unable to share the unique struggles that come along with this. Don’t you see? How am I supposed to tell them those things?  The feeling like shit when I come out of a daydream because not only have I wasted time but I know my life can’t ever measure up to the worlds inside my head. That I cannot accomplish those things in my mind. Coming out feeling like the world is shallow and meaningless, when everything in my mind has so much meaning, depth, and emotions.  How do I tell them that I struggle to express myself so instead I go to an alternate world to say all things I wanted to say, do all the things I wanted to do, to grasp and find emotions and experiences that make me feel so intensely. How do I tell them that sometimes I miss my paras, or explain the connection to some of them. Even though not always perfect they are intricate and in depth, and when I imagine them holding me I can almost feel it on my own skin. How do I explain my struggles, insecurities, sexuality, gender identity, since the daydreaming play such strong roles in all of those and more.  How do I explain to them that sometimes my body feels useless and foreign, a fleshy cage. How I struggle at times to physically take care of myself because I’m sucked in somewhere else. How those photos and video recordings of me fascinate me because I feel no connection to the person they caught, because the camera can’t catch my daydreams and without them I am unfinished. Or what about the dread and fear that I will wake one day old, alone, with an unremarkable life because I lived out my dreams in my head. The vicious cycle of wanting to stop, failing, and falling back into daydreams to avoid the feeling of failure. The numbing affect of MaDD. How I feel so fucking shitty about it and whenever I feel fucking shitty about the actual world I just run away there. Or the suffocating feeling that you’ll always be like this. Taking your baggage and running off to that little world in my mind instead of talking about it. How its so hard to understand what I want as a physical person instead of what my parame does. The loss and confusion of identity. There’s so much but how I can tell you any of this since you don’t know what it is and I am too tired and ashamed to tell you.

[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!