#I need to draw us kissing more I realized I’ve only drawn a proper kiss like 3 times this ok included 😭😭😭

[cupiidzbow]

ummm whatever the freakkk ( sona uses he/him) 💋

[weighty-ghosts]

‘Perpetual Force’ (wolfstar)

Perpetual Force, by weightyghosts

‘Sirius finds the hidden meaning of a hidden moon, and Remus finds the light to his darkness.’

Rating: teen

Word count: 2000

Pairing: Remus x Sirius

Published: April 1, 2021

Warnings: swearing, nightmares

 https://archiveofourown.org/works/30393084 

      The sound of a terrified gasp and muffled sob abruptly awoke Sirius in the middle of the night. He leapt out of bed, the stone floor freezing on his bare feet, as James and Peter popped their sleepy heads out of their drapes.

“What’s going on?” Peter rubbed his eyes, his voice gruff.

“Is some- someone dead or injured?” James asked around a large yawn.

Sirius ignored them as he rushed across the dark room to the bed opposite his. He drew aside the curtain, only enough for him to lean his upper body in, and saw Remus sitting up with his back against the headboard, one hand clutching at his sweaty hair, trying to calm his rapid breathing.

“Rem?” Sirius asked softly, “Are you alright?” He reached out to place a comforting hand on Remus’ shoulder, but Remus jerked away and scrambled to the other side of the bed.

“It’s nothing,” he choked out as he stood up and dashed away, “I’m fine. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

Sirius straightened and walked around the bed, as Remus firmly shut the bathroom door behind him. He hovered in the middle of the room, chewing on the inside of his cheek, before glancing back at Peter, who gave Sirius a shrug before disappearing behind his curtains.

“Go on,” James encouraged, then made a shooing motion with his hand when Sirius didn’t reply.

“What?” Sirius grumbled.

“We both know you’re going in there after him.”

“He’s upset, Prongs.”

“Yes, and I’m sure deep down he wants you to comfort him-”

“You mean someone. He wants someone to comfort him.”

“No, I very much mean you,” James insisted with a smirk that Sirius didn’t trust. “Just go, Pads. See- see you in the morning,” he yawned again and disappeared.

Sirius bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to figure out why James’ words left him feeling like he was missing something right in front of him, but he thought of Remus and decided to sort that out later.

He crept over to the bathroom and opened the door slowly. Cool air hit him and he turned to the window that had been thrown open. Remus was sitting on the sill, hugging his legs, moonlight the only thing illuminating his body. It was enough for Sirius to see that he was shivering.  

Remus sighed at the sound of Sirius shutting the door behind him, and pushed aside the fringe sticking to his damp forehead. “I’m fine, Sirius. You don’t need to check on me.”

“Oh, good,” Sirius retorted as he came closer, “I was actually hoping you’d check on me. See, I had a nasty nightmare and now I’m all shaky and sweaty and panicky and not accepting comfort from anyone.”

He sat across from the werewolf on the sill they had magically enlarged so that two people could sit comfortably, and three squished together, for smoking purposes.

Remus narrowed his eyes at him, then looked away. “Trust me, it’s nothing. Just a stupid dream.”

“Doesn’t seem stupid, Moony.”

Sirius almost missed Remus’ minute flinch at the nickname. “Another one about the wolf?” He guessed.

“No,” he murmured, “I mean, yes, sort of. But this was new.”

“Tell me,” Sirius replied softly, aching with the desire to take away Remus’ pain.

Remus studied his face for a moment, likely assessing how awake Sirius was and how far he would keep pushing Remus until he inevitably gave in. He huffed in defeat, then took a deep, wavering breath, and rested his chin on his knees as he spoke.

“We were in the forest,” he started in a low voice. “I could feel the moon rising and knew I was only a few minutes away from turning. You three were there- as Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail, I mean, and something felt...off. Padfoot was pacing, and whining a bit. You looked up at the sky, and when I did too, I realized... I couldn’t see the moon.”

Sirius frowned, but said nothing, as he watched Remus’ eyes flick over to the near-full moon stamped in the sky outside.

“I felt this sense of dread; I knew that this was bad-”

“How did you know?” Sirius interrupted.

“It’s a dream, Sirius. I don’t know how, but I just knew; if I didn’t find the moon, something bad would happen.”

“Alright, sorry, keep going.”

“We were pretty deep in the forest where the trees are thicker, so I started running in the direction of the castle, hoping to see the sky unobstructed as the trees thinned. All I could hear was this ringing in my ears and my heart beating faster and faster. My body was aching and starting to shake, you know how it does just before.” Remus glanced up, and Sirius hummed in acknowledgment.

“I made it to a large clearing,” Remus continued, “And I looked up at where I knew the moon should be...but the sky was empty. You’d think I’d be fucking happy, but I panicked. I ran around in circles, tried to climb trees, tried to find the bloody moon. And I couldn’t. I eventually collapsed; the wolf couldn’t get free and it was punishing me. It was the worst pain...”

“Fuck, Rem...”

“I couldn’t find the moon, Pads.” Remus put a hand over his face as he laughed without humour, the sound catching in his throat.

Sirius slid forward and put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he promised, “You’re okay, it wasn’t real. You won’t have to go through that kind of pain, alright?”

Remus shook his head back and forth, then sniffed loudly as he met Sirius’ eyes.

“I don’t think it was the pain that freaked me out so much.”

“What, then?” Sirius asked, sliding his hand down to hold onto Remus’ wrist when he hesitated. He tilted his head to tell Remus to keep going.

“I just don’t understand why I reacted like that… Why wasn’t I fucking ecstatic not to see the moon? All I want is for the moon to go away.”

“That’s just unreasonable, Remus, the tides would be all out of whack,” Sirius joked.

The corner of Remus’ mouth twitched up into a smile, but it didn’t last.

“I don’t get it, Pads,” he said dejectedly.

Sirius shrugged. “I think it makes sense.”  

Remus stared at him like he’d just said he prefers coffee over tea, or something else equally abhorrent.

“You know,” Sirius reflected, “The day before I went on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, I actually told my parents I didn’t want to go.”

“Why? Because they said you had to?”

“Maybe a little,” he chuckled. Remus knew him well enough to know that he would have refused his favourite ice cream just because his parents told him to eat it. “But no, I think it was more...fear. I was afraid.”

Remus tilted his head in a thoroughly adorable way. “Why would you be afraid of coming to Hogwarts? Didn’t you want a break from your parents?”

“I did,” he confirmed, “I wanted to get away from them. But it’s the most common fear in the world, isn’t it? Being afraid of the unknown? I was scared at home too, but at least I knew what to expect. I knew how my parents would react to anything I said or did. Coming here... I had no idea. What if I didn’t get sorted into Slytherin? Or worse, what if I did... What if my roommates hated me-”

“Not possible.”

“Yes it was! I know you didn’t like me at first.”

“You were a bit of a prick,” Remus conceded.

“I was a proper arse,” Sirius smirked unapologetically, drawing a small laugh from Remus. “It’s the unknown, Moony,” he continued more seriously, “As much as you hate what you go through every month, it’s been the one constant in your life for as long as you can remember. You know what to expect from it. There’s a lot changing in the world around us, and we only have a few months left of school; I think we’re all feeling the weight of it. It’s okay to be worried. But we’ll get through it, yeah?”

Remus didn’t reply, simply gazed at Sirius for a long while, before nodding thoughtfully. He turned his head to look out at the night sky, and Sirius was able to watch the moonlight on his beautiful face; the shadows under his eyes, his long lashes, the slope of his nose, the corners of his mouth still turned down in sadness.

Remus had long since stopped being angry at the moon, stopped glaring at it whenever it deigned to blemish the sky. He looked at it now in a somber resignation; how someone would observe the grave of a loved one long since passed.

Sirius realized he was still holding onto Remus, and quickly found it difficult to remember what he wanted to say.

When he did, he whispered, “Moony?”  

“Hm?”

“If you ever can’t find the moon, you can come find me.”

“What?” Remus turned to look at him. “Sirius-”

“No, listen,” he cut in, suddenly desperate to make Remus understand, “I know I’ve broken your trust before, but it will never happen again. I’ll always be there for you.”

Sirius slid his fingers from Remus’ wrist to his hand, holding it tight, as Remus’ eyes flicked across his face. “I’ll always be there,” Sirius urged, “The moon is the perpetual force in your life pulling you into the dark? Then I’ll be the perpetual force pulling you into the light.”

Remus just stared back at him, his eyes wide and glittering, his mouth open. Sirius waited for him to say something, but he didn’t.

Instead, he tugged Sirius’ hand, pulling him close as Remus leaned forward. Sirius’ mind froze like he’d been stupefied, but he managed to realize what was happening a second before it did, and he felt Remus’ lips press against his, gently, yet firmly.

Remus pulled back slightly, waiting for Sirius’ reaction.

“Did- did you just kiss me?” Sirius asked stupidly.

“Erm, yes?”

“Did you... mean to do that?”

“Yes?”

Remus bit his lip, and Sirius’ eyes were drawn to the mouth that had just been on his. There was a bead of saliva on Remus’ top lip. His hand felt warm and tingly from where they touched, though, really, it was nothing compared to the raging fire building inside him.

“Did you...want to do it again?”

“Yes,” Remus exhaled, his face lighting up with a grin that Sirius immediately surged forward to capture. Remus’ lips tasted like tea and honey and peppermint, and Sirius could tell he was quickly becoming addicted to it.

“Thank you,” Remus whispered after a divine moment.

“For kissing you?”

“For following me in here and comforting me.”

“I thought you were comforting me?”

“Ah is that what I’m doing?” Remus smirked. His face softened and he ran his thumb along Sirius’ palm. “You were wrong though, you know.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sirius dismissed. “About what?”

“You said the moon has been the only constant in my life for as long as I can remember. But that’s not true.”

He looked deep into Sirius’ eyes, and Sirius felt his heart stutter at the adoration in them. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, Pads. My love for you has been a constant in my life too.”

“Oh,” Sirius breathed. The words felt like sunlight washing over him, and he took a second to let the warmth seep into his bones. “Moony…” He brought a hand up to cup Remus’ cheek and tilted his face as their lips fit together, hoping to convey every feeling that was lost on his tongue into his touches.

“Me too, Moons,” he professed in between kisses, “As long as I can remember.”

The rest of the night was spent in each other's arms, as were the next nights for a long, long while.

*

[watchyourbluesturngolden]

matching tattoos

warnings: none

word count: 1.8k (the longest i’ve done in a while whoo 🎉)

"Stevie, I don't think your mom will be too happy with me if I let you do this," Harry said, eying his two year old daughter. She had been asking about it for weeks, but so far he'd been able to distract her before you caught wind of their conversation.

"Pleeeease, daddy?" She pouted, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

"Why don't we have some cookies instead, love?" 

"No." 

"Ummm... oh! I know what we can do! Why don't we go in my studio? You can play the piano, or the guitar, maybe sing a song for me..." He trailed off.

"I want to do this! Please?" 

Harry's heart melted in three seconds flat. How could he say no to her? He tried, he really did. He opened his mouth to say "no, mommy will really kill me, why don't we do something else?" but one glance at her sweet face left him speechless. He couldn't do it. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

"Alright, we'll do it... but!" He cut himself off, raising his voice slightly to be heard over her excited cheering. "But! We only have two hours til mommy gets home." She nodded eagerly, bouncing on her feet. 

"And if we do this it has to be our secret, mommy can't know. Can you keep this secret?" He said, making a very serious face. 

"Yes!" She squealed, giggling. 

"Pinky promise?" 

She beamed, holding her tiny hand up to his. He wrapped his finger around hers, squeezing for just a second before releasing her. 

"Go get the markers then, we have to work fast!" 

Stevie screamed in excitement, running as fast as her little legs could carry her. He heard her digging around the art room, probably making a huge mess, before he heard a scraping noise on the wood floor. She was pushing a box of markers that was nearly as big as she was, groaning dramatically. 

"It's... too... heavy," she panted.  "Please help!" 

Harry smiled, leaning down to pick up the box. He scooped her up too, settling them both down on the table. 

"Alright, Miss Styles," he said, adapting a posh accent. "This is a proper tattoo parlor, so we shall do this properly, hm?" 

She laughed, kicking her feet. 

"I want the mermaid!" She said, pointing to the ink on his forearm. 

"Patience, Miss Styles," He smiled, wetting a paper towel under the faucet. "First, we have to get your arm ready!" 

She held out her arm, tracing her little fingers over his other tattoos as he wiped her wrist with the cloth. 

"So, the mermaid, hm? You have excellent taste, Miss Stevie," he joked, throwing the towel back to the sink. "What color?" 

"Black, like yours," she said, smiling sweetly. 

He felt his heart squeezing as he reached for a black marker. She was so precious. He would do anything, literally anything, to make her happy. He knew it was probably dangerous, how much power this two year old had over him, but he didn't care. He had been in love with her since the day she was born; since the first time he had looked at her. 

"We can match, look at that!" He said, beginning to draw on her arm. "Did you know that I love you sooooo much?" 

"I love you too, daddy," she giggled. "And that tickles!" 

"Oh, it tickles, does it? Should I stop?" He hovered the marker over her skin, glancing at her teasingly. 

"No!" She yelled. "I want to match you!" 

"Alright then," He said, laughing as he went back to his task. "Why don't we listen to some music?" 

"Yeah!" 

"What should we listen to?" 

"Your song, the fire!" 

"The fire?" Harry looked up, confused. "None of my songs have fire in them, bug." 

"Yes," she said stubbornly. "And the fish!" 

Harry thought for a second before it clicked. "Do you mean Adore You?" 

"That one!" 

"You're right," He laughed. "That one does talk about fire. I'll get it, yeah?" 

He set down the marker, picking up his phone. After a minute, she was dancing in her seat to the drums of Adore You. When the chorus came on, she sang "walk through fire for you" while looking at Harry triumphantly. 

"Did you know this song is about mommy?" He said, focusing on his drawing. 

"Really?" She asked incredulously, eyes wide. 

"Really! It's about how much I love her." 

"Yucky," She said, scrunching her nose.

  "Yucky? That's not yucky!" he exclaimed. "It's nice!" 

Stevie hummed, kicking her feet along with the music.

   "It's yucky." 

"Stevie, you're hurting my feelings!" He said, gasping and clutching his chest dramatically. "I can't go on," he sighed, throwing his other arm over his forehead. "I'm sorry, daddy," She giggled, reaching up to pull his arm back to her. "Keep going!" 

He smiled, adding the finishing touches to her drawing.

"And... there we go! One mermaid, just for you." 

She beamed, holding her arm next to his to compare. 

"Daddy... your mermaid has no clothes. She needs some." 

"How about you draw her a shirt?" Harry laughed, handing her the marker. She furrowed her brow, focusing intently on her task. 

"Good job staying in the lines, love!" He said, ignoring the scribbles around the outline. "And you were right, it does tickle." 

"I know!" She laughed, giving the marker back. 

"What now?" 

"The... the heart!" She said, pointing the the small filled in shape on his upper arm. 

"Sure, that's an easy one." 

He proceeded to give her at least ten more matching "tattoos", including a cross, an anchor, a poorly drawn rose, and the green bay packers logo. 

"Daddy!" She gasped. "I have a idea!" 

"What's your idea, princess?" 

"The butterfly! On my belly!" 

"You want a butterfly on your belly?" He asked, lifting his shirt to show her his. "Like this?" 

"Yes!" She clapped. "Like that!" 

They were having the time of their lives, drawing and singing as loud as they could to all of Harry's songs. He loved watching her face every time he finished drawing. Her eyes would light up and she would pull his arm to hers, showing him how they matched. Every time a new song came on she would squeal and kick her legs because "it's my favorite song!" 

They had just finished making silly noises together at the end of "Sunflower" when Harry heard a noise. He froze with the marker on her arm, looking up quickly. 

He reached over to pause the music, holding a finger to his lips when she whined at him. He glanced at the clock, hoping he was just imagining things. You weren't supposed to be home for another hour. But no, that was definitely the sound of the front door opening, followed by your voice calling out a greeting. 

"Mommy!" Stevie shrieked, launching herself off the table. 

"No!" Harry hissed, grabbing her before she could run off. "Stevie, we have to wash this off!" 

He scooped her up, running up the stairs to the bathroom. 

"Harry?" You called out. That was weird. You could have sworn you heard them in the kitchen. "Stevie?" 

"We're- we're upstairs, love!" Harry yelled back. "Just cleaning up!" 

Cleaning what? You wondered, but didn't dwell on it for too long. It had rained recently, so they had probably gotten muddy outside. 

You made your way to the kitchen with the grocery bags, beginning to put everything away. Then you saw the box of markers. You narrowed your eyes, confused when you realized there was no paper around. What had they been drawing on? 

Up in the bathroom, Harry was starting to panic. He had set Stevie up on the counter while he was rubbing at the ink with a washcloth. 

"It's not coming off! Why isn't it coming off? The box said washable!" 

"No, don't take my mermaid!" She cried, pushing his hands away. 

"Stevie, love, I'm sorry, but we can't let mommy see these. Remember? They're secret tattoos." 

"Mommy will like them! They're nice," She pouted. 

"No, I don't think she will," Harry said, laughing nervously. "Maybe if we..." he grabbed the bottle of soap, dumping some onto the cloth. "There we are! Whew," he sighed in relief. "Good thing that worked, or daddy might have been sleeping on the couch tonight." 

Just as he was lifting her off the counter, he heard a knock at the door.

  "Harry? What are you doing in there?" 

He swung open the door, smiling charmingly. 

"Just a little cleanup! We... spilled some yogurt. Right Stevie?" 

She nodded, looking up at you innocently. 

"Ok... why were there markers all over the table, but no paper to use them on?" You asked, raising an eyebrow at him. 

"Uh... we were going to color, but then... the... yogurt explosion..." 

"Oh, I see," you said, still suspicious. "Stevie," you said, kneeling down to be at her eye level. "Is daddy telling the truth?" 

Harry held his breath. Stevie was notoriously bad at lying. Usually, Harry was thankful for this, but right now he could do with a little fib.

"Yes mommy, yogurt went everywhere," she said, eyes going wide as she mimicked an explosion with her hands.

You smiled, straightening up. 

"Well, I'm glad you got it cleaned up. I'm going to go put the rest of the groceries away." 

Harry exhaled as you got to the bottom of the stairs. He quickly lifted Stevie up, spinning her around. 

"Thank you, Stevie. You're such a sweetie," He said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She giggled, wiping her face and wiggling in his arms.

"Let's go see what mom bought us!" He said, bouncing her as they ran downstairs. 

Harry thought he was in the clear. He really did. He had managed to scrub off all traces of the marker, including the scribbles drawn over his own mermaid. Luckily, Stevie was true to her pinky promise and didn't say a word. She told you about how they played outside and what books they read, but said nothing about the makeshift tattoos. She was good at being sneaky.

By the time Stevie was yawning, Harry really though everything was fine. When you went to change her into her pajamas, he settled into the couch to find a movie. 

Everything is fine, he thought. You had no id-

"Harry!" You yelled from down the hall. 

He hopped up from his seat, rushing to Stevie's room. 

"What is it?" 

"Harry," you said, turning towards him slowly. "Why does our daughter have a huge butterfly drawn on her tummy?" 

So close.

[silhouetteofacedar]

Impersonal, Ch. 7

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, Rated E

The game had ended and he wasn’t surprised.

He expected this. He prepared himself all day Saturday by running six miles, jacking off twice, and mopping his entire apartment. He didn’t even own a mop; he actually went out and bought one. By the time Sunday morning rolled around he was ready for the inevitable collapse of their precarious sexual arrangement and greeted Scully with aplomb.

And then she paid for breakfast.

That was unexpected. When the FBI wasn’t footing the bill, they usually split the tab, or threw a “you can get the next one” down on the table alongside crumpled bills.

He had been joking about it being a date, but then she paid. And it meant something. Her big blue eyes pinned him to the booth, had him trapped and squirming like an insect on a card as she laid a hand over the check. “I’ve got it,” she said, and his senses were suddenly ignited. He could feel thick sunshine pouring over them, lighting up Scully’s hair like a smudge of cinnamon. Her lips looked so sweet and soft, and the very idea that he might never feel them again stole his breath. He felt dry and empty, a desiccated housefly body lying on a windowsill.

He thanked her for breakfast, and his throat was lined with dust.

Their parting was weird. Hinting that he was still available to her was an insane risk, and she turned it into a joke about Frohike. Unless she actually thought he was the one joking about Frohike, which he has to admit wouldn’t be out of character for him.

He’s tired of joking, tired of hiding, tired of dancing around his intentions. Tired of wanting and not asking, tired of being in his own damn way.

Scully has given him a graceful exit, a neatly drawn map back to their pre-sex starting point. And not for the first time, Mulder wads up the map and tosses it aside. Scully made her move; it was time for him do the same.

What that move would be, he has no idea.

It takes him eleven days. No wonder Scully took matters into her own hands the first time around. Inspiration strikes him during his drive from Alexandria to D.C. the next Thursday morning, when he crosses the Potomac and gets a glimpse of faraway blossoms.

He waits until 4:47 that afternoon to say anything.

“Hey Scully, you doing anything tonight?” he asks, rifling through a stack of papers as though he’s attending to FBI business and not trying to work up courage like a schoolboy.

Her glossy red head is bent over a file, pen at her lip. “Besides folding an obscenely large pile of laundry, my schedule seems fairly empty,” she replies. She looks up at him suspiciously. “Why, Mulder?”

“No reason, really. There’s just something I wanted to show you, get your opinion on.”

“Is it related to a case?”

He opens a desk drawer, pretending to look for something. “Well it could be a totally natural phenomenon, but who can say for certain without proper investigation?”

Scully sighs. “Fine, I’ll bite. And speaking of bites, I’m starving. If we’re going to work off the clock, can we at least eat?”

“Wanna stop for Chinese? We can take it with us. We’re not going far, the food should still be hot when we get to our secondary location.”

They take Mulder’s car, picking up several cartons of food from a restaurant in Chinatown a few blocks up from the Hoover building before making their way towards the National Mall. Mulder parks in the lot near the Washington Monument.

“You weren’t kidding when you said we weren’t going far,” Scully says, gathering up the bag of takeout. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“That,” he replies, pointing ahead.

Hundreds of cherry trees line the Tidal Basin, their leaves almost entirely obscured by tufts of blossoms. Scully steps onto the path, open-mouthed.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs.

Mulder shoves his hands in his pockets. “Pretty fantastic, huh?”

“Mulder,” she says in awe, looking sideways at him, “What are we doing here?”

He shrugs. “I just wanted to see them.”

“At night?”

“Daylight’s for tourists, Scully.”

———

They’re sitting on the damp grass, endeavoring to split the last egg roll using only their dueling pairs of chopsticks.

“This is impossible, Scully. I’m going to use my hands.”

“Then I definitely don’t want the other half,” she says.

“Are you implying something about my hygiene?”

“I’ve seen some of the places your hands have been, Mulder.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at her, and she rolls her eyes.

“Not what I meant,” she says softly. “But the point still stands.”

Mulder lays back on the lawn, his long coat fanning wide. Scully pulls an edge of it towards her, scoots closer so she can rest her pantyhose-clad calves on it instead of the grass.

“I’ve always preferred the blossoms at night,” he says. “There’s something ghostly about them, all pink and white against the dark sky. Not an ominous kind of ghostly, however; if good spirits exist, I think they’d look like these trees. You know most early European religions feature some sort of reverence for trees or forests, whether as spiritual gathering places or deities themselves-“

“Mulder.”

“Hm?”

“Are you going to eat that egg roll, or can I have it?”

He passes her the carton. “And-”

“Why did you bring me here, Mulder?”

He glances at her and is surprised to see a tenderness in her eyes. His gaze returns to the branches above.

“I just figured I owe you a nice trip to a forest, and this one won’t require any paperwork.”

Scully smiles. “That’s a very considerate choice, Mulder, especially since I’m always the one doing said paperwork.”

“You’re more succinct and readable than I am, apparently. And Skinner clearly likes you better.”

“Didn’t you punch him in the face once?”

“That’s beside the point. I think he has a bit of a crush on you, Scully.”

She rolls her eyes. “What?” Mulder asks.

“I just… it’s nothing, It’s been a long day. And it’s cold out here.”

Mulder sits up and withdraws his arms from the sleeves of his overcoat.

“No- Mulder, don’t, I’m fine.”

“Move your legs,” he instructs, pulling the edge of the coat out from under her. He stands and drapes it around her shoulders before plopping back down on the grass next to her.

“Thanks,” she says. “Still, it’s getting late.”

He glances at his watch. “It’s seven-thirty on a Thursday. You got somewhere to be?” His arm bumps her shoulder companionably. “Come on, just a little longer. Maybe we’ll see something unidentified in the sky.”

He grins at her and the corner of her mouth twitches in reply. “Well, I guess I don’t have a choice,” she sighs. “You drove us here.”

He feels a slight increase of pressure against his arm and realizes that Scully is ever so slightly leaning into him. A gentle warmth glows in his belly, and he glances sidelong at her.

I’m a lucky son of a bitch, he thinks.

“How so?” Scully asks.

Oh. He said it out loud. He clears his throat, tries to steer his thoughts back into safer waters.

“Well, for one thing, I’m not dead,” he says. “Not for lack of trying.”

Scully nods solemnly.

“I’ve seen incredible things, things people spend their whole lives looking for, hoping for, believing in. I’ve tasted proof, held the truth in my hands. And in spite of everything, I’m still here. We’re still here. That’s pretty goddamn lucky.”

“I don’t feel very lucky,” Scully says softly. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve fucked up every good thing I’ve ever had a chance at. My father certainly thought so, at least for a long time.”

They sit silently for a moment. “Without you, I’d be long dead,” Mulder admits.

“I know,” Scully replies. “I’m always awed by your resilience, actually. I can’t take all the credit for your continued survival.”

“Yeah, you can,” he says, getting to his feet and dusting stray blades of grass off his slacks. He holds out a hand and helps her to her feet. Her fingers are cool against his palm, and he wonders if she’d notice if he didn’t let go. Probably.

He wants to pull her in by the lapels of his coat, gather her to his chest, hold her for no reason other than he can. Kiss her brow, smell her hair, feel her small hands sliding under his suit jacket. He wants her just as she is, for exactly who she is.

But he’s a chickenshit, so instead he just walks beside her along the Tidal Basin, under the cherry blossoms, and doesn’t hold her hand.

They spend the five minute drive back to the Bureau in comfortable silence. Scully leans her head against the car window, and Mulder briefly wonders if she’ll fall asleep. He loves when she nods off while he’s driving; it makes him feel safe. She makes him feel safe.

He parks a few spots away from her car in the Bureau parking garage, turns off the engine. Scully gathers up her briefcase, leaving Mulder’s coat draped open on the passenger seat.

“Why are you getting out?” she asks, seeing Mulder unbuckling his seatbelt.

“I need a file from the office,” he lies. He exits the car and goes around to her side. “I’ll walk you to your door, it’s on my way.”

It’s twenty feet from her car to his. “Thank you, Mulder,” Scully says sardonically, fishing her keys out of her coat pocket. “If I weren’t armed, that would have been very thoughtful of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies. He takes a step forward.

“What are you doing?” Scully asks, one hand on her car door, keys in the other.

“Nothing,” he replies quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” God, she’s so small, this could so easily go wrong-

He pitches forward, bending down, and presses his lips to the fullness of her cheek. His nose brushes the soft skin under her eye and he inhales sharply, drawing back.

They blink at each other. “Bye,” Mulder offers.

Scully nods. “Yes. Goodnight.” She glances to the elevators. “Was there actually a file you needed?”

He just looks at her, and she presses her lips together in understanding. “Right. Well, I’m leaving, so… see you tomorrow then.”

Right. Despite recent events, the earth was still spinning.

Later, when he hangs his overcoat, he notices the faintest scent of her shampoo on the collar.

[ollieofthebeholder]

For We Are Afar With the Dawning: A RQG Fic

Also on AO3. Contains spoilers for Episode 207.

Augusta is floating. Both literally and metaphorically.

Mentally, she’s floating on a peachy-pink cloud of euphoria and warmth and happiness and contentment. It’s an absolutely perfect day, the kind of day she never gets to experience anymore. The sky is a clear blue dotted with puffy white clouds, the sun bright enough to illuminate the scene but not so bright to hurt the eyes, and it’s pleasantly warm without being oppressively hot. The gentle, cooling breeze brings with it the faint scents of something floral; Augusta’s never been all that great with scents per se, but she thinks it might be roses or something.

Physically, she’s in a rowboat in the middle of a glassy lake, lying on her back with her arms folded contentedly over her chest and her head resting on a lap that seems to mostly comprise of white illusion. Augusta herself is wearing a loose-fitting lawn shirt and a pair of trousers, her feet bare. A pair of oars rest in the locks on either side, but nobody is using them.

“You know, Gus, I think you’re going to have a curly crop when this grows out a bit.” Delicate fingers run through Augusta’s delightfully short hair. “You’re going to look quite rakish.”

“Just so you don’t try to get me to wear one of those dreadful outfits you were talking about that boy wearing in your book.” Augusta smiles. “Really, Lou, where’d you come up with that? Nobody actually dresses like that.”

Louisa laughs. “I wanted it to be really clear that there was no way Jo would ever fall in love with him. Why would she love someone who dresses like that?”

“You should have given one of the girls who came to the Christmas play a name,” Augusta says. “And a personality. And a reason to come back.”

“Are you suggesting I should have put you in the book after all? I thought you didn’t like publicity, O Best Beloved.”

“I don’t like being tied to my brother. Being tied to you is different.” Augusta punctuates this by reaching up and twirling a strand of Louisa’s dark hair around a finger.

Louisa swats her hand away, but she’s laughing again. “Are you going to row us back to shore at any point? Mary and Emma should be here soon. Your Sasha was going to take the carriage and go get them.”

“She’s not my Sasha,” Augusta protests.

“She could be, if you asked, I’m sure. You know we’re all just yours for the asking.”

“Oh, stop it. That’s not how this works.”

“You can’t tell me the idea doesn’t appeal to you,” Louisa says relentlessly. “Having your own personal harem of beautiful and brilliant women. Mary for those delightful scientific discussions and Emmuska for solving puzzles and mysteries and Sasha for going on daring adventures and robbing tombs with and me for...well, when you want to be lazy and bored, I suppose.”

“Louisa May Alcott.” Augusta sits up and takes both of Louisa’s hands in hers. “You have no idea how happy I am. Right here. With you. I don’t need anyone else. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Sasha and Mary and Emmuska and I love having them around...and you’re right, Sasha’s so much fun to go poking around places we aren’t wanted with. But if none of them were here, I’d be happy just the same. Maybe more so. Being with you?” She brings Louisa’s hands up and kisses them tenderly. “This is perfect.”

Louisa blushes beautifully, but there’s a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “You’re just saying that because you don’t want to row back to shore.”

Augusta laughs. “You wound me. Right here.” She places one hand over her heart.

She’s joking, but suddenly, it feels like Louisa—or someone—has wounded her. There’s a sudden, sharp, stabbing pain in her heart, and the last thing she sees is Louisa’s sparkling eyes and sweet smile before the world goes white.

It resolves after a moment. Now instead of sitting in a boat, Augusta is sitting on a rock in a clearing in a verdant  forest. Looking up, she can see the night sky and the stars, so many stars, more than she’s ever seen, and the sweep of the Milky Way looks almost green. The moon shines down on the clearing and illuminates her.

Augusta looks down at herself. She’s wearing more practical clothes now—boots, trousers, tunic, leather jacket—actually, it’s a lot like what Sasha Rackett wore when Augusta first met her, nearly two years ago now, except newer and neater. Across her lap is a well-made crossbow.

A big beast swoops overhead, one Augusta can’t identify (she grew up in a city and the only kind of hunting really considered proper for young ladies of her station was foxhunting). A moment later, there’s a rustle in the undergrowth, and a figure pops out into the clearing, a short figure with outsize ears and a drawn bow.

“Wotcher,” the figure says. “Seen a big beastie go by here?”

“It went that way,” Augusta says, pointing the direction she saw the beast fly. “What is it?”

The hunter—she presumes—shrugs. “Dunno. Still haven’t figured it out. Haven’t caught it yet. Maybe once I do, I’ll know. For now I just call it The Beast.”

He doesn’t seem particularly put out by this. He has a hunt, and what exactly he’s hunting doesn’t seem to matter much; he’ll find the answers when he finds the beast. It’s something Augusta feels an odd kinship towards. “How long have you been hunting it?”

The hunter shrugs again. “Dunno. What year is it?”

Augusta tells him. The hunter draws in a breath, then nods. “Well, then...two thousand years, give or take a couple hundred.”

“Ah.” Augusta looks around her. “We’re dead, then.”

“Probably, yeah. Well, I know I am. You probably are too. What were you doing?”

Augusta thinks for a moment. “Dreaming.”

The hunter snorts. “Not the best way to go out.”

“It’s not like I chose to go out that way. I’d rather have gone down fighting.”  Augusta sighs. “At least it was a pleasant dream, though.”

She touches her chest, out of habit, and has a moment of panic when she can’t find what she’s looking for. Frantically, she scrambles at her neck until she finds the fine chain, then pulls it out and breathes a sigh of relief when the heavy silver locket lands in her palm. Just to be sure, she pops it open, and Louisa’s eyes stare back at her.

Augusta smiles back at the picture, then looks up to see the hunter staring at her inscrutably. She coughs and closes the locket. “Sorry. Just...checking.”

The hunter reaches into his own clothing and pulls out a photograph, but doesn’t show it to her—which startles Augusta, as she didn’t think photographs were that old—before putting it back. “It’s important to hold onto these things. Until you find them. Everything dies, after all.”

“That...probably shouldn’t be comforting, and yet…” Augusta takes a deep breath. “Everything does die, doesn’t it? I don’t know that this is exactly her idea of paradise, though.” Then again, she hadn’t realized it was hers, either.

The hunter shrugs. “Probably not theirs, either. But they all connect. I’ve got a camp set up.” He gestures off to one side. “Check in there every few...decades, maybe. Just to see if they’re there yet. It’ll be nice to have a home to come back to, someday, but for now...there’s the hunt.”

Augusta considers that as she tucks the locket back into her shirt, then looks down at the crossbow on her lap. “I’ve never really hunted in forests before, but I’m not bad at hunting in general.”

“I’d be willing to teach you some tactics. If you’re interested. Just until we both find what we’re looking for.”

Augusta stands up, shoulders the crossbow, and holds out her other hand. “My friends call me Gus.”

The hunter grins, red eyes sparkling, as he accepts her handshake. “Grizzop.”

~*~*~*~

Sumutnyerl soars, buoyed up by a thermal, then banks to one side and swoops low, skimming over the grass. This is their favorite form; they love to fly, and it’s a perfect day for it.

Beside them, another eagle tacks and swoops playfully, then sheers off. Sumutnyerl beats her wings to gain a bit of altitude and follows. For a moment, they race one another straight up into the air. Then the other eagle dips backwards into a loop. Sumutnyerl screeches in delight and goes into a spiraling dive, weaving around the other.

They continue this sky-dance for several minutes before the other leads up to the branches of a tree; Sumutnyerl follows and lands on a branch, then transforms back. They’re already laughing with delight. “I never get tired of that.”

“Nor should you.” Oblaitko smiles warmly, their eyes soft and kind. “The day one grows accustomed to the gifts that have been given is the day one ceases to live and begins to only exist.”

“I mean doing it with you.” Sumutnyerl looks out over the rolling meadow. “I would that we could do this forever.”

“We can,” Oblaitko answers. “Our duties are...light. And not incompatible. We needn’t go back to the town at all. You can attend to the Garden, I to the River, and we can spend the rest of our time here.”

Sumutnyerl considers. The idea is...not unwelcome. She feels an utter sense of peace here, with Oblaitko by their side. More than that, they feel like herself, like an individual and not just part of a collective.

“I would like that,” they say at last. “Very much.”

Oblaitko tucks a strand of Sumutnyerl’s hair behind their ear. “As would I.”

“A bargain, then.”

“A bargain,” Oblaitko agrees. “We can ask permission in the morning, but I hardly think the Council will object. It will save resources, after all.”

Sumutnyerl sighs and leans their head on Oblaitko’s shoulder. They place their arm around her shoulders and pull them close, one hand idly resting over their heart.

For just a second, Sumutnyerl wonders if Oblaitko is concealing a blade, because they suddenly feel a sharp, stabbing pain in their chest. They look up in shock, but there’s nothing on Oblaitko’s face to indicate they’re doing anything...and then the world goes white.

When Sumutnyerl’s vision clears, they are no longer in the branches of a tree, but somewhere else, somewhere far too familiar. Awareness settles on Sumutnyerl’s shoulders as they look around the Garden of Yerlick, but not as it is in life—currently or under ordinary circumstances. The flowers bloom as they past, trees put out their hands like old friends, and the spirits of the dead are instantly visible, smiling and calling to them.

Ah. This again.

“Sumutnyerl?”

Sumutnyerl turns and smiles again. Oblaitko stands before them once more, not in the same form as a moment ago—no longer young, their hair white, their back bent with age and the weight of their position—but their eyes are the same warm, kind brown they have always been .Right now, they are wide with shock and not a little sorrow.

“Hello, my dear friend,” Sumutnyerl says.

“Sumutnyerl,” Oblaitko says again. “Why...how are you here? Like this? You—you mustn’t. It isn’t your time.”

“Perhaps not,” Sumutnyerl agrees. They touch their heart, where the phantom pain is fading fast. “I—I believe I may have been stabbed in my sleep.” Like Nik, they think, with a mingling of regret and anger.

“You will be given another chance.” Oblaitko states this quite calmly, as if it is a given fact rather than an opinion...or a hope. “The Garden needs you. Our people need you.”

“Perhaps I shall be given the offer,” Sumutnyerl replies. “And...perhaps I will accept. But...well. There is much that has happened. Perhaps if I am not needed...perhaps if my last great task has been fulfilled after all…” They hold out their hands. “Would you allow me to stay?”

Oblaitko takes Sumutnyerl’s hands, and stares into their eyes, and no other words are necessary.

~*~*~*~

Hamid knows, on some level, that he’s dreaming, if only because Zolf isn’t really one for parties. That doesn’t stop him from being happy, though. Hamid’s sleep for the past few months has been dreamless at best, teeming with nightmares more commonly, and occasionally non-existent at worst. A part of him has started to believe he’ll never have beautiful dreams again, so the fact that this is a good dream means he’s going to enjoy it for all it’s worth.

And the others all look happy, too. Aziza sings beautifully, her eyes sparkling and face expressive, and her husband gazes on her with a proud, adoring smile. Saleh, his wife, and Hamid’s mother are listening to Oscar tell some story, gesturing dramatically with his drink, his other hand being occupied holding Zolf’s. Zolf has a faint smile on his face as he listens to a story he’s probably heard a hundred times—hell, it’s probably one he was there for, those are Oscar’s favorite stories after all—but that he never gets tired of hearing Oscar tell. Hamid’s father looks more relaxed and content than Hamid has seen him...well, ever since he started paying attention anyway, deep in conversation with Saira and Apophis. Azu, wearing the gown she and Hamid designed together for the opening of the so-called Bow Bar, is making a valiant effort at letting Ismail teach her one of the fancy dances he’s learned, while Ishaq enthusiastically does the same with Cel. Skraak and Grizzop have become fast friends, which Hamid isn’t surprised by, and he wonders what they’re talking about and if he’s going to have to help Zolf clean it up later.

Hamid dances. He loves to dance, almost as much as he loves to fly, and he doesn’t really mind that he doesn’t have a partner at the moment. As he spins, putting in one of the fanciest twirls he knows, he catches Sasha’s eye across the room and grins; she grins back and shoots him a double thumbs-up.

Hamid starts in Sasha’s direction. She’s so good on her feet, he thinks, she’ll be really good at dancing, and she’ll love it. Aziza’s just wrapping up the song she’s currently working on, and Hamid’s pretty sure she’s going to go into the aria from Act I of Carmen, which was her first leading role and one she’s quite proud of. Hamid knows with absolute certainty that Sasha will kill it at a tango.

Before he gets to her, he passes his mother and gets a kiss on the cheek. Saleh gives him a friendly poke in the chest as he passes, which actually hurts a lot more than Hamid is expecting, but he tries to laugh it off, especially as Saleh is laughing, too.

Zolf turns to face him. Letting go of Oscar’s hand, he reaches over and touches Hamid’s forehead with one thumb. He’s still smiling a little, and the look in his eyes is one he hasn’t given Hamid in a long time—not since the beach south of Calais, after they survived the storm sailing from Dover. It warms Hamid all the way to his toes.

“It won’t end this way,” he says, and while he sounds like he’s talking at an ordinary volume, Hamid somehow gets the feeling that nobody can hear Zolf’s words but him. “I won’t let it. Your heart’s too big to be destroyed by something like this.”

Hamid feels simultaneously stronger than he has in ages and like something’s being sucked out of his lungs. His wings unfurl from his back before he completely registers that the music is gone.

He blinks. Someone is holding him—it feels like Cel—and it’s dark. The memory of the lights dimming and then going out comes to him...and they’d been heading to the lab, he remembers, because of the tunnel, but what—?

Zolf’s voice comes from not very far in front of him. “Get in in the door, and get safe.”

Hamid blinks again. That’s an order, they’re in the field—he promised he would follow Zolf’s orders in the field, so even if he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, he’s going to do what he’s just been told and he can ask questions once they’re all safe. Surely Zolf will be right behind him.

He takes in a breath to acknowledge his instructions—and sucks in a lungful of sweet-smelling gas. Instantly, he drops unconscious back into Cel’s arms.

He blinks and he’s at the party again. Zolf is still standing in front of him, smiling as he turns back to the conversation—did he leave for a minute? No, surely not, Hamid’s been here the whole time, he thinks fuzzily.

The song wraps up on a triumphant sting, and there’s a smattering of polite applause, and then just as Hamid suspected, the music starts up and it’s “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle” from Carmen. He hurries over to Sasha and holds out a hand. “Sasha, come on, you’ll love this!” he cries.

Laughing, Sasha takes his hand and lets him pull her onto the ballroom floor. She’s a natural at the tango. Hamid would never have dared ask anyone else to do this dance with him; it’s a fiery dance of passion, usually, but this is Sasha and she’s just his favorite sister, as far as he’s concerned, even if she’s not his sister by blood. There’s no romance behind what they’re doing here, no heat. They’re just two kids having fun, really, laughing and taking increasingly flamboyant chances with the flashier moves.

He ends the dance by dipping her, somehow, despite the fact that she’s two feet taller than he is, but they’re both flushed and laughing and having a great time. It doesn’t even matter that they overbalance and fall onto the dance floor. Nobody’s really watching them anyway, which is just the way Hamid wants it right now. He doesn’t have to be the center of attention all the time. Not even most of the time.

“I like your wings,” Sasha says, poking one of them, and when did they come out? Hamid genuinely can’t remember. “This ‘cause you’re a Meritocrat?”

“I’m descended from a dragon,” Hamid corrects her. “I’m not a Meritocrat.”

“Good. But the wings are cool anyway. Do they work?”

“Oh! Yes. Want to see?” Hamid gets to his feet and manages—somehow—to pull Sasha up too. “I can cast fly on you and we can—”

“No,” Sasha interrupts, surprising him. She pulls him into a tight hug, and, oh, Sasha gives the best hugs. Hamid’s always suspected she would, but she’s always been iffy about being touched. If his wings hadn’t already popped out with joy—apparently—they would be bursting out now. He hugs her back just as tightly as she lifts him off the ground with the force of her embrace..

“Don’t you give up, Hamid,” she says in his ear. “Don’t you do it. There’s no dream so good it’s worth losing the whole world for. You get back out there and you fight to make the world this good. Because this right here? This is worth fighting for.”

Just a little of the euphoria peels back from the edges of Hamid’s mind, and he clings to Sasha a little tighter. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“’M always with you, mate. Just like you were always with me. We’ll meet again. But right now, you’ve got to go save the world for me.” Sasha pulls back enough to smile at him, and her eyes are wet. “Make it a good one.”

Hamid’s eyes snap open.

~*~*~*~

If you had asked Oscar even a year ago, he would never have described this as the most perfect moment of his life. He would have said that the most perfect moment he could imagine is a gala celebrating the opening of his greatest work, a play that will be talked about through the ages and mean his name lives on long after he does, resplendent in his finest clothes, a rapt audience listening to him declaim his opinions—finally being the center of attention for art instead of admin.

But no. He enjoyed that, yes, and he’s looking forward to reading the description of it in the newspapers. But the truly perfect moment is this one. Just a simple, quiet family breakfast the morning after.

Azu is at more or less the opposite side of the round kitchen table they’re using instead of the formal dining table, nursing a hangover bigger than she is; she’s got a glass of tomato juice and a cup of strong black coffee and isn’t really talking to anyone. Cel is scribbling on a piece of paper and muttering under their breath, probably trying to improve or refine the special effects they and the kobolds designed and built for the production. Zolf presides over the stove as usual, his beard done up in one of the intricate braids he only does when he’s in an especially good mood and his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. Sasha stands a little way down the counter, beaming as she slices and chops meat and vegetables for him; she’s the only one Zolf allows to help him in the kitchen, and even then only on special occasions. Hamid sits to Oscar’s left, a pile of newspapers between them, his pre-breakfast snack actually half-forgotten at his elbow.

“The reviews look really good, Oscar,” he says, sounding almost as delighted as Oscar feels as he hands over the Times, folded back to the Arts page. “All the criticisms I’ve seen so far have been about the acting, not the play itself.”

“I told you to cast Barnes in the lead instead,” Zolf calls from the stove.

“Not my call, darling. I’m not the casting director.” Oscar reads the article Hamid is handing him, a broad smile blooming across his face as he reads. Hamid’s right, the reviews are glowing, and this is from a critic who’s notoriously hard to please. A particular phrase about halfway down the column catches his eye: Wilde’s masterful words and turn of phrase makes even Johnson’s leaden performance turn to the purest gold.

Turning a few pages on, Oscar opens the society page and is delighted to see that most of it has been given over to a description of the party celebrating the opening. There are even a couple of pictures accompanying the article, and Oscar very carefully folds the paper back so that one of them is more fully visible—Oscar at the center, smiling broadly and holding a drink in one hand, his other arm draped around Zolf’s shoulders, the others arrayed around him looking pleased and proud.

“Have you thought about your next project?” Cel asks, looking up from their notes.

Oscar shakes his head before Cel can launch into an elaboration of the question. “No, not yet. I think I’ll take some time to see how this one does first. It may have opened well, but that doesn’t mean it will end well.” He sighs, a bit dramatically but not entirely put-0n. “Things so rarely do.”

“Things rarely stay good the whole time they’re happening, but that doesn’t mean they won’t end well,” Azu points out. “We got here, didn’t we?”

“And you’ve earned it,” Hamid adds encouragingly. “Happy endings feel a lot better when you have to work for them.”

“Cheers to that.” Sasha tosses her knife into the air; it flips four times and then returns to her hand without her even looking at it, and she goes back to her chopping.

“Have a bit of faith, Wilde,” Zolf chides him.

Oscar smiles fondly at his dwarf as he sets aside the paper. Azu’s faith in Aphrodite is a certainty you can cut your teeth on, but Zolf’s faith in Hope is nearly contagious. Like their happy ending, Zolf has worked for his faith, he’s earned it, and it’s never betrayed him. It’s the only reason any of them are still here, really. It’s the anchor that kept Cel from spiraling with guilt, it’s the keel that steadied Azu when she doubted herself (not her god, never her god), it’s the beacon that led Sasha back to them. And it’s the only reason Oscar and Hamid are still alive, albeit with matching scars—

Wait. Where did that come from?

Shaking his head slightly, Oscar pushes away from the table and passes behind Zolf, touching him first on the shoulder, then the cheek. “I have plenty of faith, dearest. In you if nothing else.”

“Get away from my workspace,” Zolf grumbles, though without any heat.

Oscar smirks and moves down the counter towards the cutting board, ostentatiously reaching for one of the ingredients waiting to be added to whatever Zolf is preparing. Sasha jabs playfully at his chest to make him back off.

She’s too good at what she does to accidentally stab someone when she’s only pretending to, and she wouldn’t stab him, especially not with Zolf’s good tomato knife; she has too much respect for both Zolf and blades to do that. And yet, pain suddenly erupts in Oscar’s heart, as though she’s driven a blade far bigger than the serrated one she’s holding into his chest. He inhales sharply, and the world goes white.

For just a moment, it resolves itself into his flat in Paris from when he was in university, or something similar anyway, but then it swirls into a pink mist. He feels something solid holding onto him, something anchoring him firmly in reality, and warmth floods his entire being. He feels safe and protected and cherished, and it gives him strength.

His eyes open, and he finds himself lying more or less on his back. Zolf kneels next to him, one hand tenderly cradling his jaw, the other pressed to his heart, which hurts like anything.

“Wh—huh—?” Oscar tries to sit up, his mind scrambling to fit this dark and rather crowded antechamber or wherever it is they are in with the light and airy kitchen-slash-breakfast nook he remembers from just a few...moments ago? What’s going on?

Zolf’s face is pale, his blue eyes intent, and there’s a trickle of blood near his hairline that worries Oscar in a vague and distant way. But he doesn’t have time to ask about it before Zolf looks into Oscar’s eyes and says in a voice that crackles faintly with an emotion he can’t place, “Get the others out, and get safe.”

Before Oscar can question it, or protest, or even figure out what it is they’re supposed to be safe from, Zolf half-shoves, half-throws him through a door that’s barely open wide enough for him to get through. He slides a few feet until he’s able to at least drag himself on his hands and feet a little further into the room. Someone runs past him and takes hold of the door, but doesn’t close it.

Oscar blinks hard, shaking his head to clear it. There’s a sweet smell in the air and he almost sniffs at it, almost tries to see what it is, but then his eyes fall on the crumpled figure not far from where he is and it acts like a dash of cold water across his brain. Hamid. Hamid is flopped in a pitiful heap, his new wings draped across the floor, his eyes closed.

He was dreaming. Oscar realizes that in the same moment that he takes in Hamid’s unconscious (oh, gods, please let him only be unconscious, Oscar cannot have failed him a second time) form and the sounds of something that is definitely not making breakfast in the other room. He pushes himself to a standing position and looks around the room. It doesn’t take long to spot the tunnel Hamid spoke of, at the back of the lab. That must be both out and safe.

“Tell the others to follow us,” he calls over his shoulder to the person he now recognizes as Ada, hurrying over to Hamid’s side and hefting him into his arms. The wings make it awkward, but Hamid sort of nestles into Oscar’s arms. Thank the gods, he’s alive.

Oscar runs. He heads down the tunnel, the light fading behind him, but he can’t spare a hand to cast any sort of spell to help him, so he just gets as far as he can. There’s just enough light left for him to see the gate before he runs headlong into it, and he checks, then looks over his shoulder. The others will be coming any moment now, he tells himself. They just have to wait a moment.

He sets Hamid down on the ground and looks him over quickly. He looks...fine, really. A bit disheveled, but fine. Then Oscar notices the bloodied tear in his shirt. Underneath the rend is a scar so new its edges are still shiny, directly over Hamid’s warm and generous heart.

It doesn’t take a genius to guess what happened. And, touching his own chest briefly, Oscar feels the same thing.

He checks Hamid over quickly, and even though he’s a bit rattled, he realizes that the sweet smell he noticed earlier is probably what knocked Hamid out; other than that, he looks fine. Oscar sniffs the air experimentally. It’s a bit fresher down here, so he should be able to…

“Hamid,” he says urgently, shaking the halfling, then slapping his face as gently as possible. “Wake up!”

Hamid’s eyes snap open. There’s a moment of disorientation before his eyes clear. “Oscar?” he says, his voice a bit higher-pitched than normal as he sits up. “What’s—what happened?”

Oscar still has no idea, actually, except for one absolute certainty so strong he sensed it even in his dreams, maybe even before it happened. “Zolf saved us.”

The confusion on Hamid’s face melts into fierce determination. “Then let’s go return the favor.”

[dakt37]

Avengers Assemble - Feral Outlaw Stony

So I've been expanding on this concept I doodled before Christmas, where Steve goes with Tony into the no-tech dimension at the end of season 3. Probably a lot of stuff isn't canon-compliant (beyond the obvious change that is), but "It's an AU so I do what I want" rules apply. Anyway. 

The tl;dr is: The two of them spend a little time puttering around the weird no-tech dimension, and then get absorbed into Battleworld. They become explorers, helping people out and falling in love along the way.

(Once again, I feel like someone must have had this idea already, but I’ve never looked.)

Cut for excessive rambling.

~~~

Not all the areas we see in the show are present in Battleworld when Steve and Tony first arrive, so the boys spend most of their time traveling around, mapping the place out as it expands. A lot of my ideas rely on them still having little-to-no access to modern conveniences. Obviously someplace modern has to show up for them to get their hands on a pickup truck and a motorcycle, but I’m picturing a post-apocalyptic junkyard that’s been picked clean of anything obviously useful. They get the vehicles working by sheer force of “I’m Tony-fucking-Stark.” But like that fully functional NYC area is way too convenient, so it’s not around yet. (tbh I’m not even sure if it’s an alternate NYC or theirs, in which case it wouldn’t show up until the other Avengers do anyway) 

They get the low-down on the "Battleworld" concept by eavesdropping on one of Beyonder's* welcome speeches. They realize that they are uniquely off the grid, because Beyonder didn't know they were in the no-tech dimension when he added it to Battleworld. They decide it's advantageous to maintain this secret status, but they're still Avengers™️ so they can't NOT help out wherever they can. But they don’t stick around any one place for long. Basically, they become vagrant vigilantes in addition to surveyors. They get a lot of their “stuff” (clothes, tools, toiletries, etc) as payment for odd jobs, or gifts from grateful locals they rescue. They get some food from populated areas as well, but also rely on foraging and hunting while on the lam. They have definitely eaten dinosaur at some point.

(*He doesn't get the nickname "Beyonder" until the other Avengers show up. In this AU Steve and Tony refer to him as "The Entity" or "Suspenders." You can probably guess who tends to use which.)

On top of the survival story, it's also a getting-together story. Steve and Tony flirt and pine and bicker and flirt some more, until a squabble turns into a confession and they finally start kissing. There’s plenty of time for “it’s cold in this wasteland and we only have one blanket, oh no,” but they’re firmly established as romantically involved by the time the other Avengers show up and they have the final showdown with Beyonder.

Anyway a lot of the AU notes I've been making are about the functional side of their Big Camping Adventure. So here's a bunch of lists about vehicles, gadgets, and navigation.

~

Vehicle stuff:

If Tony is riding passenger on the motorcycle, he can clip his repulsor boots into special footrests that reroute the energy and give the bike a speed boost. 

The bike has a tow cable. Steve can harpoon things using a spring-action firing mechanism, including cliff faces to help him scale steep terrain. The cable can also be uncoiled manually, like when Tony takes flight while holding the end so he and Steve can clothesline hostiles. 

Steve can stick his shield several places on the bike depending on what’s convenient. On the front as a windscreen/battering ram, on one side for easy grabbing, and even on Tony’s backpack so Tony can snuggle in properly while riding passenger and keep both their backs protected.

They probably don’t even need a ramp to get the bike into the bed of the pickup. Steve just picks it up and puts it there.

The evolution of Marsha (the truck) into a full Hulkbuster-style mech takes a long time. For the majority of their time in Battleworld, it’s just a truck with an ever-increasing number of weird add-ons.

Marsha can function as a tiny camper home. The cargo bed liner is a false bottom, which can be pulled up and rearranged to form a cover/roof. Underneath the liner, the actual truck bed is about a foot deeper, with most of that storage space taken up by a mattress and bedding. 

Tony can pull a cable out of Marsha’s steering column and plug it directly into his arc reactor. This unlocks extra features and weapons. He generally has things balanced so that Marsha drawing power doesn't affect him any more than his armor drawing power would. But on rare and desperate occasions, he can overclock and hurt himself. Steve of course hates when he does this.

Turnabout is fair play though: at least once, something else damaged the arc reactor, so Tony plugged into Marsha to draw power from the battery for his electromagnet while he repaired the arc.

Gasoline can be difficult to procure, so both vehicles are hybrids. Tony just keeps adding new power conversion elements as they go along, based on what they can find. 

~

F in chat for Tony’s armor:

Tony dismantles the armor he’d been wearing when they first went into the no-tech dimension.

Obviously he keeps skeletal versions of the repulsor boots and gloves in-tact enough to function. 

He also keeps most of the helmet, for when he’s riding with Steve on the motorcycle. Mostly because Steve insisted. It's gutted of tech though, so if the faceplate stays as part of the design, the eyes are just holes (like in the classic comics).

The rest of the pieces are kept in a large packing trunk.

Tony repurposes some parts into useful gadgets for himself and Cap, plus the odd toy for other Avengers (like Widow’s new stinger gauntlets) because he’s optimistic like that.

Electronics use precious metals like gold and copper, so Tony scrapes some out to pay for things in certain areas of Battleworld, like the cowboy town or the pirate area. He might also barter with other general bits like wires and screws, but he avoids parting with any actual full tech.

~

Plug-n-play Gadgets

Since the power draw for Tony's electromagnet is actually fairly minimal, Tony makes use of the arc reactor as a charging station, mostly when he sleeps. It's not like there's a corner store they can drop by to get a pack of batteries. Things he charges include (but are not limited to):

Flashlight for Steve. The bulbs for it came from the eyes in the Iron Man helmet. Note: Tony doesn't need a flashlight himself because he can turn up his arc brightness apparently, lmao.

Camp stove. Steve questioned Tony building one for a hot second because hello we can build campfires to cook over? But then it’s raining and they're in a cave and Tony is like, "if you fill this space with smoke I will divorce you before we're even married." And Steve is like "camp stove wow yes okay." Also they had camp stoves in WW2 so honestly it was simply a Himbo Moment to disregard the virtues of one in the first place. 

Walkie talkies. I know they had Avengers comms but I like the aesthetic of walkie talkies more. Maybe the comms relied on satellites that they obviously don't have anymore or something.

~

Navigation:

Speaking of a lack of satellites, the GPS in Tony’s armor is rendered useless. Steve is real smug about it and pulls out his old-fashioned compass. But Battleworld also doesn’t have proper poles, so it just spins wildly for a few seconds and then points at Tony’s electromagnet. Not to be deterred, Steve declares, “Well, you’re never lost if you can find Polaris.” They look up and realize that the night sky, despite having stars and a moon, is not at all arranged the way it is on Earth. 

Tony takes this as a Challenge. He builds a sextant, then spends the next several nights in a row muttering math under his breath as he painstakingly creates a hand-drawn star chart. This, combined with landmarks, becomes the primary way they orient themselves as they roam around Battleworld.

Many nights, Steve and Tony lie in the bed of the pickup together and make up constellations named after other Avengers and friends. Steve makes a copy of Tony’s star chart and sketches artistic renditions of the constellations on top. To close this post with an interesting visual, here’s an example of what Tony’s star map might look like vs what Steve’s would more resemble:

[mydrug-is-dragonage]

Dar Atishan, A Talk with Cole

“Wind and whispers, dreams and demons, ‘why don’t they ever want me enough to want me?’” My ears perked up and I saw Cole walking towards me on the battlements. I glanced at him and returned, hunched over and brooding, watching the snow blow of the tops of mountains. “You’re hurt and hurting, all three of you wounded, worried, ‘was it the right decision?’”

I turn around and face him, smirking. “Do they have love in the Fade?”

“‘Hahren Morriel warned me, the shemlen are fickle, but the elf too?’ Wanting, wondering, ‘what else could I do?’” I sighed and patted the battlements. I pushed myself up with my hands and he joined me, legs dangling over the edge. “You’re sad.”

“I am.”

“They think it was the right decision.”

“I know.”

“But they’re sad, too. Brooding, breaking, ‘Bull said it’d help me with the ladies, but it’d break her.’” He looked towards the barn. I sighed and looked up towards the sky, clear and full of stars. “Dust, danger, delightful, distraction, ‘if she’s real, what if they’re all real, too?’”

I shake my head. “Cole, stop.”

“I want to help,” he says. He looks up, his shaggy hair nearly hiding his big eyes. I put a hand on his knee.

“I don’t think you get to help,” I said.

“Why?” He asks, his voice full of genuine curiosity.

“Can I tell you a story?”

“Sixteen, sweating, ‘Will we make it?’”

“Yes, that story. Stay out of my head, let me tell you, not show you.” He nods and puts his hand in his lap. “When I was sixteen, my vallaslin fresh, my sword sharpened, I went on a hunt with a boy.”

“Tallen.”

“Yes, Tallen. Tallen was a few years older than me, an accomplished hunter. We’d been out in the forest for a few days. He was certain he’d found some clues that would lead to some ancient artifact, something Keeper Istimaethoriel could make use of. Remind of us of the old ways.” I looked towards Cole, his gaze stuck on the lines arching across my face. “So we looked. We looked and looked and looked. Days passed, and we couldn’t seem to find whatever his sources had led him to.”

“Boredom, bothered, ‘This is worse than when the aravel breaks,’” he said. “Sorry. I’ll try to stay outside.”

“Thank you, Cole. Yes, I was bored and angry. I’d only agreed to come along because of Tallen. None of the other hunters thought it was worth our time. The Keeper wasn’t especially keen. But Tallen,” I said. I trailed off, taken back to the forest, a girl with fresh ink, so sure of what I’d chosen, Elgarnan’s markings across my face.

“But Tallen?”

“Right, but Tallen wanted to go, and I wanted to help, and I wanted to spend time with him, alone,” I said. I looked at Cole and raised an eyebrow. His face stayed as placid as ever. “So we wandered. We looked. We found nothing. One night, deep in the forest, we found a cave to sleep in. We’d build a small fire, roasted a bird we’d killed. We sat, quietly listening to the forest.” I looked up at the sky again, constellations dancing around. I heard the Hahren speaking about the legends, the Elven gods, the Dread Wolf.

“As we finished dinner, I heard stirring from the back of the cave. I didn’t have time to fully put on my armor, but I grabbed my chest plate and my blade, I got Tallen’s attention and pointed towards the darkness beyond us. He grabbed his bow, and started to draw an arrow. Before he could get a good shot lined up, darkspawn came running towards us,” I said. Cole closed his eyes. “I’d never seen one up close. I’d heard stories growing up, of course. We’d avoided the Blight, but everyone knew of them, their corruption. I got a few good swings, killed one right away. Tallen had time to back up, start taking shots at different ones as they approached me.”

“You were afraid,” he said.

“I was. I was so young, this was my first real mission.”

“You lived.”

“Or maybe I’m a spirit, too, drawn to the dying elf.”

“Jokes and jaunting, ‘laughter makes it easier,’” he said.

“Does it bother you?”

“No, you still like me. You see me all the time,” he said.

“I thought that was your decision.”

“I did, too. Go on. I like the way your voice carries the past,” he said.

“The darkspawn kept coming and coming. Soon enough I realized they were too many to fight, the two of us. Tallen called out to me,  I gave him a clear shot and we ran from the cave. We ran and ran and ran until our legs were going to give out. The darkspawn never let up.. We reached a cliff. The darkspawn were maybe four hundred feet away, running towards us as they had, corrupting everything in their path. Tallen looked over the edge, then back at me. He grabbed my face and kissed me.”

“First, frolicking, filthy, ‘I’d hoped I’d be clean.’ You’d wanted to kiss him?”

I laughed. “For a long time. Tallen was so handsome, so strong and brave. He’d be a good partner, he was a good man. I’d only come along so he’d be forced to see me as a woman instead of the child I’d been.”

“Did it work?”

“You don’t kiss children like that,” I said. “When we pulled apart, he said, ‘trust me’ and put out a hand. I put mine in his, and we jumped over the edge.”

“Maybe you are a spirit,” he said.

“I was lucky,” I laughed. “We landed in a lake, deep enough that we didn’t break any bones. The water helped wash away the darkspawn blood. When I came up for air, I looked around, gasping. I saw Tallen, swam over towards him, put my arms around him, and kissed him again, how I’d wanted to.”

“He tasted like fire and lake water,” he said.

I nodded. “We stood in the water for a time, embracing. Then we found our way to the shore. The darkspawn didn’t follow, so we made another small fire and slept for the night. The next morning, when I woke up he was gone. I panicked, put on my chest plate and went searching for him. I saw him on a far hill, picking flowers. Cole, in that moment I could have died.”

“But you wanted the flowers?”

“Good die, not bad die.”

“There’s different kinds of dying?” Cole asked.

“I settled back into camp, and he returned. Together we made our way back to the clan. When we arrived, Keeper Istimaethoriel came up and gave us a hug. The Keeper’s daughter, Asharell came up too and put her arms around Tallen. He reached in his pack and gave her the flowers.”

“You wanted to die then, too. Good die?”

“Bad die,” I said. “My heart broke into a thousand little pieces. We’d kissed, we’d survived darkspawn, and he picked flowers for the pretty girl back home instead of me.” I stopped and swallowed. The night air on the battlements had begun to chill, and goose bumps rose on my arms. “After we’d had a proper bath and a proper meal, I wandered near the halla. Tallen came up to me.”

“Kissing, killing, crying, chilling ‘No hard feelings?’ Oh. He was an ass.” I laughed and patted him on the back.

“Yes, he was. Apparently he’d long been sweet on Asharell and wanted to go on this expedition to impress the Keeper so he could marry his daughter. Our daring tale and the flowers had certainly done their part,” I said. “He came up to me and said, ‘I hope we can keep it a secret. It was the moment, fear of death and all that.’ I nodded, said it was fine. He was afraid he’d die. I was there. People have made worse choices under fear.”

“You carry this hurt like a scar,” he said. “But now, it cracks upon, and it’s hurting all the same.”

“When Solas and I kissed in the Fade, I was so excited. I hadn’t done anything like that in a long time,” I said. “But when we woke up, he said it was a bad decision, a mistake. So I let him go.” I put my hands on my knees and took a deep breath. “Then Blackwall and I, traveling, laughing. It came so suddenly, I thought the Creators had given me a second chance. We went and found his badge, we sat by the fire light.”            “But he also said it was wrong,” Cole said.

“After Tallen and Asharell married,  I spoke to the Hahren. I needed some advice. He told me, his years of wisdom, ‘You cannot beg anyone to love you.’”

“So when they said no, you believed them.”

“I’m not going to convince them otherwise. If they don’t want me enough to want me honestly, I won’t fight for it,” I said. My eyes welled up and Cole put his hand on mine.

“They could have been convinced,” he said, “but that wouldn’t have been right. It would have hurt you more than losing them.”

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “I think maybe love just isn’t for me. Before I wasn’t anyone, now I’m so much more than myself.”

“Willfull, wanting, given, gotten, ‘I’ve given up so much, maybe she could be for me, maybe this woman I could keep,’” he said.

“That’s not how I feel.”

“That isn’t you,” he said. I sat up straighter and looked at him. His eyes glanced down, Cullen leaning over the battlements, his own late night stroll.

“Josephine?” I asked. He shook his head. “Cassandra?” He shook his head again.

“Lost and longing, lyrium-sick, ‘She’s so powerful, so strong, how could she ever want anyone like me?’” Cole looked back at me.

I swallow and look at him, his hands running through his hair. “I never thought, I mean, I’d flirted, but he seemed so closed off. I assumed,” I trailed off.

“‘What if the lyrium takes me? What if I’m not strong enough? She deserves someone strong enough to carry her burdens. She deserves someone without the weight I carry.’”

“Thank you, Cole. This helped.” We hopped off the edge and I gave him another pat on the shoulder.

“Thank you. I’m happy I helped.”

[nvvermore]

Music of the Night

Amaryllis has been searching for Beatrice all night [continuation of what a night, what a crowd! @juliandev0rak ]

words: 2.6k

cw: mentions of alcohol

accompaniment

—

The ballroom is packed once again this year, full of extravagant partygoers dressed to the nines, each with a mask befitting such a grand occasion. Amaryllis sees so many different kinds of costumes and dress from their place on the main stage, still awed by all the glamour surrounding them, year after year. But despite the diligent way their eyes have been scanning across the crowd throughout their set, they can never seem to spot the one who amazes them most.

“...And I felt afraid, for my heart said, ‘Get ready to fall’...”

For all the times they’d stressed the importance of focus to Beatrice during their lessons together, Amaryllis was a horrible example tonight. This is hardly their first masquerade. They are a professional, a highly esteemed act, graced with the opportunity and patronage to stand on such a stage. And yet, they certainly aren’t acting like one. No one else could tell, thank the gods, but they know that their mind is wandering, thinking about how it’s a waste of time to sing these songs when Beatrice might not even be in the crowd to hear them.

It was only a few hours into the night, but thus far Amaryllis had been too busy with official duties to track Beatrice down. Their eyes wandered then too, catching each time they’d spotted that familiar shade of green. By the time they were to get on stage they were restless and fed up with their courtly duties.

“...When I lost my heart, at the ball.”

The last notes of the song are struck, and the orchestra begins to transition into an instrumental piece as applause for them— and the ballroom full of dancing guests— cuts through the room. Amaryllis smiles and bows, keeping the mask on for just a few more moments.

When Amaryllis finally descends from the stage and merges back into the party, they need to stop for a moment to catch their breath. Which turns out to be a mistake that gives Nadia— who must have been waiting for their exit— the chance to step in. With her is a baron from somewhere Amaryllis doesn’t catch. It matters little, because they’re quick to pick up on Nadia’s terse smile and the plea for help in her eyes.

His request for a dance is granted, and it isn’t long after they’ve stepped into the dance floor proper that Amaryllis sees just why she wanted rid of him. Chatty, and a little self obsessed was the nicest description they could come up with. As he prattles on and Amaryllis tries to keep up with his off-rhythm box step and manages to drown out his voice with that of the songstress who’d taken to the stage after them. Their eyes begin to wander once again, looking past the baron’s shoulder into the crowd as they shuffle across the floor.

It’s a verse or two and a swap in positions— which is a clear relief to the baron— before Amaryllis finally sees a flash of carefully styled curls in that perfect shade of honey-kissed brown and—

Oh.

When Beatrice turns their way, the sight of her alone leaves Amaryllis breathless. She’s swathed in layers of cream tulle and golden embroidery, standing out against the reds and violets of the ballroom decor. Her face is obscured by a rabbit-eared mask, and though it complements her, they’d rather not miss out on that pretty pink flush likely to be on her cheeks. Now they are the dancer with the faulty footwork; Beatrice was so captivating, she’d managed to make Amaryllis stumble.

Before the baron can inquire if Amaryllis is alright, they quickly and efficiently excuse themself from the dance floor. It’s against their better judgment, and they hope he doesn’t manage to run into Nadia again. But they’ve spent the entire night so preoccupied with Beatrice, they’d be a real fool to lose track of her now.

As Amaryllis slips through the crowd to get to Beatrice, her eyes are on them, and can feel the curious glances from guests who are eager to find out who the infamous songstress is looking at with such reverence. Finally before her, they can’t stop the smile that finds itself on their painted lips.

“I’ve been looking for you all night.”

Her face lights up. “I’ve been looking for you too.”

“I’ve missed you,” they reveal, and Beatrice’s eyes go wide behind her golden mask. What they just admitted to dawns on Amaryllis, and they feel a very uncommon pang of embarrassment. Quickly, they divert the conversation. “May I have this dance?” They hold out a hand, and for a moment they worry she might not take it.

But with a shy smile and a nod, her hand slides into theirs.

Amaryllis leads Beatrice back through the crowd, back onto the dance floor. Her free hand comes to rest on their shoulder, and their hand slides around to her back, notably lower than it needs to be. Together they effortlessly blend in with the rest of the couples, gliding across the marble flooring, no stumbling or missteps. The sweet voice of the soprano from the stage cuts through the room, and it occurs to them that she’d begun to sing one of their own compositions.

“...First time I heard your voice, moonlight burst into the room…”

But Amaryllis can feel how nervous Beatrice is right now, with her stiff posture and how her hold on them tightens. They hate to see her upset, but it makes them feel so weak, how she draws them closer and holds onto them tighter. That their presence and touch is what soothes her.

Amaryllis tilts their head down to murmur into her ear. “What I’ve taught you about tension also extends to dancing,” their voice is low, and they didn’t miss the way she’d gasped, so softy, once they’d begun to speak.

“I know, it’s just,” she bites her lip, and her eyes flit to them for only a moment before she’s back to staring out into the crowd. “There are a lot of eyes on you.”

“Because they’re all jealous I’m the one dancing with you.”

“Amie,” she chides lightly, their name drawn out by a nervous giggle. Amaryllis doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s flushed, the low cut of her dress revealing the pink tinge to her chest.

“...You are so good for me…”

“Close your eyes,” Amaryllis instructs, “just focus on me, abeille.” Once Beatrice shuts her eyes, they lead her into a twirl, spinning her around and bringing her to a stop with her back to their chest. Her hair is fashioned in such a way that keeps her neck exposed, and this time when Amaryllis tilts their head down to whisper in her ear, they ghost their lips oh so faintly over her skin. “There doesn’t have to be anyone here but us.”

“...I’ll never be this happy again…”

Before Amaryllis ends up indulging themself any further, they spin her back around. Beatrice’s eyes are still shut, but she’s relaxed, her grip on them light and her shoulders back. The tempo speeds up, and she doesn’t miss a beat as they float across the floor. If they had known she was such a lovely dancer, they would have found an excuse to dance with her before now. When Beatrice opens her eyes again, she holds Amaryllis’s gaze, which hasn’t left her since she’d taken their hand.

“...You and I, and no one else.”

The song comes to a close, and the boisterous applause that comes with the conclusion of the performance is what finally breaks Beatrice out of her trance. She freezes, glancing all around with a mixture of disbelief and unease hidden behind her mask. For a split second, Amaryllis fears they’re the problem, but the idea is banished as she huddles just a little closer to them. An idea strikes.

“Come with me.” Hands still laced together, Amaryllis wraps an arm around her shoulders and leads her away from the dance floor and the guests, up one of the smaller, less busy staircases off the side of the ballroom.

“Where are we going?”

“To get some air.” They push through one of many sets of doors off the upper level of the ballroom. It’s a balcony, one Amaryllis knows is often left deserted during the festivities— it’s where they always go each year when they need a moment away from the excitement. It’s a sizable space, close enough to still hear the orchestra clearly, but left undecorated and dimly lit by only a few decorative lanterns. But tonight the full moon is shining bright, and when they turn back to Beatrice, they’re awestruck all over again.

Under the moonlight, she’s ethereal. The way it reflects off of her golden gown and illuminates her features, as though she herself is glowing. But what really does Amaryllis in is when they realize she’s staring back at them, and perhaps the mask is concealing her face too much, because they don’t understand how she could look at them with reverence.

Perhaps Beatrice has the same idea, because then she’s reaching up, her fingers are then dancing at the edge of their golden half-mask. When they make no move to stop her, she slips it off. Her own mask follows, and she rests them on a stone bench a few steps away.

She holds her hand out. “May I have this dance?”

“Always.” Amaryllis takes Beatrice into their arms once more, and this time they’re just a short breadth away from each other. When they begin to step together, it feels even more effortless than before, with Beatrice relaxed and smiling from the start. “Now, yours are the only eyes on me.”

Before Beatrice can manage a response, the orchestra’s distant waltz comes to an end, and the tempo picks up for a polka.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready for?”

“This!”

Quickly, Amaryllis leads the two of them smoothly into a triple step, skipping and twirling together around the wide open balcony. They swing Beatrice out and spin her once, twice, round and round, golden tulle swirling wide around her. When they pull her back in, she’s beaming, eyes bright under the moonlight and face lit up with her smile.

“Hold on!” Amaryllis tells her, and suddenly they’re swinging her off the ground to spin the two of them in circles. Beatrice squeals, her arms wrapping around their neck and holding tight. She buries her face into their shoulder, but they can still hear her melodious laughter. As the spinning slows, her legs find themselves around Amaryllis’s waist. They’re surprised by her boldness, but they love it, and the dizzying rush they feel isn’t from the spinning but from all the ways they’ve pictured her with her legs around their waist before.

She’s taller than them like this, looking down at them, and now there’s no mask in the way, no excuse for them not to acknowledge the way Beatrice looks at them. They hope she can see the same adoration in their eyes. Maybe, maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad to tell her as such, just to make sure she knows how enchanting she is.

Amaryllis moves one of the hands supporting Beatrice up— across her thigh, grazing over her ass, up her back, stopping when their fingers brush her skin to cup the base of her neck.

“Amie…” she whispers, soft and drawn out, almost whiny. Her gaze flits down to their lips. Amaryllis has wanted her for so long, and they know she’s wanted it too, and suddenly they feel like a fool for not taking anything she’d give them all this time. The atmosphere of the masquerade makes it so easy to just give in, all the joy and tension and coming to a head and making people reckless, easy to blame anything that might go wrong or unrequited on adrenaline and alcohol.

Then, Beatrice rushes forward to kiss them. She’s cupping their face, thumb brushing over their left cheek so gently, a stark contrast to the eager way her lips move against theirs. Amaryllis tugs her closer, as close as they can get her, and tangles their fingers into her curls. After all this time, the months of pining for her, she feels like a dream.

But all dreams do have an end.

Abruptly, the balcony doors burst open, followed by a drunken shout. “Amie!”

Startled, Beatrice pulls away, eyes cast down as she slides back down to her feet. Her hands stay on them though, and her touch is the one thing keeping Amaryllis from giving their intruding brother an earful. Vesper strides out onto the balcony, definitely drunk and completely oblivious.

“We’ve been looking all over for you!” Julian shouts, appearing all of a sudden, equally wasted and slinging an arm around Vesper’s shoulders.

“Well perhaps I didn’t want to be found-“ Amaryllis starts, but another arrival cuts them off.

“You guys,” Asra hisses from beyond the doors, “I told you to leave them be!” He stomps into the doorway, heels clacking so hard against the stone Amaryllis is surprised they don’t break. He reaches out for Vesper and Julian, prepared to drag the two men off, until he turns to find out he’s seconds too late. “Amie, Beatrice,” he greets, tone pleasant and soft again. “I see these two already managed to interrupt you.” Asra pinches Julian’s waist in retaliation, which sends him into a fit of giggles.

“It’s quite alright,” Beatrice begins, and she lets go of them to retrieve their masks. “It’s a good time to rejoin the party anyway.” She fastens her mask into place, and Amaryllis follows suit— literally and figuratively— sliding the golden half-mask over their face.

“Is it really?” Asra asks her, with a knowing grin on his face. Clearly, there’s something going on that Amaryllis doesn’t know.

“It is,” she nods. He bounds over to her then, all traces of his previous frustration gone as he takes her arm and winks at them.

“See! No harm done!” Vesper shrugs away from Julian, grabbing onto Amaryllis to drag them back into the ballroom. From in front of them, Beatrice glances back at them in silent apology. They smile back at her, the soft, genuine smile that’s reserved only for her.

“Ohhhhhh,” Vesper draws out the sound, and then switches into their native language. “I see. Does somebody have a crush?” he taunts.

“I was in the middle of something!”

“I never thought I’d see the day! My baby sibling, in love!” He pinches Amaryllis’s uncovered cheek and they swat him away.

“I could use a drink,” they try to change the subject.

He’s serious then, or at least as serious as he’s capable of being in his state. “Didn’t go well?”

“Too well.” Amaryllis hadn’t been all that bothered by the interruption, was ready to send the two away and continue where they’d left off with Beatrice. But instead she pulled away, took her hands off of them in order to rejoin a party she wasn’t pleased to be at. They didn’t want to read into things, because Amaryllis didn’t read into things. Beatrice was prone to anxiety after all, and they hoped it was as simple as too much excitement in one night.

And they keep trying not to overthink, trying to keep the idea that she might have regrets out of their mind. There are no more dances with her, and Amaryllis never manages to sneak her away again. When Beatrice decides to retire, they almost ask to join her. But Nadia whisks her away before they can, and instead they simply kiss her hand, leaving behind a mark of crimson.

After she’s gone Amaryllis doesn’t stay much longer. They slide off their mask as they retreat to their room alone, mind lingering on the dance they shared, on their own lyrics that had been floating in the air around them.

“...I’ll never be this happy again.”

[wendimydarling]

Count to Three

https://weheartit.com/entry/220987445

Title: Count to Three

Summary: Casey can’t fall asleep and Dean is there to help.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC (Casey Moore)

Word Count: 2110

Warnings: Fingering, Oral sex, external stimulation, female orgasm, protected penetrative sex, mention of bodily fluids.

A/N: So I usually post Henry Cavill content. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever posted a story that’s not for him. But this... this felt right. Please understand that this is the first smut I ever wrote, all the way back in 2012. I posted it forever ago on fanfiction.net, which I’m pretty sure doesn’t even operate anymore. I haven’t edited it save for some formatting that will make it easier to read, and I definitely cringed quite a bit while re-reading it, but it felt dishonorable to edit the original. 

You’re not gonna understand everything that’s going on because it’s a snippet from a much larger fic, but the basic info that you need to know is that Casey and Dean are connected by a spell, and she sees his future in her dreams. 

Now, there is a further continuation of the author’s note at the bottom of the fic explaining why I’m posting this that contains MASSIVE SPOILERS for the series finale, so if you don’t wanna know, don’t click keep reading. It’s that simple, I’ve done everything I can to defend you.

"Shhhh, shhhh... Casey, calm down." Dean strode across the room to sit next to her on the bed, uncharacteristically pulling her into his arms and putting his hand behind her neck. Casey wasn't even sure why she was crying, she was just so very frustrated at not being able to remember. The boys' life was in her hands, and her damn brain couldn't remember the dream. 

"Casey, it's not gonna come back to you if you don't calm down," Dean whispered so she would have to quiet down and listen. "Now breathe." Casey closed her eyes and breathed deep, focusing on her other senses. Dean had never been this close before, and she could smell the soft musk of his soap. Sandalwood, leather, black pepper, a hint of scotch, and motor oil from his car, she thought to herself, letting the scent wash over her in soothing waves. She could hear him breathe, slow and steady, and she tried to match him as best she could. The hand she had on his chest could feel his heart, beating out a strong rhythm. 

The muscles underneath that hand rippled at her touch, and for a moment she felt a small spark in the pit of her stomach. Casey opened her eyes and found herself eye to eye with the most beautiful irises she'd ever seen. She was normally such an observant person, how had she never noticed the piercing green she saw now? And his lips, they looked much softer when they were this close and not drawn into such a tight line. Her mind began to drift to things, inappropriate things, like how much experience he had and what he could be doing with those lips... 

"Casey?" 

Casey snapped back to reality. 

"Sorry, I'm calm," she assured Dean quickly, not wanting to betray her thoughts. "I just wish I could remember. If I could just sleep, I would dream it again and remember, but I'm not even close to tired, so I doubt that will happen." Dean smirked, knowing full well what she had just been thinking (even though she very gracefully tried to hide it). He had been with enough women to know when they wanted him, and he had to admit he liked the idea of sleeping with Casey. She was a pretty girl, and feisty to boot. He'd been scheming for weeks, trying to figure out a way to get her to bed without it complicating things. Without realizing it, Casey had just handed him the solution on a platter, and he wasn't about to let it pass by.

"I could help you with that," he said, flirting. Casey looked up at him confused, so he went on. "With the sleeping... I know exactly what we could do to wear you out. All I have to do is count to three." His hand was still around her neck, so before Casey had time to register what he was saying, he pulled her to him and kissed her with a feather-light touch, making her question if his lips had actually touched her. He held his face right to hers and paused, waiting for her to put two and two together. Casey looked at Dean like he was crazy, and then suddenly it dawned on her. 

"Oh," she breathed. "Okay." That 'okay' was all Dean needed and his mouth was on hers, lips moving together in a violent dance. He was normally gentle with his lovers, but this wasn't the time. The whole point was for Casey to be exhausted, so Dean was going to give her every move he had. She was going to beg before he let her have it. 

Casey let Dean take charge; she was content to let him have his way with her, and the way he was moaning against her mouth, he seemed to agree. His hand left her face and came down to join its brother at the hem of her shirt. He lifted the fabric to reveal smooth skin, and even Dean was surprised at how soft it was. He paused the kiss to remove her shirt completely, stopping short once it was gone. She was even more beautiful than he had realized. Casey whimpered at the lack of touch, so he quickly pulled his shirt off and continued his attack on her lips; pushing her horizontal and climbing on top of her in the process. Casey was in heaven. She had never been kissed so forcefully, so passionately, and she loved it. The weight of his lips, the brush of his fingers, the firmness of his abs beneath her fingertips; it was all so wonderfully overwhelming. Her insides ached with desire, and she wanted more. She knew Dean was drawing this out on purpose, but she was getting frustrated. Wanting to move things along, she unbuckled his belt and whipped it out of its loops, surprising Dean and giving her the opportunity to unbutton and unzip his pants. Dean caught her wrists in his hands and brought them down to her sides. 

"My timing," he scolded, laughing at her groan of displeasure. He gave her a little tease by undoing her pants and pulling them down just past her crotch. The cool air hit her exposed groin, fabric already wet with her desire, and she groaned again, this time in excitement. Pulling her arms above her head, Dean came back up to kiss her neck, skillfully running his tongue in the crease of her collarbone. He moved his head down to kiss her ribs, knowing that when he did she would arch her back, which would give him access to the back of her bra. Casey left her arms where they were as he undid the clasp, revealing her breasts. She wasn't a large girl, but she was proportioned in just the right way, each breast round with a small pink center. Showing no mercy, Dean took one of her nipples in his mouth as he pinned her arms again, sucking on the soft flesh to get it hard and then flicking it rapidly under his tongue. Casey cried out at the warm sensations, and tried in vain to get away from the teasing touches. Her breasts had always been slightly ticklish, and though it felt amazing, she couldn't help trying to escape his grasp. Dean held firm and continued the onslaught on her breasts, alternating between the two as her cries and squirms egged him on. He was having fun playing with her nipples, and seeing as though she couldn't go anywhere, he wasn't going to stop any time soon. 

Casey could feel his cock growing harder against her leg, and her inability to touch him back increased her arousal. She wanted nothing more than to take his member in her mouth and torture him in return, but she was pinned, which only made her mound throb harder. "Dean! Dean pleeeease!" Casey screamed, the nerves in her breasts sending fire to her loins. "I can't... no more... I need... inside..." She couldn't even form a proper sentence. The fire was burning inside her, growing hotter and hotter as she begged him to give her release. It seemed as though her pleas fell on deaf ears as Dean ignored her request to enter her. Instead, he took both her wrists in one hand and brought the other hand down to tickle the breast his mouth wasn't currently sucking on. 

The fire inside Casey erupted at the combination of the tandem touch, and she came hard. Her breath came out in strangled cries, and she bucked harder against him than she had before. Dean kept up his steady rhythm, licking and tickling and slowing only once she came down. 

"One," he said with a grin, laughing softly at the expression on her face. He sat up quickly. Before Casey had time to reassemble her thoughts, Dean was tugging off her pants, and encircling her hips with one arm. The hand that had been pinning her arms slid down her side, past her hip, and came to rest cupping her crotch, thumb brushing against the skin he found there. Casey gasped against his touch, pleasure lacing itself through her veins. She tried to grab his hands, but Dean just smacked hers away. He pulled her panties down just enough that he could reach her bare clit, and stuck his talented tongue into the crevasses of her body. Casey keened as he began his torturous flicking again, wanting him to open her up and fuck her with that tongue instead. She felt Dean smile against her womanhood, and in vain she prayed he would give her more. 

He didn't. Dean used his free hand to pin her wrists underneath her body so that she couldn't push him away and continued licking her up and down. He used two fingers from his other hand to move aside her underwear, slid them in between her lips and held them there, making Casey gasp, and pull against his firm grip. 

"No, Dean please," she said, trying to persuade him to free her hands. Dean ignored her and held fast, shifting his body slightly to spread her legs a little further apart (which elicited another gasp from Casey). He brought his lips down to her button and sucked hard, shoving his fingers inside of her at the same time. Casey's brain exploded at the sudden warmth of his fingers. He pushed and pulled and twisted and scissored in every possible way, contorting his fingers to find every spot inside of her that made her scream. Of course, that wasn't very hard to do; thanks to his mouth on her slit it didn't matter where his fingers went, her orgasm stayed strong. 

"Oh my God... Oh my God, Dean!" She cried out as wave after wave of pleasure continued to roll through her. 

"That's right baby, say my name," Dean mumbled around her mound, trying his best to ignore how unbearably tight his pants were. He would have satisfaction soon enough, so he focused on her. She was still choking out strangled gasps of pleasure, so he moved his fingers faster, pumping her in time with his tongue. Casey's eyes rolled back into her head and she became rigid, her body locked in spasms and her mouth falling open into a silent scream. Her muscles relaxed and she went limp, eyes closed, head rolling slightly and chest heaving. She didn't even fight Dean's grip anymore, just moaned as he slowed down his pace. "Two," Dean noted quietly as he took the opportunity to stand up and remove his pants and boxers. He groaned in relief as his throbbing cock was freed from its tight bondage, not at all surprised to see he was already leaking. He bent over and pulled a condom from his wallet, tearing the wrapping with his teeth and then slipping the condom on with one hand. Casey hadn't moved, hadn't even felt him get up. Eyes still closed, she felt gentle fingers slowly tug her panties off, so she spread her legs wide, inviting whatever was to come next. She was expecting more teasing, more drawn out torture, so when she was suddenly filled with Dean's length, her eyes snapped open, breath catching in her throat. Dean growled, and began to thrust himself deep inside her. Casey's reaction was immediate, her body opening up to receive all of him, her arms coming above her head so her hands could grasp the sheets behind her. Dean was relentless, pounding into her with fury. He grasped the headboard for leverage, and kept up his pace, hard and fast. Casey cried out every time he was deepest, and Dean felt himself slipping over the edge. Casey's third orgasm rocked through her body at the same time Dean let go, his shout mixing with her cry. He continued to thrust through his orgasm, keeping her pleasure high, until it hurt too much to continue. Casey relaxed her body again, and let Dean clean up, too tired to move. 

Dean finished in the bathroom, and came back into the room to find Casey fast asleep, still naked and sprawled across the bed. Dean looked at her tenderly, pulling the covers out from under her body and draping them over her so she would be warm. He climbed into the bed next to her, wrapping his arms around her worn out frame. She snuggled closer to him, seeking his warmth, and looked up at him through moon-slit eyes. 

"Thank you," she mumbled to him, drifting back into sleep. Dean looked down at her and kissed her forehead. 

"Three," he whispered.

A/N Continued: Okay, so I’m not here to get into a debate about what they did or did not do right in last night’s episode. I don’t care about your politics, I don’t care about what you think about the episode as a whole. I’m posting this as a tribute. A tribute to Dean Winchester.

Dean is... was, my first love. He introduced me to writing. He was my first boyfriend, he showed me things about my body that I wasn’t aware it could do. He showed me what it meant to keep fighting in the face of adversity. He was there to encourage me when all hope seemed lost. He reminded me that he too dealt with what seemed like an unloving parent, with a parent who no matter what you did, it was never enough. And watching him die like that broke my heart.

So, this story is for you Dean. I love you, I will always love you, and it’s okay. 

You can go now. ❤

[ordinaryschmuck]

What I Thought About “Enchanted Grom Fright”

Salutations random people of the internet who probably won't read this. I am an Ordinary Shmuck. I write stories and reviews and draw comics and cartoons.

When I started doing reviews, I told myself to stay limited to specials, movies, seasons, and even entire T.V. shows. I didn't want to do reviews for regular episodes of a show, mostly because there wouldn't be enough to talk about in a single post. For me, an episode has to either be astounding enough or important enough to warrant a review. And low and behold, The Owl House did just that with the episode "Enchanting Grom Fright." Keep in mind that I am going to be spoiling everything that happens in this episode. So if you somehow haven't seen it yet, I highly recommend that you do so. And if you haven't seen The Owl House yet...what the hell is wrong with you?

With that out of the way, let's get started with-

WHAT I LIKE

Luz independently looking for new glyphs: This scene is excellent for two reasons. Reason number one: It shows how dedicated Luz is to learning magic. So far, we have yet to see Hexide teach Luz anything regarding her unique way of doing magic. This is why it's great to see Luz try to find glyphs on her own so she can at least attempt to catch up with everyone else. There's also the implication that it's not an easy task for her, given the multiple crumpled up pieces of paper, which must have been failed attempts to make the plant glyph. This scene adds continuity from "Adventures of the Elements" as well, proving that Luz had learned her lesson in said episode. As for reason number two for why this scene is excellent: It sets up how Luz and Amity defeat Grom. Luz could have used her other two glyphs to destroy Grom, but doing so would take away some neat symbolism with the tree that was grown (more on that later). Therefore, Luz finding the plant glyph was a great set up with a proper pay off. Which is what I love about The Owl House. It takes things you wouldn't think twice about and actually makes something beautiful. Case in point: A 'Grom Night' poster was shown in a previous episode, hinting to the glory that is this episode.

Luz barely texting her mom back: I like this because it finally addresses Luz's conflictions for lying to her mom (Something I may or may not have toyed around with https://archiveofourown.org/works/23321692/chapters/55864000). These scenes present moments of how Luz isn't always the happy go lucky teen that she is. And I like that because it adds layers to a character who is already engaging enough.

That Gromposal: I made a post of all the things Disney has approved of before approving Lumity. I guess you can add to the list a character presenting an anatomically correctly drawn heart with the word 'Grom' written in what I can only assume is blood!

(Jokes aside, I legitimately like the dark humor in this scene, as well as Skara saying yes to the poor boy. It was adorable, damn it!)

Amity’s hostility swapped with being friendly: Here's a nice bit of character development for ya! It's just a few seconds, but those seconds show how far Amity has come since episode FIVE! Which is why Amity is one of the best characters in the show. Her development is so impressive that it's legitimately jarring to compare the Amity who was angry to see Luz, to the Amity who immediately apologizes, to Luz. But she still has years of conditioning from her parents to deal with, so of course, Amity's first instinct is to bare her fangs. And I'm more than positive that that instinct is going to leave her pretty soon.

Eda: While we're on the topic of great characters, let's take a moment to talk about Eda in this episode, shall we? Eda, throughout "Enchanted Grom Fright," has fully embraced her role as a maternal figure for Luz. The way Eda attempts to warn Luz about the dangers of Grom is a testament to how much Eda truly cares about 'her human.' And it's not like Eda doesn't acknowledge Luz's efforts at survival. She knows Luz can take care of herself, but that won't stop Eda from drawing the line when she knows Luz is in over her head. The best part is that when Luz admits that she was wrong, Eda doesn't respond with anger or even with a smug "I told you so." Instead, Eda's reaction is calm and nurturing. A response that Luz needed at that moment. It's sweet and genuinely heartwarming to see.

(And I love how Eda constantly admires her own beauty throughout the episode. Which is something I'm sure most fans can relate to.)

Luz and Amity’s talk in the forest: There is a lot to love about this exchange, due to how adorable it is. So here's a quick list: The clearly romantic music playing in the background. The way Amity slipped in the mud and was inches away from accidentally kissing Luz when getting pulled up. The fact that Luz sits down into the mud so as not to make Amity feel self-conscious about being filthy. Luz's sweet, sincere, and instant "I would" when responding to Amity wondering who would take her place as Grom Queen. The fact that Amity was surprised that someone would be willing to take her place in the first place. The payoff to Luz learning that she really did have a spider on the back of her head (Alright, that one wasn’t adorable, but it was definitely hilarious!).

Amity “destroying” Hooty: While I do enjoy seeing Amity act all sweet and gushy, I will admit that feisty Amity is still best Amity. Plus, this scene was remarkably funny.

Training Luz for Grom: This scene was a fantastic showcase for each of the Blight siblings. Now, because I've talked a lot about Amity (and will continue to do so), I want to start talking about Edric and Emira first. When first introduced to Ed and Em, my initial reaction was that they were meanspirited versions of the Weasley Twins from Harry Potter. Sure, Fred and George are known to cause mischief, but they do realize that there's a line you don't cross when it comes to family. That is something that Ed and Em ignored during their debut episode, where they tried to reveal Amity's diary to the world. Luckily, the writers picked up on this quick and made a subtle detour in terms of Ed and Em's personalities. They're actually decent supporting characters, and it's legitimately sweet with how they willingly help Luz. As for Amity, it's great to see that she still takes things seriously despite crushing on Luz. Most shows fall into the trap of making characters a nervous wreck when around their crushes. And while Amity does have those moments, there are still scenes like this that prove she isn't just some smitten kitten-and I hate myself for saying that. Amity is the voice of reason to her and Luz's relationship. And I'm glad that the writers mostly focus on that aspect of her personality rather than write her off as a flustered girl with a crush.

Those boys dancing together: While it's nice to see Luz and Amity's relationship blossom, that doesn't mean we should sleep on great representation such as this. While it's great to see so many romantic pairings between females in the last few years, it's rare to see two boys liking each other, especially in animation. Sure, male pairings exist, but I haven't seen them as celebrated as often as female ones. This is why it's nice to see that The Owl House crew sprinkled in these two boys dancing with each other. Representation matters for everyone, and this little acknowledgment is something worth mentioning, even if it isn't the main ship.

The hallway scene: But let's face it, this is what we came to see. Now when you think about it, there's nothing all that special with this scene. It's a typical romantic moment with a heart to heart discussion followed with witty banter, all while a romantic melody is playing in the background. You see this in multiple types of media, especially in Disney cartoons. The only difference is that this scene features a same-sex pairing and that what makes it amazing. It's essentially normalizing something that has been seen as inappropriate for years. And the fact that Disney of all companies is the one that greenlit a scene like this? That just makes this moment all the more impressive. Plus, I mean, c'mon. You have to have a will of iron not to think these dorks are adorable with this little exchange.

Splash zone: There's not much to talk about or analyze here. I just think the dark humor of a kid waiting in the 'splash zone' is funny. Because what does the splash zone get used for? Grom? The fighter? I don't know, but the fact that a splash zone exists for either of those reasons is what gets a chuckle out of me.

Skara and her date getting hyped for Grom fight: That's it. Skara is officially the best background character. I'm sorry, but a character earns that title when they immediately switch from wanting to kiss their date to "WHOO! BRING ON THE GORE!" 

I don't make the rules. I just abide by them.

Luz’s greatest fear: This is something fans could have seen coming due to rewatching and reanalyzing the promo that dropped a little over a month ago. But for fans who ignored the promo, the episode did a great job of setting up this reveal. From the two times that Luz practically ignored her mother's texts, it can be pretty clear that Luz's fear would be something involving Camilia. However, before the episode premiered, everyone jumped on the idea that Luz's greatest fear would be Camilia forcing Luz to come back home. Instead, the scene portrays Luz's greatest fear as her mother's negative response to Luz lying for weeks. That idea is much more interesting to me because it reveals how much Luz cares so much about what her mother thinks of Luz. And unlike Amity with her parents, Luz's fears are much more justified due to Camilia actually being a good mother. A mother who planned to send her daughter away to summer camp, sure, but still a mother who would do that type of thing out of love rather than to protect an image. Which makes me hope to see more of Camilia in the future, just to witness the mother/daughter relationship she has with Luz. Because honestly, it feels like I've been working triple time with portraying that relationship myself.

Amity’s greatest fear: Ah yes, the one thing none of us could have predicted...ok, that's not true. Some of us did predict this, but most of us didn't take those predictions seriously. And BOY, were we wrong to do so. Because the idea that Amity's greatest fear is being rejected by Luz is both sad, yet kind of adorable. It proves just how much Amity has come to care for the same human she nearly got dissected, in episode THREE. It's a nice bit of character growth that I just can't help but gush over how sweet it is. But again, it's also depressing knowing that Amity is afraid by being rejected by Luz of all people. Luz! The girl who's sweeter than honey and would absolutely let Amity down gently if Luz didn't feel the same way (Which she does. She just doesn't realize it yet.). What's even more interesting is that it makes so much sense as to why Amity is more afraid of showing her fear to the school. Not only would Grom reveal that Amity has feelings for Luz, but it also has the problem of outing Amity as a lesbian, presumably long before she's ready. And seeing how her parents reacted to Amity's friendship with Willow, imagine what would happen if word got out that Amity had a crush on a human girl. Yeah, let's just say that Amity must be really grateful that Grom morphed into a vague, shadowy figure.

(Speaking of, can we PLEASE calling Luz oblivious for not knowing that Grom morphed into her? Yes, to us, it's painfully apparent who Grom was supposed to be. But it also looks vague enough to the point where it isn't unbelievable for Luz to not know it was her. Because from where Luz is standing, the only similarity is the height and body shape. If the crew stuck to using Luz's more apparent traits, then I'd say it's fine to say Luz is oblivious. But as is, it's not too far of a stretch for Luz not to know it was her.)

That dance scene!: Remember how some fans have been hoping for a slow dance between Luz and Amity? This is better.

From the choreography to the smooth animation, to their expressions, to even pure epicness of this scene. Everything about this dance is just so astonishing that I am convinced that several fans have watched it over and over and over again since the episode's release. And you want to know the best part? This scene has so many problems that I don't care about due to how great it is. Why does Eda just stand there and do nothing? I don't know, and I don't care. Why does Grom stand there and do nothing? I don't know, and I don't care. How did Luz and Amity come up with this perfect plan without communicating? I don't know, and I don't care. How did Luz catch Amity, even though it looked like they jumped off of the abomination at the same height, and would've landed at the same time? I don't-Ok, you get the point by now.

Don't get me wrong, these are all valid criticisms. But that's the testament of good writing to me. Because if a scene can make me forget/ignore the problems within it, then it's ok in my book!

The cherry blossom: And now we get to that symbolism that I've mentioned before. Because according to a five-second Google search: The Chinese describe the cherry blossom as a symbol for feminine dominance and, of course, a symbol for love. Now the feminine dominance part is clear, but I'm confident that The Owl House staff concentrated more on the whole "symbol of love" thing. Because how else are they supposed to hint that Amity and Luz are meant to be the endgame relationship? Reveal that Amity's gromposal was meant for Luz? C'mon. That would be-

It’s revealed that Amity’s gromposal was meant for Luz: ...You know those moments that are so awesome, iconic, and downright perfect that you just can't help but give a grand old cheer to it? That's this moment right here. Speaking of which: WAH-HOO-HOO-HOO-HOO!

Seriously, some of you have no idea how big this scene is. It would have been so easy to cut the scene short at Amity throwing her half of the note, and leaving it up to interpretation for who the whole thing was for. But the fact that we get to see that it was meant for Luz, thus confirming that Amity has a crush on her, is absolute perfection. Not only is it because this is a big step for Disney in terms of representation, but to me, it seems like a normalization of gay culture. This type of reveal is something that would be done for several heterosexual relationships. So to confirm that Amity has a crush on Luz as if it was nothing...that's...that's just awesome. It's awesome, and I am so happy that Disney even greenlit this decision. And I'm not even gay! So I can not comprehend how some of you are feeling about this moment!

(Also, this does not mean that Lumity is canon. But it does at least mean that Lumity is going to be canon. Only now it's a question of when rather than if.)

Luz’s Text to Home: This was just a sweet moment. You get a better understanding of the love Luz has for her mother within these few seconds, then you did throughout the entire series so far. I also like that this implies that Luz is going to try being more honest with her mom about being in a whole new dimension. Which is again, is something I've been playing with.

Speaking of my aforementioned fanfic, during this entire scene, I was thinking to myself: "Man. Maybe I don't have to write a chapter based on this episode, after all. It pretty much did the job for me. I'm just glad that show didn't do anything that would make what I wrote completely worthless. Because that would just-"

Camilia is getting LETTERS?!: “...Well shit.”

Ok, gags and goofs aside, I honestly love this reveal. Because this presents a whole lot of questions. Like, how is Camilia getting these letters? When did she start getting them? And more importantly: Who the hell is sending them?! This is another thing that I enjoy about The Owl House. Just when you think you're satisfied with the episode you're given, the writers throw in something you could have never expected in a million years. This is why lately, it's a toss-up between The Owl House and Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts for the best show of 2020 for me.

(BTW, WATCH KIPO AND THE AGE OF WONDERBEASTS! It's SO GOOD!)

Those Grom pictures: These were just cute. Especially the last one.

WHAT I DIDN’T LIKE

...Uh...Oh! I know!

King’s B-plot: A small complaint that I have for The Owl House is that most of the b-plots in several episodes just feel unnecessary. Episodes like "The First Day," and "Adventures in the Elements" had b-plots that were pointless and not as engaging as the a-plot. What's worse is that they seem like padding for time, when most of that time could be used for significant moments in the main plot. And honestly, King's story in this episode is the worst one yet. It's filler that is poorly paced and wasn't really all that funny (aside from the other b-plots which at least offered a few good jokes in them). I don't know. Maybe it's because I have Lumity brain rot and wanted more moments between those two, but I just could not get engaged in King's story.

And...yeah, that’s about it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This episode deserves a well earned A+! Sure it has its fair share of problems, but the many, MANY, things it does right outweighs what it does wrong. On top of that, its one of the few episodes of any show I've seen that kept me up at night. Why? Because I couldn't stop thinking about how amazing it was. "Enchanted Grom Fright" is a worthy contender for the best episode of the season, and probably the entire series. It was heartwarming, engaging, and quite possibly the most important thing Disney has made in years. What else could you call it other than Enchanting.

(And no, this doesn’t mean I’m reviewing episodes of The Owl House from now on. Just the ones that are worth talking about.)

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

Next Time

I just realized I never posted this on Tumblr, so here it is...

for @buckybarnesbingo​ and @winterhawkbingo​ !!

by Lira (me!)

square(s) filled: BBB - K1 - knives; WHB - G4 - massage

main pairing: Bucky/Clint

rating: T

major tags/warnings: implied/referenced self-harm (more like self-neglect), massage, nightmares, angst, fluff, first kiss

summary: Clint's nightmares often drive him to the range in the middle of the night, where he pushes his body harder than he should to try to get rid of the images in his brain. When Bucky finds him there, both of them get rather more than they're expecting.

word count: 1741 (+834 in the bonus scene)

*

Clint sends his arrows down the range, one after the other, not even looking to see where they hit. He knows, anyway. He makes intricate patterns–spelling his name, outlining the targets, drawing the shape of a man then shooting it in the eyes, in the throat, in the heart.

It doesn’t help.

He feels the nightmare with every draw. The numbness, the cold calculations, the blind obedience.

The worst part, the part that makes his stomach roil and his head swim, is remembering how good it felt to obey. Blissful. Like putting on a pair of jeans he’s had for five years, washed so many times they’re worn just right. Like the first gulp of coffee first thing in the morning, singing on his tongue and zipping through his veins.

His muscles ache, then burn, but still he shoots, emptying his quiver over and over...and over. A tiny voice whispers if he can just shoot enough, if he can just fall completely into his body and out of his mind, he’ll be able to destroy his personal demons. Or at least exorcise them for a little while.

He lets out a hysterical giggle. Get it? Exorcise? Exercise? You’re a fucking genius, Barton.

When the noise comes behind him he doesn’t think, only reacts. He spins on the ball of his foot, bow drawn, aimed true.

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“I couldn’t sleep either.”

Clint lowers his bow. Too out of breath to speak, he just nods.

Bucky nods too, downrange. “Nicely done. Can I help?” Before Clint can answer Bucky’s unstrapping knives from their sheaths and flinging them toward the targets, black and silver flashing in the dimly lit range. The knives thunk home in the man-shaped target Clint made out of arrows–one in the forehead, one in the gut, and one in each knee.

He’s poetry with a blade. Clint’s seen him before, of course, but never like this, never up close and focused and easy.

“Nice,” Clint says. Or tries to. It’s more of an unintelligible croak that comes from his mouth. He tries to clear his throat but his mouth has gone dry, and it’s then he realizes he probably should have had some water, and probably shouldn’t have gone at the training quite so hard.

But he’d had to. Anything, anything, to get rid of the fucking nightmares.

Bucky’s face is doing strange things, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, like maybe he’s standing at the end of a tunnel. But that doesn’t make sense, he’s only a few yards away. He reaches up to check his aids, only then realizing that his hand won’t obey, and that he’s lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. When did that happen? And how?

Yeah, definitely some water next time.

He hears Bucky and JARVIS going on about something, time maybe? Or hours? And then he hears something about water and that makes him open his eyes and hey, when had he closed his eyes?

When he manages to get his eyes open all he can see is Bucky. Bucky, kneeling beside him, leaning over him, giant anxious eyes staring at him. The look is all concern until Clint manages a weak smile, then Bucky beams. The only person Clint’s ever seen truly turn into a beacon of joy like that is Rogers, and that’s never been directed at him before; having Bucky look at him like that…

“You had me worried. JARVIS said you’d been training nonstop for nearly five hours. Without any water.” There’s a bit of reproach at the end there, but Clint focuses on the smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s lips.

Bucky’s lips. He licks his own lips, suddenly aware how chapped and dry they are from lack of water. Suddenly aware that he’d like them to be softer, nicer, because maybe he’d like to use them for something besides speaking sometime in the near future.

And then Bucky’s arm is around him, pulling him upright, so he can sip from the bottle of water at his lips. Clint doesn’t remember the bottle getting there, but he just goes with it. Most everything seems to be going in and out anyway. Eventually he’ll be all awake again.

“Easy,” Bucky says, his tone low and soothing. “Just little sips.”

The water is the best thing Clint’s ever tasted. He tries to reach up to hold the water on his own, or at least help, but before he can reach the bottle he’s overcome by pain and nausea. He cries out, losing some of the water in the process, and almost choking on more.

Aw, water, no.

“Shoulder?” Bucky asks. His voice is still calm, still soothing, and even as Clint gives a very abbreviated because of pain nod he feels the effects of Bucky’s calm helping to ground him.

“Maybe I pushed a little too hard,” Clint says, avoiding eye contact. Bucky huffs a noncommittal noise.

After a breath of silence, Bucky says, “Let me help?” Clint’s eyes snap back to Bucky’s, looking for something in that mysterious blue. “Just trust me,” Bucky says, and that’s enough.

“I’ve done this too, you know.” Bucky, still holding Clint in a sitting position, eases him to the floor. Then, as if it’s nothing, he pulls his sweatshirt over his head. Clint’s somewhat thankful he’s wearing a t-shirt underneath, though in pulling off the sweatshirt the t-shirt rides up, and Clint is treated to an all too brief glimpse of Bucky’s bare stomach.

Bucky’s still talking, and it takes Clint’s brain some effort to go back to listening to the words instead of thinking about that bare strip of skin. “...elf too hard, and had to pay the price after.” As he speaks, still gentle and low, he rolls Clint onto his stomach, folds the sweatshirt, and puts it under Clint’s head. “Not much of a pillow,” he says, interrupting his own narrative, “but it’ll do.”

Clint closes his eyes and listens to Bucky’s voice, breathes what he suddenly realizes must be the scent of Bucky. Leather, metal, the oil he uses to clean his weapons, and–very faintly–chocolate. It’s a good smell, almost as comforting as the voice swirling around him.

“A hot bath would help, but this is better. Stevie’s always goin’ on about human contact and all that; and please don’t tell him I said this, but in this case I’m pretty sure he’s right.” And then Bucky climbs on top of him, straddling his lower back but keeping all the weight on his own knees, firm on the floor on either side of Clint. Even with all this it’s not until he feels Bucky’s hands on his shoulder that he realizes what it is Bucky means to do.

“Ohhhhh.” The sounds coming from Clint’s mouth are close to obscene, but it feels too good for him to care. “Buck, that’s…”

Bucky chuckles. “Again, don’t tell Stevie. Punk. He’s the one who taught me how to give a proper massage. Said I had to learn so when he gets sore I can ‘ease his suffering.’” Clint can’t see Bucky, but he can pretty much hear the eyeroll. “Such a drama queen, that one.”

“Thank god for Captain fucking America.” Clint’s babbling in between his moans, going on about Bucky’s magical hands and needing this after every mission because Nat’s hands are nice but are too small and the others are great but how do you just walk up to someone and ask for a massage? And every time Bucky’s hands touch the bare skin of his neck his brain just whites out, just stops, because it’s soft and electric all at once and he can’t compute.

But if he says anything odd, or if Bucky notices the odd stops and starts in his speech, he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps going, working the cramps and the stiffness out of his shoulders and arms and neck until Clint feels like he must be just a puddle on the floor of the range.

He doesn’t want Bucky to stop. He doesn’t want Bucky to ever stop. But eventually he says, “Bucky. If you don’t stop soon you’re going to relax me right to sleep. What’re you gonna do then, carry me to bed?”

As soon as the words are out he wishes he could draw them back somehow. Because of course Bucky could carry him to bed; Bucky may be smaller than Clint but he’s the Winter fucking Soldier. He could probably carry two Clints to bed and not break a sweat. But he’s here doing something nice, something he doesn’t have to do, and then Clint has to say something to maybe ruin it just because he’s all sleepy and comfy and suddenly realizing that he wants more from Bucky than someone to hang out on the range with or sit by on movie nights. Those things are great–but so are his hands, and his big blue eyes, and the way he makes fun of Steve while making it clear that Steve’s his best friend and always will be. He’s strong and sweet at the same time, and fuck all if Clint doesn’t want everything with Bucky...and when did that happen?

There are fingers in his hair now; not tugging, just a reassuring touch. When the backs of Bucky’s fingers trace Clint’s jawline he lets his eyes flutter open to see Bucky sitting on the floor next to him, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I really don’t want to undo all that relaxin’ I just poured into your muscles,” Bucky says. “Think maybe we can save the goin’ to bed part for next time?”

“Sure,” pops out of Clint’s mouth before he even thinks about it. Then, “Wait, what? Next time?”

The fluttering in his chest is something new, something unexpected.

It’s hope.

The smile on Bucky’s lips becomes genuine. “You heard that, did you?”

Clint wants to jump up, but he’s still just a puddle. Instead he grins, asks innocently, “Is kissing safe tonight? I wouldn’t want to do anything against my doct–”

He’s laughing when Bucky rolls him onto his back and cuts off his words with a kiss soft as butterfly wings. They smile into each other’s mouths, and Clint’s never had a better first kiss.

Or second.

Or third.

*

Bonus Scene

-for @feedmecookiesnow and @elenorasweet, because they asked 💜

Clint blinks drowsy eyes at Bucky. “So. Are you gonna carry me to bed, or do I have to sleep here?”

His grin is lopsided and tinged with exhaustion, and all Bucky wants to do is kiss that adorable face some more. But he’s more in control of himself than that.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

Because he has to kiss something, he takes Clint’s hand in his and kisses his wrist, then his palm. “I think something can be arranged,” he says. “I don’t want you to wake up on this floor with a stiff neck. Or to try to get back to your floor yourself and trip over your own feet.”

“I wouldn’t–” Clint starts to protest, but Bucky silences him with a finger to his lips.

“Barton, you’re graceful as a ballerina with a bow in your hands, and damn near as pretty, but you have a knack for injuring yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re–” Clint mumbles against Bucky’s finger. This time it’s just Bucky’s stare that stops him.

“Fine. I concede.” Clint’s wink is sloppy with sleep, and Bucky has to hold himself still again. “But only ‘cause I want you to carry me to bed.”

As if Bucky needs to be talked into it.

Kissing Clint’s palm again, he says, “Think you can wait for me to clean up? I don’t particularly want to wake up to a lecture from Stark about leaving my weapons all over the range.”

Clint nods. Bucky can see that he’s still pretty blissed out from the massage and the rather extensive make-out session afterward. Bucky’s pretty far gone himself; he’d gone from waking up screaming from another horrible nightmare to finding Clint at the range to watching Clint nearly pass out to feeling Clint’s muscles under his hands to feeling Clint’s lips against his own. Not exactly what he’d expected from the evening.

The knives go back in their sheaths–”How many knives do you have on you, anyway?” “More than the four I threw…”–and the arrows are returned to their proper place in the armory. The bow gets hung up as well; Clint tells him it’s just a practice bow, not one of his good bows. Those are upstairs. Apparently Clint is a bit of a snob when it comes to his bows. Bucky has to turn away to hide his smile.

“Alright, let’s get you up,” he says, easing Clint up to a sitting position. Clint’s not going to make this easy, he really is about half asleep already so isn’t helping much. His head falls forward onto Bucky’s shoulder and he makes a happy humming sound, burrowing his face a little deeper into Bucky’s neck.

“Can’t you help a little? I can’t even get my sweatshirt back on.” He’s able to grab it from the floor where Clint had been using it as a pillow but before he can begin to even try to pull it on Clint, showing far more alertness than Bucky expects, snatches it away from him.

“Mine!”

Even though he’s fair exasperated, Bucky laughs. “It won’t even fit you. Your arms are twice as long as mine.”

“Makes a nice pillow,” Clint murmurs, clutching at the fabric.

Bucky sighs, then gives in and kisses Clint’s cheek. “It’s yours then, sweetheart,” he says, and he knows then he’s gone soft for this fella. “Can we get you to bed, though? You really need to sleep.”

Somehow they manage to both get to their feet. “Now hold on,” Bucky says, and he scoops Clint into his arms.

It should be ridiculous. Clint’s got so much height on him it should just feel silly, like a toddler carrying a teenager. But somehow it just feels...right. Clint belongs here, in his arms, his own arms draped around Bucky’s neck. Clint’s heartbeat against his chest, his breath tickling his ear.

The walk to the elevator, the ride up to Clint’s floor, it’s all over so fast. Too fast. Before he knows it he’s easing Clint out of his arms and onto his bed.

His arms feel empty.

Clint looks up at him, biting his lip, like he’s deciding something. Bucky’s about to just say goodnight when Clint blurts out, “Stay?”

Bucky freezes.

“Not for sex.” Clint stumbles over the words, trying to hurry in his overtired state. “I’m too tired for sex anyway. But just...stay? I think there’s a pair of sweatpants in the bottom drawer,” he adds, nodding toward the dresser.

Bucky just looks at Clint for another full minute. Finally he says, “Yeah, and I’m sure they’re about three feet too long for me.” But he’s already at the dresser when he says it. He finds two pairs, pulls them both out, and throws one at Clint. “Wear something comfortable to sleep,” he says.

“Yes sir,” Clint says, only a little mockingly.

*

It only takes one night to learn that cuddles are a good defence against nightmares. Even better than time at the range.

[tyranttortoise]

TT, how would you rank skelebros in "who's the best kisser"? Starting from the absolute mind-blowing?

*I’m honestly surprised I’ve never done this.

Mutt

Red

Stretch

Edge

Blueberry

Axe 

Sans

Papyrus

Blackberry

Crooks

Okay, hear me out while I break these down under the cut and show that I’m only slightly biased.

Let’s face it.  You want Crooks to be an amazing kiss, but he’s never done it before.  He’s excited; he doesn’t how it’s supposed to go since he doesn’t have lips, but he knows it involves mashing your mouths together.  His teeth are jagged, some of them sharp.  He becomes over-enthusiastic and grabs you, quite literally sweeping you off your feet.  Your heart’s pounding in anticipation, but his grip… It’s too tight.  You inhale in a wheeze just as he mashes his mouth against yours.  His teeth unintentionally bite into your lips, and you make a sound of discontent, pressing your hands against his chest.  One of the broken edges feels like it’s drawn blood.  “Too rough,” you manage, pushing against him harder.  For a moment, he doesn’t respond; no, instead, he pushes closer, and you feel the electric tingle of his tongue as it slides across your bottom lip, tasting your blood.  

“Papyrus!”

Finally, he seems to snap back to his senses, and his hold relaxes enough that your feet touch the ground again.  He doesn’t realize what he did that you didn’t like, so you have to instruct him on being gentle and not over-eager.  The next kiss is better, but he needs practice.  

Speaking of over-eager, that’s why Blackberry is only one slot above Crooks.  Blackberry also doesn’t know what he’s doing, and that combined with his fangs, isn’t a pleasurable experience.  He’s shaking when he goes in for the kiss, a combination of excitement and nerves that’s virtually unheard of for someone with as much confidence as the tiny tyrant.  To cover this up, he tries to make his movements deliberate instead of unsure, but it really just comes across as rough.  His teeth mash against your lips, and his grip on your shoulders is bruising (he doesn’t even notice he’s holding onto you, but you’ve become an anchor for his nerves).  He’s grinding his teeth into your lips a little, and it’s painful, but when you open your mouth to try to tell him, his tongue abruptly pushes past.  The electric charge of his magic makes the kiss feel better, but his exploration is too fast and too clumsy.  It’s only when you gag and tap your palms against his chest that he finally breaks the kiss, his face flushed with a bright blush.  

“HOW WAS THAT?  THE BEST KISS OF YOUR LIFE, CORRECT?  WHAT ELSE DID YOU EXPECT FROM THE MALEVOLENT SANS!”

…. Yeah, teaching him without hurting him is a delicate process, but don’t worry.  Once his nerves calm and he slows down, he’s a much better kisser.

That brings us to Papyrus.  He’s similar to Crooks in the way that he doesn’t know how kissing works without lips, but WOWIE, he’s willing to try.  Paps has the advantage of teeth that won’t hurt you, but let’s face it.  His kiss is chaste, and involves just holding his teeth against your lips for a moment, then pulling back with a bright pink blush and telling you that was nice.  It’s a sweet kiss!  There’s nothing bad about it.  But, if you want something more, you just have to teach him.  Watch some rom-coms, or just sit him down on his racecar bed and explain how tongues work in kisses.  This is one where you probably need to take charge and show him what you like.  

……. Have I written this before?  I can’t remember.  If I haven’t, I need to.  

Sans is just above his brother because he knows how, but his kisses are gentle and lingering, the kind that always leave your lips tingling and you wanting more.  He has much more control than most of the skeletons, and he holds onto it through the first several kisses.  There’s no tongue, but you could almost swear that you feel some sort of magic almost mimic lips.  It feels nice, but if you’re wanting a proper make-out session, you’re going to have to be the one to press things further.  

You climb onto his lap, and his fingers ghost your hips.  He chuckles, but the joke he was about to make dies in his throat as you kiss him.  You feel his fingers flex against your hips, his touch more firm, and your tongue traces his teeth.  His body feels more tense than usual, his careful control beginning to slip, and when your hand cradles the back of his neck, fingering the spinous process of a vertebrae, his teeth part as he sucks in a sharp breath.  

You take the initiative and slide your tongue between those teeth to meet the magical tongue he’s already manifested.  He makes a sound in the back of his throat, and your tongue traces the length of his.  

In the next moment, he’s flipped positions on the couch so you’re lying down, and he’s on top of you.  

So, Sans has the potential for a phenomenal kiss, but I think it would take a few kisses – or a determined partner on the first one – to get him to really go HAM.  

Axe is just a step above Sans because he’s someone that has much less control.  He goes for it, he isn’t afraid to bust out the swoon-inducing moves (such as dipping you back ;D ), and when the moods strikes, he can really bring the passion.  His only downfall is that his kiss can be a little sloppy, but once he slows down for a breath, you find that you just can’t get enough.  

Yeah, Blueberry’s pretty high on the list, and that’s because he’s such a motivated datemate.  He’s one of the most passionate and eager of the skeles, but he’s studied for this moment.  He’s ready.  

He’s also someone that can easily read the way you respond.  He knows when you likes something – and he also wants you to tell him how you like to be kissed.  Is there enough tongue?  Too much teeth?  Well, there’s not much he can do about that one, but he’ll certainly try!  He’s been daydreaming about this, studying the way humans kiss, and he can’t wait to knock your socks off.  

Just make sure you pick them up afterward!

Edge is surprisingly high on the list, but you know that skeleman is just waiting to sweep you in a passionate embrace.  He’s the dominant one in the kiss, definitely, and you’re going to find your back pressed into a wall, his body trapping yours.  It’s easy to lose yourself in the kiss.  His fangs don’t hurt; he has careful control, though you can definitely expect to see his teeth grazing your neck as soon as you breathlessly break the kiss.  

His draw-back is that although he’s confident and telling himself that YES, HE’S THE BEST KISSER and you CAN’T GET ENOUGH, he’s still new to it and isn’t overcompensates with more tongue than you’d like.  It wrestles with yours, sweeping across your mouth, and he doesn’t take your cue right away to ease up.  But once he sees that he’s doing a decent job, and you like it, he’ll be less in his head and more apt to ease up.  

Stretch is way up there because c’mon, you guys have read the way he kisses.  I’m going to copy/paste it and then fan myself over this one:

This time, he responds in earnest, his other hand molding to the curve of your hip, and his long legs unfolding so he can draw you onto his lap. Your knees spread on either side of his hips, and the arm around his neck grips the back of it, the spinous processes of his cervical spine protruding between your fingers.

His teeth part, and you take the initiative and slip your tongue between them to meet his magical one. It feels different from Red’s; it’s longer and thinner, not as wet, and the magic doesn’t seem to be quite as concentrated. It doesn’t make your mouth feel numb. You massage your tongue against his, and he proves that his tongue is rather dexterous by curling the tip around yours. A tiny, contented sigh escapes you, and you rake your fingernails against the protruding bone of his neck, causing him to groan and pull your body tighter against his.

He kisses you breathless, taking his time languidly– yet thoroughly – exploring your mouth, while the fingers of one of his hands tangles within your hair. Neither of you are in a rush to pull away, but you finally break the kiss to properly swallow and catch your breath. Despite the fact that he doesn’t have lungs, Stretch’s ribcage is expanding rather rapidly, too.

You don’t know what to say, so you just say the first thing that comes to mind.

“Wow.”

I think that speaks for itself.  ;D

And you also know I’ve written enough Red kisses to know why he’s got the next spot.  I’m going to link you guys to this imagine where you make-out with Red at a party because it perfectly encompasses what it’s like to kiss Red.  

I’m also going to leave this here:

This time, there aren’t any physical fireworks going off in the distance, but there may as well be. You find yourself clinging to him, your fingers curling around the backs of his ribs and your palms skimming the cracks within them.

There’s a familiar tingle as his magical tongue traces the line of your lips, urging them to part. As soon as you comply, you feel a rumble build in his chest. In the next moment, you’re falling backward, onto the couch –

–but then you land on something much softer, your back bouncing upon impact. The music is completely gone. You break the kiss just long enough to check your surroundings and find that you’re back in the hotel room. Red’s clothes are in his fist; he was mindful enough to grab them from the couch mid-teleportation. He demands your attention again by resuming the kiss, his tongue automatically invading your mouth. It feels electric, tingling against your tongue with the faint taste of whiskey.

Hot damn, am I right?

So how does Mutt top that?  His kiss is basically Stretch and Red’s rolled into one.  He can bring the passion, the fangs, the electricity of his magic, but he also has that long, dexterous tongue and all the patience in the world. He knows how to make your toes curl, how to get you grasping at his jacket, your heart pounding in your chest.  He alternates between languid, thorough exploration and a passionate heat that has his phalanges pulling your head back to deepen the kiss.  He leaves you feeling light-headed, holding onto him as if he’s your anchor to reality, and when he finally pulls back, he’s smirking.  

“mmm, not bad.”

That doesn’t even begin to describe it, Mutt.

[orangeoctopi7]

Gloves VS Mittens

@forduary Week one is Creation/Destruction. This fic is definitely on the Creation side of things.

For most people, it’s just a matter of preference. But for Stanford, just having a choice at all was something he rarely had...

***

When Ford was four years old, he first started taking notice of the fact that his hands were not normal. It started with a Hanukkah gift from a distant aunt: a pair of gloves for Stan, and a pair of mittens for himself. The two of them were so used to getting the exact same of everything that it immediately struck them as odd.

"Hey Dad, how come mine are different?" Ford asked.

"Because they don't make six-fingered gloves." Filbrick grunted.

"Why not?"

"Because normal people don't have six fingers. Haven't you noticed?"

Caryn smacked her husband with her magazine. "Dear!"

"What? If he hasn't already figured it out--"

"He's four, Filbrick."

"He's gonna have to know sooner or later! Coddling him ain't doin' him any favors. The world's not kind to what's different, so we may as well prepare him now!"

"I'm not… normal?" Ford asked his parents. He wasn't quite sure what to do with this information.

"Nope." Filbrick replied bluntly.

"Oh who wants to be normal, anyway? Normal's boring. You're special." Caryn took her son into her arms and kissed his forehead. “Now go outside and play with your brother."

While Stanford took his mother's words to heart, he soon found that being special had little to no practical benefits. Sure, it was nice to have something of his own for once, but Ford soon realized that while Stanley could use his mittens if he wanted, Ford couldn't use his brother's gloves. Not that Stan would ever want to use the mittens. They limited his dexterity to the point where it was hard to make a snowball, or even do something as simple as point.

"It's not fair!" He complained to Stan as he struggled to draw a face on the snowman they were working on. "It's like trying to do everything with a sock puppet on each hand!"

"It can't be all bad." Stan reasoned. "Plenty of people wear mittens, right?" 

"I guess so…" Ford remembered quite a few Christmas decorations with people wearing mittens, and he'd seen a few wearing them out and about the city.

Stan grabbed one hand and held it up, looking at it more closely. "I bet all your fingers are warmer, bundled together like that!"

"But it's hard to zip up my coat, so I get cold anyway." Ford mumbled.

"I'll help you zip it up!" Stan promised.

***

As the years passed, Stanford found another advantage to wearing mittens: nobody could tell he was a freak if they couldn't see his extra fingers. Sure, it didn't fool the people who already knew him, but it was nice to be able to pretend he was normal when they went up to New York City to go shopping. 

As for the dexterity problem, most of the time he'd just have to ask Stanley to do whatever it was for him. If he got tired of that, or if it simply wasn't an option (like during a snowball fight between the two brothers) he'd just take his mittens off. Sure, it was icy cold, and Ma always scolded him if she caught him, but that was a small price to pay for a good snowball.

Ford found he didn't mind wearing mittens all the time, until he started highschool chemistry class.

***

Ford was so excited to start his first real chemistry lab. He'd been doing his own chemical experiments with a chemistry set he got for his birthday when he turned 12, but the school chemistry lab had so much more to offer him! Actual Bunsen burners, more than one beaker and three test tubes, and best of all-- a variety of chemicals much wider than what he could find in his family home!

"Now, before we start, I'm going to go around and make sure everyone has all their safety equipment on properly. Make sure you've got your goggles on over your eyes not your forehead, and your gloves on your hands not in your pocket." Their teacher, an easily distracted middle-aged man, made his way around the room, checking each group. "Oh, right…" he paused when he came to the Pines twins. Stan had on his gloves and goggles (onto which he had drawn googly eyes with a wet-erase marker). Ford had on his goggles, but…

"I don't need gloves." Ford insisted. "I've never used them with my chemistry set at home."

"Yeah!" Stan agreed, "We took apart a car battery one time and didn't get any chemical burns!"

The teacher blanched at this revelation, and he opened up a supply closet at the back of the room. After some digging, he pulled out a pair of sturdy work gloves that looked like they were meant for a giant.

"Here," he tossed them to Ford, "These should be big enough. You'll just have to fit two fingers into one hole."

Ford grumbled as he pulled the gloves on. After some experimentation he found that sticking his second and third fingers together was the least uncomfortable arrangement, but the glove was still too bulky and awkward. He kept on pouring too much acid into the solution and completely missing the titration point. 

Relying on Stan to do it didn't yield much better results, as his brother was too impatient, and kept on pouring the acid too fast, once again missing the titration point. Finally, when the teacher was distracted by other students, Ford just took the gloves off. Then he got it first try.

This ended up being the pattern for Ford's chemistry labs throughout the rest of his highschool years. Fumble through the lab until the teacher's back was turned, and then strip the oversized gloves off. He was extra careful, and never got anything on him that could do any real harm. One time he did get a bit of copper nitrate on his skin, but all that it did was make his hands dry and itchy.

***

When Ford started college at Backupsmore University, he quickly realized he wouldn't be able to just pull an awkwardly large glove off when the teacher wasn't looking. The class size was much too small. What's more the TA overseeing their lab, a young man by the name of McGucket, was clearly a sharp and observant individual.

"Hmm, obviously this ain't gonna work." He observed as he passed out supplies to Ford's table. "I think y'should be fine fer now, we're only working with acetic acid today, but that ain't gonna be the case fer the whole semester. You got a free hour after lab?"

"Y-yes." 

"Great! Meet me in the Grad-lab, we'll make ya a special custom pair!"

"What--really!?"

"Sure! We don't want you messin' around in the chem lab with no gloves on, but messin' around with gloves that don't fit right is even worse!"

Ford finished his first lab with no trouble. In fact, he finished early, so he cleaned up his things and headed to the Grad-lab, just down the hall from his own classroom, and waited. All the graduate students there ignored him, too caught up in their own studies to even notice a lowly undergrad.

After several minutes, McGucket entered. "Alright, this is gonna take a while, you sure you got time?"

"This is my last class of the day."

"Perfect. Now come over here and we'll get started." The grad student led Ford back to a table with many five-gallon buckets. He pried the lid off of one, revealing its dark blue, slimy contents. "This here's the silicone-rubber I use t'make molds fer my machine parts. If'n ya jus' stick yer hand in here and let it gel, it should make a nice glove, like a second skin!"

"You want me to stick my hand… in that?" Ford asked incredulously.

"Pshaw, it ain't that bad!" McGucket assured him. "It's like… well, y'ever stuck her hand in pig slop?"

"No." Ford said slowly, his eye twitching just a bit at the thought.

"Oh, well nevermind then. I guess you can jus' drop outta chemistry 112"

Ford sighed and plunged his hands down into the bucket. It was pretty gross, but he got used to the slimy sensation after a few minutes. He slowly pulled his hands out, letting the viscous fluid slide off his fingers. 

"How long does this take to dry?"

"Gel." McGucket corrected. "First layer'll probably take 'bout half an hour. It goes faster if'n ya use a settin' spray, bit that tends t'irritate the skin."

"First layer? How many layers will it take?"

"Only two. Ya want it thick 'nuff it'll protect yer skin, but thin 'nuff that it's flexible an’ peels off easy."

"So I'm just supposed to stand here for a whole hour? What am I supposed to do for all this time? I-I've got homework!"

"Well, I'll pull ya up a chair." McGucket rolled over a chair for him and opened his backpack. "An' maybe I can help ya with yer homework."

They sat there for an hour, McGucket reading Ford's textbooks and Ford asking questions about the material. The grad student was impressed with the workload this freshman had taken on.

"I wanted to go to West Coast Tech, but that didn't work out." Ford explained bitterly. "So I'm going to have to work twice as hard to be taken seriously by the scientific community."

"Believe me, I know the feelin'." McGucket nodded. "Most folks don't take a roboticist from the Tennessee hills seriously either. But there's some perks to attendin' a smaller University. The dean lets us do whatever we want! I've built lots o' robots I never woulda gotten away with at MIT."

"I suppose that's true." Ford admitted. "I'm interested in anomalies and cryptozoology. At West Coast Tech, I probably wouldn't be able to study those."

The hour passed more quickly than Ford expected. When he pulled the gloves off, they turned inside out, showing all the wrinkles and ridges of his skin in relief. He liked it. It was much more personal than some disposable pair.

“I’m sorry for complaining so much at the start. What you’ve done for me is incredibly generous. Thank you.” Ford said sincerely.

“Think nothin’ of it!” McGucket assured him with a friendly smile. “Can’t ‘spect you to go through the whole class without proper gloves.”

“No, really, you don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Well, I s’pose not. But I imagine ya don’t get somethin’ as simple as a pair o’ gloves offen.”

“N-no.” Ford instinctively hid his hand behind his back.

“Well now, ain’t nothin’ to hide!” McGucket elbowed him. “You could have two heads, fer all I care, with how well you un’erstand superconductors!” He waved goodbye as they exited the lab. “See ya in class on Wednesday!”

Ford found he gained more than just a new pair of gloves that day.

***

The custom gloves were nice, but they didn’t last more than a couple of months before they needed to be replaced again. He spent a lot of time in the Grad-lab talking to Fiddleford over the next few years. By the time graduation rolled around, Ford had learned to make the silicone-rubber compound himself. It was something he continued to use as he moved out to Gravity Falls. Being able to make his own gloves was so convenient! After all these years of being stuck with ill-fitting gloves, or no gloves at all, he’d never really realized how useful they were. And now he could have them whenever he wanted! As time went by, he improved upon the original silicone-rubber formula, making the gloves more durable and long-lasting. 

As he got used to wearing gloves while he worked, the fact that he didn’t have winter gloves became more and more annoying. It was easy to ignore at Backusmore, where it rarely snowed and stayed warm for most of the year. But Oregon was farther north, and Gravity Falls was in the middle of the temperate rainforest. It snowed all winter long. It was so frustrating when he encountered an anomaly out in the snow and couldn’t hold his pen properly to take notes in his journal, either because of his mittens, or because his hands were too cold and numb from not wearing his mittens.

Oh well. As irritating as it was, he was used to it by now.

***

Out in the multiverse, just finding something to keep himself warm at all could be a struggle. Many of the dimensions he visited didn’t have human inhabitants, so finding something to wear on his hands at all was an impossible ask. Ford learned to wrap strips of cloth around his hands and fingers to keep them warm. It worked pretty well, although it took a lot longer to wrap the cloth in such a way that he could still move his fingers individually than it would to simply slip on a glove.

Of course, sometimes he got lucky. When he became ruler of the Finger Dimension, for instance, the people had made him a pair of silk, fur-lined gloves. They were very nice, but obviously more for fashion rather than function. He ended up trading them away for some tools shortly after he was banished by the Finger Dimension’s new ruler. 

But Stanford had bigger things to worry about than the comfort of his hands in his interdimensional travels. 

***

Stanley found the gloves while he was digging around the portal’s control console, looking for any clues as to how to get the thing working again. It was like a punch to the gut, but really, finding anything of Ford’s was like a punch to the gut. Stan still remembered that first Hanukkah when he’d gotten a pair of gloves, and Ford got a pair of mittens. He still remembered all the awkward times in their chemistry class where he’d had to do all the fine measurements even though he was terrible at it, until the teacher looked away long enough for Ford to take the oversized gloves off. He was glad his brother had finally found a way to get his own pair of work gloves.

His mind wandered, unbidden, to the fact that his brother was now lost… somewhere… without them. Without a lot of things he needed. Stan pulled on the gloves and made a fist, watching the extra pinky sleeve flop uselessly. He grimaced. Right. Back to work.

***

When Ford turned sixty-four, he was used to wearing mittens. He’d long ago accepted that the winter months came with a loss of dexterity, and honestly, over the past nine months of sailing through arctic waters, he’d been fine. He knew Stan had his back when he couldn’t properly wrap a finger around his blaster’s trigger. And when he knew he was going to need his blaster, he just didn’t wear them. He hadn’t gotten frostbite yet. In the middle of June, it wasn’t even worth worrying about. He wouldn’t even be thinking about it right now if it wasn’t for the birthday gift his niece had just given him.

“I noticed you weren’t wearing your mittens in a lot of the photos you sent us.” Mabel explained. “And I figured you probably have to use all your fingers for boat stuff, like tying knots, or signaling merpeople! So I made you these!” She handed him a pair of hand-knitted gloves, made up of a mix of red, blue, and  green yarn.

“I wanted to send you some while you were still sailing, but I’d never knitted gloves before, so it took me a while to figure it out.”

“She went through a lot of yarn the last few months.” Dipper agreed. “Like, even more than usual.”

Ford slipped them on. They were a perfect fit.

“How…?”

Stan suddenly started whistling for no reason. Ford shot him a knowing look.

“What? Don’t look at me like that! So maybe I kept an old pair of your gloves while I was workin’ on the portal. Not for, like, sentimental reasons or anything. Good work gloves aren’t cheap! And it’s a good thing I did keep ‘em, they were the perfect model for Mabel. I just had to tell Soos where I left ‘em and asked him to send ‘em to her.”

“I-I don’t know what to say.” Ford’s voice wavered with emotion. "This is-- the fact that you put in all that time and effort, just for me-- and such a thoughtful gift! I-I've never really had a pair of winter gloves before… well, except for that pair from the Finger Dimension, and those were more ceremonial than anything else."

"So you like them?" Mabel asked, eyes bright.

"I absolutely love them. They're perfect!" He hugged her. "Thank you!" He turned to Stan. "Thank both of you!"

"Eh, I didn't do anything." Stan rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed.

"You provided the model. I have you to thank for the fact that they fit so well."

"I have an idea, if you want to test them out now." Dipper suggested. "Remember that snow spell we tested out last week?"

"Oh, right! Great idea, my boy!"

"Yeah, just test it outside this time, so Soos doesn't have to mop up after you again." Stan advised.

[aaronhart93-archive]

hospital || aaroman

Discord thread featuring: Aaron & @romanbeckett

When: October 13, 2020

Where: hospital

mentions: @quentindelancret

Description: aaron rushes to the hospital after he finds out roman’s been hurt

Trigger Warnings: blood, mentions of hate crime/physical assault, self blame, severe injuries

Aaron. 

Aaron literally couldn't see straight. He practically felt his whole world fall apart when Quentin texted him to tell him to come to the hospital and that there had been a bad attack. Of course, Aaron's mind literally jumped to the worse case scenario as he scrambled to find his keys and get his shoes on. He had to remember to breathe because if he didn't keep reminding himself to breathe in and out, he would forget to. Tears were pricking at his eyes as he gripped the steering wheel towards the hospital, nearly hitting a biker as he sped through the streets. Thank god it was late or else it would have taken him forever to get there. The nurses of course gave Aaron and issue about going back, even after telling them over and over again that Roman was he partner. So he had to bribe them, and he did it without hesitation too. "Roman." He sniffed, sitting at the side of his bed and grabbing onto his decorated hand immediately, squeezing it softly. He took a deep breath. "Roman. Holy fuck. I'm so sorry."

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ✩

Roman wasn’t overly coherent. His brain was still truing to take in what had just happened. He wasn’t sure what condition he was in, and more importantly, how Q was doing. He felt so guilty. He should have never tried to wear makeup, and draw attention to them. He knew better, from personal experience, and yet still did so anyway. When he heard Aaron’s voice, the actor felt bad, but couldn’t help but also feel relieved. “It was my own fault.” He answered in a scratchy voice, wincing when his blood pressure cuff started fo go off again.  “Can Jus’ add this to the list of stupid things I’ve done. I should’ve just stayed home.” He closed his eyes, and hit his morphine button.(edited)

Aaron

Aaron shook his head and held his boyfriend's hand tightly. There was nothing about this that was Roman's fault. He could see the makeup running down his eyes though so he knew that that was what Roman was referring to when he said that he shouldn't have drawn attention to himself. "Babe, It's not your fault. And I shouldn't have left. If anything this is my fault. If I didn't pick a fight with you, we would've been in bed together right now. I -" He felt his throat tighten, and tears once again prick at his eyes. "I'm so sorry. Fuck." He kissed the back of Roman's hand then pressed his forehead to the actor's hand.

Roman.

felt like the guiltiest person in the situation. He as always, was running from his issues, and suffering the consequences of covering his sadness with wreck less behavior. “This is not your fault.” He assured the smaller, looking at the business man through his lashes before he realized his face was still covered with dry blood. “Could you...help me get cleaned up?” He asked pitifully, just needing to be clean, and free from all this dried blood. “how’s Quentin?” He asked desperately.

Aaron

Obviously Roman was going to tell Aaron that this wasn't his fault and obviously Aaron wasn't going to believe him. He was going to think this was his fault for the rest of his life. No doubt. Aaron perked up and nodded. He sent a quick text to Quentin to see how he was. "He was the one that told me to come. So I think he's okay. I just texted him though." He assured his boyfriend, grabbing and paper towel and putting some soap and warm water on it. He sat on the bed and hover over his partner, looking like a hurt puppy when he finally realized just how fucked up Roman was. He was never not going to feel guilty for this. "Do you remember what happened?" He asked, pressing his lips together.

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ✩

Roman watched his boyfriend as he texted Quentin, and then got a paper towel to help clean him up. Why hadn’t a nurse done this yet?! Maybe he was expecting too much, too soon - but he hated looking like this in front of Aaron. If the roles were reversed, lord knows he’d be a fucking mess. “I remember what started it. They were making fun of us, of me.” He emphasized, and then leaned his head back on the pillow behind him with a sigh. “Calling us all the great gay slang names, the usual. Quentin jumped one of the guys when they made fun of my makeup, and made some comment about me giving them a blow job, and it all went downhill from there. I jus’ remember them punching Quentin, and I jus’ - fuck.” He shook his head, and took in a shaky breath. “There were a lot of things I should have done different tonight.”

Aaron

Aaron took several shaky breaths, trying to keep himself calm as he cleaned his partner off. If he cried in front of Roman, he knew that that would just set Roman off too and he didn't want to make the other more upset that he already was. And God - this story was exactly like what had happened to him before. What if Roman didn't feel safe in New York anymore? Aaron should have been there. Roman was his boyfriend and it was his job to protect him. Aaron squeezed his eyes shut and took another shaky breath. "You didn't do anything wrong. I shouldn't have left. I was going to say I was just being stubborn. I'm going to find out who did this." He assured him, because that we the only way he thought that he could possibly make up for this.

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ✩

Roman didn’t want Aaron feeling like any of this was his fault. They’d had a fight, couples had fights, but that didn’t mean it was Aaron’s fault that Ro got HURT. That was ludacris, and he needed the man to see that. “Baby, this is NOT your fault. Okay. Look at me.” He squeezed his boyfriend’s hand, forcing him to keep eye contact. “I chose to go out. I made this decision, not you. Ended up getting a friend hurt in the process, and I fucking hate myself for it.” He admitted with a break in his voice.

Aaron

He opened his eyes to look softly down at his boyfriend. What would he had possibly done if something worse had happened to him? His life without those green eyes was something he couldn't think about. Nothing that Roman could say was going to make him feel any other way, so he just nodded softly and pretended to agree with him. "Let's agree that it wasn't either of our fault. It was the guys who hurt you." He said half heartedly.  "I'll call Nick tomorrow." He promised, getting back to work on the blood all over his face. Obviously, Aaron wasn't going to let these people get away with what they did.

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ✩

Roman just nodded when Aaron tried to come to an understanding, getting where he was coming from, and feeling the need to swipe his thumb over his boyfriend’s knuckles. “No rush. I jus’...I don’t know that we’ll be able to find them, I feel so —“ he didn’t even know what to say, shaking his head before taking in a deep sigh, eyes now tearing up because he couldn’t stop himself from being emotional apparently for two damn seconds. “People are allowed to do this shit, and they always get away with it.”

Aaron

Aaron just shook his head. "I know, I know. But you have Aaron Hart on your side now." He tried to reassure him, even forcing a smile. "In the words of Roman Beckett, we will figure it out." He couldn't count the amount of time Roman had said that to him and they were in fact able to figure it out. He forced a smile, trying to believe this himself. He finally got him as cleaned up as he was going to get without a proper shower. Aaron told Roman that Quentin eventually texted him back to report that everything was okay, and that Dorian would be there for him soon. "Now, when else do you need?" He asked after he'd gotten him cleaned up and as comfortable as possible.

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ✩

Roman just shook his head when Aaron asked what else he needed, because honestly...he couldn’t think of anything he wanted other than Aaron right now. He needed him, wanted him, desired to go back in time and make that argument not happen. If he would have been more open, then everything would be okay, and he wouldn’t be in this hospital bed right now. That was a hard pill to swallow. “You should go home and rest...I don’t want you to have to sleep here.”

Aaron

There was no way Aaron was leaving roman’s side. Was he crazy? If it were up to Aaron, he would leave his boyfriend’s side for weeks. “I’m not leaving you.” He shook his head, as he grabbed his hand again. He leaned down to place a soft peck on Roman’s forehead - he didn’t want to hurt him but he also wanted to squeeze him so tightly so that nothing this had would ever happen again. “Are you sure you don’t need anything? I can send Landon.” He told him.

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ✩

Roman managed a smirk when Aaron said he wasn’t leaving him, and then kissed his forehead, making him fond way harder than he really meant to. He couldn’t help it with Aaron. “Honestly?” He sighed, and then looked down at their hands together. “I know it’ll be difficult, and the bed is bloody small, but I really want you to get under these sheets with me right now.”

Aaron

Aaron eyes brightened at his words. Smiling, he immediately kicked off his sneakers and crawled next to him in bed, snuggling underneath the covers next to him. “Am I hurting you?” He asked. The literal last thing he wanted to do was get up out of this nasty hospital bed, but he didn’t want to cause Roman anymore pain than he was already in.

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ✩

Roman looked so fucking relieved when Aaron got in bed with him, immediately snuggling up to his boyfriend as best he could without pulling any tubes, or putting himself in too much pain. He didn’t even care if it hurt at this point, he just wanted to be with his man. “No baby. You’re perfect.” He hummed, and turned his head to kiss Aaron’s chest before his arm was wrapping around his middle. “I love you, and I’m so sorry.”

Aaron

Aaron wrapped his arm around Roman as tightly as he could without causing Roman any pain. He craned his next to look at his boyfriend when he spoke to him. Shaking his head, he took a heavy deep breath. “No no. Don’t do that. Stop that.” He demanded, kissing the top of his head and trailing his fingers up and down Ro’s back. He would much rather be snuggling in Roman’s bed right. Where they should have been. But he was just happy that Roman was in his arms right now.

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ✩

They were gross, and that was that. As usual, they couldn’t even make it a whole day “fighting” without something happening to bring them back together. Maybe that was love, the kind of love that Ro had yet to experience before Aaron. It was a level of comfort he couldn’t describe, but he wanted to. “I don’t know when they’re gonna let me out of here, but I wanna go home.” He mumbled against his boyfriend’s chest, still buried there to feel and hear the heartbeat that seemed to keep both of them going.

Aaron

This didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be right? This was all some crazy nightmare that he was going to wake up from in the morning. He was going to be next to Roman and he was going to be okay. By the looks of his injuries, it was going to be a while until they would let Roman out of here. Aaron wanted whatever Roman wanted, but right now he just wanted his boyfriend to be okay and if that meant he had to stay here for a while then so be it. “I’ll talk to the nurses. You know I had the bribe them to get back here.” He tried to get Roman to laugh at least a little bit. He forced a short chuckle.

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 ✩

“Don’t act like it’s hard for you to bribe anyone.” He sassed his boyfriend, lifting his chin to smirk up at the other male, taking a moment just to stare at him before he was sighing, and pressing his cheek back to Aaron’s chest, just clinging to him with his arm tight around his middle. He just wanted to cling to the man forever now, because with Aaron he felt safe, like no one else could ever hurt him, and that was such a good feeling.

[jade4813]

Like Moths to a Flame, Chapter 3

Fandom: North and South

Title: Like Moths to a Flame

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John/Margaret

Synopsis: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over.“ Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

“Oh, Bessie. How I wish you were here,” Margaret whispered into the wind as she stepped off her usual path through the graveyard and lowered herself onto the sparse grass that sprouted between the headstones. Hailing from such different backgrounds, theirs had been an unlikely friendship in the beginning, but the two women had shared genuine affection in the end. It still hurt to remember Bessie’s pale face and the wheezing cough that had eventually carried her away, and she mourned her friend’s absence every bit as much as she longed for the other woman’s counsel.

Bessie had been her first – and, for a time, only – true friend in this godforsaken place, and in her absence, Margaret had nobody to confide in, nobody with whom to share her secrets, such as they were. Closing her eyes, she pretended her friend was sitting by her side, casting aside the illness that had taken her as she reveled in the brisk afternoon air. “I’ve made such a mess of things with John.”

“Oh, John, is it?” In her imagination, the wind that whipped around her carried a saucy laugh and the voice that had once been so dear to her.

“It isn’t like that!” she protested weakly. It wasn’t hard to picture Bessie’s disbelieving expression, and she sighed. “Although I have behaved shamefully. Even if you were here, I doubt you would ever believe it.”

“I don’t know what you’re so upset about. I told you before, you could do a lot worse than John Thornton.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I may have kissed him, but I have no designs on Mr Thornton. He saw me with Fred and misunderstood, and now he will never forgive me. Sometimes I wish I could tell him the truth, but—” She broke off, giving her head another shake. “No. He once claimed to love me, but he was all too eager to think the worst of me. I could never love a man who had so little faith in me. In fact, I think I might hate him for it.”

Her voice lacked conviction, and the Bessie that lived in her memory and her imagination laughed once more. “Are you sure about that? I don’t know how things are done in the South, but up here in the North, we don’t often go around kissing men we hate.”

“I do,” Margaret protested weakly, the wind carrying away her words and the memory of her friend’s laughter. “I hate him.” She wanted to hate him, at least. If she hated him, maybe the reminder of his poor opinion of her wouldn’t hurt so much.

John was returning from the shops the next time he saw her. She didn’t notice him at first, and he took advantage of the opportunity her ignorance afforded him to soak her in. As he watched, a breeze swept down the street, blowing her hair into her face, and she brushed her hair off her cheek with one graceful finger.

He had not seen her since their encounter in the hall, when his tongue had gotten the better of  him. How he’d wished he could take back those words the moment they’d left his mouth, but of course that was not within his power. Though he regretted that his honesty had caused her pain, he consoled himself with the thought that it had been for the best. Passion and desire for her had overcome reason. Her kisses may have been freely given, but he had acted disgracefully in accepting them. Had they been caught, honor would have demanded that he offer for her hand, and the expectations of society would have required her to accept. In time, when her ardor had cooled, she would have come to resent being trapped into marriage with a man who was so beneath her, a man whose affection had so offended her, and that resentment would eventually turn to hate.

It was for the best, in the end, that he drove her away. Knowing her distaste for him didn’t stop his body’s reaction to her, however. It never had. She was so beautiful, it took his breath away. The sight of her made him forget himself, and he could have stared at her for hours, for all the world looking like a lovesick fool, were it not for the soft murmur of his name in his ear. Recollecting himself, he drew his attention back to the woman on his arm, silently chiding himself for his incivility when he saw that she had noticed his distraction. Ann Latimer was everything he should desire in a partner. She was young, beautiful, accomplished, and she understood the worth of Milton and its people. Beyond that, his mother had not been subtle in attempting to promote the match, hoping an attachment would grow over time that would put all thoughts of Margaret Hale from his mind.

For the sake of her pleasure, he didn’t tell her that her hopes were in vain. He admired Miss Latimer and enjoyed her company, but not even her soothing presence could drive Margaret from his mind. Or his heart. Miss Latimer's years of schooling in Switzerland had polished her manners and driven away the forthright honesty that was innate to people from the North. Her conversation was always agreeable because of her tendency to profess indifferent agreement with any opinion put forth to her. He did not fault her for this inclination – she only behaved as any proper young lady in Society might do. But when she demurred to his opinion, he missed the spark in Margaret’s eyes that flared with her challenge.

His companion soothed once more by his attention, he lifted his head and glanced in the direction where he had last seen Margaret. Just at that moment, she turned to face him, and their eyes met. A small smile curved the lush bow of her mouth until her gaze drifted to the hand resting daintily on his arm, and then she turned away from him, hiding her face from his view.

Staring at the soft tendrils of hair that curved at the nape of her neck, he nearly wondered if the sight of another woman on his arm had caused her pain. That was not his intent, of course, but he would be lying if he pretended that he didn’t wish he had the same impact on her that she had on him. But no, it had undoubtedly not been jealousy that had flickered across her countenance before she turned away. She would no more be jealous over him than she would ever come to love him. Even now, with her reputation tarnished, she was far above the likes of him.

In a moment, they would draw near to where she was standing, and courtesy would dictate that they acknowledge each other before returning on their way. Miss Latimer's hand tightened slightly on his arm as they drew to a halt, but he could find no fault in her manners as she and Margaret exchanged polite greetings. For his part, John attempted to do the same, but the words felt thick in his throat, and his tone skirted the line of civility. He longed to look into her eyes once more, but her gaze remained lowered until courtesy had been satisfied and they each carried on their way.

Back at the mill, John greeted his mother with a short nod as he entered the room with Miss Latimer still on his arm. She was clearly pleased to see the two of them together, and for her sake, he wished he could tame his unruly heart. Miss Latimer left his side to join Fanny in chatter and idle gossip, and he let the sound of their voices wash over him as he took refuge behind his newspaper. Though he pretended to read, he didn’t process a single word, too preoccupied with thoughts of her. For his mother’s sake, he would try to fall for Miss Latimer's charms, but he suspected it would take far more than gentle manners and a pretty smile to extricate a certain outspoken Southerner from his heart.

“I must apologize, but my father has been temporarily delayed. I’m sure he’ll return home soon, if you would care to wait.” Margaret’s voice was cool and polite, but her gaze remained fixed straight ahead as she broke the news.

“I can return at a later time,” he offered, but she shook her head.

“No, I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I know he was looking forward to your appointment.”

Divesting himself of his hat, coat, and gloves, John offered her a slight nod, acquiescing to her request. He followed her in silence up the stairs and into her father’s sitting room, where they both tried and failed to pretend as though nothing amiss had ever passed between them. She still refused to look at him, even as he found himself unable to look away from her. Finally, when he could take it no longer, he began, “Margaret—"

“Mr Thornton,” she interjected, gently rebuking him for his familiarity. “I apologize that I have not yet offered you any tea. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go—”

“To hell with the tea,” he snapped, his temper momentarily getting the best of him. She had moved to brush past him, heading for the door, but he reached out and captured her wrist in a firm grip. “We need to talk about what happened between us the last time I was here.”

A muscle in her throat flexed as she swallowed. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

He lifted his eyebrows at her in feigned surprise. “First I kissed you, then you kissed me, and you don’t think we need to talk about it?” When she just shook her head, his anger grew. “Why did you come to me that night, Margaret? Was it to see if my passion for you was truly dead? Or had you been abandoned by your other lover and were in search of a new protector?”

When her head whipped around to face him, he saw her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brightened with anger. “No!” she cried. “I told you that what you saw…it wasn’t what you think! I have no other lover!”

Stepping toward her, he demanded once more, “Then why did you come?”

“I don’t know!” she cried in return. “Because I was angry that you didn’t believe in me! Because I wanted you to understand! Because—” her voice suddenly faltering, she admitted in an undertone, “because I’m drawn to you. I cannot explain it, and I have tried to fight it. But it is no use.”

With a twist of her arm, she pulled her wrist out of his grip, but to his surprise, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she lifted her hand to his face, cupping her cheek in his palm. “I’m drawn to you,” she said again. “I cannot stop thinking about you or wishing—”

His heart ached when she trailed off, and he was afraid she could see the love he still carried for her in his eyes as he asked softly, “What do you want from me?”

Her body swayed toward him, and he thought she might draw him down for a kiss. Instead, she dropped her hand to her side and shifted away. “Nothing. I want nothing from you. I should go prepare the tea.”

His heart cracked when she moved toward the doorway, and he called for her before she could leave. At the sound of her name, she hesitated, her back to him, and then turned slowly to face him.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded with her, his voice soft and sad. “Please. Stay.”

Margaret knew what he was asking of her. She could perhaps have claimed ignorance of the danger that lay in store for her, the night she’d journeyed across town to confront him in his office. She might even be able to plead innocence in their previous encounter in the downstairs hallway of her home. But she could claim neither now. Her father was delayed, and Dixon was out on an errand, leaving her and John alone. If she stayed, she knew what it would mean.

Closing her eyes, she recalled her earlier one-sided conversation with Bessie’s memory, and all the reasons that she knew she should turn around and walk away. Certainly for the sake of her reputation, she knew she should leave. But it was as she had said. She was drawn to him. She could no more leave him now than she could fly.

Swallowing heavily, she turned her back on propriety and all of the lessons that had been drilled into her head from the time she was a child and took one step toward him. Two. Her fall from respectability was almost worth it, she realized, when she saw the smile that crossed his face and softened his features.

His eyes were filled with wonder as she stepped up to him, and he stroked the back of one finger down her cheek as though to reassure himself that she was truly there. Then he bowed his head and captured her mouth in a kiss.

John had counseled himself to exercise caution and avoid doing anything rash, but his better intentions fled at the touch of her lips against his. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he lifted her off her feet, spinning her toward the nearby table. It was hardly the ideal situation, but he’d dreamed about picking up where they had left off from the moment he’d backed away from her in his office. Now, with her in his arms, his entire world had shrunk to fit into this tiny room, this moment, and the need to feel the warmth of her skin under his hands.

Margaret – bless her – didn’t protest as he perched her on the edge of the table, which rocked dangerously but miraculously held under the unexpected weight. Her legs fell open as he continued to kiss her, skirts bunching when he stepped between her thighs.

Their labored breaths carried through the quiet room, and John longed to tell her about the feelings he still carried in his heart, but he knew it would be foolhardy to do so. She had spoken to him of desire but not of love, and he suspected that reminding her of his unwanted devotion would only succeed in pushing her away.

If he could not tell her of his love, he would show her, he decided as her hands skittered across his chest, pushing the jacket back from his shoulders and down his arms. “Please, John. I want – I want to touch you,” she confessed, making a grab for his cravat. It took a few seconds – and his assistance – but they finally got it untied, and then she tore the length of fabric from around his neck and tossed it aside. The top of his shirt gaped open, and she leaned in, pressing her mouth against the pulse that raced just below the skin.

With a moan of pleasure, John slid his hands under her skirts and caressed her legs. Wrapping his hands around her calves, he lifted them, showing her how to anchor them over his hips. She locked her ankles behind him and clutched onto the fine fabric of his shirt as his fingers slid along her inner thighs. When he stroked her outer folds, teasing her, she gasped, her hands tightening on his shoulders.

Pulling back slightly, he let his eyes sweep over her face as he stroked her, helping her grow accustomed to his touch. For the rest of his life, he wanted to remember this moment and the way that Margaret looked with her eyes wide and bright and her face flushed with desire.

“J-John?” she breathed as he slid one finger inside of her. “I-I don’t – are you sure—”

“Shh,” he whispered, ducking his head to kiss her once more. “It’s all right, love. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

The endearment had fallen from his lips before he’d even realized it had formed in his mouth, but she didn’t seem to have noticed. With his thumb, he located her tiny nub and teased it as he skid a second finger inside of her. His own body was hard and throbbing, but he tried to ignore it as he focused his attention on her pleasure.

This was not the way he had imagined making love to her for the first time. In his fantasies, their lovemaking had been sanctified by God and consecrated in the marital bed. Such dreams were not to be, however, and if he could not love her as his wife, he would at least attempt to give her no cause to regret giving herself over to him.

He felt her legs start to quiver, her hand shaking against the nape of his neck as she crushed her lips to his, and he knew that she was about to find her release. Nipping her lower lip with his teeth, he reveled in the tiny moans coming from deep in her throat every time his fingers thrust inside her. Then her lips parted, her breath caught, and her thighs wrapped around his hips as she became undone.

When she collapsed against him, he stilled but did not pull away. With one hand still inside her, he retrieved the other from beneath her skirts and stroked it soothingly along the curve of her spine until she had gathered her wits.

Finally, she lifted off his chest and tilted her head back to look him in the eye, and he pressed a kiss against her temple. Her face was still flushed with passion, and John closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath in an attempt to calm his racing heart. He could not in good conscience continue to overstep the bounds of propriety, and she deserved better than the treatment she was receiving at his hands. What had he been thinking, to molest her like this, in her father’s own sitting room? He may not be a “proper” gentleman – indeed, like most Northerners, he could rarely been accused of being gentle at all – but neither was he a rutting animal, whatever Margaret might think of him.

Unable to meet her eyes, he dropped his gaze as he gently slid his hand from between her thighs. But before he could step back, out of her embrace, Margaret tightened the grip of her legs around his hips and shook her head. “No,” she breathed before repeating back to him the words he had spoken to her earlier. “Stay here. With me.”

His honor demanded that he ignore her request, but his heart and body commanded him to stay. Hesitating, he attempted to gather his wits, to remind her of the danger they courted, but reason fled in the wake of her next words, softly spoken in sudden shyness. “I want you.”

I want you. They were not the words of love and affection that his soul longed to hear, but they were a balm to his broken heart nonetheless. Whatever else she might think of him, whatever gentle words and inoffensive attentions might have caused her to turn to another lover after rejecting his suit, she was not entirely indifferent to him, after all. “Margaret, love,” he moaned, wrapping his hand behind her neck and drawing her in for a kiss.

She needed no further persuasion, giving herself over to his embrace with a sweetness that soothed his aching heart, wrapping her arms around his neck as she drew him to her. When he turned his head to direct his consideration to the perfect shell of her ear, too long overlooked in his attentions, he heard the words she muttered softly against the fine fabric of his shirt. “Don’t leave me, John. Please.”

Oh, how little she seemed to be aware of it, but he could deny her nothing. He did not know the exact moment that he had given himself over to her completely, but he had long recognized that she had merely to ask, and he would do her bidding. If she asked him for the moon, he would find a way to bring it down from the sky for her or die trying. And so her softly spoken plea broke what shreds of self-restraint remained, and all constraints of reason and honor fled in the wake of her desire.

Inwardly cursing the clothes that acted as barriers between them, preventing him from exploring her body with his hands and his mouth as he so longed to do, John wrapped his hands around her hips, drawing her forward to press himself against her, showing her the evidence of her desire. She gasped, hesitated, but did not draw away, gratifying his arching her body against him in return.

It was wrong. Most improper. But John no longer cared as he reached for the fastening of his trousers until he was finally free of their tight constraints. It took a bit more fumbling to make his way back under her skirts, the yards of fabric bunched between them a not-insignificant deterrent, but her smooth skin guided his fingers back to her soft folds. Drawn in by her warmth, he stroked her until he was assured her body was ready for him, and then he entered her in one strong thrust.

At his sudden invasion, Margaret let out a sharp cry, her body going rigid in his arms, her fingers trembling where they dug into his shoulders. He stilled immediately, the lust that had clouded his thoughts swept away by a singular realization: however her other lover had degraded her, he had not acted as dishonorably as John had just done. She had been an innocent, and he had just taken her maidenhead.

Closing his eyes, John growled a curse that was far too coarse for her delicate sensibilities and pressed his forehead against the curve of her shoulder as he struggled in vain to catch his breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

He told himself he should withdraw, but once her initial shock had faded, she seemed disinclined to push him away. Instead, while he cursed himself for taking advantage of her innocence, she shifted in his arms. His breath escaped him in a tortured hiss as his body responded instantly to the slight, exploratory roll of her hips. “Don’t,” he groaned between gritted teeth. “Remain still. I-I can’t—”

But when had Margaret ever heeded his warnings? She ignored them now, the expression in her eyes dreamy and distant as she rolled her hips again, this time with more confidence. She breathed a word, too softly to be heard, although he thought it might have been, “…curious…”

His efforts to snatch at the threads of his self-control were fruitless. He had longed for her in vain for too long; his body was no longer willing to be bound by the constraints of his reason, and he thrust into her again. She arched against him, meeting the thrust of his hips with one of her own, her thighs falling wider to welcome him.

This was not what she deserved. Not ever, but certainly not for her first experience with physical passion. She deserved tenderness and care. Her Southern sensibilities made her softer than those of the North, and a gentleman worthy of her would have wooed her gently, restraining his darker impulses as he eased her into the act of lovemaking.

But John was not a soft man; he could not even pretend to be so, for her sake. Where he should have asked, he had a tendency to demand. Where he should exercise caution, he exhibited no restraint. His thrusts were strong and powerful as he drove into her, driving forcefully toward his own release until he pressed his mouth against the side of her neck and poured himself into her with a muffled cry.

When he returned to himself, he felt the slight pressure of her hand smoothing down the line of his back in a soothing gesture that might have brought tears to his eyes if such a thing were in his nature. It unmanned him, that she should show him such tenderness when he had shown her none. If anyone deserved compassion and soothing apology, it was her, for the manner in which he had just debased her.

After the slights he had made against her character and reputation, he had made the darkest mark of all. In the aftermath of their reckless coupling, sense finally prevailed, and honor dictated only one course of option, as distasteful to her as it would be.

Drawing away from the comfort of her touch, John angled his body away from her view as he pulled himself to rights, wanting to spare her the shock of seeing his naked form, at least. As he searched for his discarded jacket and cravat, he heard the rustle of fabric behind him as Margaret attempted to smooth the wrinkles in her gown. Once he had returned himself to some semblance of order, he clasped his hands behind his back and turned to face her.

“My apologies for – I think – I know you—” as he had through his proposal, he found himself fumbling with his words, making a mess of things. With a huff of irritation at his own incompetence, he tried again. “With your permission, I will call on your father tomorrow to ask for his consent to take your hand in marriage.”

Her eyes flew to his face. “What? No, surely that is unnecessary!”

He would not let her obvious dismay shake his resolve. “Margaret, you must understand that we have no other recourse.”

Her face flushed with indignation, she stepped away from him. “I recognize that you once again think it your duty to save my reputation, but my opinion on this matter remains unchanged. Unlike you, my father and I have no servants, to whisper about us behind closed doors. Nobody need know about this…this…our situation, so there is no need to rescue me from ridicule—”

“I know that you find me distasteful, but you must be reasonable. What we have done – our situation has changed!”

“Was this always your plan, then? You couldn’t purchase my hand, so you thought you could force me into a marriage of responsibility when you know that is the last thing I want?”

Her words pierced him like a dagger, and he bowed his head. Like a ferocious beast, his temper roared inside his chest, fighting to break free, to answer her contempt and her unjust accusations. For perhaps the first and only time in his life, he did not give way to anger and wounded pride, and he bit back words he would later regret.

“We may not need the gossip of servants for everyone to know what we’ve done. Has it occurred to you that you might—” his voice faltered as he prepared to speak of things even he knew were not discussed in polite company such as hers, “—you might be with child?” Her hand flew to her stomach, and she let out a gasp of dismay. As she angled her body away from view, a terrible silence fell between them.

She would never believe in his innocence – and perhaps she was not entirely wrong in refusing to do so. He was innocent of the charges she had laid at his feet, but he was not without blame. He had not come to her house with the intent to seduce her, and it was shameful how little thought he had given to the consequences of their actions while he held her in his arms. But he had allowed desire to overcome reason. He had taken her innocence. He had made love to her, knowing it unlikely that her feelings for him had changed.

“I am not a…a gentle man,” he conceded softly. “But I hope I may claim to be a good one. There is little enough I can offer you—” given the state of his mill’s finances in the aftermath of the strike, he was not even certain he could offer her security, “—but I can promise you that I will always treat you with honor.” He scowled even as the words left his mouth, knowing that it was his dishonorable actions that had put her in this situation. “You may always depend upon my honesty. My devotion. If it is within my power, I will do everything I can to make you happy. You will have no cause to regret marrying me.”

“No,” she agreed in an undertone. “Except I do not love you. I never have.” Her words did not come as a shock, but they did bring no small measure of pain. “I never will.”

He winced, turning away from her, but he did not leave. Her words at his soul, but his heartache did not eclipse reality. They did not have the luxury of ignoring what had transpired between them. “Margaret—” he began.

“Miss Hale, if you don't mind,” she corrected him firmly, and he swallowed heavily.

“Miss Hale,” he amended with a dour glare, but she seemed disinclined to let him continue.

“I need time,” she blurted, turning toward the window. “To think. I – you cannot expect me to – I need time.”

Bowing his head, he gave in to her request. One day surely couldn’t hurt, and it might be the only measure of kindness he could offer her in this situation. “Very well. I’ll call upon you tomorrow.”

His words received no acknowledgement or reply. With nothing left to say, John turned and fled down the stairs, abandoning his coat, hat, and gloves without a second thought as he escaped into the cold evening air.

“I do not love you. I never have. I never will.” Her words only confirmed what he had already known. She would never care for him the way he felt for her. She would never be his. Even though he was doomed to always – always – be hers.

[magisterlys]

Unwanted

I blame Discord conversations and my continued avoidance of writing the next chapter equally for this ridiculous dose of angst and softness. I apologize in advance. 

The more one shots I write the closer we get to that kiss in Chapter 1 being not quite so out of the blue >.< 

Set in Season 4 during A Star to Guide Us, Storm Tracking

She’d been looking for a quiet spot to be alone and think, a rare commodity in the increasingly crowded Sun’s Refuge, but honestly, she didn’t mind much when she discovered her quiet spot had an occupant. 

Braham was sitting on the water’s edge, hidden in the shadows of the bridge overhead. His knees drawn up, his forearms draped over them as he watched the water with a pensive expression. The commander made her way nimbly down the rocks, the soft soles of her boots shifting in the sand as she landed. 

The sound alerted Braham to her presence and he lifted his head, started to rise,  “Commander. Did you need something?” 

She waved a hand, motioned for him to stay put, “No, no. I was just … do you mind some company?”

“Depends on the company?”

“Mine, in this case.” She chuckled softly. 

He shook his head, gave her a half-hearted smile, “I don’t mind, no.” 

She made her way over and sat down beside him. It was a nice spot, really. The quiet trickle of the water, the sound of people going about their business far enough off to be a pleasant murmur.  She looked over at Braham just in time to catch him looking at her and laughed awkwardly, giving him a smile, “You know, it’s good to see your face again. Without the helm, I mean.”

He ran a hand over his head, looked a bit sheepish. “Yeah, I’m … done hiding.” 

“Good.” 

Silence hung between them, filled with too many things.

“Listen, Commander.” He began, “I’m sorry …”

She stopped him with a brief touch on his arm, shaking her head, “You’ve already apologized, Braham.”

“I mean, generally yeah. But I’ve been thinking about all the little shit I did to you, said to you …”

“I’ve already forgiven all of those.”

“All of them?”

“Every one, before you apologized even.”

He exhaled slowly and picked up a pebble from the sandy bank, tossed it out into the water. The silence returned, long enough for her thoughts to turn toward her own worries, to lose herself in the details of what could go wrong with their plan. 

When Braham broke the silence, the quiet quiver in his voice shocked her, “Why didn’t she want me, Commander?”

Lys blinked several times. The way he spoke made her heart clench, and she didn’t understand what he meant at first. “You mean … ?”

“My mother. Eir. Why didn’t she want me?” 

“Braham!” The two of them had only really reconciled a few hours ago and that made her hesitate, made her second guess her instincts. But as she saw him struggling to keep his composure, saw the way he swallowed and stared down into his lap she took the risk and shifted to lean toward him, rested her hand on his arm, “That’s not … her choices weren’t your fault. None of this was you.”

“Everyone respected my dad’s wishes, no one told her. But doesn’t it …” His voice still quivered, this time with a hard edge of anger, “Doesn’t it seem like you’d check in on your son sometime in eleven fucking years?” 

Lys spoke quietly, supportively “It does.”

“I mean. I thought … I thought when we finally met, here is my chance, you know? Here’s my chance to finally have a family again. But she still barely wanted anything to do with me.” He was shaking, his shoulders quivering with anger and grief, “And then she fucking died and I blamed you. You, who’ve never been anything but … but loving and supportive and I was too god damn stupid to see it because my mom was gone and I could have had her back if I’d just had time but that was … that was …”

Lys didn’t say anything. She just lifted her hand from his arm and gently placed it over his. He reacted instantly, turning to press their palms together, to lace his fingers between hers. 

“She wouldn’t even talk to me, Commander.” He was looking at her now, the light of Kormir’s fires reflecting in the unshed tears welling in his eyes, “Is it too much to ask to let me tell her that I love her? To say a proper goodbye to her son? Do I really matter that little?”

“You matter, Braham.” It’s all she can think of to say. She squeezed his hand tightly, felt a rush of warmth as he returned the gesture. 

“Comes back from the damn Mists, from the dead,  and can’t manage … can’t manage …” 

“Can’t manage to be a loving mother for five fucking minutes, even with the world ending?” Lys spit out the words, surprised at her own anger. 

Braham blinked at her, gave the sort of quiet chuckle that falls somewhere between a laugh and a suppressed sob. “Yeah, that.”

“Sorry … “ Lys shook her head and looked anywhere but at him, her eyes settled on their intertwined fingers. “... sorry. She made me angry.”

She felt something brush her cheek and realized with a start that it was Braham, caressing her. She glanced back at him, but he’d already dropped his hand and looked away. 

“That’s like you.” There was warmth in his voice again, “You never did get mad for your own sake, just for ours.” 

“Yeah, well …” He was right, she admitted to herself as she looked out over the water.  There wasn’t time for the Commander to be angry, too much to do. No time for worrying either. She took a deep breath and let herself fall to the side, her shoulder bumping Braham’s arm as she leaned against him. 

He turned to look down at her, blinking in surprise. 

“It was her loss, not getting to know you,” She offered,  “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling but … it was her loss.” 

He followed the commander’s gaze out onto the water, to the softly flickering firelight above. Then quietly he jostled her as he released her hand and slipped his arm around her back, leaning casually with his hand in the sand to the side of her hip. She took the silent invitation, pretended that there was no invitation at all as she leaned back against his side. 

“I guess I should thank her.” He looked down at the commander, thankful that she was still looking at the water as he took in the sight of her tucked into the curve of his arm. “For knocking some sense into me, making me see what was right in front of me the whole time.”

“She could have done it without being hurtful.” Lys took comfort in the fact that Braham couldn’t see her face, “But I’m thankful for that too.” 

He tore his eyes away, “Do me a favor, Commander?”

“Yeah?”

Braham moved his hand forward, subtly drawing her closer, “Come back from the Mists in once piece.”

She pretended not to notice, just as he pretended not to notice as she let her head fall back against his shoulder, “I’ll do my best.” 

When he turned to speak to her he found his nose brushing her hair and had to take a steadying breath, breathing in her scent as he spoke, “You’re pretty important, you know.”

Lys sighed, her thoughts already returning to Kralkatorrik, to their foolhardy plan to chase after him into the Mists, to Aurene and what rested on both Scion and Champion’s shoulders,  “So they keep telling me.”