#I wanted this one to feel lonely to signify how he’ll never have or be a true friend due to how he was designed

[daily-kinitopet]

Day 39

It’s his day!

[itsdanii]

hii i just read all of your masterlist and i loved it kdjzjsj. Could i request a scenario where Asahi has been working long hours and never gets to see his wife. And his wife is secretly pregnant :o so they get into a scrabble and all is revealed but happy ending coz i cant do sad ending ny heart might shatter

Baby Daddy

hey, bub. thank you so much for requesting! here's an asahi angst to fluff with a pregnant wife. i hope you like it ❤️ stay healthy and hydrated!

genre: angst to fluff

warnings: mentions of nausea, mentions of monthly period, suggestive content

ft. asahi azumane

reminder 1: lashing out on your wife is not a good practice, especially if you're unaware that the said wife is carrying your child inside her womb

reminder 2: never slam the door shut on your wife

With shaky hands, you stared at the pregnancy test you were holding. Tears of happiness were streaming down your cheeks as you took in the two lines signifying that you are indeed pregnant.

You've been feeling nauseous these past few weeks and the moment you noticed that you skipped your monthly period, you immediately bought a pregnancy test to confirm your suspicions.

And so, there you are, now holding the positive test as you let the feeling of hope and happiness embrace your being. You smiled and reached down to place your free hand on your nonprominent baby bump. Sure, it was too small to be noticeable yet but the fact that you knew that there's a life forming inside you made you happier than you could've ever expected.

"Hi, baby. I know you can't hear mommy yet, but I want you to know that she already loves you very much," you whispered while rubbing small circles on your skin.

Once you finally calmed yourself down from the exciting news, you took a shower and put on some presentable clothes, the red silk of the dress you're wearing shaping your body perfectly.

You stared at yourself on the mirror and smiled in satisfaction. Despite how the dress accentuated your curves, it wasn't too tight to suffocate your lower belly. You put on some light make up and kissed your wedding ring as you finished.

The next thing you did was proceed to the kitchen to prepare some fancy dinner for both you and your husband, giving the table a finishing touch with a bottle of wine for Asahi.

You glanced at the clock and noticed that it was already 9 in the evening yet your husband was still out. You decided to send him a message but only frowned when you received no reply. Sighing, you instinctively placed your hand on your lower belly as you felt a sudden distress.

What if he didn't want the baby?

What if he leaves you?

What if he realizes that he no longer loves you?

What if-

The sound of door opening interrupted you from your thoughts and you immediately stood up to welcome your husband.

Lately, Asahi had been coming home late, always overworking himself to the point of exhaustion. To be honest, you were seriously starting to get worried but everytime you tried to confront him, he would only grunt at you and head to sleep.

You made your way to Asahi and helped him with the stuff that he was carrying, making sure that you only took the light stuff in your arms. "Welcome home, love," you said affectionately and pressed a lingering kiss on his lips.

Unlike the usual, Asahi didn't wrap his arm around your waist nor buried his face on the crook of your neck. You frowned at the lack of affection but decided to let it pass.

"What's the occasion?" he asked, finally taking notice of the food you prepared. The smell of steak was still lingering in the air and despite how it slightly made you feel lightheaded, you held it in knowing how much Asahi loved it everytime you cook steak.

"Nothing," you said as you placed some of his stuff down. "I just wanted to make you some nice dinner since we haven't been spending that much time lately."

Instead of answering, he only sighed and flashed you an apologetic smile. He made his way to his seat and waited for you before eating.

Silence enveloped the two of you and you can't help but feel your palms starting to get sweaty. The way he seemed to rush his food made you feel as if he was only eating as to not offend you. As you were about to speak, he downed his glass of wine in one go before standing up.

"I'm finished. I'll go ahead to bed, okay?" your husband said as he placed a kiss on top of your head, the sweet gesture doing nothing to soothe the negative feeling bubbling inside you.

You stood up and wrapped your arms around him from the back, hands gripping each other to lock him to your embrace. "Love, I missed you," you murmured against his back.

"Y/n, I don't have time for this. I'm tired, okay?" Asahi tried to uncoil your arms around him and groaned when you won't let him.

"Don't want to let go yet. I know that if I do, you'll go to bed again and when I wake up, you'll be gone. Can't I have even just a little bit of your time?" Your voice almost cracked at the end as the toll of his absences finally made its way to you.

He applied a little force to remove your arms before turning around to face you, a deep scowl now present on his face as he stared down at you. "Time? You want time? I'm sorry if I don't give you enough. Unlike you who just stay at home and do nothing, I have work. I have priorities so I'm sorry if you think that I'm not giving you enough attention. Geez, y/n. I'm your husband, not your damn babysitter."

"You call yourself a husband when you can't even prioritize your own wife?" you spat angrily at him.

You knew that you offended him by the way his jaw clenched yet you stood your ground because you knew that the problem wouldn't be resolved unless you confronted it head on.

"I wasn't aware that it's a wife's job to nag at her husband nonstop," he spat back. "Stop being childish and maybe then you'll do something productive and not just spending your time sitting pretty."

Asahi didn't let you speak and opted on turning his back on you. Within a few seconds, you were left alone as the door of your bedroom slammed shut.

You felt your blood run cold as you stared at the door in front of you. "I'm sorry," you whispered, not to yourself nor to your husband but to your baby.

Quietly, you began to clean up the table and wash the dishes. You groaned as you felt an upcoming headache starting to form, no doubt due to the stress you're currently experiencing.

You dried your hands and turned off the lights before making your way to the guest room. Your husband basically slammed the door on you which means that he didn't want you to disturb him, right? So if it's space that he wants, it's space that he'll get.

You curled yourself against the bed, the empty space beside you making you feel lonely. You were used to sleeping beside Asahi. Despite him always coming home late, you never missed the feel of him pressing apologetic kisses on your skin.

It wasn't long until a sob escaped your lips. Your fingers gripped the pillow beside you tightly as you burried your face against the soft cotton, silently wishing that it was your husband you're embracing instead of the white material.

Unbeknownst to you, Asahi was just as distressed as you were.

He couldn't stop himself from tossing and turning as he anxiously waited for you to open the door and fit yourself in his arms. He didn't mean to slam the door at you. He only applied a bit of force not knowing that the impact would be that much.

God, he didn't even want to fight you.

But the feeling of stress and exhaustion from his work along with the expectations of people made him irritable which then resulted to him snapping at you.

Not being able to resist you anymore, Asahi swallowed his pride and made his way to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water to wake himself up before he talks to you.

But he guessed that the cold water was no longer needed.

Because there sitting on top of the toilet seat are two pregnancy tests with both positive results. He carefully picked up one of the tests and stared at it with shock evident on his face.

You're pregnant.

You're carrying his unborn child and he just shouted at you, called you childish and disregarded your feelings.

Instant regret made its way to him and he felt his heart rate picking up. "Shit," Asahi whispered to himself as he paced left and right inside the bathroom, hands gripping the pregnancy tests tightly.

Asahi quickly made his way to the living room, eyes widening in fear upon seeing you nowhere. He surveryed the whole house while calling out for your name and only stopped when he saw your curled up form inside one of the guest rooms.

He sighed in relief and made his way to you, gently scooping you in his arms to carry you back to your shared bedroom. He removed the few stray hair from your face and placed a small kiss on your forehead and both of your swollen eyes, obviously the result of crying.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered as he showered your skin with kisses.

"Azumane," you called out with a raspy voice as you woke up from the light feeling of lips trailing on your skin.

Your husband stopped what he was doing and looked at you. "You're pregnant." It wasn't a question, no. It was a statement, one that was enough to bring tears into your eyes.

"I am," you said with a nod and took his hand, placing it on the spot where your bump will soon make its appearance.

Despite being cover by the dress you're wearing, he leaned down and kissed your lower belly lovingly. Pulling away, Asahi shifted himself to lay beside you, his hand reaching for yours to bring it to his lips.

"Im so sorry for what happened earlier," he whispered. He took your lack of response as a signal to continue speaking, one hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer to him.

"Im sorry for shouting at you and for neglecting my job as a husband. I was too focused on proving myself to my co-workers that I forgot the person waiting for me at home." He let go of your hand and wiped your tears with his thumb, his hand cupping your face as you leaned to his touch. "Please don't cry, my love. You know I hate seeing you cry."

"It's your fault," you mumbled with a shaky voice. "It's just... It's so unfair that I'm your wife but I still have to ask for your time and attention when in reality, you should be the one to give those to me without me asking."

"I know. I know, love." Guilt and regret were evident in his voice and the more Asahi watch you let everything out, the more he hated himself for being a bad husband. "But I promise you it won't happen again. I'll be a better husband and the best father to our child. So please..."

You nodded and buried your face to his chest, his scent helping you calm down as you cried everything out. Your hand gripped the back of his shirt tightly as you sobbed in his arms, warmth enveloping you as he rubbed your back soothingly.

"You're okay, we're okay," Asahi whispered, pressing a kiss on top of your head as he held you without any intent of letting you go. "We're okay, right?"

You looked up at him with tear stained cheeks. "We're okay," you said reassuringly.

After a few minutes of enjoying each other's embrace, Asahi slowly pulled away. A whine escaped your lips making him chuckle slightly.

"You dressed up for me?" he asked as he raked his eyes down your figure.

"I wanted to look good for you," you said shyly. "I haven't got the chance to change since you basically slammed the door on me."

"I already apologized with words." Asahi gave your lips a peck before settling himself between your legs, eyes looking up at you as he slowly hiked your dress up, a gasp escaping your lips as his fingertips grazed your thighs.

"Now let me apologize with my actions."

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated ❤️

question: do you prefer the plain divider or this pink one?

[tennessoui]

29 G.A.t.W. AU - The C.W.s start 2yrs early bc of Galactic Law EVERY Natborn in the GAR MUST be 18yr old. Obi-Wan is forced to leave behind his young Padawan. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.. Without the Masters being able to be there physically they have to start training programs to help the Pawadans. Every Master now has to teach certain subjects. Anakin finally sees a mind healer & finds inner peaces without the Council breathing down his neck. The Temple Locked Down so No Sith Influenc

so this is a beautiful ask and beautiful future and i followed it like i follow my google maps directions which means maybe 30% of the way but i was watching lord of the rings and thinkin about braids so here is this and i'm very sorry it's what it is

29. Going Away To War AU (Tatooine slave culture, 17!Anakin, preslash/Anakin's pining, mullet!Obi-Wan)(2.3k)

The Padawan braid isn’t the first braid Anakin learns about. It’s not even the fiftieth. By the time Qui-Gon Jinn, Queen Amidala, and Obi-Wan Kenobi land on Tatooine, Anakin is well-versed in the language of braids and what each means. He hadn’t had any of his own yet, seeing as how he was only nine with no accomplishments or triumphs or romantic entanglements to advertise, but if he had stayed on Tatooine, he’d probably have gotten his first braid after he won the podrace.

HIs mother would have done it with gentle hands and a proud smile, and their neighbors would have gathered outside their door to try and be the first one to congratulate him.

Braids are important. They’re sacred. Their style and the beads woven through the strands signify everything important to know about the Tatooinian wearing them. He’d see the freed people’s braids in the marketplace and burn with envy. He’d see a blushing girl braid her lover’s obsidian into his hair to signify courtship, and know one day he’d do the same to someone else. He’d practice his braids until his hands hurt from the motion, wanting to be perfect at it before he’d need to know. After all, as a slave, there wouldn’t be much else he could offer them except beautiful braids and beads.

There is only one braid he doesn’t know the meaning of, and it’s the one that hung down Obi-Wan Kenobi’s shoulder when they first met.

He thinks about asking him, even though it might be considered rude, but before he can, they’re at the Jedi Temple, then on Naboo and then Master Jinn is dead and Obi-Wan’s braid is gone, and Anakin thinks, oh. So the braid means love.

Mourners on Tatooine cut the braids off their dead and then a single braid from their own head, to mean that a part of themselves has died as well. Obi-Wan tries to be extra nice to Obi-Wan after that.

That is, until the man approaches Anakin with a serrated knife and a rueful grin and tells him that because the Council has allowed him to take him as his padawan, it’s time for Anakin to have the Padawan haircut.

The fit Anakin throws at these words could probably be heard back on Tatooine, but his new master must be made of the same strength Lukka crafts the sandstorms from, because an hour later, Anakin is looking at his shorn locks on the floor in a state of horrified shock.

Obi-Wan kneels down at his side as he begins braiding together the lone strand of hair Anakin has been allowed to keep.

“I’m sorry,” his master says quietly. “I know that your hair is very important to you on Tatooine.”

“How will I practice my braids now?” Anakin asks despondently. If he is to have short hair until he’s Obi-Wan’s age (ancient), then he won’t ever be able to practice the courtship braids. The engagement braids. The marriage braids. All the other ones too. Do the Jedi just present their beloveds with sloppy braids?

The thought has him near tears.

Obi-Wan looks very panicked. “Please don’t cry,” he begs. “Jedi apprentices shouldn’t cry.”

Anakin’s vision becomes even more blurred at this. Now he’ll never be able to practice his braids and he’s a bad Jedi.

“Oh blast, that’s not what I meant,” Obi-Wan backtracks, hesitantly putting his hand on Anakin’s shoulder. It’s not very comforting, but it’s the best Anakin has so he resolves to make do and lean into the touch. “Well. You can, uh. You can braid my hair?”

Anakin sniffles. “Your hair is short. And ugly.”

His master laughs and ruffles Anakin’s own short hair. “I’ll grow it out, just for you if it’s that important to you.”

He would? Anakin looks up at him hopefully. That could work. It even makes sense, kind of, for Obi-Wan to let Anakin braid his hair. After all, Anakin’s going to be wearing Obi-Wan’s braid, even though he doesn’t love him yet.

Maybe the Jedi do things differently. Maybe the Jedi weave the braid, and the love comes later.

---

“I remember a young boy telling me my hair was ugly,” his master says consideringly, as he lets himself be pushed to the floor while Anakin clambers onto the bed behind him.

“You bring that up every time, Master,” he sighs as he strokes his hands through Obi-Wan’s admittedly beautiful mane of hair. It’s not as long as he’d like, not really, but it doesn at least go down to his shoulders. “I don’t know how many times you want me to apologize.”

“Oh, just once more,” his master smiles with his voice. Anakin will miss this. Anakin doesn’t know how he’ll live without it, without Obi-Wan’s quiet wit and wry humor, his willingness to indulge Anakin no, even if it’s been eight years of braid-practicing.

“Once more might be all we have time for, Master,” Anakin whispers. His fears are not the sort one can say loudly.

“Do not think like that,” Obi-Wan turns his head to the side just enough so that he can look up at Anakin. “It will be fine. I will be fine.” “You’d be better if I came with you!” Anakin argues loudly. “You know I’m old enough! It’s not fair!”

His voice cracks on the last word, making him wince as Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow.

“The Jedi Council and all Republic legal branches have spoken. We will not take children into a warzone--”

“Then don’t, but I’m almost eightee--”

“--And I agree with them.”

Anakin’s fingers slacken on the strands of hair, loosening the braid. “You do?” he asks, feeling betrayed. “You want to leave me here at the Temple while you go get yourself killed on some Mid-Rim planet?”

“I want you safe, Padawan,” Obi-Wan corrects, breaking away from him so that he may stand up and sit beside him on the bed. “A war is no place for Jedi, but while us knights have no choice but to fight, we would keep our younglings as far from it as possible--even those younglings who are only a few months shy of being eighteen.”

“You’re taking away my choice,” Anakin says quietly, anger abating enough that he has to struggle to hide the fear in his voice. He brings his knees up against his chest and curls tightly into himself. “What if you die and--and--” he breaks off and pulls useless at his Padawan braid.

He knows what it means now after eight years spent at the Jedi Temple. It’s supposed to denote the Padawan from the Master, and signify the respect an apprentice has for their teacher.

But he’s never been able to shake his original conclusion that it was a representation of love, though he’d never say that aloud.

But when he touches it, sees it in the mirror, he’s reminded only of the love he bears for his master. A guilty, shameful love that takes up too much of his mind and heart. He’d fallen in love with Obi-Wan somehow. Now when Anakin dreams of marriage beads, his fingers are invariably braiding them into coppery blond hair. Now when Anakin dreams of--well, other things, it’s always Obi-Wan’s body beneath his, over his, inside of his, around his--

And now the galaxy is at war, the Knights and Masters of the Jedi Temple called to defend the Republic, and Anakin is too young to follow his master.

“And what, dear one?” Obi-Wan asks gently, hand coming up to unclasp Anakin’s fingers from his braid. “If I die, you will let me go as any Jedi would. I will become one with the Force and you will continue forward.”

Anakin almost wants to shake his shoulders. Doesn’t his master know anything about Anakin at all? How could Obi-Wan say these things as if he believes them? If Obi-Wan were to die--if he were to die away from Anakin, without Anakin--if the unthinkable were to happen--Anakin doesn’t know what he’d do.

A part of himself would die as well, he knows that immediately. He’d cut Obi-Wan’s braid from his hair so that the man could be buried with it, and he’d never weave another.

“Have faith in me, Anakin,” Obi-Wan tells him softly, hand falling to rest on his shoulders. “I will come back. Or perhaps in a few months you will join me.” He sounds falsely enthusiastic, like he’d do anything to keep Anakin away from the war.

As if Anakin would let that happen as soon as he’s legally able to fight.

“Will you let me braid your hair?” he whispers, slowly sitting cross-legged.

“Of course,” Obi-Wan says immediately, sinking back to the floor.

“Will you keep them in this time? For as long as you can?” Anakin asks, shily, running his fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair slowly, savoring the softness of the strands.

“I will do my best,” his master promises him. “What will they mean?”

“Good fortune,” Anakin replies, seeing the braid come together in his mind’s eye. Yes, good fortune, a plea to the gods who see Obi-Wan in battle to look the other way. To take someone else instead. He gets to work, collecting a chunk of hair on the left side of Obi-Wan’s temple to braid back.

Nothing’s fixed. Nothing’s better. The person Anakin’s pretty sure is the love of his life will be sent out to fight tomorrow at dawn, and he might die never knowing how Anakin feels about him.

But it’s not like Anakin can tell him either, not when he’s seventeen. Not when he’s Obi-Wan’s Padawan.

He’s always planned to wait until after he’s been Knighted, after Obi-Wan has been given enough time to see Anakin as a man who has a choice whether or not to love him. And, yes, the Code forbids attachment and Jedi cannot marry, but it’s not like Anakin would ever be able to marry Obi-Wan legally even on Tatooine.

But he could give him the braids, if Obi-Wan wanted. That way, when they both died, in their sleep of natural causes, the Goddess Leia knows to keep their souls intertwined as she transports them to their afterlife.

Anakin’s fingers pause as he thinks of something that would make him feel better.

He bites his lip. His mother would disapprove. To give the braids to someone without their knowledge is heavily frowned upon.

Anakin winces, even as his hands change direction. These are extenuating circumstances. There’s a lot at stake here. Anakin can’t risk a life and an afterlife without his master. And he’s going to ask him eventually. Just not now. Just not yet.

The braids for good fortune form a crown over one’s head. The braids for marriage…

They start similarly enough at the temples, but connect to each other at the back of the head, where a third braid is begun. Then each braid is braided into each other. The left braid represents the braider. The right braid represents their beloved. The third braid that begins when the two meet represents the life that they will create together.

Anakin holds the three braids loosely in his hands, staring down at them in some sort of surreal shock. This is not the circumstances he has imagined doing this under, but he’s heartbroken. Not when it’s Obi-Wan who will be wearing his braids.

“Dear one?” Obi-Wan asks, breaking the heavy silence. “I do not mean to rush you, but my knees are starting to hurt.”

“You’re so old,” Anakin quips back, stroking a thumb over one of the braids, the right one--Obi-Wan’s.

“And you are so very young,” Obi-Wan retorts. “The two of us together is the equivalent of one good soldier.”

Anakin’s heart pauses for a second. “Would you want that?” he asks nonsensically.

“What?”

“If you could choose. If I were eighteen. Would you want to be…” Just as suddenly as he gained that sudden burst of confidence, he loses it. He sighs, mostly in disappointment at himself.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan prompts.

“You’d want me there with you if I weren’t too young, wouldn’t you, master?” Anakin finally says.

Obi-Wan hesitates, and Anakin’s chest feels tight. “I would want you safe, regardless of age, dear one,” he settles on saying.

Anakin’s fingers clench down on the almost complete marriage braids. “But if there were no war,” he forges ahead. “If the war never happened. You wouldn’t want to leave me behind. You’d want to stay together.”

Anakin can just imagine the furrowed eyebrows Obi-Wan must be sporting as he tries to figure out what Anakin wants from him.

“Just answer the question,” Anakin begs, tightening his hold on the braids to prevent Obi-Wan from turning around.

“You are my Padawan, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says slowly. “And someone who will one day be my partner, my friend. I would like...very much to be allowed to see you finish growing into the fine man you will be. The one that in many ways you already are.”

“And then?” Anakin asks doggedly. “When we’re both knights. And you’re assigned...a mission. And you get to choose your partner. And it’s me or. Or someone else. I don’t care. Who would you choose?”

“Well, I suppose it would depend on if this fabricated mission depends on stealth. Secrecy. The ability to tell a believable falsehoo--”

“I’m being serious,” Anakin insists, cutting his master off. He almost wants to drop the braids, let them fall apart. Clearly Obi-Wan doesn’t...perhaps won’t ever--

“It’d be you,” Obi-Wan murmurs very quietly, as if afraid to speak louder. “We are better together than we are separate.”

Anakin blinks and then smiles, only a little teary-eyed at his master’s confession. “Yes, Master,” he agrees, finally--finally--braiding the three braids together and tying them off neatly. He pictures the material of their souls responding the same way that Obi-Wan’s hair has. The thought makes him feel equal parts giddy and guilty.

“After all, someone needs to make sure you don’t crash every ship in the Jedi Temple,” Obi-Wan continues dryly.

“Yes, Master,” Anakin agrees again, running a hand lightly over his work.

He’ll tell him when he’s a Knight. Really.

[kindaeccentric]

When I was writing my university bachelor's degree thesis (that I'm still to defend) about Penny Dreadful as a modern adaptation of Frankenstein I noticed how the original novel's homoeroticism is realized by the series in an interesting way.

In the way he is presented, it seems to me that Victor secretly desires men, but thinks that only through creating a perfect one by himself he's allowed to touch other man's skin. His endeavour to pierce the veil between life and death is an excuse, since Victor from the series grew up lonely after the death of his mother and he searches for companionship, for someone who would love him unconditionally, like his mother used to. He believes he can find such love only in a person he creates himself, brings from the dead, and who would see him as his only friend, calm and obedient. Yet his first instinct is to make a man, not a woman, and a handsome man at that.

I can imagine both Rory Kinnear and Alex Price are not everybody's cup of tea (I do find them attractive, they are quite charismatic), but the way the original Creature and Proteus are shown makes them attractive. Proteus we see through Victor's eyes, when he is tending to his body before its even reanimated, when he sketches him (a sure sign of affection) and when he teaches him how to eat in a way that becomes seductive, because of how the camera lingers on his lips and then, in a closeup, on his fingers running down his long throat, immediately bringing to mind erotic imagery. Some may argue that Victor tries to emulate the relationship between his mother and himself taking the parental role and projecting onto Proteus the role of his childhood self, and as much as it is partially true, their relationship bears these marks of hidden desire on Victor's part from the start. The image at the end of the first episode when Proteus is born shows Victor trembling, teary-eyed, looking at the body, a torn and stitched back together, but human body, of a naked man. He's afraid, but not necessarily of the man, but of finally getting what he wanted, it's a fear resulting from excitement. Then the man is touching his face tenderly and Victor, still trembling, cannot stop himself from a little smile. Their faces are softly illuminated by the orange light of the gas lamp, creating an intimate atmosphere of a warm bedroom. Victor practically gasps hearing his own name smoken by Proteus. I doubt all of it was intentional in the way I read it, but it doesn't change the fact that the final scene can be easily interpreted this way.

Then the original Creature, with the violence surrounding his return, presents him as highly masculine, smart, powerful, a direct opposite to the delicate, clueless Proteus Victor could easily form into whatever he wanted. The Creature throughout the entire series is perceived as ugly by some and easily tolerated by others, making his ugliness purely subjective, since, despite his small deformities he remains strangely alluring with his gothic qualities (black long hair, black lips, white skin, yellow eyes, proportional features) of a dark brooding gentleman. With blood on his face he becomes vampire-like (vampires always a symbol of hidden desires and 'depraved' sexuality, the Creature and Victor becoming a mirror image of Vanessa and vampire Mina, both Creature's and Mina's monstrosity an indirect result of Victor's and Vanessa's desire towards having a same-sex companion). The Creature touches Victor's face, a callback to Proteus doing it, but the Creature is not gentle, he smears blood all over Victor's face (blood in vampire narratives was always a symbol for other bodily fluids, that's why it seems so sexy, it also gained another meaning in the 80s, due to the HIV epidemic, which no filmmaker can shake off if they tried, I could discuss it more with The Lost Boys, but no time for that right now).

The dynamic between Victor and the Creature is a reversal of Victor's budding relationship with Proteus, experience winning over innocence. Victor is under another man's rule, and it terrifies him, because it would force him into a position of having to admit his attraction, whereas as the one in control he could have still easily deny it. The Creature, with all his attributes, symbolizes carnal love, he's all 'body', where Proteus was virginal, pious love (to an extent). In one of the scenes where we see Proteus he looks up into the skylight at Victor's apartment and appears angelic, as if in a halo of white light.

It's revealed Victor never had a woman, and the series wants the viewer to believe it's because of his awkwardness and passion for science that consumed him, but his dedication to creating himself male companions instead of searching for a living female one is exactly what makes him seem more queer coded.

It's clear that the lack of paternal figure results in Victor quickly becoming close with older men he encounters (Sir Malcolm, Van Helsing), but it also puts him into a position where he's constantly surrounded by men, with whom he feels more at ease, and is intimidated by women. The rivalry between him and Ethan is that of siblings, until the moment when Ethan teaches him how to shoot a gun. It might be a stretch (it is a bit of a stretch, I admit), but a gun often, especially in horror, alongside a knife, represents manhood and masculine power. Victor allows Ethan to touch him and encourages him to show off with the gun, which is a scene all too familiar from many other movies where the role of Victor is reserved for a woman and the interaction is flirtatious (can't pull examples out of thin air, but if you saw over 1400 movies like me you know I'm not lying). All this adds to the general image of Victor.

The Creature and Victor, when they are on a walk, have a very revealing conversation in which the Creature points out how quick Victor was to grow attached to his more perfect man, and Victor doesn't deny it, he admits that he did in fact feel affection towards Proteus, although the meaning of it as the scorned past partner expressing jealousy over the love he didn't get while someone else did is largely subtext. When the Creature says that he's lonely, Victor answers 'I cannot love you' (paraphrase, because I can't find the exact quote right now) and the Creature, disillusioned, mocks him, 'I do not want what you cannot give' suggesting that Victor, by making himself a meek obedient man, is selfish, cruel, manipulating, and a coward, therefore could not have loved Proteus truly. Then again, Victor cannot bring himself to love his original Creature, because he's not the ideal man he envisioned and by then the Creature being too aware of his flaws of character. The Creature/Caliban/John Clare knows that Victor is 'monstrous', not just because he's someone who desecrates dead bodies, plays God and abandons his creation, but because of his queer desire. It's important that in the case of Penny Dreadful 'monstrosity' signifies many different things, literal (being a vampire werewolf, witch, and so on), metaphorical (bad deeds, like letting your son die a horrible death, cheating, killing etc.) and wholy subjective, merely condemned by ignorant society (Sembene's blackness, Brona's sex work, Lily's want to be equal or greater than men, Vanessa's want for sexual freedom, the Creature's ugliness, Angelique being transgender and other cases), so it's NOT that much of a stretch this time.

We also have the whole problem with Lily. Victor is so attached to Lily (who takes up both Elizabeth's and creature's bride parts in the novel) because he believes that only by possessing a good woman he'll be redeemed for his 'sinful' desires, but he's foolish to think that. This belief reduces a woman to a semi-maternal, semi-virginal angelic ideal with no sexual urges or agency, like virgin Mary. Lily is a true replacement for Victor's mother, and his imagined redemption. As long as she's similar to Proteus, in that she's not sexual, and pure like an angel. Yet Lily is not a woman in that sense. She is another of Victor's creatures, so she partially also takes over the role of the original Creature from the novel, a male. She's not an ideal of a Victorian obedient wife, she has power, or tries to have it, but power in the context of patriarchal society is masculine by nature. The moment she drops her pretenses of a weak delicate wife-like girl Victor does not want her like this. He doesn't want a woman that is sexually liberated, because he doesn't like women in this way, and yet, by being similar to the first Creature (from Victor's perspective, from hers John Clare is similar to Victor-a man, I could delve into Brona's sexuality, but later, this thing is already way longer than I intended) she's 'the man' he wanted.

There is also Henry. Henry Jekyll takes the role of his namesake in the novel, Henry Clerval, Victor's closest friend, and a character most often cited to have homoerotic tension with Victor. It's true that some of the eroticism might be accidental, stemming from the prevalence of homosocial interactions in 'Frankenstein' which in turn is a result of misogynistic nature of 19th century Genevian society and in-novel universe reflecting it, but like I mentioned before, it still feeds into the queer reading of the text and translates beautifully into Jekyll and Victor being both extremely misogynistic towards Lily and their mutual homoerotic tension. In the scenes where Henry purposes his plan to Victor he practically seductively purrs it into his ear, Lily becomes merely a female buffer that allows for that interaction, a female presence which is an excuse for male closeness (here I have a couple of examples actually: Dead Ringers, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Scream (in a roundabout way, through murder) and a couple others, but that deserves its own article). I won't even mention more references to the novel, because that's a lot already.

Penny Dreadful, although I believe largely unintentionally, expands on what is already there through the changes it introduces in relation to the novel's plot. I have nothing else smart to say, I just think it's worth considering.

*I use the word 'queer', because that's the umbrella term we use in academic writing for years now and even our lgbt+ group at university is called 'queer', so don't come at me with stupid takes

[talkfastromance4]

muscle memory--a.i

a/n: yeah so this is kind of choppy and all over the place. it’s been a rough week. this is very self-indulgent.

warnings: mentions of alcohol abuse

word count: 1.3k

let me know your thoughts if you wish

***

Ashton is pacing. When he’s finished pacing he sits in his chair and spins around as if the motion will somehow spark a solution in his brain on what to do. He’s already pieced together how you got here, how you’re upstairs having another restless night. It’s the third one. He’s not avoiding you, no, he’s doing the exact opposite. 

He stops the chair abruptly, his feet skidding on his lush carpet. He checks his red neon clock above his desk, the big hand is almost on the 6 signifying 3:30 is fastly approaching and you’ll be wakening. He pushes off his chair, stomps up the stairs two at a time and just as he sits on your side of the bed you jump awake.

A quick gasp greets him, your fingers grabbing onto his forearm, nails pinching his skin and leaving small crescents. Just like the others. Ashton flicks the light on next to your side of the bed and your eyes are already open and alert staring back up at him. 

For a moment, the smallest portion of a second, he sees fear in your eyes paired with the fading images of whatever dream forced you awake. 

“I’m here,” he assures, placing his free hand over yours on his arm. Your hold lessens but not by much. “What was it about?”

“I couldn’t leave. I don’t  know where I was...but I couldn’t leave,” your voice is hoarse, the consonants scratchy. 

Ashton sighs heavily, air whistling from his nose and he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, his fingers rubbing at your hair. “Do you want to read or watch a movie?” He asks, his lips brushing against your forehead. 

“Music,” you shake your head, your fingers relaxing completely on his arm. He still feels the bite of your pressure on his skin. 

“Who?”

“Monsters.”

You walk behind him to the living room, hands clenched tightly together. You’re like his little shadow, following him to the record collection and then to the record player. With a joint effort, you use your hands that aren’t linked together to pull the record out, turn the player on and set the record on the platform. Ashton sets the dials to the right settings and he pulls you to the couch. 

You drape yourself over his lap and he covers you in your favorite blanket, his arms securing you to him, keeping your loose pieces together. Of Monsters and Men plays in the quiet space and you sigh at the comforting sound. 

“Where were you?” you ask tracing a circle in the small ‘v’ of  his collarbone. 

“Downstairs.” He rubs at your back.

By the third song you’re asleep in his arms, until 6:00 rolls around.

***

One of yours and Ashton’s favorite things to do together is to make breakfast. Coffee, eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes; the whole works. You make a feast for kings and most of it is eaten or leftover for lunch or dinner later on. 

Ashton’s minding the bacon and sausages in the pans on the stove while you’re slicing up peppers to put in the scrambled eggs. Ashton sneaks peeks at you over his shoulder periodically, you’ve been fluctuating all week, swaying over the edge.

A loud pop from the bacon makes you jump and you gasp as the knife slices a jagged slip down your finger. Ashton turns at your noise, wincing when a swear falls from your lips. You never really swear unless necessary and when he sees the blood he springs into action.

He holds your finger under cold water, your lower lip caught between your teeth.

“It’s okay, it’s not deep,” he soothes keeping pressure near the wound. “Let me get a bandage. Keep it under the water.”

He moves quickly to get a band-aid and antiseptic. You’re frozen at the sink when he returns, your body moving where he wills it as he cleans you up. He knows your pain tolerance is pretty high, he learned about it in the history lesson of you when you spilled your heart out to him. 

His hazel eyes are constantly looking at yours, the vacant expression in them is starting to worry him but he can’t show he’s worried because that won’t help you. 

“Okay?” he asks, smoothing his thumb over the bandage. He kisses it tenderly.

“Okay. Thank you,” you give him a crooked smile, clean up the crime scene from your accident and get new supplies to keep cutting. 

You finish making breakfast in silence and eat it in equal solitude.

***

It’s night seven and Ashton is wide awake until you’re gasping awake, hand flying to his arm. Even in the dark of the night you know where he is and reach for him knowing he’ll be there. He decides to leave the lights off and instead rolls over and tucks you against his chest. Your breath is hot and ragged on his neck as you collect yourself from your vivid dreams, or are they nightmares? 

You’ve told him how real they are, how much emotion are in them and that’s what’s been keeping you awake. That’s what’s been keeping you exhausted. Your brain is on a constant speed while sleeping and while awake because you’re thinking of the dreams. 

“It’s like I was there,” you whisper into his neck. “It happened all over again. The yelling. The destruction. I haven’t felt these feelings in years and I’m not sure how to process them now. I’m numb but I’m feeling everything.”

Ashton keeps quiet. This is the most you’ve talked this whole week so he allows you this space to bring forth the darkness burrowing inside you.

“When we were at the party with Cal...and that guy was deliriously drunk...I saw him punch his friend. His swearing...his anger...it took me back to when I was young. I can’t escape it. I thought it was done with but then my heart...it’s like muscle memory. Seeing that brought it all back and my heart is so heavy.”

He kisses the top of your head, you slip your legs in between his. 

Ashton remembers that part of the night vividly. His vow to himself to be sober wasn’t just for him, but for you as well. Your pasts are the same, alcohol being the catalyst of an angry and absent father. When the guy at the party started to escalate, he went searching for you because he knows what’s happened. 

When he found you you were frozen in the grass, eyes wide at the scene before you. He saw the slight tremble in your frame and he took you away as fast as he could. But the damage was already done and stirred up something you thought was gone. 

“You never have to experience what he did again,” Ashton assures you. “You’re always safe with me.”

“I”m sorry I’ve been so out of it this week--”

“You have nothing to apologize for. Your mind and body were triggered from a traumatic part of your life. Those wounds will take a long time to heal. I just wish I could help you sleep, honey,” he sighs heavily and kisses your temple. 

“You’re helping more than you know by putting up with me.”

“I’m not putting up with anything. You’re hurting and I want to help in any way that I can because I love you.”

“I love you, too,” your arms tighten around him and you kiss his neck. “You’re so good to me, Ash.”

“And you’re good to me. I’m a terror sometimes, I don’t know how you put up with me.”

“It takes skill,” you giggle and Ashton melts into the sound.

“I’ve missed your laugh,” he sighs. 

“I think I’m almost back…”

“I’ve got all the time in the world. That’s one thing my heart has a good muscle memory of, loving you is so easy.”

Taglist: @calpalirwin @myloverboyash @loveroflrh @cxddlyash @princesslrh @spicycal @notinthesameguey @itjustkindahappenedreally @calumance @thew0rldneedsmcreycghurt @sarcastically-defensive17 @another-lonely-heart @devilatmydoor @thatscooibaby @suchalonelysunflower @dead-and-golden @mymindwide​ @blackbutterfliescal​ @redrattlers​ @karajaynetoday​ @quasighost​ @i-like-5sos​ @creampiecashton​ @calpops​ @littledrummeraussie​ @sexgodashton​ @f-mu​ @mystic-232

[babyspiderling]

Love Undercover   one

“Leiman! I got a story for you! Go undercover as a high school student, do a piece on teen culture or whatever the parents need to hear about their kids. This could be your shot kid!” Flashes of my own high school career three years ago plague my mind. “Sir, are you sure this is a good story? I mean, there are harder hitting stories than a piece on teen culture.” Mr. Edward's eyebrow simply raises in response, and I slink back to my desk. I raise my desk phone to my ear and ring my older brother, Anthony. “Tony, they’re making me go back to school. I thought I would never have to go back. It was hell.” I hear him chuckle through the phone. “Why are they making you go back? You lose your diploma or something?” I scoff into the phone. “No, Tony. They want me to go undercover since I’m the only one who can pass for a child here. I start on Monday. Shit, I gotta attempt to dress like a high school girl again. Thank god I’ve been the same dress size since my junior year. See you tonight Tony, we still on for dinner?” I hear him confirm for me into the microphone and I click the phone off. Standing and gathering my things I peek my head into my editor's office. “Mr. Edwards, I’m headed out to get ready for my assignment. I’ll see you soon.” He nods at me, letting me know he’ll enroll me this afternoon for Monday’s classes and I take my leave. 

Monday arrives sooner than later. I feel like a freshman again, out of my element and out of my comfort zone. My hair had been trimmed to a popular cut and I had been trained on how to style it. My journalist instincts took over at the mall, taking in what teens were wearing and how they were wearing it. For my first day I bought a striped blouse with a longer skirt to seem neutral. The end of winter chill caused me to grab a cardigan on my way out and I climbed into the front seat of my old “Mystery Machine” ready to go back to high school. 

“Well, three new students in a month, must be a new record. Tom and Doug McQuaid and now Y/N Leiman. This way.” The balding principal tosses my schedule at me and walks off in large, commanding strides. “Tell me Miss Leiman, are you a troublemaker like the other newcomers?” My eyebrows pull together in confusion. “No, no sir. I’m not a troublemaker.” He pulls to a stop in front of a door. “This is your first class. I’m sure someone will show you around. Prove yourself to be on your best behavior Miss Leiman. Wouldn’t want you to be labeled as a hoodlum.” He turns to walk away but is distracted by a skipping student roaming the halls. I tuck my hair behind my ear and fix my appearance. I take one last breath of confidence and open the creaking door. The click of my heels only adds to the attention as the entire class watches me with curious eyes. I feel the girls sizing me up, the boys appraising my value, and the teacher annoyed at the interruption. “This is Mrs. Dustin’s class right? I’m new here.” The woman takes the papers from my hands and catches herself up. “Yes, you’re in the right place. Please take a seat.” I nod and take one of the only seats left open, next to a boy dressed in leather and an earring in his ear. I struggle to remind myself that I’m at least three to four years older than these students, too intimidated by their stares to fill with confidence. I tuck my hair away from my face as I pull out my pen and notebook from my bag. I start to write a mixture of notes for the class and notes for my story when something sharp stabs into my thigh. Turning my head with pinched eyebrows I look at the boy reeking of trouble. “You got any gum? Teach made me swallow my last piece last period.” I nod and rummage through my bag. “Mint, cinnamon, or bubble?” He looks at me in a bit of shock at the number of choices. “Bubble.” I nod and hand him a piece, pulling a lollipop for myself. In my years of studying and writing and taking notes, I know that if somewhere else on my body is moving, focusing is easier. With my mouth occupied with the sugar, my brain is on a roll. Trouble leans in once more, the sugary smell from his mouth fills my nostrils. “You got anything else in that bag of yours? I could use a coke too.” I roll my eyes and smile a bit. “Oh, hush. I have a sugar addiction.” At the sound of our whispers, Mrs. Dustin clears her throat loudly. “Mr. McQuaid, Miss Leiman, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” I shake my head and duck my head back to my notes. McQuaid lifts his chin and smirks at the teacher. “Just Miss Leimans sugar addiction, teach. Probably why she’s so sweet.” My cheeks heat at his comment and I don’t know how to react. My brain berates me for my flustered appearance. He is sixteen, maybe seventeen! You are old enough to drink! Get your head together girl! I keep my head down until the bell rings, no matter how many pokes to the thigh I earn. 

I glance down at my schedule and attempt to find my way around the giant high school. An arm drops itself over my shoulder as I look up to find Trouble staring right back at me. “Can I help you? Need more gum already?” He chuckles a bit and pops his gum. “Nah sweets, my brother and I were wanting to invite you to sit with us for lunch. Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be?” His eyebrows raise at his question and my face heats. “Oh! Uh, no. I don’t have anywhere better to be. I guess I can eat with you guys?” McQuaid smirks around his gum and leads me to a table occupied by another boy who is dressed similarly to trouble. With a steady hand on the small of my back, trouble eases me into my seat. I unpack my bag and come to a realization. “I just realized we haven’t Introduced ourselves! I’m Y/N, I just moved here, and I’m a senior.” Trouble and the other boy smirk at each other. Trouble turns his body to me. “I’m Tom McQuaid. This here’s my big brother Doug. He would've graduated last year, or the year before that, but he just can’t seem to pass classes.” Doug gives a shout of defense, tossing a French fry at his brother, who catches it in his mouth, grinning triumphantly. I roll my eyes and give a small smile to their antics. “So you’re the McQuaid brothers. You’re new here too. And troublemakers from what I’ve heard.” They look at each other and laugh. “Well, sugar, what can we say? It’s much more fun to break the rules than to follow them.” After fishing out my lunch I pull another sucker from my bag, strawberry flavored as opposed to the cotton candy flavored from earlier. “Damn sweets, not gonna share with us? I’m hurt.” I roll my eyes and toss the older boy the bag of sweets. “Leave me the mango flavors. Those are my favorites.” Doug chuckles under his breath and tosses the bag to his brother. Tom rifles through the pouch of candy, and just hands it back to me. “I’ll just take another piece of gum when I’m finished eating.” I look from my salad at his burger and fries. “How can you eat that all the time and still look like that? I’m just looking at it and I think I gained ten pounds.” Tom shakes his head as he gives a once over to my figure. “Nah, you look the same. You look fine the way you are. Promise.” I giggle and play with my fingers in my lap. The line of playing the part and enjoying the attention continues to blur at my embarrassed reaction. I swallow my bite of rabbit food down and smile. “So, McQuaid brothers, tell me a bit about yourselves.” Almost evil smirks cross their faces. “Sweets, lets just say we’re not the kind of guy you take home to mom and dad. You’re too sweet and naive to know guys like us. Sugary thing like you’d get eaten alive with us. Too pure for the dark things we’ve done.” I hear the teasing in Tom’s voice. “You’re making fun of me. I know I’m not the “baddest” out there, but I know about the world. I want to be a  reporter. I’ll appreciate it if you don’t underestimate me.” I look back at my hands. “And if I’m too sweet and naive to be here, to be involved with you, why was I invited to have lunch with you two? I’m sure there are plenty of defectives like yourselves to hang out with.” I move to leave the table to sit anywhere else. A hand latches onto my wrist. I follow the hand up to Tom's face. His eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are twisted into a pout. “Look, sweets, I’m sorry. You seemed lonely and everything. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” I sigh and gently pull my hand from his hold. “I accept your apology.” 

I move to sit back down and hear my beeper go off. I fish it out of my bag and read the message from my editor. Both boys crane their necks to read the message. I shove it back down into my bag in defense, thinking up a quick excuse for the interruption. “Oh, it was my brother. I’ll give him a call later.” I swipe a fry from Doug's plate. “What about you guys. You do anything after school? Besides the Dark stuff of course. What kind of records do you listen to?” Looks I don’t understand continue to pass between them. “Well, Doug here is his own entrepreneur. Me, I’m more of a car guy. I’ve got the blue mustang out there.” My eyes widen. “That one’s yours? She’s a beauty. I’ve got the old yellow mystery machine out there. She’s a great road trip car.” Both boys nod. “Our dads a bit of a hippie. He’d love you, flower power. What music you listen to?” I think for a bit, attempting to decide between my true likes and what a teenager would like. “Well, I’ve always loved Bowie. Ziggy Stardust is an absolute masterpiece, and one of the first records I ever got. Prince is pretty good too, but I love a nice mix of rock and funk. Something with a heavy drum beat I can move to.” They nod along, taking in my answer. The bell rings, signifying the end of the lunch period. 

I begin my journey to my next class, and choose a seat near the middle. Once I watch the class, looking around at the students and everything about them. And just my luck, Tom McQuaid walks in with his gum popping and a smirk painted on his face. As the student body shuffles into their seats, the teacher has us stand right back up. “I am your History teacher for this semester, Mr. Devo. I will be choosing your seats for my class, please let me know if you need to be seated at the front end of the room.” Two kids with glasses raise their hands and they are seated in the first two rows. 

“Anyone else? No? Alright let’s get started. When I point to you, I want to hear your name, your grade, and hmmmm, your favorite record.” He points at several people, pointing at their desks. He points to me pretty early on surprisingly. “Oh! Y/N Leiman, senior, and hmmmm, give me a second. Prince’s Sign ‘O’ The Times. It cost me a bit to get the four disks, but it’s an amazing album.” Mr. Devo nods a bit. “I haven’t heard the entire thing yet, but I do enjoy Prince. Here.” He points to the desk front and center. As if the whole thing was planned, Tom is pointed at next. “Tom McQuaid, teach. Senior like Sweets here, and I like Bowie's Young Americans. If you don’t mind, Sugar here fuels my gum addiction, so if I could sit near her, I’d appreciate it.” Mr. Devo gets a strange look on his face. The journalist in me would describe it as a cross of frustration and possibly… jealousy? But I don’t understand the jealousy part. I shake it off and get myself prepared for class. McQuaid gets sent to the classroom, possibly the farthest seat from me. With a smile, Mr. Devo starts his class.

I walk out the front doors of the school with a slight limp. “I made a mistake today. I can not believe I made the decision to actually wear heels to school. What was I thinking?” Two arms snake around my shoulders. “Well, Flower Power, if you’re hurting so bad, how bout we carry you to our car. We can get you home and drive your car for you.” I look at Doug and roll my eyes. “I’ll be fine. It wouldn’t be the first time I drove barefoot. I appreciate the offer boys, but I should probably head home. See you both tomorrow?” They nod and head to their Mustang. I climb into my mystery machine and kick off my shoes, heading home.

[santigarcia]

fly away with you

an ezra x reader fic~

rating: m for smut; virgin reader; some violence 

word count: 6,780

summary: Waking  up with no memory after a head injury, you find yourself in the presence of your rescuer - a handsome stranger named Ezra. 

a/n: I AM SO SORRY i’ve had this fic like...finished but i just never got around to posting it. i had it broken up in chapters, but i just decided to post them all here w/ breaks to signify where the chapter would have ended. (im also adding the first two parts - so if anything seems familiar this is why!) 

Ringing. There’s a loud ringing in your ears. Your vision is blurry, and that ringing won’t stop. You can’t hear anything else, and you’re not sure what you’re seeing. The color brown and green seem to blur together. What happened? Did you hit your head?

Reaching up to touch your temple, you feel wet. Your hair having been matted down with something sticky. Pulling your hand away, you look at it. Not that it does any good because your vision is still blurred. But there’s enough red on your fingertips to know it is blood.

Suddenly you smell it, your blood. And dirt. And earth.

Something else is mixed in, maybe smoke? Something in the air is foul.

The air.

You panic. Where’s your helmet? How long have you been breathing in this air? It’s the air you smell that’s foul. What if it’s toxic? Frantically you try to get up, but you can barely get your legs under you. You’re still too dizzy.

When your vision finally clears, you see your helmet on the ground next to you. There’s a large crack leading to a hole. Shards are everywhere. Some have blood on them, and you assume this is where your head injury is from. But upon further inspection, you see blood on the rock nearest you.

What happened?

It’s still foggy, but you try and retrace your steps from the day.

You had been with your cousin, whose whereabouts now you have no idea. It wasn’t even your choice to come along. But he claimed that your hands were the steadiest, and you’d be best for the harvesting. You had no idea what he was even talking about. You only agreed because your home world is the last place you want to be right now. And hey, he said he’d pay you so why not?

The ship ride over was a nightmare. It was smooth sailing quite frankly, but you’ve never been a fan of space travel. You like it on the ground. Though at the present moment the ground is covered in your blood, what a day it’s been. And you can barely remember it.

You do remember harvesting a couple of those things, you can’t even think to remember what your cousin called them. It wasn’t easy but it wasn’t hard either. You did just fine.

You also remember some arguing? Something was happening? There were these other people?

It’s starting to come back to you, but this air is getting to you. How long have you been walking? Are you even going in the right direction? You feel dizzy again and things are starting to spiral.

Then everything goes black.

A voice this time brings you out of your stupor. You can’t make out what they’re saying, but you can make out it’s a male voice. It’s not your cousin, this voice has a thick accent.

You blink several times to clear your vision again, and you take in your surroundings and this stranger.

First you notice you’re inside laying on a cot of some sort. Everything in the room is an olive green. An ugly yellow light shines overhead. It’s very dim. The space is small, it seems to be a large tent. There’s medical supplies and strange photographs on the wall. Where is this?

The man is sitting near you in a metal folding chair. He’s got no choice but to sit close to you, there’s not any room in this area.

He’s in a suit not unlike your own. His face is kind. His voice is deep, but nonthreatening. Light scruff dusts his cheeks and jaw, and his eyes are pleasant. There’s a small blond streak in his brown hair. And a haggard scar on his cheek. His kind eyes and kind smile almost seem out of place next to that scar.

He’s still talking, but you can’t make out what he’s saying. He’s gesturing with his hand. Just one. It’s only then you realize he’s missing his right arm. You feel dizzy again. What if this man is dangerous? Or did he just lose that arm in some accident?

You reach up to touch your temple again, and you feel cloth. A bandage has been wrapped around your head. And you notice, other than a slight headache, you’re not in any pain.

“Where am I?” you wonder aloud. Your throat is so dry your voice croaks.

“At last, the lady is with us!” the man speaks and this time you understand him. His voice sounds nice. That accent is so strong. “Alas, I must admit, I myself do not know where this is. But I was out and about on my harvest when I saw you lyin’ unconscious on the ground. You were gaspin’ for air. So, I took it upon myself to bring you to shelter and here we are.” he gestures with his arm while he looks around the room. That ugly yellow light shines on his face, and suddenly the light is not so ugly on his tan skin.

“Thank you,” you tell him sitting up a little. You’re still feeling dizzy, but you feel safe. “What happened?” you think aloud again. And where is your cousin?

“I heard what sounded like gunfire off in the distance,” he explains, “that’s how I came to find you.”

“I was with my cousin; did you see anyone?”

“I am afraid I only saw some bodies, miss. You were the only one I saw alive.”

Your cousin, and whoever attacked you must have been near where you first woke up. But in your daze, you started walking and missed the bodies entirely.

You were warned this was dangerous work. Sniffling, you wipe your nose with the back of your hand. Grief and shock are setting in. Your cousin is gone, and your harvest.

“I’m stuck here,” you whisper.

“Nonsense,” the man smiles, it’s a warm smile. He seems so kind. You want to trust him. You may have no other choice. “I could not in good conscience leave you behind. You have suffered a mighty fine wound to your noggin, and your poor lungs have breathed in this nasty shit air we got around here.”

He is talking so fast that you can barely keep up.

“Now, I’m sure you’re a-wonderin’ if you can trust me. And right now, little birdie, I’m all you’ve got.”

In any other situation, if a stranger called you a pet name, you might recoil. But he says things so casually, you don’t feel any malice or perversion behind it.

“You can help me harvest, and I can get you outta here. There is my offer plain and simple. You can surely decline, but if your cousin is gone, my condolences. And you have no way to get home.”

Home. You don’t want to go home. You don’t want to stay here, but you don’t want to go home.

“What’s that?” he leans forward, his eyes squinting. He’s trying to hear; you didn’t realize you’ve just said that out loud. “Where are you from?”

“Zulara,” you mumble.

He winces, clenching his teeth, “I do not blame you one bit for not wantin’ to head on back to that planet. I am currently residin’ on Anvarvis V, and I’d be glad to take you along with me.”

You sit for a moment weighing your options. You’ve heard good things about Anvarvis V. or was it IV?

“We’ll split the harvest 50/50?” you ask.

He nods.

“Ok. It’s a deal,” you nod and stick out your hand.

“Alright,” he grins. “I’m Ezra, what can I call you?”

 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 And that’s how you began a partnership with Ezra. You worked well together. Tuns out you were really good at the harvesting part, and Ezra’s wit and charm made him a good salesman. He brokered deals and sold the product you’d harvested for a lot of money.

You’ve been so busy; you’ve not even gone to his home planet yet. But somehow you liked this life with him. There’s space enough of his ship for you, and you quite enjoy his company.

Truth be told you enjoy his company more and more each passing day. Your cheeks warm now when he calls you “little bird.” Your heart leaps into your throat if he ever touches you.

That first week with him he touched you a lot. Yes, okay he was checking the bandage on your head, but his fingers would graze skin and he was standing so close to you.

That’s when it first started you think. Being so close, seeing his soft lips surrounded by a dark stubble. His gentle brown eyes looking over your wound.

Maybe you were just lonely. Or maybe it was sharing such a small space with your rescuer. But you had a crush that only seemed to grow.

It started to suffocate you being so close to him and not being his.

The two of you fell into a natural routine and you grew accustomed to seeing him shirtless. That first time seeing him without a shirt almost sent you over. You ached to touch his olive skin. He looked so warm. You had to force yourself not to stare.

He thought you were looking at his right shoulder, where his arm used to be. And he began to ramble on about how it happened. You were embarrassed because that’s not what you were looking at, but you listened to his story all the same. He was opening up to you.

Ezra has the gift of gab, and he talks nonstop. But if you ever have anything to say, he listens with a deep interest. You’ve never felt so heard before. He never talks over you. His constant talking if often stories or little tidbits of trivia, but after that night of him opening up about his arm, things changed.

He was almost always in a good mood, but when he couldn’t complete a task due to his arm, he’d be a little grumpy and frustrated. But after telling you what happened, he let you help him without protest.

Maybe he got the feeling he could trust you back.

“Thank you, little bird,” he always said. And the last time he said it, you know he saw your cheeks turn red.

You figure at some point he’ll ask, or you’ll admit your feelings. You’re not sure which, but both options scare you. You’ve never done this before.

Back at home, you spent most of your life in school or working. There was no time for relationships, as much as you wanted one. You read stories of lovers, you kept them hidden under your mattress. The want was there, but no experience to fulfill that big question in your mind of what it’s like.

What it feels like to be loved by someone, to be held. You always were a little shy about the sexual parts of the book, yet those were the parts you couldn’t tear your eyes away from.

“What are you thinking about over there?” Ezra’s voice cuts in. A deep blush stains your cheeks. You’d been remembering of a story you’d read where a man pleasures a woman with his mouth. You look at Ezra’s mouth and feel your stomach drop and pray he can’t read your mind.

“Nothing,” you chirp at being caught.

“From that look on your face, I’m gonna wager a gamble and say it’s definitely something clanking around in that head.”

Scrambling, you try to think of anything to change the subject. He’s watching you squirm, and he’s delighted in it. Maybe it won’t be too hard after all to tell him if he can already see it.

“When’s the next sell?” you ask, nibbling the skin off your bottom lip.

“Pretty soon,” he replies. “I will head out soon. Won’t be gone long. Will you be alright to wait here until I make a triumphant return?” he grins.

You nod, returning his smile. You feel a heat pooling in between your legs. You shift a little in your seat trying to relieve the pressure. As soon as he’s gone, you’ll do something about it.

Two nights ago, you touched yourself thinking of him. That was the first time. You’d seen his bare ass when he was exiting the shower area. He had to have known you might see, and you couldn’t decide which thought thrilled you more. But the image of him naked was seared into your mind. And that night while he slept soundly, you touched yourself - wishing it were him.

You’d come up with a dirty fantasy, one you will play out again as soon as he leaves. And he can’t leave soon enough.

Normally, you’d go with him. But this buyer is a familiar one and can be trusted. You’re not worried about Ezra taking care of himself in a fight. He’s been in plenty of a scrap or two.

But if you’re honest, your brain is so clouded with the thought of getting a release you’re not worried about him in the slightest.

The thought passes in your mind you don’t know how long he’ll be gone, so you elect to leave your pants on. You lay down on your bed in your little corner of the ship.

The main hanger is around room, your beds are on opposite walls but still in the same room. So, you can see his bed from yours, and you consider going over to his bed, but you’ve already got your hand down your pants thinking about him on your bed.

You begin to tease yourself and you’re already wet from your own imagination. You think of him naked. What he looks like from the front. What he must look like when he’s hard for you. You think of his lips, and how his hand feels. What they must feel like on sensitive skin. You think of his stubble scraping your thighs. How good his long thick fingers would feel like inside of you. How he’d be gentle taking you for the first time.

Your thighs shake and you clench around your fingers wishing it were him.

The release hits you hard, and you gasp. It echoes through the ship. Your breathing is heavy but beginning to calm, when suddenly you hear:

“Well hello there little birdie!”

 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Horror floods through your veins and your heart is pounding in your head. You’re still coming down from your high, while fear spikes within you. Your eyes are wide, and you’re frozen staring at him. Your mouth is hanging open, and his mouth is curved in a playful smirk. 

When tears begin to fall from your eyes, his expression softens completely. 

“Little bird, I-,” he sticks his hand out trying to demonstrate he didn’t mean to embarrass you, but it’s too late. Tears pouring down your cheeks you run into the bathroom chamber and push the button to close the door harshly. It hisses loudly, and the moment it closes you sink to the floor. Cheeks red with embarrassment. 

In those books you’ve read, maybe the character wouldn’t have cared. And would have let the man know what she was doing. But this just isn’t how you wanted this to happen. As much as you do want Ezra to know you want him. The shock of the moment startled you. 

Ezra outside in the main hangar is uncharacteristically quiet. You can hear him rummaging around. From the sound of it, he’s taking off the bulky outer suit. It takes him a moment since he only has the help of one arm. 

He’ll be sitting down on his bunk and unfasten the clips and zippers. He grits his teeth sometimes, other times he bites his lower lip. You tease him about the different faces he makes when he’s concentrating on something. 

Deciding to clear your mind further, you turn on the shower. For a moment you hope he doesn’t need to take one after being outside, but you imagine he’s letting you have your space for a moment. 

While you shower, you try to decide what you’re even going to say. 

“Hi Ezra, I was touching myself thinking about you.” 

Well. That might not be a bad way to start. But that feeling of nerves hits your gut. What if he doesn’t want you back? What if he does want you? 

You mull this over in your mind and wash yourself clean. Normally the thought of being naked in here while he’s out there has sent you a thrill. Now you’re even more aware of him. 

You decide you do want him. But you don’t know where to start. Him seeing you is one way to break the ice. 

Gathering your courage, you wrap a towel around yourself and exit the bathroom into the main hanger. Your eyes fix upon him, and every nerve is on fire. 

As expected, he’d changed out of his suit. He’s sitting on his cot in comfortable pants, a worn black Henley, and some socks. His hair is sweaty, but it’s sticking up in multiple directions from obviously running a hand through it. His right arm sleeve is tied in a knot near his shoulder to stay out of his way. He’s got something propped up on his left knee, and he’s practicing his hand strength with his left hand. He pauses when he sees you, he doesn’t speak. 

He’s waiting for you to say something first. He can read the terror in your eyes as you step closer. Giving you full attention, he frees his hand, and watches you approach him slowly. 

When you’re right in front of his spread legs, he reaches out a hand to grab yours. 

“You doin’ alright there little bird? You are tremblin’ like a leaf on a tree with strong winds blowin’ every which way.” 

You open your mouth trying to think of what to say. You’d forgotten your entire plan you’d cooked up in the shower. Now that you’re here in front of him and he’s looking at you with those soft eyes, your mind is blank. 

You almost wonder if you should just drop the towel and climb on him, but you can’t help but want some romancing. 

“Say what’s on your mind little bird, I see the wheels turning in your head.” 

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” is all you can think to say. But are you sorry? You don’t know what’s going on. 

“I’m not,” he grins, but the grin softens, and his eyes are gentle. He stands and presses his palm to your cheek. Shaking a little from the touch, you lean into his hand. “But I am sorry that my presence startled you so, and that I saw such an intimate act without your permission. I admit I was only present for the uh, grand finale as it were, but on my honor, I will not speak of this again if you would prefer it.” 

Your cheeks darkened as he spoke, and you can see the look in his eyes. It’s a gentle attraction. 

“I-” you start but only blush deeper under his gentle gaze. His eyes are big, he’s listening intently. 

“I understand your profound embarrassment, but there is nothing to be ashamed of seeking a fine release such as that. If I may say little bird, I’m only sorry I was not the one to give it to you.” 

Your eyes widen at the last sentence. You swallow hard. 

This is it. 

“You want me?”

“I do little bird. I have for a quite a spell now. You are, simply put, the sweetest thing I have ever had the pleasure to know, and you have brought a light into my dark life I did not know I was needin’.” 

His hand is still on your face, his thumb brushes you bottom lip. 

“I want you too,” you give him a shy smile which he returns, “only I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“You surely seemed to know a few moments ago,” he winks. 

“Ezra,” you groan and bury your face in his shoulder. 

“My sincerest apologies,” he teases, “I already broke my promise.” 

He’s trying to make you laugh, which it does. And the two of you share a moment of laughter before you pull back to look up at him again. 

“I’m serious though, Ezra. I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never-”

“Never what?” he repeats, thumb rubbing your flushed cheeks. 

“I’ve never even been kissed,” you tell him. 

“Well, little bird. It would seem the honor has been bestowed to me to teach you the lovely ways of liplockin’.” 

“What do I do?” you whisper, which he seems to find amusing. 

“You know something, I have never once been in situation quite like this in my lifetime.” 

That coaxes a smile from you, and you’re already feeling relaxed. 

“I can’t say that I have either,” you laugh. 

“First step, is to close those pretty little eyes of yours.” 

You close your eyes, and smile, you trust him. You think back to when you met him all those weeks ago when he saved your life. You certainly didn’t imagine this happening then. 

“Now, tilt your head just a little,” he pushes a little with his hand guiding you. “And open that mouth of yours, just a smidge.” He pushes down your bottom lip with his thumb. 

His voice stops, and you feel his breath on your face. He smells like mint and sweat. You decide it’s a good smell. 

You feel the tip of his nose first press against the top of your cheek. Then his lips gently press against yours. His tongue just barely touches your lips. His stubbly chin and upper lip scrape on your skin in a way you didn’t know you’d love this much. His hand holds your face gently, and what he doesn’t say, or can’t say during this kiss, is he wishes he could wrap his other arm around you. 

Your knees buckle, and you let go of the towel that’d you’d been holding on to so tight and mold your body to his. A strong thigh is in between your legs, your hands cup his face and you pull away gasping. Your heart is fluttering.

He’s slow to open his eyes, the smile splits his face before his eyelids even flutter open. 

“Now that,” he licks his lips, “was simply divine.” He leans in and places a couple quick pecks to your lips getting a laugh from you. 

You take a step back, and the towel is going to fall. And you were going to let it. But much to your surprise, his hand stops it by pressing his hand against your chest, keeping the cloth from exposing you to him. 

“Hold on now,” he breathes. “That little heart that’s fluttering under my hand has surely had enough excitement for one day. And as much as I would love to see that body of yours, I am not wanting to take you to bed in this dirty old ship. I would rather take you home. Since I am unfortunately missing a tool of the trade, I am not experienced in taking lovers into my bed with ol’ lefty here. It’ll be a learning experience for us both little bird. You alright with that?” 

You nod, putting your hand over his on your chest. 

“Then let’s get you home.” 

 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 Your head is pounding, and you can see him. Your cousin. It’s like you’re on the outside looking in. You see the clearing of trees and two men with your cousin. It’s a standoff, everyone is frozen. There you hear a sharp crack somewhere in the woods, causing the men to take fire. One man shoots your cousin, the other steals the harvest from your cousin’s dead hands. Then that man is shot, he killed his own partner and took the harvest from his hands. He turned around to face you, and you saw his face. 

It was Ezra. 

With a sharp gasp, you jolt awake. Sweat is on your brow, your heart is racing, and you feel sick to your stomach. Panic sets in because you can’t remember where you are. 

Looking around you realize that you’re home, with Ezra. 

After your kiss with him, he got the ship ready and punched in the coordinates to head home. His home, but now it would be yours. You expressed to him your apprehension of space travel, and he took down the med pack to give you a medicine to calm your nerves. 

“Fear of flying is not uncommon,” he’d told you warmly with a kiss on your cheek. 

After the flight and landing, he gave you another medicine to help your lungs adjust to the air of this planet. 

You were so nervous, but full of excitement! You have a new home with this wonderful soul. 

The planet is gorgeous. The ship landed out the outskirts of the city. It’s nighttime so you can see it’s all lit up, and it’s blue. Every light is a twinkling blue. 

“It’s beautiful!” you’d gasped. Ezra was proud to show you his home. 

He was not originally from this planet; this is where he lives now when he isn’t prospecting. 

He owns a small house is near the outskirts. He could afford a city apartment if he wanted, but he preferred living out away from the hustle and bustle of city life. He likes his view of the trees from his living room, which are also blue. 

His house is humble. One bedroom, one bathroom, a quaint kitchen, a small table, and a sitting area. The shelves and walls are covered in artifacts and trinkets from other world’s he’s visited. You love it. It feels like a lived-in home. 

“We will have to share this bed unless you want me to take the couch?” Ezra tells you when you collapse onto his bed. It’s been too long a day with all the space travel. 

“I don’t mind,” you tell him, and he grins easily. 

“No gettin’ to business tonight little bird. I gotta rest, you do too.” 

You nod, you’re too tired for that. Though if he wanted to, you wouldn’t have said no. 

You fell asleep that night with his body close to yours. 

He’s still close by when you wake up from your dream. 

“Little bird?” he asks waking up, rubbing his eyes with his hand. “You alright?” 

You scramble out of the bed to get away from him. Your heart is beating so fast. 

“It was YOU,” you gasp, tears are beginning to fall. 

“Me? Birdie, I do not have a damn idea what on this planet you are referring to.” 

“You shot and killed my cousin! I saw it in my dream!!”

He sits up and tries to calm you down. 

“Little birdie-”

“Stop calling me that!” you cry. You hug your arms around your waist. 

“Look at me. Look at my face.” He waits til you look at him, there’s no joke or smile on his face. His eyes are wide, and you can tell he’s upset you’re upset. “I did not kill him. I didn’t even have my gun with me when I found the bodies.” 

You think back to when you first met him, and what you can remember from then, he didn’t have a gun on him. 

“But it looked so real,” you sniffle. 

“I had hoped this would not happen to you, but one of the side effects of the medicine I had given you is nightmares. You’re on a new planet, in a new place. It would not be a surprise to me if you had weird dreams. Now as to your cousin, I do not think you will ever uncover the mystery of his death. I can recall to you what I saw again if it will ease your mind.” 

You sniffle again and nod. 

He tells you what he remembers, and you do trust him. But that dream still felt so real. 

You had been finishing up a harvest when your cousin went to look for another. Your memory is hazy after that. 

Ezra fills in the gaps based on what he saw. He’d seen two bodies; one was your cousin and then another man. Your harvest was gone, and there were footsteps leading in another direction. Ezra, not wanting to get into it with this guy, went the opposite way. Which is when he found your shattered helmet and blood. He followed your footprints which led him to you. 

“So, I killed my cousin,” you bury your face in your hands, sitting down on the bed. 

“You are making less and less sense,” his eyebrows crease. 

“You said there was a large branch and I must have tripped, so me tripping sounded the alarm causing the gunfire to go off,” you being to cry into your hands. 

Ezra scoots closer to you to wrap and arm around you. He holds you close to him and kisses your hair while he shushes you. 

“That was a whole tricky situation and no one’s fault. I have been in a sticky situation like that before and it would seem that people who are trigger happy need no cue to fire away. You are not at fault. Besides, if all this had not occurred, I might not have met the love of my life.” 

You look up from your hands, tears still in your eyes. 

“What?” 

“You heard what I said,” he kisses the shell of your ear. 

Crying now tears of joy, you throw your arms around his neck and kiss all over his face. He topples backwards, laughing the whole way down. 

“I love you too,” you say between kisses. “I’m sorry I accused you of murder,” you laugh. 

He laughs, rolling over so he’s on top of you. He kisses your face and dries your tears. You start to writhe under him when you feel him beginning to harden on your thigh. 

“What do you say to some breakfast and then we come back to this bed huh?” 

Feeling a little bold, you reach down to cup him through his sleep pants. He gasps out in surprise and buries his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Why leave?” you ask, unsure of what to do, but you like touching him. You continue to, until your stomach rumbles loudly. He raises an eyebrow teasing you, even though you still have your hand around his cock. “Fine,” you laugh, “breakfast first.” 

 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 While Ezra makes breakfast, you look around your new home. Since the house is small and his voice carries, you ask him questions about different objects, and he rambles on from the kitchen.

There are photographs of him when he was younger, those are your favorites. You’re looking at one particular photograph, when he had both arms and no blond streak. He looked like a completely different person.

Your thoughts are torn away when you hear him call your name.

“Could you reach that spice for me off the shelf?” His one hand is too busy to stop and reach. “Just set it down on the counter there,” he nods. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you smile and wrap your arms around him from behind. Kissing his cheek, he hums. “I’m sorry I’m acting so strange, I think I’m a little nervous,” you admit kissing his shoulder blade.

“Well birdie, it is no small feat to be joined in a union with another person in such an intimate fashion, especially when one is not experienced. It is a lovely thing but can be an overwhelmin’ experience. I am glad to assist and ease the knot in your belly of nerves.”

“I love the way you talk,” you smile kissing his shoulder again.

“And I quite love the way you are holdin’ me right now.”

“I’m sorry again about this morning. I’m sure that’s not the morning you had in mind.”

“No to worry. Grief and change do a wonder on your mind. I know that from losing my arm.”

“Tell me how you got that blond streak in your hair,” you murmur and lean your cheek against his shoulder.

“Now that is an interesting story!” One of which he tells for the rest of the morning. And when he’s done, you’re still not sure what exactly happened. But you laughed and all but forgot about the nerves in the pit of your stomach.

So much so that when he stands and reaches out his hand for you, you’re not sure what he’s doing.

“You ready?” he asks, motioning his head toward the bedroom. Your heart skips, but you nod, yes.

He leads you back into his room, and has you sit down on the bed. He moves around the room setting the mood. First, he pushes a button on the wall that lowers the curtains, dimming the room. He closes the door behind him and sits next to you on the bed.

“How does this work?” you ask a little timid, but very eager.

“Lay back,” he tells you. He lays down on top of you and begins to kiss your face and your lips. Anywhere his lips can kiss, he kisses. Your cheeks, your ears, your eyelids even. The tip of your nose.

Then he moves to your neck and chin and jaw. He adds some bites to your neck, and sucks on your clavicle.

“Can I?” he asks tugging on the hem of your shirt. You nod, and with his help, you pull it off exposing chest to him now. You swallow, feeling a little shy watching him eye your breasts.

You’ve never seen him so speechless. Instead of talking, he puts his mouth to use and suckles your perked nipple into his mouth. His hand cups your other breast and thumbs over your nipple. When you gasp, he sucks harder and pinches his fingers harder. Your hands fly to his hair and you pull. He growls a little and you feel slick between your legs.

“Ezra?” you whine. Your breast is shiny with his saliva, and there’s a sting left behind from his teeth and grit from his facial hair.

“What do you need birdie?” He murmurs into you flesh. His hand smoothing down your skin and gliding over your tummy and to the waistband of your pants.

“Ezra wait,” you gasp.

“Are my ministrations too fast for your likin’?” he questions, lips dragging along your stomach. He’s trying to make you laugh again, or at least relax you further.

“I-” you pause.

“It’s ok,” he smiles and kisses your tummy. “Help me?” he says tugging on your pants a little. You help him push your pants and underwear down, and you watch in equal parts arousal and embarrassment as he sees you.

He touches a pointer finger to your entrance, touching the slick gathered there. He dips inside and you arch your back feeling the drag of his finger inside. His thumb brushes your clit and you jolt.

“Now remember, I am not as well practiced with my left, so you’ll have to excuse any inexperience on my part, though I do know how to please a lady.”

“Ezra!” is all you can think to say when he slides a second finger in.

“But as it seems, you’re enjoying this regardless. That’s good,” he smiles and presses a loud kiss to your thigh. He doesn’t stop the toying with your clit. Even after you hit that first high and come around his fingers. He keeps going. Teasing you just a little more. “You are doin’ so well my girl,” he purrs.

He looks up at you when he pulls his hand away, his grin is pure lovesick. Your eyes are hazy from the high you’ve just been given, and there’s still more to come.

“I want just one more from you before we get down to it alright?” He tells you. He’s working his way up the bed, and you’re not sure what he’s doing. He pulls the pillows together, and he flops down on his back, his head on the pillows. “Alright little bird, c’mere,” he says and taps his chin.

Taking his meaning with heat covering your body, you climb up and carefully lower yourself onto his face. His tongue and mouth ready to accept your heat. You groan in unison as he makes the first lick. You’re still so sensitive from before, but wow it feels good.

Oh.

This is really good.

His mouth, of course, of course his mouth is as skilled in pleasure as it is in talking. His tongue moves expertly on your flesh as if he’s done this to you a million times. You’re coming on his tongue in mere minutes.

His arm is tight around you, and you buck against him as you come down.

His eyes open, and he looks up at you, he’s quite pleased with himself.

“Now if this isn’t the best view a man could have then I don’t know what is,” he smiles, his eyes lingering on your breasts for a beat, then back up to your face.

Carefully, on wobbly legs, you lay down on the bed, and Ezra works to take off his pants. You lean up to look at him, he’s on his knees now, naked. He’s stroking himself lazily, getting ready for you.

“Can I?” you sit up reaching for him.

“Be my guest,” he reassures, and you wrap your fingers around him. He winces and groans a little. “It has been far too long since I’ve been held but someone other than my own hand.”

He feels nice, and you have the desire to keep moving your hand until he finds his high. But he pushes your hand away.

“I do appreciate the eagerness, but if you keep that up, we won’t get to all the fun. Lay down for me alright?”

You do as he asks, and he pauses for a moment. He’s thinking.

When he gets the idea, you see it come across his face with a little “oh!” and a grin. He lays down on top of you, you’re chest to chest.

“Little birdie, I need you to wrap your legs around me? Got it?” You nod and do as he asks. From this position you can feel the tip of him at your entrance. Putting his weight on you for a moment, he reaches down between your bodies and lines himself up with you. “There might be a little bit of a pinch, but we’ll work ya through it alright?”

You nod again, and he pushes inside. He moves his hand back up to smooth your hair out of your face. He moves slowly, watching your face, kissing you more to get you relaxed. Once he’s fully inside, he waits.

He gives you a moment to breathe, then when you give the ok, he moves. His arm is up by your head now, keeping him from putting his whole weight on you and giving him some leverage. His thrusts are steady, and your body moves with him, gasping each time he hits that spot in you.

“It pains me that I cannot reach down to tease that lovely pussy of yours, but birdie, you gotta touch yourself for me. Can you do that?”

You slip your hand between your bodies and touch yourself in rhythm with his thrusts.

“Good girl,” he coaxes. “Don’t stop,” he tells you nibbling your ear. And you don’t. You keep going until you feel the high approaching. When it hits you, he’s not far behind. His cock twitches and pulses, and he comes deep inside you.

Exhaustion hits him and he puts more of his weight on you. Now with a free hand, he pushes your hand away and touches your clit again just to touch you a little one more time. That touch has you jolt, and he laughs darkly in your neck.

“Ezra?”

“Mmm?” he looks up at you, and you start to smooth his hair back.

“Can we do this again? Tonight?” you bite your lip.

“Hmm,” he pretends to think. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Ezra!” you laugh and playfully hit his chest.

“Okie,” he shrugs and begins to blow raspberries on your chest.

You stay with him then, tangled in the sheets all morning. And all afternoon, and into the evening. You can barely keep your hands off one another. And there’s not much desire to go prospecting any time soon, not when you’ve discovered something much richer in each other.

xx

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[scullysexual]

Time Can Heal (2/ )

Season Two | Abduction Arc | Canon Divergence | Angst 

Chapter One | 

Mulder realises his quest for the truth costs too much.

CHAPTER TWO

Read these tags if you’re interested in knowing what my plan is with this fic. If you don’t want to basically the version you get here is a first draft kinda thing. I’m posting as I write. Ao3 will be a more refined, final version which you are free to read as well. I’ll post the ao3 links onto here when it’s time so these chapters you read won’t be perfect but it’ll be something and you can all be my betas. You can read this, wait for the ao3 version, or read both- it’s up to you. 

- - - 

Dana lay awake in the darkness. Wrapped up in her cocoon of blankets, staring at the ceiling. The clock ticks on beside her but the sound of it just sets her on edge, the repetitive noise doing nothing but irritate her yet she’s too drained to reach over and turn it off.

There are no more tears left to cry. Crying can cure insomnia, your body beyond exhaustion that it finally stops fighting and lets you fall asleep.

Of course, one needs to cry in order for that to happen.

Mulder would call her when he couldn’t sleep. Not often but sometimes. He would tell her stories of past cases before she was assigned, or tell her some obscure fact about some obscure thing and she would listen, her eyes closed, occasionally muttering something in a sleepy response. She would hear a faint smile in his next sentence as he jokingly asks if he’s keeping her up. Maybe she should call him now, repay the favour…

NO!

She rolls over, staring towards the wall. No, she won’t give him the satisfaction of chasing him, of pining after him. She won’t beg him stay again, not after her post-mortification after doing that the first time had turned out to be for nothing. If he cared about what she had to say he would have listened to her and stayed then, not just upped and left like he did.

She wants to hate him. She does hate him. How many times did he ditch her? Left her to deal with the consequences of their various trespasses. Or all the paperwork he would dump on her counter for her to deal with? How many arguments he would get into with local law enforcements because they didn’t agree with what he had to say and her name would be dragged into the complaint made by them to the Bureau when she did nothing wrong.

Or how about never putting her name on the door? Never giving her a desk? Never giving off any indication that there were two of them fighting this.

Mulder was right. He had done her more harm than good.

But you chose to stay with him. You should’ve asked for a transfer if it bothered you that much and you never did.  

Mulder gave her an out after the Bellefleur case. He said he wouldn’t take it personally if she decided that another field would be more suitable for her. She stayed because it excited her, challenged her, made her realise that these were the victims she wanted to protect. The real people hurt by monsters that nobody believed in. Real people who wouldn’t  be given justice because most looked at the statements, saw the words ‘abduction’, ‘UFO sightings’, ‘mutants’ and toss them into a filing cabinet never to be looked at again.

And now Mulder had done the same.

She kicks the sheet away in frustration, pretends its him she’s kicking over and over again until she’s pushed the bedding onto the floor, huffing with anger and exertion.

The coldness of the room covers her as Dana switches onto her other side and curls up into a ball. Wherever he’s gone she’ll find him. They’re FBI agents, their whereabouts are always on a record, he can’t run from her.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Missy visits on the Saturday. Dana makes an effort to get out of bed, forces painkillers down her throat, and sit downstairs.

She knows Melissa isn’t here on her own volition. Maggie had called her, asking for her to come round. Dana knows this because she listened to the phone call. Melissa may love her but she has never been able to stay still for very long.

It doesn’t matter. Sometimes Dana found it stifling with just her and her mother in the house. Maggie knew something was up, knew Dana was spending too must time trapped away but Dana could never talk to her mother like she could her sister. Maggie would try to offer some help, some way to resolve the problem when she didn’t want that, she just wanted someone to listen and Missy would listen.

Missy was good at that, at knowing when it was time to offer advice or time to listen, to be a soundboard and absorb information.

Mulder had been good at that, too.

Her head falls back against the side of the couch in frustration. Does everything she think really have to lead back to Mulder?

Melissa arrives, Maggie goes out, and Dana is finally free to talk.

She confesses everything; Mulder telling her that he was leaving the X-Files, leaving Washington. How shitty it’s made her feel, how she doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat anymore and as predicted Melissa listens all the way until Dana’s finished.

“He just left?!” Missy’s furious herself. Equally as confused to his motives.

Dana nods, feeling the pang in her stomach at the thought of going back to work and not seeing him. It was so stupid. They are separated, the X-Files were closed and they were reassigned. Why is this bothering her so much?

Because there was always the knowledge she could see him whenever. A day trip to the Hoover Building and she could say hello like she did the first week they were reassigned. That had kick-started it. They were no longer working together but he still called her, still asked for her opinion, for her expertise. They would always be a team even if higher ups tried to keep them away from each other.

But this wasn’t the higher ups decision. This was Mulder’s. Mulder’s choice to leave, to get away from her.

Can’t you see I’m giving you a way out? A chance to get away from me?

He had said that to her but now she feels like he was getting away from her.

Was it because they took me, Mulder? Am I a hinderance? Something you need to keep out of arms reach so it doesn’t disrupt your mission?

It didn’t matter if he said he was leaving the X-Files. He still had his badge and gun, he still had his sources, he didn’t need the cases in the drawer, his quest could still be completed with or without them. He’d proven that in Arecibo and he hadn’t needed Dana there either.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Minnesota. He was moving to Minnesota. Minneapolis to be more exact and what was in Minneapolis? The Metrodome was in Minneapolis, that could have its bonuses.

Other than that, Minnesota was a far-cry from Washington DC but maybe that was what Mulder needed- get away from the dregs of this city and start anew in that city.

Anyway, he didn’t have a choice. He asked for the transfer and a transfer was what he was getting.

Guess it was time to start finding a new apartment in Minneapolis.

His eyes do a sweep of his current apartment. He’d have to find someone to lease it to. Scully? Scully doesn’t have an apartment anymore, maybe her?

Don’t be stupid. She’s not going to want anything from you.

Maybe The Lone Gunmen then. Surely one of them could use their own place rather than all sharing the Den. It wasn’t like he had any other friends he could lease it to anymore, he burned all those relationships some time ago.

His eyes move across the living room, landing on the X taped on the window. He sighs, striding across the room towards it. His stubby nails scratch at the tape, fighting to get it off the pane. He scrapes and scrapes at it, cursing, getting frustrated as only tiny bits off tape come off and get stuck to his fingers until finally a corner comes loose and he’s able to pull the rest off in one go.

No need for that anymore, Mulder thinks as he scrunches the tape up into a ball and throws it into the bin.

He turns back to the window, only the faint outline of an X in its place and it suddenly dawns on him what it means, what removing it signifies. His chest restricts, he becomes overwrought with emotion, tears pinpricking in his eyes and why? It’s just some damn tape, nothing but pain and lies and anger.

Still the tears come, he cannot stop them and Mulder collapses onto the couch, cries into his hands and wonders why.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

He’s half-asleep on the couch, TV playing loudly to drown out his thoughts while he tries to go to sleep. His neighbours hate him; the downstairs neighbour hates him for bouncing his basketball, his neighbours either side of him hate him for how loud he has the TV. Not that it matters anymore, he’ll be gone in five days.

There’s a knock on the door. His sleep-addled brain gets excited. For some inexplainable reason he thinks it’s Scully but why would it be? Scully hates him and she’s never knocked on his door in the year he’s known her.

There’s a mind to ignore it. He’s not home even though the TV can clearly be heard. He’s asleep, then.

But the knocking is persistent.

And what if…

Mulder gets up from the couch, his bones protesting as he moves but he pays them no heed. He deserves the physical pain for the pain he’s caused other people. He’s not deserving of a bed when there’s so many people who will never sleep in one again.

He drags his self-hating, painfilled body to the front door and unlocks it.

His heart leaps at the sight of the person behind it. In the darkened hallway he thinks it’s her and he can barely believe it. She doesn’t hate him after all…

Until the old hallway lights flicker on and his heart deflates inside his body. It’s a Scully but not his Scully.

It’s Melissa Scully and she looks pissed.

“Can I help you?” Mulder asks wondering why Melissa Scully would be paying him a visit at this time.

“Can I come in?” Her voice is hard, like it was when she told him to drop his cynicism on her last visit

“Sure,” Mulder says moving aside as Melissa steps in.

He closes the door, switches on the light, mutes the TV, and sits down on his couch.

Melissa stands.

She doesn’t take her coat off.

She’s not here to stay long.

“So,” says Mulder breaking the silence. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Dana told me everything,” she tells him.

Mulder’s heart sinks. Of course she did. He’s not angry. Scully let’s nobody in. Nobody but Melissa. What did he expect?

“Did she send you here to try to convince me to stay?” He keeps his voice levelled, controlled. He’s not angry, he’s really not but this is his choice, and whether Scully wants to believe it or not, it is to keep her safe, keep her alive. “Because if that’s the case my mind is made up. Nothing she can say or you can say will change it. I’m doing it to keep her safe.”

“Dana didn’t tell me to do anything. I came here on my own.” She regards him coolly. “Dana used to speak highly of you. She tell me how brilliant you were, how grateful she was that she had someone as caring and thoughtful for a partner. Someone who put others before himself yet since I met you I’ve not seen any of that. I mean, look how long it took you to put your gun down and just sit with her.”

Mulder looks to the floor. He can’t believe it. Scully’s really said those words about him to someone? When was the last time anyone has ever referred to him positively?

“You can’t even look at me, can you?” Melissa says and Mulder moves his eyes from the floor to the woman.

He has nothing to say. He’s being all those things right now. He’s doing this to protect, why is everyone refusing to see that?

“It’s to protect her,” he says.

“How? How is this protecting her? Please, tell me.”

Mulder looks away again, towards the window. Through the light, at the outlined X.

“Because this is my fault,” he mumbles. “I didn’t tell her the consequences.”

“What consequences?” Melissa asks, thoroughly confused. “The consequences of being an FBI agent? I think she knows the consequences, Mulder.”

Mulder shuts his eyes, breathing heavily. People still think her abduction was some FBI related incident. Scully probably believes it was too. Nobody believed Duane Barry, only Mulder and that will be everyone’s downfall.

“It’s more complicated than that.” He looks away from the window, and the X, to Melissa. “And Scully knows that, she just refuses to see it.”

Melissa sighs, looking down at her feet before looking back at Mulder.

“She needs you right now. Whatever it was that happened to her, you’re the only one she feels that can help her.”

I am helping her. I’m helping her by getting away from her before I cause more destruction.

“But you’re not going to, are you?”

Mulder swallows. “It’s for the best,” is all he says.

Melissa scoffs. “Fine. If you think so.”

She stuffs her hands into her pockets and walks herself to the door. Mulder’s eyes fall back to the floor but they follow her shadow.

“She loves you,” Melissa says, hand on the door handle. “Did you know that?”

No, he didn’t.

“She never said it outright but I heard it. And I think you love her too.”

Yes, he does.

She yanks the door open. “I hope you figure out your life, Mulder, before you lose her forever.”

She leaves then, the door slamming behind her. Mulder sinks into the couch, his hand rubbing down his face.

Maybe losing her is the best way to show her he does love her.

- - -

Tagging: @bevh78 @mypanicface @weseeusinthefall

[bibliocratic]

Jonmartin prompt: Jon wants to cuddle Martin very badly and is also super awkward about it, like "how do I touch you without my elbows crushing something"

(post 160, jonmartin)(this is… well, it’s sort of what you were after? hope it’s ok!)

It’s not easy, the slapdash and imprecise art of communication. Martin’s never been particularly adept. His words trip over footholds of his own making on their way out of his mouth. He has a stammer he’s never quite rid himself of, his words too earnest or too anxious to showcase any finesse at the skill.

And Jon…

Well. Jon.

It wasn’t simple before, twisting the tape back to the start of all this, Jon talking like a car trying to jump start when things felt too personal, his indelicate sincerity that struck with all the tenderness of an anvil. And Martin likes to think they were both getting better, before. They had three weeks of stumbling, artless practise, their amateur declarations witnessed by no-one but the wind and evening-dappled fields that stretched like lazy days for miles around.

And now.

Martin wouldn’t say Jon’s up to managing much talking now.

Oh, he’s not silent. Chatty in his own way, and the conversations they have are tug-of-wars, teasing, testing to find the edges their pieces slot into.

Easy isn’t the word for it though. Martin supposes, it was never going to be.

They’ve stopped for a few days to gather themselves. They’ve made it as far south as Melrose on the borders, and it would have been a pretty market town, antique fairs and village fetes and a eye-catching ruin of a fourteenth century monastery, if the Hunt hadn’t passed this way, maybe the Spiral too. There isn’t much left here in the way of civilisation, and little to nothing in the way of humanity. There are shadows like the imprints on wall after the outpouring shock of a bomb, but their limbs do not concede to the shape of limbs. They sway as leaves on a branch, like they’re hanging from where their feet are stuck to the ground, and Martin tugs them clear of their gathering places.

They’ve managed to let themselves into the half-unhinged door of a little high street shop that used to sell fancy card and stationary. They had tried an art gallery further up the road, but the Dark had started to take root there like black mould, and it’d eaten away the ground floor to yawning inky nothing.

Martin asks Jon if they’ll be safe here, and Jon rallies himself  wearily, Looks. He replies that nothing will come for them, and that’s as much as they can ask for these days.

Above the shop, accessed via a back-room still plugged up and packed with unopened boxes, up carpeted stairs on which bundles of unopened notebooks and special occasion cards balance committedly against the will of gravity, there’s a small flat.  The decoration in the flat is… interesting. It’s more something one of Tim’s friends would have had, the few times Tim got Martin to go out with him for one of his ‘de-stress Friday’ sessions.  Martin would laugh at the wall-hangings like indoor curtains, the posters of the zodiac and some tie-dye hippy representation of chakras, the bong even still on the coffee table in the poky living room, except his attention is slightly more taken up by Jon at the moment. Leant against him like a downed tree, his eyes drooping closed and his legs fast failing him, shuddering from the effort of taking the stairs.

The way here was treacherous. There’s a town further north about forty miles swallowed by the Vast.  Jon tries to avoid Seeing as much as possible, of course he does, and Martin will never ask that of him outright, never, but they’ve had to check if the way is safe a number of times. And each time he opens the door or whatever metaphor Jon uses to understand it, it drains something from him it takes a long time to claw back.

Martin drops his backpack by the entrance. Divests Jon of his. Jon sways and blinks with lidded eyes, and his gestures are sloppy, poorly formed. Martin ends up carrying him to single bed off to the right of the staircase, the room still wreathed in the old stale smell of tobacco and weed.

Once Jon’s out for the count, Martin checks the doors, the windows, their rations and supplies with the religious militancy of a man who knows what happens when they don’t. He counts out rations, makes careful notations in his notebook with a stubby pencil sharpened by his pen-knife. The cupboards of the flat are mostly a bust, but there’s a few cans of baked beans, tinned peaches, and the delight of finding a single can of tinned custard, which Martin stashes to surprise Jon with later.

There’s a billy bookcase next to the non-functioning TV, crowded full of precarious piles of console game boxes and disordered books and back issues of the Fortean Times. Martin peruses through a number of books on mysticism, the paranormal and how one can access their inner self before he finds a glossy hardback on origami to entertain himself.

The sky outside is dark and scratched with an ugly bruising colour,  but it’s likely to be only mid afternoon. Martin ventures back down the staircase and grabs some coloured card before he settles back into the spring-less corner of a battered settee draped with a brightly adorned throw blanket. There’s another, equally obnoxiously shaded blanket of clashing colours, and he places it over himself and gets comfortable.

It’s a few hours later when he hears the bed squeak.  A clearing of a throat, the unsteady padded steps of someone who hasn’t found their equilibrium just yet.

Jon pushes the door open with a sighing squeak and peers blearily around.

The nap hasn’t helped at all by the look of it. Martin turns mid-fold and gets to see a crime scene of disturbed sleep evidenced on Jon’s body. One of Martin’s long-sleeve t-shirts rucked up, the under arms and ring around his neck patched damp. His skin rippled with a thick sweat, hair coming wildly and carelessly from the band he’d tied it back in. He’s rocking on the balls of his feet like he’s still following the motion of running, and his eyes as he stares at Martin are unnaturally dilated, unnervingly steady even as he scrubs his face with his hand.  

“Hey,” Martin says carefully. Knowing to keep his voice pitched low, calmer than Jon feels right now. “Are you… everything ok?”

Jon pauses, blinks just too slowly to seem natural, and shakes his head.

“What’s wrong?” Martin asks. “If you can… if you want to say, that it.”

Jon pauses. It’s habit now. A nervous tic. Mulling over what he wants to say and how he’ll say it.

He has to be so careful with how he says things.

Martin’s expecting a truncated gesture or two. A stumbling sign that Martin will have to parse, backed up by a thousand other signifiers of meaning in their home-spun language. But unusually, Jon clears his throat, bites his top lip anxiously before he opens his mouth.

Like tuning in a radio station mid-programme, someone else’s words ring out.

“I allowed myself some brief hope,” Jon’s voice sloshes out of his mouth with a South American cadence. “that maybe he’d just left me, maybe he’d escaped with just a divorce. But no. One call to the housing association confirmed that, as far as they were concerned, I’d always lived alone.”

Most of the statements Martin doesn’t recognise. He’s not been cursed with an encyclopaedic knowledge of them after all, a forced and unwilling archive now capable of speaking in every voice but his own. They’re all the same anyway. The recycling of other people’s tragedies and miseries, their worst days committed for posterity and recited dutifully by the archive Jonah Magnus created to house them.

Jon usually doesn’t share the content of his dreams.

“Nightmare?” Martin says, deliberately lightly. He puts down his truly butchered attempt to make a swan and watches as Jon swallows, brings a hand to his mouth to gnaw at a nail.

He wonders if that’s the right word, knows in his heart it isn’t, not really. Because nightmares are a twisting of things that both are and aren’t, a plaited deceitful recollection of an unkind brain. Jon’s dreams are a hideous witnessing, with no hope of challenge of change.

Jon jerkily nods, before he says in that awful ventriloquism:

“… regarding a series of misplaced objects lost over the course of three months.”

Jon’s started to rub his arms. His lips firmly closed again, as though embarrassed he’s shared the history he’s been watching in his dreams. But he did share it. And that’s notable.

Martin holds up a corner of the blanket on the settee, and chides “Get in here, or you’ll catch your death”, and Jon’s crossing the distance as though he was waiting for the signal.

They don’t say anything for the while. Jon folds himself up against Martin’s side like a gangly greetings card, like one of his obviously failed origami projects. Martin puts an arm around his shoulder and consigns himself to the rather shocking robbery of body heat that’s rapidly occurring. Jon accepts the arm, but the tension is still wound through his marrow, and he doesn’t calm like he usually does.

“This one really bothered you, didn’t it?” Martin says.

A twitchy up-down motion.

“How come?” Martin asks, before:  “If you want to talk about it. If not, well, I can tell you all about my grand adventures in paper folding. A wild ride, I can promise.”

Jon raises an eyebrow at the truly dazzling menagerie of wobbly animals, and huffs a stale laugh.

He brings out his hands from where he’d buried them in the furnace of Martin’s space, and makes a sign, a twisting hooked hand motion  - Spiral. And then, shakier, flatter, his fingers closed like shutters – Lonely.

“As far as they were concerned,” he repeats with a mournful and stolen tongue, “I’d always lived alone.”

He makes a sign again, and meets Martin’s eye like he’s been trying not to – Lonely.

Jon reaches out, and like setting fingers to the board of a violin, delicately fits his hand against Martin’s. Like he’s memorised exactly the places where they go, the coves and shorelines where their islands can align.

Martin’s grip has never been as careful. His fingers engulf Jon’s smaller size, cushioning them in a sturdy grip.

“You’ve not lost me,” Martin says, reading in between the lines of Jon’s gestures. “I’m here, yeah? Alright. And we’re together. I’m not lost.”

Jon makes a grunt of acknowledgement, inclining his head in agreement, impatiently, as though he knows all this, like he begrudges being reminded. But clearly this knowledge hasn’t stained every part of his waking yet, because there are tears slipping unwanted from his eyes and his hand grips Martin harder.

His gaze flickers like a camera shutter from the floor and its foot-scuffed rug to Martin, back and forth. Martin wishes, not for the first time, that Jon could just ask for what he wants. Could stop feeling like he needs to justify every out-reaching motion to himself, approaching physical affection like he’s trying to do the cryptic bloody crossword.

He’s learning. They both are.

“What do you want me to do?” Martin asks instead.

Jon’s eyes finally linger on him. Cheeks damp, eyes red. He removes his hand from Martin’s grip like he’s unmooring a ship from port. His next movements being planned behind his eyes. A methodical consideration of angle, of intent, of reciprocation that’s as much caution as it is overthinking. Martin wonders sometimes whether this is the Jon he always was, or the Jon that’s been made by this world and all that’s been laid against him. Maybe it’s one or the other or both, or maybe it doesn’t matter much any more. This is Martin’s Jon, the Jon that is, the one that is thinking about how he’s going to place his limbs as though there’s a wrong way to it, who will steady himself before he’ll reach out. But who always does, eventually, in his own time.

His arms encircle Martin’s neck now. A pause, a release of air, before he’s pulling back, fretting like something hasn’t worked. But he clearly wants something, enough to push through his dissatisfaction, face folded in on itself unhappily before it sets in determination and then he goes for around Martin’s chest, fingers steadying, finding their own bony handholds in the material of Martin’s jumper. The right angles of his elbows, the washboard of his ribs felt under his shirt, they don’t have any give and Martin shifts a little to ease the hard sensation of it, try and reorient them better. Jon picks up on this, already trying to shift again or perhaps even move away, and if his tongue could still form apologies, he’d be making them.

Martin’s arms come round decisively, closing the circuit of them.

“Stop fussing,” he murmurs, and Jon quietens. Face against the round of Martin’s chest, the hand that’s not still gripped vice-like carefully combining through his damp hair.

“This ok?” Martin says finally, wanting to know, wanting Jon to feel like he can tell him.

Jon lifts his head. Nods, brings their lips together for a skimming kiss, like he’s sealing the sentiment.

He shuffles his body so he’s wedged next to Martin, taking up any crevice he finds. After a moment, pulling and positioning Martin’s arm back over his shoulder, so it drapes heavy and solid and present. A lightness on his face that sleep couldn’t achieve but a victory Martin likes to claim as his own every time.

It is no hardship for Martin to understand every one of these expressions just fine.

[irwintry]

Hi, 'sup, hello!! I don't know if you're still doing these prompts but can you do number 2. “Stay here tonight.” and number 31. “You haven’t lost me.” with Calum? Thanks in advance🥺💖

thank u for sending a prompt in!!!! sorry it took so long! got a more than i realized i would lol

2. “Stay here tonight”

31. “You haven’t lost me”

-

It began when you were five years old. 

After your mothers became friends by chance, along followed a six-year-old named Calum Hood. He was nosey, bratty, and rather demanding of attention by any means. And what astounded you the most, even to this day, was his inability to care about you. 

Because, seemingly, a year later, he was no longer nosey or bratty––although he still demanded attention. He became a friend. A really good friend. A best friend. 

The older you got, the quicker it dawned on you that the good times were slipping. High school brought relationships and bad break-ups. It brought crying over the phone until 3 AM with Calum as he calmly said words you needed to hear. He’s not worth your time, Y/N. He’ll never be deserving of your time. 

At that point, you didn’t know that the only person deserving of your time had been Calum all along. 

Lines crossed as college neared, and the complications only became inevitable. Sorry, I missed your call, Y/N and It’s okay, Cal, I’ll catch you next time turned into dead silence for a month or two. You couldn’t be there for each other from three hundred miles away. At least, you didn’t think you could. 

But it came to be unbearable. The six years after that were filled with rekindling an old flame and making new memories. Calum had no way of leaving your life now, not that he ever wanted to. 

Which brought you to where you lived in L.A.––a great big city that felt like four tiny walls. You were lonely, and you wanted love, and you had come to accept that Calum would never feel the same way you felt about him. 

Because best friends weren’t meant to fall in love with each other. That wasn’t how it worked. 

At 3 AM, you hugged your sheets and dialed his number, counting down the seconds until you could hear his voice again. 

“You have reached the mailbox of––” 

You let out a groan as you set down your phone. White noise buzzed around you, the high-pitched noises crawling down your ear and up your spine. You decided you could listen to it another second. You called Calum once again.

After five rings, he finally picked up. 

“You can’t fuckin’ do this t’me,” he mumbled sleepily. His voice was low and rough through the receiver. 

You imagined him cuddled into bed, a simple t-shirt and a pair of boxers adorning his beautiful skin while his dog curled up next to him. Sleep looked beautiful on him, it always had. 

“Stay here tonight,” you said without thinking, heart yearning at the thought of him so close to you. You had slept in the same bed a million times, but you that, if he came over, it would feel different. You didn’t know if he wanted it to be different. 

“Babe,” he whispered. “It’s nearly four in th’morning.”

You pressed your cheek deep into your pillow and hummed. “Stay here tonight,” you repeated. “I miss you.” Also confessed a million times, but the inflection held something more to it. The kind of I miss you that said I need you. 

You could hear Calum sigh. After a quiet moment, he muttered out a weak, “be right there” before hanging up the phone. And your heart leaped.

A half-hour later, you had fallen back to sleep. The bed dipped to signify his arrival, and your eyes peeled back as if you had never been asleep. The warmth he carried made your stomach stir. 

“Cal?” you asked once he made himself comfortable. 

He hummed, and you felt the deep timbre of his voice in your spine. 

“Will you hold me?”

Calum didn’t answer. Instead, a few seconds later, his arm draped across your waist before he pulled you in close. Everything you felt––his chest against your back, his lips in your hair, his breath on your skin, and his hand against your stomach––proved to be too much. 

It was too much because you couldn’t think about sleep when the one thing you dreamt about was there to hold you. 

“I feel like I’ve lost you,” you whispered into the night. “We’ve been so distant, and I––I can’t lose you.”

Calum let out a small sigh. “You haven’t lost me,” he said, his voice coursing through your veins due to the contact of his chest. “You’ll lose plenty of beauty sleep if ya don’t go t’bed, though, darlin’.”

You managed a laugh. “Don’t forget the goodnight kiss,” you joked, closing your eyes and clearing your thoughts so you hear him breathe. 

“Can’t forget that,” Calum said, a laughing rumbling through his chest. And suddenly, his hand reached up to cradle your cheek as he leaned himself forward. You hadn’t expected it––any of it. His lips leaving sweet forehead kisses, trailing down your cheek and all the way to where his lips brushed your lips. He smiled against you and whispered “goodnight” before moving back over so he could hold you tight. 

[elwinged]

narnia analysis

so i’m just gathering here all of the analysis i’ve read about narnia so far?? I think it’s pretty cool ngl

a note: i’m not going to hecking mention the v obvious and already explained christian allegory with aslan being jesus and edmund representing humanity and the witch being satan and all that jazz.

DISCLAIMER: absolutely none of this belongs to me except for the odd bit of prose in the edmund section

⠀

first up, names! credit for this goes to @thoughtfox72 (you can find the original post here)

- peter means rock, which ties in well as he’s the “rock” of the family. It’s also a reference to good ol’ st. peter- in matthew 16:18 (the bible), peter is called “the rock upon which my church was founded”.

- edmund means protector, which again ties in well with his actions against the witch, but it also ties into shakespeare’s king lear. in king lear, edmund is the bastard son of the duke of glouchester, who betrays his entire family to gain power. sound familiar? yeah, i thought so too. shakespeare’s edmund is never redeemed, however, but it is a direct parallel to narnia’s edmund.

- lucy means light, and it’s pretty obvious that she’s the light of her family, illuminating the path to aslan.

- susan, however, means lily and it’s pretty hard to figure out why that’s so important. like yeah, lilies are typically used at funerals (which, um, pretty dark bit of foreshadowing there, mr. lewis) but like?? compared to the others, that doesn’t seem deep enough. and that’s when you realise- at the end of vodt, what does the dawn treader have to sail past to get to aslan’s country? a sea. of. hecking. lilies.

- and so the flower that susan is named for is the ones that grow on the path to aslan’s country, which is a pretty strong hint about her eventually returning to aslan’s country.

- also, if you look at the points of the compass, aslan’s country (and therefore the sea of lilies) are in the east. it’s implied that susan beginning to forget narnia started when she went to america (heading west). this is really paying a lot of attention to direction, which brings me to my next point…

⠀

direction, and points of the compass! credit for this goes partly to @thoughtfox72 (because of the above point) but mostly to @elecktrum , from the most noble order of the table from the sword and shield, jewel and song series.

- so as was stated above, susan’s journey away from aslan’s starts with her going west, but the flowers that she’s named for are in the east, near aslan’s country, thus signifying that she will probably return.

- as well as that, aslan gives edmund and peter the west and north (“to the great western woods, king edmund the just” and “and to the clear northern sky, i give you king peter the magnificent”), respectively, while susan and lucy receive the south and east (“to the radiant southern sun, queen susan the gentle” and “to the glistening eastern sea, i give you queen lucy the valiant”).

- edmund and peter have the directions of their enemies (to the north are the wild lands of the north, where the giants live, and to the west are the western wilds and telmar).

- susan and lucy get narnia’s “allies” and protection (i put allies in quotation marks as calormen isn’t really an ally, but it isn’t quite an enemy either)- archenland, calormen and the eastern sea.

- this highlights that the brothers are the ones who protect, and the sisters gather allies and friends (a teensy bit sexist, don’t you think?).

⠀

there’s also a bit of character analysis!

i’ll start with Peter (credit for this goes to @thoughtfox72 ) (post found here)

- so like loads of people have said that peter is boring, because he doesn’t have complexity, and the heart of this boils down to the fact that c.s. lewis keeps us at a distance from peter. we don’t get to see what he thinks or feels, whereas we do with the younger siblings.

- also, and this is connected to the point above, peter seemingly rushes into things without any warning (e.g. the duel with miraz, pc book canon). but honestly, it’s not that he rushes into things, it’s that we don’t see his reasons for doing it. an example of this is in the prince caspian book- peter is the only one to realise that they’re in cair paravel and he actually numbers his goddamn reasons, like it’s a slideshow or something. this, of course, tells us that he’s been thinking about it for a while, but just hasn’t chosen to share it. peter keeps things close to his chest.

- peter doesn’t share things that much- this even shows in his title. valiant, gentle- heck, even just are quite descriptive and specific. magnificent, on the other hand is like “??? what does it mean?" this is done on purpose, as it’s an effective way to maintain awe. he’ll always meet an individual’s sense of what a great king should be because he’s left to the imagination. “High King Peter the Magnificent is more an idea than a person, like King Arthur.”

- but peter is a person. he’s a good king, but still a person. examples: when they have to vote on which way to go (book pc), he doesn’t want to vote until trumpkin says that it’s his duty. basically the first thing he says to caspian (again, book) is “i haven’t come to take your place, you know, but to put you in it”. though he’s the one in charge, it’s his duty, not something he seeks.

- this is also shown during acts of violence. think about it- most of peter’s most famous acts (save the last battle) are to do with violence- killing the wolf, fighting the witch, duelling with miraz. this all emotionally affects him- he cries after killing maugrim, it’s shown that he’s pale and drawn after fighting the witch... i could go on. although he’s good at this stuff, he doesn’t like it- it’s not easy for him. this ties in well with the whole series’ idea of kingship- “For this is what it means to be a king: to be first in every desperate attack, and last in every desperate retreat.”- and c.s. lewis knew this. lewis had fought in the war and knew how bad it got, but he had peter do it anyway, because he’s the high king, and the hardest tasks fall to him. this, matched with peter liking to keep things to himself, is a lonely task.

- as well as that, it’s more than likely that peter would’ve served in the war back in england as well- the timelines do match up.

- and peter has a super strong sense of duty and responsibility as well- why, at the end of prince caspian (book. again.), he tells aslan that he was leading them wrong, even though he was being pulled in opposite directions by both his sisters. he’s trying to take everything that’s wrong onto himself, including his siblings’ faults.

- tldr; peter is good at being a king but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. he’s a good warrior and a good person but he’s been given really hard tasks and he’s trying to keep it together. he only looks perfect and boring on the surface because he’s not very open and is kept at a distance from the reader. his job is lonely, because he’s high king and that’s what it means.

⠀

okay. peter’s done. hopefully that make sense.

onto the problem of susan (credit for this goes to @ncfan-1 ) (find the original post here)

- to start off, here’s a reference:

“Sir,” said Tirian, when he had greeted all these. “If I have read the chronicles aright, there should be another. Has not your Majesty two sisters? Where is Queen Susan?”

“My sister Susan,” answered Peter shortly and gravely, “is no longer a friend of Narnia.”

“Yes,” said Eustace, “and whenever you’ve tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says ‘What wonderful memories you have! Fancy you still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.’ ”

“Oh Susan!” said Jill. “She’s interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grow-up.”

“Grown-up, indeed,” said the Lady Polly. “I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she’ll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one’s life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can.”

“Well, don’t let’s talk about that now,” said Peter. “Look! Here are lovely fruit trees. Let us taste them.”

–The Last Battle, page 135

- please notice who speaks. tirian asks, peter gives a very tense, very abbreviated explanation (which probably means he doesn’t intend to take it further than that). however, eustace, polly and jill jump in and defame her to tirian, despite the fact that what she’s been doing on earth is very clearly none of their business. lucy, edmund and digory don’t speak at all.

- i’d like to point out that the four people who knew her best contributed nothing to her defamation, and that three of them are pointedly silent.

- now, onto the three that did talk.

- how well did they know susan? there’s no canon evidence (book, movie, or otherwise) that any of them interacted with her.

- eustace was susan’s cousin, yes, but up until vodt she thought he was an annoying brat and we only know that he made friends with edmund and lucy- it’s not sure if he made friends with the rest of the pevensies as well.

- polly was digory’s friend, but we don’t know when she was introduced to the pevensies- if it was before susan “forgot” narnia, or after. it was possibly and probably after, given that there was no mention of her at all pre-prince caspian (save the magician’s nephew, but that’s not the point)

- and we know for a fact that jill and eustace didn’t meet until a few years after pc. we don’t even know if susan and jill ever met, or if jill just knew of her.

- so there are a few questions raised. how well did eustace, polly and jill know susan? were any of them even close to her? how reliable a judge are they?

- well, eustace, jill and polly are shown to be the kind of people who, when they know that susan has received the new that they’re dead and is being asked to identify their bodies, instead of expressing sympathy for her (she has to bury them, bury them, and they can’t even express sympathy? talk about heartless), they just talk about how silly and vain she is- so no, they’re probably not the best judges of susan pevensie.

- what this tells us is that none of the three were really interested in knowing susan. none of them really wanted to get to know her side of the story. if they treat her like that when she isn’t even around to defend herself, imagine what they were like to her in person! small wonder that susan pevensie didn’t confide in them.

- let’s look at the other four, the four who knew her best. her siblings and digory, who would have known her better. while none of them express sympathy for her (seriously, guys? not good), none of them gossip about her either. as mentioned above, peter gives a short explanation that is obviously meant to wrap it up and also cuts off the three gossips. also mentioned above is that the other three who knew her best say nothing. absolutely nothing.

- that might suggest they agree with the others, or, perhaps more likely, that there was a lot more going on with susan that eustace, polly and jill didn’t know about.

- there’s a continuation of this, as well. everything pre-the last battle suggests that when aslan sent them back to earth for good, he wanted them to live their lives there. we’re not completely sure what aslan said to susan and peter at the end of prince caspian, but it’s probably somewhat similar to what he said to edmund and lucy (vodt):

“Dearest, said Aslan very gently, “you and your brother will never come back to Narnia.”

“Oh, Aslan!” said Edmund and Lucy both together in despairing voices.

“You are too old, children,” said Aslan, “and you must begin to come close to your own world now.”

“It isn’t Narnia, you know,” sobbed Lucy. “It’s you. We shan’t meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?”

“But you shall meet me, dear one,” said Aslan.

“Are—are you there too, Sir?” said Edmund.

“I am,” said Aslan. “But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.”

–Voyage of the Dawn Treader, pages 215-216

- everyone who was brought to narnia, and then sent back, had a super specific purpose. aslan wanted them to live on earth, and find meaning in their lives there. he wanted them to look for him there.

- we don’t know if susan tried to look for aslan on earth. we only have eustace, jill and polly’s word for that, and as stated above, they are unreliable.

- susan did live on earth, and she tried to make a life for herself, and she made it her home and “[came] close” to it. she probably missed narnia, despite what she said to the three gossips. but she didn’t spend her life pining after something she could never have.

- aslan told the others to live lives in their own world, and to look for him there. and what did they do? spent the rest of there lives wanting nothing more but to go back to narnia.

- aslan told them to look for him on earth, and they didn’t do that. their eyes were focused on another world.

- now aslan was responsible for pulling them back to narnia one last time, but it probably wasn’t meant as a reward. they were pulled back to narnia because they failed. they were brought back because aslan realised that they were never going to do what he wanted them to do, they were never going to look for him there, and so he just “bit the bullet and gave them what they wanted”.

- in the end, it looks less like susan deserted narnia, and more like she was the only one of them who did what aslan wanted her to do.

⠀

and edmund! credit goes to @softlyblues , from weeds spring high, and @quecksilvereyes , from Putting the Gentle Queen Back Into Her Own Narrative, A Suggestion In Ten Parts

- this analysis is directed at the viewpoint that “edmund is a traitor and betrayed them all for sweets”, and while that is true (to a certain extent), there are some certain points made (below)

“I’m not a very good person,” Edmund says, looking up at the clouds.

(He’s thirteen at this point.)

“You’re thirteen,” Susan says sensibly. Sensible Susan with her sensible shoes.

Edmund does that snotty breath that young boys are often wont to do when they think they might cry, breathing a whole cloud of stuff in through his nose. “Father Christmas didn’t give me a gift,” he says, all wet and damp. “You got two. Luce got - you know. Peter got Rhindon. I got to be Edmund the Betrayer.”

“You were eleven,” Susan says. Sensibly.

Her brother looks to the sky and she can see how shiny his eyes are. His cheeks have freckled in the summer. “I’m not anymore and I don’t feel any different to how I did then. What if I’m not any better? What if we go back and I do the same thing again?”

But privately, Susan thinks there isn’t much wrong with being cold and trusting a woman who says she will warm you up, who offers you treats to eat and drink and makes sure your fingers won’t freeze of frostbite. Susan thinks there isn’t much wrong with being eleven and upset that you’ve been sent away from your home, away from your parents. Not much wrong with being eleven and wondering if you’ll still have a house left to come back to.

Aslan used to be someone you couldn’t help but disappoint.

–weeds spring high, by softlyblue on ao3

and

VII. Perhaps then, finally, I can look at the lion and tell it what I think of its inaction in the face of genocide, its inaction in the face of its people starving and dying away. Maybe then I can tell it that a nine year old boy who misses his parents like the food he’s starving for, who hasn’t had sweets in a year didn’t deserve to be called a traitor because he was upset and hurt and a Witch spelled him.

–Putting the Gentle Queen Back Into Her Own Narrative, A Suggestion In Ten Parts, by Quecksilver_Eyes on ao3

- i’m not sure i even have to say much after those two excerpts, but i will say this

-imagine this. you’re lonely. you’re tired. you’ve been sent away from your parents, and you miss them you miss them you miss them. you’re surviving on war rations. you’re criticized by your siblings. when you enter this new world, you’re all alone. you’re cold. your sister, who went in with you, is gone. you’ve been left alone. again.

- and then, a woman. a kind, gentle, beautiful woman. she gives you food to eat and a warm drink. you’re warm. finally. you haven’t had anything this nice to eat since before the war. you barely remember that.

- in the end, it all comes down to this: you’re cold and hungry and tired and you miss your parents so much it hurts and there’s a kind woman who offers you food and drink and warmth and love, and so of course you accept, because what else would you do?

⠀

on numbers (credit to @nothinggold13 ) (post found here):

- in the bible, the number 7 means completion. this has direct parallels in the bible and narnia: 7 churches, 7 lampstands (bible) and in narnia, 7 books (although out of world rather than in-world) and the 7 friends of narnia. and so 7 is completion.

- but that leads you to think- what about susan?

- with susan, the 7 friends of narnia would have become 8.

- and do you know what the number 8 means in the bible? do you?

- new beginnings. resurrection. regeneration. new life.

- susan is the 8th. there is a hope and a plan for her.

- “Yes, the Seven stand in completion, but after the end, God makes all things new.”

that's all, folks! will update if i spot any more analysis!

[vixxscifiwritings]

lilac melancholy

Length - 4590 words

Characters - Hongbin x Sanghyuk, VIXX Ensemble

Rating - Teen and Up

Summary - Sanghyuk wonders bitterly if he has loved Hongbin or if he has regretted him longer.

Tag List -  @tomatoholmes @merlionmen @seraphistols  @k-craze-97 @blossomtearsleo

-

01

The days that pass by are drowsy, packed with heat and the roaring noise of factory machines from the mills three blocks over. The posters peel off the electricity pole, revealing the maroon red rusting beneath. A single touch would result in your skin burning from the ferrous substrate.

The power is gone once again, like it usually was during the afternoons. Hongbin watches as Sanghyuk flips through the pages of the copy of Sputnik Sweetheart , stolen from his older brother’s bookshelf. Sanghyuk is too young to understand these stories, his brother insists. What does a thirteen year old know of people feeling melancholy and emptiness from unrequited love and unattachment?

Hongbin likes to think that he knows. There is a far away look in his eyes now, an emptiness inside him ever since his mother finally up and left. His father abandons all pretenses of the family being together and stops coming home entirely that one fateful night in April. At fifteen, Hongbin understands melancholy and loneliness in ways Sanghyuk’s brother thinks Sanghyuk won’t.

“You’re doing that thinking thing again” Sanghyuk points out and Hongbin hums. It is June now and it is far too hot for Hongbin to sling his arms around Sanghyuk’s waist and bury his face in his shoulder to hide the emotions that are always on display on his face. He hates that the most about himself even if he feels safe enough in Sanghyuk’s presence.

“It’ll be good if you thought in a while too” Hongbin retorts, letting the sassy facade take over. How many times can he be sad about the same things till Sanghyuk gives up on consoling him?

“Are you thinking about your mother?”

“What makes you say that?”

“It was her birthday yesterday. I saw you looking at the calendar you have hidden away under your mattress” Sanghyuk confesses. His voice is still high pitched and hasn’t grown deep the way Hongbin’s has. In his childlike voice, everything sounds naive and innocent and Hongbin always forgives him for it. There is not much room to hide secrets in this sixteen by twenty feet room they share.

“It’s okay to miss her,” Sanghyuk adds, putting his arm around Hongbin’s waist. Hongbin turns to his left to look at Sanghyuk. His face is only a few inches from his own and his gaze is steady, searching for the answers to the complex maze of emotions that Hongbin himself does not have.

“I don’t want to miss her. Not when everyone knows she doesn’t miss me” Hongbin says. It’s commendable that the anger and bitterness he has kept bottled up doesn’t explode vehemently into those lines. The feelings flood his mind every time the topic is brought up and Hongbin does his best to stop the flow of emotions with the success of duct tape holding together a pipe bursting at its seams.

“Okay” Sanghyuk says. His actions are different from his words because he pulls Hongbin in and holds him and lets Hongbin bury his face in Sanghyuk’s neck like he always does. He kisses the back of Hongbin’s head and pats his back and lets Hongbin intertwine his legs with his own and holds him despite the stuffy heat. The sun shines angrily on the dry ground outside but Hongbin thinks he only has a grey misty sky clouding his mind.

“Will you leave me when you grow up?” Hongbin asks Sanghyuk. Sanghyuk’s brother will leave in September. He’ll go to a reputed college on the other side of the country and that will be one more person in his found family who does not come back home regularly.

“You’re older than me. You’ll be the one who leaves first” Sanghyuk reminds him.

“Kiss me” Hongbin asks in lieu of replying. Those are demons he harbours for darker days. Hongbin is selfish that way. He will hold onto whatever he can for however long he has it because he knows nothing lasts. The old yellowing wedding card promising eternal love and happiness that his father hides in his closet is proof that nothing lasts.

But when he feels Sanghyuk’s lips on his own the static in his mind drops to a quiet hum. Sanghyuk is skinny and his body feels bony under Hongbin’s small fingers. Sanghyuk hovers over him and his weight is a pleasant distraction from the world. The way Hongbin calls Sanghyuk’s name when he runs his fingers through his hair is a rhythmic metronome that is spoken in hushed tones to keep his dependency on Sanghyuk’s affection a secret from the rest of the world.

Sanghyuk falls asleep in Hongbin’s arms but when he wakes up, Hongbin is not in his room. His brother tells him that he went home and comments on how odd it is and how Hongbin should move in with them properly instead of staying in that lonely apartment. Sanghyuk nods but knows Hongbin won’t return for a few more days.

Sanghyuk doesn’t see him for days following moments like the one they shared earlier today. It happened the first time they kissed and the second and the third. It will happen again tomorrow. Maybe Sanghyuk will see him by the field, playing football with Wonshik and inviting him to join the game like nothing has happened. Or maybe hanging out at the cafe in the mall because the part timer there has a soft spot for him and always gives him free milkshakes. Sanghyuk doesn’t know.

He tries not to think about it and goes back to reading.

-

02

If there is one part about growing up that Sanghyuk thinks he will never get used to, it’s the parties. He likes people but he doesn’t like dozens of them stuffed into tiny spaces that reek of smoke and cheap shitty alcohol that is more likely to cause nausea over intoxication. He draws his jacket close and finds a chair by the kitchen’s island counter to sit on.

It’s the premium view to everyone else’s bad decisions. Sanghyuk regrets not bringing his earphones along (he swears they should be in the pocket of his jacket). He makes peace with listening to whatever indie song is playing in the background. Or whatever is audible of it over the incessant chattering of the crowd.

“Leather looks good on you,” Hongbin says, materializing out of nowhere to grab a cup of the fruit punch that has definitely been spiked.

“Thanks,” Sanghyuk says, pulling on the cuff. The leather jacket is an old jacket that his father almost throws out but Sanghyuk sneaks back in. It has cracks around the elbow where it has been bent up and two yellow stripes on the right sleeve but he doesn’t know what that signifies. He likes to think it’s a cult of sorts. The allure of being part of an underground secret society is always high.

“Kinda short for your normal sleeves,” Hongbin says, tugging on the part of Sanghyuk’s overshirt that peeks through from the jacket. It’s dark blue and not visible in the dim purple lights till you really go looking. His father was shorter than him whenever he got this jacket but Sanghyuk knows Hongbin is not interested in explanations. Sanghyuk focuses on the way the rough skin of his fingers feel against his softer skin. Hongbin has rough hands from all the chores he does on his own and lack of belief in hand creams that Sanghyuk’s baby sister rubs on his hands during tea parties insisting he keep them soft.

Hongbin focuses on looking at Jaehwan across the room. Jaehwan who has blonde hair now and is leaning against the wall while laughing at something someone from the football team said. Sanghyuk doesn’t know the name of the dude but he isn’t interested in finding out. Even while Hongbin asks after Sanghyuk’s family and school life, his eyes stray towards that corner of the room.

When Jaehwan returns his gaze and smiles at Hongbin, Hongbin smiles in a way his dimples appear. He has one of those faces. The kind you would see on magazines on the racks of newspaper stands at bus stops. The black eyeliner enhances his brown eyes and Sanghyuk thinks that all Hongbin is missing is a pretty nude shade lipstick. Though lipsticks do nothing except spread inconveniently when being kissed. Or so he has been told.

He hasn’t kissed Hongbin since the summer where he was fourteen but the urge never really goes away.

“I think I should go get a refill,” Hongbin says when Jaehwan walks over. Sanghyuk shrugs and Hongbin makes a beeline for the punch the same time Jaehwan appears by the island counter. Jaehwan is only here to chaperone his younger brother who is throwing the party, Sanghyuk gathers from the bits of conversation filtering through. The music is too loud for indoor voices to be heard. Hongbin is here just because Wonshik wanted to get drunk. Sanghyuk doesn’t need to eavesdrop to know that.

He taps out when the conversation progresses. He finds Wonshik who is truly wasted and is glad someone out of the three in this friend group is getting what they want out of the night. Sanghyuk wonders if it is a fair standard of evaluation if he started the night without knowing what he wanted. He looks towards Hongbin who is laughing at a weird face Jaehwan is making and adds a thought about unrealistic wants and needs.

It’s stupid. Hongbin is nineteen but is as unreachable as someone who would be twenty five. Hongbin is too pretty for him. Too smart, too pretty and too witty. They have too much history. And now Hongbin is kissing Jaehwan and is definitely not in love with Sanghyuk the way Sanghyuk is in love with him.

Wonshik pouts at Sanghyuk and leans forward till his head rests on Sanghyuk’s shoulder. Wonshik is only an inch taller. In a year or two, Sanghyuk is confident he will outgrow the other man. “I wish they wouldn’t suck faces in public” Wonshik grimaces when he follows Sanghyuk’s line of vision. Sanghyuk looks away and tugs his jacket closer. Maybe it is too short for him after all since it cannot afford the comfort of sleeve paws the way sweaters can. Maybe he should get a new jacket. Or maybe Sanghyuk should have just stayed at home.

Wonshik has a ride home and waves Sanghyuk off when he leaves the party. He makes his way to the bus stop at the end of the block and sits down. The party music is a hum in the background and the cold air is sobering. Sanghyuk weighs his options. He can go home and read for the rest of the night or walk to the arcade five blocks away and blow the rest of his pocket money and see if he can earn enough tickets to buy himself the badly stitched teddy bears they sell.

Hongbin likes those teddy bears. He’ll lie and say no if you ask him and spout bullshit about how they just represent the principle of winning that he loves so much. But he is a sucker for cute things and Sanghyuk knows from the way his eyes lit up when Sanghyuk won a brown teddy bear and threw it at him last summer. He has a small version threaded into the metal ring that acts as a keychain.

Sanghyuk thinks that he should stop thinking.

One year. Just a year, he tells himself. Then he’ll be off to university and he will meet other people and he might even discover that he doesn’t actually like dimples or brown eyes or rough hands so much. One more year and he won’t be haunted by the unrequited feelings that seem to grow stronger instead of fading against all laws of the universe and logic.

Sanghyuk treks back home and thinks he should worry about saving up for a second hand car or actually passing that stupid driver’s test. He finds his earphones tangled with the fabric of the inner pocket of his jacket once he reaches home and he laughs at the bad luck of his timing.

-

03

Hongbin doesn’t realise that he has gotten used to the loneliness that comes from Sanghyuk’s absence.

He calls during the first year of university. Hongbin thinks Sanghyuk’s voice on the phone sounds very different from the way it sounds in real life. It sounds deeper and grave in ways Hongbin doesn’t remember. Sanghyuk has always been wise beyond his years. Maybe he thrives in the real world with the same grown up concerns that Hongbin does not like grappling with.

Then Sanghyuk gets an email id because it is useful and sends emails instead of calling. The letters are short and really Hongbin is shit at keeping in touch because he doesn’t have anyone else who tries. Wonshik has always been in the same town and Sanghyuk has always been around to the point that Hongbin took his presence for granted. He never thought Sanghyuk would ever go away like his brother did.

The emails come once a week and then once a month and finally on holidays and only contain generic good wishes.

Until Wonshik shows up at his door with Sanghyuk in tow,carrying a small duffle bag filled with clothes and essentials. It’s just for a week while Wonshik’s studio gets renovated, he assures him. Sanghyuk only needs a couch to crash on for a week and he can move back in with Wonshik for the rest of winter till he has to go back to university for his final semester. Hongbin didn’t even know that Sanghyuk was in town and he used to know every secret once upon a time. He doesn’t know why he isn’t staying with his family and he doesn’t know if he can ask.

“You can stay as long as you need,” Hongbin says, offering to make coffee for everyone. Wonshik denies the offer. He needs to leave first and look over the renovation work on his studio.

Sanghyuk looks nothing like Hongbin remembers him. He is taller than Wonshik by a few inches and his voice is deeper. His shoulders are broad and the large overshirts he wears only accentuate them. He took to working out when they still talked on the phone. He must definitely be more muscular too. Gone is the lanky teenager in his father;s old leather jacket that Hongbin remembers. Instead Sanghyuk is an adult who looks more mature than he should for the young age of twenty one.

“I didn’t think you read Hemingway” Sanghyuk says, picking up a copy of Farewell To Arms that’s lying on the coffee table.

“It isn’t my book. Taekwoon tends to leave behind whatever he is reading at the moment” Hongbin tells him. Taekwoon does that a lot. Forgetting things at Hongbin’s place and coming back for them weeks later when he is finally free enough to spend the night. It’s a peaceful arrangement for their unlabelled relationship. If he can even call it a relationship.

“Are you sure Taekwoon doesn’t mind me staying over?” Sanghyuk asks.

“Taekwoon doesn’t live here. Not fully anyways. And if anything, he would be happy to meet another bookworm” Hongbin shrugs.

“He’ll be disappointed. It’s been a while since I didn’t read a book to write a critique or a report on it” Sanghyuk says ruefully.

He flips through the pages till he finds the section he was looking for and folds up his legs to read comfortably. Sanghyuk spends the next two days voraciously reading through the books Taekwoon has left behind. He doesn’t talk more than necessary. It snows on the third morning that Sanghyuk stays over and they exchange remarks about the weather. Hongbin opens up a bottle of wine on Christmas eve and Sanghyuk accompanies him wordlessly.

He prefers white wine, Hongbin supposes when Sanghyuk downs the entire contents of his glass and grimaces at the after taste. He has grown to tolerate the taste of mushrooms and no longer separates them out of the microwaveable pasta meal that Hongbin makes. He prefers typing on his laptop to writing in notebooks, he gathers when he sees Sanghyuk tapping away on the kitchen table with a mug full of coffee next to him. It’s the ‘World’s Best Mom’ mug that Taekwoon left behind that Hongbin finds supremely ugly but it matches Sanghyuk’s presence. Unconnected but a lone puzzle piece that sits as the centerpiece in the void of Hongbin’s life.

Sanghyuk doesn’t smoke, Hongbin finds when they are lying on Hongbin’s bed in his bedroom and Sanghyuk denies the offer. Never took a liking to it, Sanghyuk confesses. Hongbin listens to a vinyl that Wonshik gifted him two years ago for his birthday and Sanghyuk says nothing about the 80s music. He thumbs through the earmarked pages of a collection of poems by T S Elliot.

“Taekwoon must really like classics” Sanghyuk deduces. There are very few books on the coffee table but Sanghyuk is intimately acquainted with them in ways Hongbin isn’t.

“He’s a sucker for them. Also likes Murakami the way you did in high school” Hongbin answers. He doesn’t get the appeal for reading. He doesn’t have the talent of losing himself in the written word that Taekwoon and Sanghyuk do. He doesn’t even know if he should envy them for the easily available method of escaping the dreary world around them.

“He has good taste” Sanghyuk compliments him.

“It’s a shame that you couldn’t meet him on this visit. He’s off celebrating Christmas with his family.”

“There will be many days in the future,” Sanghyuk says lazily. The way he turns the other way and avoids looking at Hongbin tells him that the other days will not come any time soon. Hongbin thinks of the emails in his inbox that he merely glances over and never knows how to reply to and doesn’t blame Sanghyuk.

If only he didn’t have to leave tomorrow. If only he could stay.

When Hongbin puts his arm around Sanghyuk’s waist and closes his eyes, he pretends he has the right to ask him to stay and that Sanghyuk won’t be gone the morning after. He’ll only be a few streets down the road in Wonshik’s studio till spring comes and he might even visit if he stops being a coward that only regrets and never acts.

His waist is broader than Taekwoon’s and Hongbin keeps that comparison in mind for days after when Taekwoon finally comes to visit and Hongbin hugs him to kiss him. Everything is back to normal now that Sanghyuk is gone once again but the world feels displaced out of orbit by the knowledge of what Hongbin is missing.

-

04

“I met Sanghyuk” Wonshik says, running his hands through his hair. He adjusts his chair for the fifteenth time since the conversation has started, much to the displeasure of the lady at the table over, trying to read the newspaper in peace.

“That… is sudden” Hongbin says, swirling the creamer into his coffee. Hongbin has known that Wonshik was seeing someone for a while now but doesn’t know who till the confession. Now there is a name that Hongbin hasn’t heard in years. A person he couldn’t live without once but has not talked to in four years. Is he allowed to miss him after never keeping in touch?

“He’s back for good this time” Wonshik tells him. “He’s going to teach at our old middle school. He’s weirded out by the idea of being colleagues with his old teachers. Did you know Mrs Kim is still teaching math after all these years? I thought she was over sixty when we were kids.”

Wonshik rambles on and Hongbin pays him no thought. Sanghyuk’s name brings up memories and feelings that it shouldn’t. Hongbin wonders if he has gotten any taller or if his voice is still deeper than he remembers and if he signs off emails with regards.

“We should have dinner together sometime,” Hongbin says when Wonshik finally stops.

“I’ll text him. You can’t bail like you did last time though” Wonshik warns. Hongbin flinches at the warning and offers an apologetic smile. Wonshik frowns at him. “It’s been a while since the three of us got time to hang out. It has literally been years since we properly spent time together.”

“Well, I’m not the one that shifted towns and lost touch, am I?” Hongbin says out loud without meaning to.

Wonshik’s expression softens and he shifts again awkwardly. Hongbin and Sanghyuk’s estrangement as they grew older when Wonshik once thought they were in love with each other as teenagers is a development he never addresses because he knows it wasn’t his place to. Realistically speaking, he can’t be friends with both people and skirt around the issue forever. A decade is a miracle on that count.

“I’m sorry. I just… Will you text Sanghyuk and set dinner up?” Hongbin apologizes. His pleasant facade is back and Wonshik knows he will never see his true feelings about the issue again. The bitterness is real in a way most of Hongbin’s actions aren’t. And it gives him hope to salvage this friendship. Wonshik doesn’t fancy losing friends as he grows older when he only has so many to begin with.

“It’s okay to say you missed him, you know? I missed him too” Wonshik says without the expectations of acknowledgement or responses. Hongbin hums in the way people do when lying about agreeing with something a child says. Wonshik knows Hongbin is complicated and he doesn’t expect him to resolve his feelings any time soon.

“I wonder if he likes moving back to town after living in a big city all these years” Hongbin deflects. He hasn’t acknowledged his feelings in the four years since he last saw Sanghyuk and he isn’t about to start now. Any moments of weakness like the one earlier will not be repeated again.

It takes two bottles of soju only for Hongbin to mess up. Wonshik drags the two of them to a tent bar that sells a variety of rice cakes along with cheap soju and beer and Hongbin agrees despite the lack of fried chicken. It’s a Friday night and the three of them drink the night away and laugh at Sanghyuk’s stories from his earlier teaching days. Stories that range from innocent but hilarious spelling mistakes in answer papers to outrageous pranks that Sanghyuk personally admires but must punish as a teacher.

A laughing and happy Sanghyuk is better than the sad young man who spent a week on Hongbin’s couch, not talking to him about the troubles weighing on his mind. Happiness suits him in ways melancholy never did. Hongbin thinks his skin shines and his eyes twinkle and Sanghyuk must know this because he catches Hongbin looking at him and looks at him with such pity in his eyes. Sanghyuk pities him and Hongbin feels pathetic about feeling happy that he feels something.

And so Hongbin leans on his arm all the way home even after they drop Wonshik off at his apartment. He leans on his arm and holds onto it like a drowning sailor holding onto a lifebuoy so they don’t drown. And he tells Sanghyuk about how his hair is soft and shiny and his nose is a tiny button and he cannot help but lean up and graze his lips against it. Sanghyuk laughs and calls him drunk but lets him bask in his warmth because Sanghyuk is his puzzle piece that fits with his odd edges, even if he will never say those words out loud.

Sanghyuk is surprisingly strong because he hauls Hongbin up to his feet and all the way to his apartment. Hongbin kisses him on his cheeks and thanks him for taking him home while laughing about… about something. He doesn’t know what it is that triggers his giggling fit but something does and Hongbin exclaims at Sanghyuk who is ready to drop him on his butt in front of his door if he doesn’t get his keys out soon. He exclaims at him and kisses him on his lips when he has his attention and this is why alcohol is terrible for you really. All of this is a regret in waiting for the morning after.

Sanghyuk stumbles on his way down the stairs in a way that makes it look like he never learnt how to walk. His cheeks are warm where Hongbin kissed him and his lips tingle in the way they do after eating something extremely spicy. He leans against the pole of the lamp post and sighs when the tingling doesn’t go away. He thinks of how he will hide this from Hakyeon.

It’s so easy to say nothing but a part of him vehemently protests about deceiving Hakyeon when Sanghyuk knows his residual feelings for Hongbin still linger. He should love his boyfriend more than the old flame who kissed him in the hallway. He shouldn’t have to remind himself that he loves Hakyeon and not Hongbin. Hakyeon is the one waiting for the text that says he got home safely and didn’t drink too much and he really shouldn’t let Wonshik drag him out on school nights. Not Hongbin, who Sanghyuk just dropped home, drunk out of his mind and still as complicated at thirty as he was at thirteen.

Sanghyuk really hates Hongbin more on nights like these.

“I don’t know what to do” he confesses to Hakyeon weeks after they break up. His feelings for Hongbin have always been a vine that grips his heart. He knows he cannot be rid of them without significant pain and hurt and so like a coward, he lets it fester because he knows he can ignore them forever. The roots dig into the walls of his heart and make him bleed and he bleeds because he is the biggest coward to exist on this planet.

“You do what your heart tells you is the right thing” is all Hakyeon says. He’s disappointed and it’s more than Sanghyuk deserves after everything Sanghyuk has just told Hakyeon. Hakyeon who is all gentle smiles and understanding and who Sanghyuk is grateful to even if it must end this way.

“Loving Hongbin is dangerous. He hurts you and nothing comes out of it and then he hurts you some more” Sanghyuk tells Hakyeon. Hongbin hasn’t called or texted after that night. Sanghyuk hasn’t either but its only because he knows Hongbin hates confronting his own feelings. He breaks hearts before his own can be broken and Sanghyuk thinks limbo of not knowing is better than definite pain.

“I don’t think you have it in you to stop,” Hakyeon says. His words would hurt if Sanghyuk didn’t feel tormented enough already. He sighs because he has no words and Hakyeon shifts the topic to other things that don’t matter in the moment and keeps the chatter up till it is no longer awkward to end the phone call.

When the call ends, Sanghyuk brings up his messaging app and stares at Hongbin’s number and watches the bubbles appear and disappear in the messages window.  As always, no texts follow and Sanghyuk leaves his phone on the nightstand because he should know better than to have hope.

Sanghyuk wonders bitterly if he has loved Hongbin or if he has regretted him longer.

-

[rosedavid]

I honestly don’t know how I wrote this much, but it just happened. 

Tyrus ‘what if’ oneshot based on these lines: “I’m sorry.” // “I was probably deluding myself anyway.”

Tag list: @swingsetsandmuffins @chlarkthe1st @turtle0verl0rd

Why does it hurt so much?

Cyrus asks himself this question a lot nowadays. When TJ’s text notifications light up his phone, when he spots TJ standing at his locker between classes, when TJ sits with Kira during lunch. Every time, a lump forms in his throat and unshed tears burn his eyes. His friends tell him to stop wasting his energy on TJ, that he doesn’t deserve Cyrus anyway. So Cyrus tries to ignore him and pretend like everything is okay. Somedays, he wakes up and thinks that today will be the day that he feels like normal again. He’ll be able to walk right past TJ without even noticing him. That day still hasn’t come. 

Of course, Buffy and Andi have noticed the subtle changes in Cyrus’s mood. Although he’s admittedly much better than right after costume day, when he went and cried into his pillow in his room, he still feels a hole in his life. He smiles a little less and laughs a little quieter. More often than not, he’ll reject hanging out with his friends unless they’re at someone’s house because he worries he might run into TJ.

Due to these changes, convincing him to come to The Spoon after school is a difficult feat.

“Come on, Cy, it will be fun,” Andi prods. “Don’t you miss baby taters?”

“Not when my parents can get takeout and bring them home to me.”

Buffy decides to chime in next. “I know you’re still hurting, but you can’t let TJ ruin things for you! He’s not worth it. Please come, you know the two of us would never let anything bad happen.”

Cyrus knows she’s right. With everything going on in their lives recently, they all deserve a nice day to relax. He looks at his best friends who eagerly wait for his response. Finally, Cyrus let’s out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Yeah, you’re right. And I’m sorry I’ve been so out of whack this week.”

“You lost a good friend, of course you’re out of whack. Besides, I think all of us are struggling with stuff right now,” Andi sighs, placing her head in her hands. Buffy nods in agreement.

A good friend.

Why does it hurt so much?

Deep down, Cyrus knows the answer. He just doesn’t want to admit it because if he does, everything will change for the worse. The special moments between them, the words of encouragement, and lingering touches will mean more; therefore, the heartbreak, the sense of betrayal, all of it will be stronger. So he pushes it back.

At one point in time, Cyrus did have hope. In fact, TJ asking him to do the somersault costume gave him the most hope of all. He felt wanted and perhaps even special. Then, it all came crashing down.

Despite everything that TJ has put him through, Cyrus can’t bring himself to despise him. He can’t even bring himself to be indifferent about TJ. Instead, all he feels is sad and lonely, and he hates himself for it. He still has Andi and Buffy and Jonah here for him, but TJ always filled a different part of his life. Now, that part of his life is an empty chasm.

The remainder of school drags on. The only thing that makes it go faster is that Cyrus doesn’t see TJ once. Nevertheless, lately he fixates on the other boy whenever his mind is wandering. Once school finally does end, he gets excited to hang out with his friends and distract him. Whenever he’s around them, they make him happy.

“Hope you’re hungry for baby taters,” Andi says as they walk to their typical booth in The Spoon.

Cyrus chuckles. “Always. Don’t forget the milkshakes.”

Buffy grins, sliding in beside him. “So, you guys will never believe what happened today in biology…”

That gets them started. Cyrus finds himself not even thinking about TJ.

The bell above the door chimes. That’s when everything goes wrong.

At first, Cyrus pays them no attention, his back to the door. Then, he notices Andi’s face drop at the same time rambunctious laughter starts up. He turns his head toward the front of the diner. It’s some of the members from the boys’ basketball team, and of course that includes TJ and Kira. Are they ever apart? Buffy turns to look as well, face turning into a sneer immediately.

“Don’t worry about them, Cyrus. Just ignore them.”

Cyrus hears Buffy’s voice in the back of his mind, but he’s more concentrated on TJ. This is the closest the other boy has been to him in a long time. He can almost make out the freckles along his cheeks. Then, TJ catches his eyes. Blue lock onto green. Cyrus can’t make himself look away. TJ swallows, opening his mouth slightly as if to speak.

“Oh look, we found the loser table,” Kira taunts, pointing at them. Beside her, TJ says nothing. He drops his mouth closed, eyes moving down toward his feet.

Cyrus can’t deal with this any longer. He rises from his seat, pushing past everyone to go straight out the door. This time, he can’t prevent the tears from leaking out. Seeing him right there with Kira, so close yet so far, it hurt too much. He didn’t even do anything, like he didn’t care. Did he ever care?

“Wait! Cyrus!” Andi calls after him.

He keeps going, not sure where he’s headed. All he knows is he needs to get as far away from TJ as possible. His feet carry him farther and farther, vision blurry from tears and breath short. He still hears footsteps behind him, signifying Buffy and Andi following him.

He’s at the park. This is where everything with TJ started, so it’s only fair it should end here, too. Cyrus can’t bring himself to sit on the swings, so instead, he heads for a bench nearby. Soon, Andi and Buffy come into sight, both wearing sorrowful expressions. They sit down, as well, sandwiching him between them.

“Are you okay?” Andi asks.

Cyrus laughs bitterly. “It just hurts, seeing TJ there with her. It reminds me that he chose her over me. I can’t even blame him! Most boys would’ve chosen her.”

He kicks at the dirt beneath his feet, trying to calm down. His tears slow but refuse to stop completely. Meanwhile, Andi and Buff wrap an arm around him to pull him into a side hug.

His breath hitches. “The worst part isn’t even that I liked him, it’s that I thought he was starting to like me back.”

With the gentlest voice he’s ever heard from her, Buffy whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“I was probably deluding myself anyway,” Cyrus admits with a sniffle.

It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts

Suddenly, Andi and Buffy tense up beside him. Cyrus brings his head up and pales. He starts to make a move to leave in a hurry. His friends seem to agree with him, following in his footsteps. That’s when TJ speaks.

“Please, wait,” he begs, voice gritty. Cyrus realizes this is the first time TJ has said one word to him since costume day.

“Come on, let’s just go,” Andi urges, but something compels Cyrus to stand his ground.

“Why should I?” He questions. “After everything you’ve done, why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

TJ steps closer. “Just let me explain, please. After that, you don’t have to talk to me ever again if that’s what you want.”

For a split second, Cyrus considers just walking away and not listening to what he has to say, but he can’t. Something seems different about TJ, and not in a good way. Even though they haven’t been talking for a long time, Cyrus knows him. He’s acting off. Maybe it will make things worse, but Cyrus decides that he at least needs some kind of answer.

“Ok.”

“What are you doing, Cyrus?” Buffy worries.

Cyrus turns and smiles slightly at her. “It’s alright, I promise. Wait for me over there?”

The two of them cast him lingering glances before they warily walk away to give them privacy. Cyrus collapses onto the bench. TJ perches on the opposite end. The space feels greater than ever before.

“I miss you,” TJ sputters out.

The desperation in his words make Cyrus want to forgive him then and there, but this time won’t be so easy. “Why did you do it, TJ? Why did you abandon me?”

“I didn’t want to! I was really excited to do our costume, but I just…I couldn’t.”

Cyrus throws his hands up. “That’s not an explanation TJ! Do you know how hard this has been for me? Seeing her with you all the time, knowing that you chose her, it makes me feel like you never really cared about me.”

“That’s not true, I swear!”

“You made me feel special,” Cyrus says, voice cracking. “For once, I didn’t feel like the second choice. But I guess, in the end, I was.”

“You never were, Cyrus,” TJ promises. “I shouldn’t have abandoned you on costume day. I’m a horrible person, but I would never choose Kira over you.”

“You already did.”

“She didn’t leave me any choice!” He shouts. “She didn’t…I had to.”

This throws Cyrus off. “What are you talking about, TJ?”

“I’m a coward, okay? I’m a huge coward. The way she said it just set me off. I couldn’t risk it.”

“Risk what?” Cyrus asks, feeling more and more concerned.

Beside him, TJ is close to hyperventilating. He has tear tracks on his cheeks and runs a hand through his already tousled hair. He looks so unguarded, unlike anything Cyrus has ever seen from him, even when he was coming to terms with his dyscalculia.

Cyrus scoots closer so their shoulders just barely brush. “Hey, you can tell me anything.”

“I don’t want you to hate me,” He murmurs.

“Honestly, I don’t think I could ever hate you,” Cyrus admits. “Even after the whole costume debacle, I tried so hard to hate you, but I just couldn’t.”

TJ brings up a hand and wipes it over his face. His fingers clutch a bundle of his hoodie. After debating with himself for a moment, Cyrus places his hand on TJ’s shoulder. This movement causes TJ to startle and glance up. Cyrus flashes him a gentle smile.

“Kira, she said it was weird of me to be doing a costume with you instead of her,” TJ explains, “and the way she said it…it sounded like she was implying something that I wasn’t ready for people to know.”

A beat of silence.  

“I’m gay.”

Cyrus tugs him into a hug. His heartbeat pounds against his chest. TJ exhales shakily into his hair, causing Cyrus to grip him tighter. Neither of them moves for a while, but finally Cyrus pulls back as he has something to say.

“Thank you for telling me. You’re no different, TJ,” Cyrus emphasizes, remembering back to when he first came out to Buffy. “I just can’t believe Kira did that! I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry for putting you through all of this.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I understand now.”

The two of them move closer as if they’re being pulled by magnets. Cyrus has never been this close to TJ before. He can almost count the individual freckles on his face. He sees the flecks of gold sparkling in his green eyes.

“There’s one more thing, though,” TJ stammers. “Another reason why Kira made me so nervous. She also insinuated that not only would I rather do a costume with a boy over a girl, but that I’d rather do a costume with you specifically because I kind of really like you, Underdog.”

A blush tints Cyrus’s face. “I kind of really like you too, Teej.”

He places a hand on the side of TJ’s face, grinning. He grins back. They both lean in at the same time, closing the small distance between them. TJ’s lips are soft and warm and taste like mint chapstick. They kiss only for a second, but it sends tingles racing through Cyrus’s body. When they separate, they accidentally bump noses and giggle.

All the sudden, they hear gasps from nearby. It’s Andi and Buffy, both standing there with wide eyes and slack jaws.

“What the—” Buffy frowns, tilting her head. “I don’t understand.”

Andi agrees, a dazed look on her face. “Me neither.”

Cyrus glances up at TJ, waiting to see his response. To his surprise, he doesn’t look angry or upset. In fact, he appears joyful. Leaning back Cyrus lets him take the lead in this.

TJ starts, “Well, it’s a long story…”

[tigstripe]

Tig I love your Olivarry stuff so much. This bitch is sick on 4th of July so how about a sick fic?

(I know, I know, you’re probably not sick anymore, but hey! Keep it in your back pocket for the next time you feel a little blue~)

Barry was in a panic. 

The thermometer read well into the “feverish” zone, and Oliver was flushed, with haggard breathing. He went out on patrol the night before, and had come into contact with…something. Barry wasn’t sure what. But by the time he’d arrived for their lunch date, Oliver had yet to send a text or call, which was very unlike him. So, with mild concern, Barry checked in on him, only to find him shivering and burning up in bed. 

“It looks like the flu,” Barry muttered, scanning Oliver once more, “but with Ollie’s travel records, there’s no telling how strong his immune system is. He could be dealing with some long-dormant exotic tick fever from Lian Yu, or undetectable immune deficiency from his time in Nanda Parbat.” He paced the bedroom, his eyes trained on Oliver’s pallid form, as Caitlin analyzed a blood sample through a microscope nearby. 

When Barry panics, he panics.

“It’s the flu,” Caitlin said simply, pulling back from the device. “I’m not seeing anything in his bloodwork or vitals to signify otherwise.” 

Barry rounded on her, his eyes wild. “Undetectable.” 

Caitlin gave him a dead stare, which brought him back from some incensed edge. “If you’re going to hypothesize with insanity, I’m leaving.” 

“No, no, no. Please.” Barry shrunk away from her, shoving his hands into his pockets and averting his eyes. “I don’t know how to take care of other people when they’re sick.”

“Specific medications and hydration will keep his fever from becoming dangerous,” Caitlin replied, scribbling something onto a notepad. “Liquids only for today – chicken stock, Gatorade, that kind of stuff. Keep his sodium up.” She handed him the notepad. “Here’s some basic instructions.” 

Barry gratefully took the pad and read it over a few times. It all seemed very straightforward. “How long do you think he’ll be like this?” he asked. 

“Depends on his immune system,” Caitlin said with a shrug. “Could be over by tonight, could last a week, or more. Oh.” She reached down and handed Barry an empty plastic bin. “He’ll probably need this at least once before this is over.”

Barry took the bin and stared at it like it was made of goo. “Oh.” 

Somewhat amused, Caitlin crossed her arms and gave Barry a smirk. “Have you never had the flu, Barry?” 

“Of course I have,” Barry replied, almost proudly. “I am human.” 

“Debatable.” She glanced down at Oliver one last time. “Okay. I think you’re set. And I wouldn’t be worried about you contracting the virus – your immune system would likely vaporize it in minutes. If you do feel ill, just wait it out, and I think it’ll pass quickly.” 

Barry nodded. Caitlin was leaving this up to him, for whatever reason. It scared him, but if she wasn’t worried, he knew he had little reason to be. They said their goodbyes and Caitlin headed out to visit Diggle before heading back to Central City, leaving Barry in charge of Oliver’s apartment. It was spotless, but lonely. The only noise Barry registered were the raspy breaths and intermittent coughs of the apartment’s owner, and his own foot falls as he headed into the kitchen to see if Oliver kept a stock of anything Caitlin had suggested. 

He did not.

A few minutes later, Barry returned with a sack full of pharmacy supplies and bouillon cubes (he hoped that’s what Caitlin had been talking about). He set everything up in the kitchen, and went to check on his patient. 

Oliver had turned in his bed, now laying on his side with the covers drawn up close. Barry watched him sleeping fitfully, coughing every now and then, his own chest threatening to burst. Watching Oliver like this was scary. It was painful. But at the same time, knowing he was there to look after him was comforting. He felt like, other than maybe Caitlin or Thea, he was the best person for this job. Nothing would stand in the way of Oliver’s recuperation.

Barry made one last lap around the apartment to make sure everything was easily accessible before joining Oliver under the covers. He figured, if Caitlin wanted him to stay bundled up, then extra body heat would help. 

As he slid under the comforter, Barry’s skin was assaulted by a blistering heat that took him by silent surprise. Was Oliver really putting off that kind of warmth? And he was still shivering? Human bodies are so strange. 

Fighting his instincts not to touch the lava-like skin of the sick, Barry cuddled up close to Oliver, spooning him and hugging him tight. 

“Barry?” 

Oliver’s voice was tired, but strong. He turned in bed and gave Barry a confused look riddled with concern. “Don’t. I’m-” 

“It’s okay,” Barry said, snuggling into the nape of Oliver’s neck. “I can’t catch it. I’m here to help keep you warm.” 

Oliver was quiet, contemplating this. He reached down and rested a hand on Barry’s arm wrapped around his torso, a smile drifting quietly across his face. 

Barry’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Don’t you worry, Ollie. We’ll get you better.” 

Oliver didn’t audibly respond, but the way he shrank into Barry’s touch – his full trust and dependence placed on him in this moment – told Barry everything he needed to know. This was where he was supposed to be.

[stormhawksplanb]

Alphabet Headcannon With Nova and Stork!

(I know I said I wasn’t gonna turn this blog into a romance between Nova and Stork but people are requesting me to do Alphabet challenges so here- List created by @houndofjustice-imagines​ <3 )

A for Arguments - How often do you two argue? Who apologies first? How do they make up? etc

They rarely Argue unless it’s over something that was miscommunication. Who ever misunderstood is usually the one to apologize first. But Stork has a bad habit of avoiding, and giving Nova the silent treatment when he’s mad, or thinks she’s done something that hurts him. This usually ends in her having a break down, and him feeling guilty. The after effect of this can continue for a couple days, and it makes everyone on the ship concerned.

B for Bedtime Routine - Do they prefer to be the big spoon or little spoon? Favorite sleeping position? etc

Nova likes to curl up and cuddle his side, usually with one leg over his waist. This is usually what happens when stork wants to have a personal furnace since she gives off a lot of heat. He will sometimes pull her closer onto him and surround them in blankets. If it’s too hot stork will get on top of her with his arms tucked under her back.

C for Cook - Do they cook? Can they cook? What type of food do they like to cook for their partner?

Nova is trying to teach him to cook, and it’s not going well. She winds up doing most of the cooking, and he’s doing the cleaning up part. Stork will also try and eat the food in the process. Even if it’s something like cookie dough. Nova tried to stop him by pointing out how he could get sick from eating raw eggs and he’ll shrug it off. “At least I’ll die happy” or a “It’s slightly romantic and twisted if I die from you’re cooking.” is usually his retort. Stork can’t cook. But he can kind of bake, or make french toast.

D for DIY - Do they like to make gifts for their partner? Are they good at general DIY around the house? Do they enjoy doing it?

100% They both do it, but not all the time. Usually if one or the other is upset or depressed they’ll make something silly, or charming to cheer the other up. Stork tries to teach Nova about mechanical stuff, but it usually doesn’t stick, word wise. She can do the thing, but can not explain it nor keep the technical terms. They both enjoy it and stork likes the sensation of being proud whenever she randomly pulls his little tricks out of her hat and shows off. They both have a habit of buying random junk to try and fix anything broken. It’s ‘quality’ time for them, but it’s really just an excuse for them to be together without drawing too much teasing from the others.

E for Effort - How much effort do they put into their relationship?

It’s 100% give and take. They’ve both been in pretty rough relationships with other people, friends and/or potential lovers, and they both have trust issues. Even though they seemingly get along like their already married, they made a rule to be honest with each other. The only one who struggles with it is Nova. She likes to keep things bottled up because she thinks her high energy will scare him off. Stork on the other hand is sensitive to this and thinks it’s because she doesn’t want to put in the effort. They eventually clear this up and things start to go smoother than before. Every now and then one of the other storm hawks will catch them sobbing or consoling each other, and will let the others know to give the couple some space for a bit.

F for First Date - Where do you go on your first date? How does it go etc?

They didn’t have an official date until they became official, which was a really weird, slow, conversion of just silently accepting each other. It just kind of happened, but once it was agreed they’d be official, and tell everyone, Stork woke Nova up in the middle of the night to show her the migration of the shimmering locus (a locus that’s wings are covered in colorful crystal dust) that was feeding on the flowers on Terra Fauna. He also brought with him a late night snack. Nova declared it, be accident, as “The best date I’ve ever been on” while slowly falling asleep again. Stork silently agreed and that’s what they considered their very first date. It was a quiet, and soft date.

G for Gifts - What kind of gifts do they gift their partner? What kind of gifts do they receive? etc

Stork recently build a glass case for her gifts, and has sacrificed space on his wall for her drawings. He’s even got a few of her doodles he’s stolen from her sticky note pads and stuck them to the fridge. Nova has a jewelry box contained of the little gadgets and chokers stork makes her. Jewelry is her biggest weakness, and he 100% knows if it’s got little moving parts or shiny things she can fiddle with, she’ll be over the moon about it. There is the occasional buying of the gifts, but that’s usually books, or something they other really wants, or needs. Examples are: Nova hunting down and buying stork that Brain worm helmet, or stork catching glimpses of dud crystals or crafty related things he finds at a cheap price since Nova already has enough time making profit off of commissions.

H for Honeymoon - Where do they go on Honeymoon? Details on the honeymoon etc.

They spent their Honey moon during one of Terra Merbia’s Blackout Festivals. Once a year the Terra’s storms stop completely and the sky becomes engulfed in colorful rays from the crystal energies, and it covered everything in saturated blended colors. Stork never got to see it due to the damage caused by war, and him running off into the waste lands. Both Stork and Nova cried that night, but it was happy tears. The rest of the week they spent just being together. One day they almost forgot to eat breakfast because they were both physically, and emotionally tired, but in a good way. They were just in a lazy mindset.

I for Intimacy - What do like they like? Where do they like to be intimate? Are they experienced etc?

Both virgins, and when it comes down to where and when, it’s in privacy and with no one around, and as little chance of getting caught. On the rare occasion they can’t get ‘alone time’ on the ship they will go camping, or out to a Bed and breakfast to get away. They will also take the opportunity as soon as the others fly off for training or a mission. When they do have intimate moments it’s usually planned, and sometimes it has nothing to do with sex/making love. Most of the time it’s them just being in the same room reading, or being goofy. Stork and Nova have the most fun when they act out old fashion plays.

J for Jealously - How jealous are they? How often do they get jealous? How they react? etc

Stork is a long distance jealousy guy. Nova becomes unwanted pray. He’ll observe his dark beloved from afar. If he sees anything he doesn’t like, or if Nova seems uncomfortable he’ll swoop by and come up with some bizarre excuse to take Nova away from the situation. Nova is the type of jealous that will wait to be alone and breakdown and cry if she thinks she’s endanger of losing stork. This usually ends when stork realizes she’s been avoiding her. She gets better about expressing it after a while.

K for Kink - Do they have any particular kinks?

Yes. Funny thing is it’s constantly changing. Neither of them like lewd kinks, it’s usually just small things that make it more sensual. It could be the way one of them moans, or wiggles. Nova, however, enjoys sensitive play after her climax, and it’s especially a turn on when Stork holds her wrists above her head. He does it so firm, but loose enough to where she knows she can stop him if needed. Storks kink is the aftermath of their passion. He likes it when she twirls his piercings or lightly scratches behind his neck, and ears. He has one kink he’ll never admit to her about, but it flips a switch in him when she snorts, so yes, he tries to get her to laugh during sex, and knows exactly how to do it. And if he times it just right with her release it’s his favorite sound in the world.

L for Long Distance - How do they cope with Long Distance? How they prefer to keep in contact? etc

They don’t keep in contact when they’re apart. They are both really good when it comes to being on time when leaving, and coming back. They love each other dearly, but they aren't dependent on one another. They can still live their lives so long they know they’re ok and safe. They might send a carrier pigeon to be like “I made it, but there’s a chicken and it wants to eat my noodles” Usually light hearted letters. Stork keeps those in a box under his bed to read when he does miss her. Nova is usually so busy when she leaves the condor she usually forgets, but she makes sure to carry something to cuddle when she gets lonely. When they return, it’s over the top and dramatic. Mostly to annoy anyone within ear shot. A few attempts of foreplay, or reunion sex is attempted, but it’s rather quick, and they try to be as silent as possible about it. The others, of course, don’t know where they went for those handful of minutes.

M for Marriage - Do they want to get married? Their wedding etc.

They never really thought of getting married until one day a letter from Terra Merbia came saying stork was to marry someone else. It was just a miscommunication, stork never told Nova, and then proceeded to give her a heart attack after proposing to her once he realized he ‘Didn’t want to give any other person the chance to taker her away. Even if that makes him selfish- he’s only selfish for her’. It was a traditional Merbian marriage. Yet with Nova around there was a few tweaks. Stork was grateful of the whole ‘The groom’s outfit is practically a dress, and that ain’t happening’ edit Nova made. The ceremony usually starts out with announcements of the soon to be married lives, written by their family or friends. There’s also, a rather potent, drink they both take a sip from, to signify their willingness to sacrifice and share in hard times. Nova cringed at the taste and it made everyone giggle. The thing that ties the knot is the drawn lines painted on their wrists, to signify their unity as one and their effects on each other. No two symbols are the same since it’s a one time, improvised moment. Stork gave Nova a heart with a sideways infinity symbol, and Nova drew a tight swirl that had A large dot leading to a smaller dot going out towards the end. Merbs are not an outwardly intimate species, all that stuff is saved for in the bedroom just because Merbs are the type to be quiet and keep to themselves to avoid conflict. So any kissing or anything too ‘show offy’ is out of the ceremony, but not unwelcomed. Merbs are also pretty understanding and relaxed about their won rules, given it won’t get anyone hurt, or killed.

N for Night’s Out - Where do they take their partner on nights out? How often do nights out happen?

Night outs happen whenever they get the chance. The others leave for a week to screw around- I mean train with the Absolute Zeros? Let’s take a much needed nap, and drink coffee out on the deck. Stork will have something planned for them as soon as he catches whiff of a vacation. they travel off during vacations and the others just know better to not go looking for them.

O for Often - How often do you see each other? How many times a week? etc

Well they live on the condor together, but know full well not to be too clingy or else they get bored and wind up doing whatever. It’s actually pretty simple the way they function. Eventually it just all becomes a comfy habit to do what they want when they want, and if either wants attention they are more than allowed to seek each other out.

P for Public Displays of Affection - Do they like PDA? Do they have boundaries etc.

Stork surprisingly shows more PDA than Nova. Mostly due to the fact he enjoys embarrassing her when ever he gets the chance. Much play fighting btw. Nova is more spontaneous, and usually only shows her PDA if he’s been close to death, Stork gifts her with something neat, or get excited, and uses him as an outlet. Other than that it’s a game of who can sneak more kisses with out anyone seeing. This makes for some interesting teasing when caught. Stork is currently winning, 32 to 12. The count starts over when wolf whistles are heard, or the “aawwwww” comment is made. Stork has a high score of 456 kisses.

Q for Quiet - Why do they get quiet? How does their partner solve it?

Nova gets quiet when she get depressed or over stressed. Stork kind of just, suddenly realizes it and doesn’t care how long it’s been, he just wants his overly excited, bouncy nova back. This will probably end in a sob session if it’s something close to heart, and if not a cuddle session or a mini nap. When stork get’s quiet it’s usually because of frustration, or if he decides to overwork himself. He will also go quiet all day if he has flashbacks, or night terrors from the war. No one else realizes this, but Nova suffers from those things as well, but get’s over it as soon as it comes. Stork likes to beat himself up. And these always end in sob sessions because he’s so sensitive. Thankfully all it takes is a few minutes of back rubs, and ear kisses to get him back to where he needs to be. Nova’s narcissistic, pessimistic, oddball self.

R for Reunion - How they like to reunite with their partner?

Dramatic. Very dramatic. They do it to annoy the others, and Nova gets the most kicks out of it. But later on there will be lots of cuddling, and kissing. Sometimes they go further than that, but keep it on the down low. Stork will 100% try and break Nova at least once in the more intimate moments. He’ll only stop once he gets at least, one sound from her.

S for Surprise - Do they like surprises? What kind of surprises do they like to get etc?

Nova loves it, and stork only likes it in the form of food. Fried Merb cabbage and mushrooms is his favorite. Nova likes it when stork comes from behind her and hugs her, those are the best surprises. It’s even better with a light bite of her upper cartilage ear piercing. so long there’s no earring. Stork choked on one of her backings once so he’s more careful about it.

T for Texts - How often do they text? How do they react when they receive texts from their partner?

Changing this to messages, but Nova likes to paper air plane drawings and little “You did an awesome job! Show the enemy no mercy!” notes for stork to chuckle at. Stork, on the other hand, loves leaving her poetry. Dark, sexual, playful, romantic or ironic poems. Stork has her wrapped around his finger in whatever mood he wants to see from her with his writing and takes 100% pride in it. If he wants something specific from her he knows how to get it. But doesn’t care if she says no.

U for Unity - How well do they work with their partner? Do they make a good team?

Deadly team. Don’t be at the wrong side of the dagger if you piss off , or hurt, either of them. They have that stupid, unspoken understanding with each other. It’s more of a “do you have an idea” look, followed by who ever nods first is the leader, while the other is the back up to make sure the ‘leader’ stays unharmed. There was one time Dark ace fucked stork up pretty badly and if it wasn’t for The others showing up, and accidentally giving him an escape route, Nova would have killed him.

V for Vacation - Favorite vacation spot to take their partner?

Nova likes being taken to Terra Neon, but mostly for the games and plays at the theater , which they both enjoy. Stork also showed off his skill on the bull ride to Nova, and it was one looong night after that. Stork likes going to Terra Fauna for a vacation. Simply because it’s a nice refreshing place to just be lazy with Nova. They have a wicked nice hiding spot when ever they wanna ‘get it on’. It’s a little cave that has glowing water that shimmers when the moon hits it, and they try and go there when ever they pass by the Terra. Needless to say the spot was picked out because Nova really likes the reflection of the colors, and will get distracted, giving stork the opportunity to give her little nibbles and surprises.

W for When - At what point do they move into together? What kind of place? etc

Welp- Nova was originally just bumming a ride from the storm hawks but due to wanting to learn to be a sky knight ‘from the best squad ever’ she got stuck with them. It started to become more and more permanent when Nova learned that her home Terra was slowly becoming inhabitable. She was then slowly taken on as a storm hawks because no one wanted to say goodbye. Nova even saved Aerrow a few times and got major points for it. Stork was happy, and it showed, when she was written down in the books at Terra Atmosia. He even cried a bit, and then she started up.

X for X-ray - What is their favorite body part on their partner?

Stork loves Nova’s hands, and feet. Not like as in a fetish, it’s just she’s so small, and her hands and feet are just as tiny. also he sometimes does this weird ‘foot holding’ with his feet and hers when they play footsie. It’s not ever really discussed, and it just happens. It mostly happens because her feet are her tickle spot, and he loves her silly snorting. Nova is over the moon about storks ears. If his ears twitch, or droop, chances are you will get a verbal response from her. Stork doesn’t get the obsession about it, but enjoys the foreplay, and piercing twirls.

Y for you - A random head canon about your relationship.

They can’t take a bath alone. Stork started this habit waaay before they got married, and it was really relaxing, and now they can’t relax without each other. Same thing with sleeping, but Nova got stork into the habit of sleeping naked. Not for sexual reasons but because she has silk bedding and they both really like the feeling of sleeping in pure silk.

Z for Zoom - Zoom into the future, what does your future look like?

Nova eventually is taught everything she needs, and these two become makeshift monster hunters. Nova is stork’s damage control, and they’re a force to mess with. Nova even knows how to navigate all of storks traps on the condor. They eventually move into one room together. They never have kids, but they do wind up adopting a ‘guard dog’ for the condor.Nova cries when the other storm hawks hit the ‘official’ minimum age to be a squadron. Stork has no problem leaving the condor, and eventually actually sells it for scrap, and nova and him make the ultimate Ship they dub the Vulture. Stork says it’s his proudest work and makes Nova his first mate. Slowly but surely they separate from the rest of the storm hawks as Aerrow, Piper, Finn, and Junko return to live on their home Terra that Cyclonis took at the start of it all. Stork and Nova stayed for the ceremony of the newly Raised flag, and they rename their Home Terra, Terra Argonia, after Nova’s destroyed Terra. Stork and Nova don’t leave the team, it’s just now that everything is where it should be, and everyone is learning how to fully defend themselves, and rebuild their lives, there’s no major need for the storm hawks. Terra Argonia is now the home base of the team, but Nova and Stork still have a whole world to explore, and they do so. Piper and Raddar eventually get a second ship in case Stork and Nova are gone, and the others want to head out on an adventure. Every now and then the team fully assembles to fight against retaliation, but in the end the world of Atmos is left in capable hands. Especially now that Piper is the head leader of teaching the future fighters, along with the skills taught by the others. Nothing could have prepared them for the end as life is given a steady pace.

(FUCK- THE LAST ONE MADE ME CRY A BIT FUUUUUUCK- Please! ASK ME MORE QUESTIONS LIKE THIS, I’M HAVING FUN WITH THISIIIISISISIS~~~)

[calleo-bricriu]

What I want to see is what over 100 years old Calleo and his cards have to say about Voldemort.

The hell do I need cards for that for? I could just tell you outright but, then, I’m sure you’d be back at me going on about how that’s no fun at all.

In the distant past, they’d described him as a bullheaded, reactionary wank cloth who’s prone to having violent tantrums when he doesn’t get his way–I’m condensing that down rather a lot but that was the gist of it; perfectly charming sort until he gets the idea that you think he’s roughly as interesting as watching paint dry.

But, hey, people change and maybe when he’s ready to try again he’ll have improved somewhat.

Which, in his case, would more than likely manifest as just becoming more wildly unpredictable with his meltdowns and moods but, you’ve asked my cards, not me, so here we go.

I wonder if he still does that thing where he tries to go as long as humanly possible without blinking because he could do it indefinitely with a little transfiguration and charms work.

Where was I?

Ah! The cards.

(( Larger resolution image is here. ))

Hermit’s pretty self explanatory; he’s been isolated, and should you find him and ask him he’d likely tell you that it was on purpose and/or for the purposes of enlightenment, introspection and contemplation–hopefully around why he didn’t account for basic defensive Blood Magic but, most likely not that. I know I don’t like to dwell on it when I miss something basic, I like to forget I did that and move on while also keeping it tucked away in the back of my head so I don’t do it again.

I’m going to go ahead and ignore that, all around, when the Empress shows up it she often signifies a pregnancy and considering Voldemort, unless he gets incredibly creative with trying to get himself back into a body (or just possesses the first thing he can manage that’s human) is not likely the sort to be able to get pregnant, which leaves the third option of someone else…letting him…do that to them.

It can also mean that he’ll just make an effort to be a little more creative and inspirational to anyone stupid enough to show up for a second round and with his recruitment efforts but if I had to have the mental image of somebody not only fucking Voldemort but letting him knock the up so the rest of you–and I say the rest of you because I don’t know specifically which one of you asked for this reading so you all get to suffer.

And I don’t think it’s that second one as the Ace of Cups revolves around beginning again which, fair, if you’re half-resurrecting yourself–but it primarily focuses around fertility and pregnancy. Someone is going to let that man knock them up.

Ew.

Getting away from that horrifying set of mental images, the Eight of Wands indicates he’s going to be about as good at being patient and planning things out (complete with contingencies or alternate plans in case the main one fails) as he was the first time around which is to say, not at all. However, since the Ministry is staffed largely by what I can only assume are tranquilised bonobos in suits, nobody here is going to care. Or notice. I’ll notice, I’ve already noticed, but I have enough benzos from Muggle doctors that I legitimately do not care.Or, if they do notice, they’re going to pretend they haven’t so all the progress speed, action, momentum, all that nonsense, is only going to seem speedy to the people who haven’t been paying attention.

The rest of us will have seen it slowly coming since roughly 1982.

He’s got abandonment issues head to toe based on the Eight and Five of cups, which is a large part of what makes him dangerous as, instead of focusing on the cups that haven’t been knocked all over the place and using those to rebuild, all he’s likely to focus on will seem, on the surface, to be a political revolution but that’ll just be a thin and fragile veneer covering the fact that he’s a desperately lonely, fundamentally unhappy, nearly always frightened basket case and that manifests (as it often does) in violent outbursts and an undercurrent of wanting to make everyone else suffer the way he feels he was made to suffer.

That’s not even all that uncommon, you can see it to a much lesser degree anywhere in Knockturn if you stay there long enough or visit often enough.

Queen of Swords is likely to turn out to be his most dedicated defender, coming from a point of power obsession and pity, though if she’s got any brains she won’t ever mention she pities him as it might get her killed, and wants nothing more than to shield and protect him, keeping him from harm; also indicates that she’s married–well, it mentions it in the inverse as a divorce, which would make sense if she’s one of those sorts that were pushed into a family alliance sort of marriage that she never particularly cared to be a part of to begin with.

And, at some point, he may be able to shake off all that flailing about to somehow manage to convince the general public that he’s not that bad, and he’ll do so through gratuitous shows of generosity, charity, investing in community (the community he envisions, at any rate; some of you will have to be his diversionary scapegoats, after all), and while everyone is distracted by someone who’s likely to be able to walk into the Ministry and buy them off with false gratitude, making them feel valued, paying them well, displaying what comes off as fairness unless you scratch the surface, he’ll get to work doing what he wanted to do in the first place.

And what does he want to do in the first place? Get himself into a position where he’s well liked, respected, viewed in a positive light, as a good leader, as someone who is successful, committed, has clear goals, and will lead the Ministry to greater things. This is someone who wants to be loved without having to leave himself vulnerable in the process.

For awhile, he’ll get it, and it’ll seem solid.

It won’t last, however, not for long, because that Eight of Swords is going to leave him feeling trapped, restricted, and lashing out at anyone or anything who he even suspects of holding dissenting views through harsh punishments, executions, imprisonments, persecution, “trials” in front of the Wizengamot that were rigged from the start, and at that point he’ll be at two distinct paths he can take.

I do love the Two of Wands for letting things go in different directions.

First potential path: If he goes that route, he’ll be able to leverage what little political and social capital he’ll have left after that mess I just described and, with a little creativity, should be able to pull it all back together in a way that cements his socio-political views as the new, accepted norm and any rebellion against it won’t be able to gain the following it’d need to challenge him for decades to come.

Second potential path: Nine of Swords circles back to the Eight of Swords, only more intense. Terror, not just fear, seeing enemies everywhere, being the subject of gossip, the narrative of which he will not be able to control as it will be a moving and largely invisible target that is perfectly willing to martyr itself if it means his downfall. As a result, he’ll fall further and further into paranoia, nightmares, despair, and stress, leaving him with an inability to cope with the reality of the situation which will only circle back to him lashing out at anything that comes within range, regardless of who or what it is, and when he hits his breaking point he isn’t likely to survive it.

The card between those two paths, as I was curious as to which route the deck thought he’d take, is a reversed Star.

Hopelessness, despair, the inability to take responsibility for one’s actions being what led them to where they are, lack or loss of trust in those around him and in himself, feeling as though everyone, even his closest followers, are plotting against him.

Considering that, I suspect he’ll go the second route to hang out with the sword filled guy in an egg costume.

Let’s see if one overarching card will give some closure here, shall we?

Regret, refusing help from those who legitimately want to give it (back up a bit and re-read the bits that mention paranoia) because, as surprising as it may seem, there are people who genuinely do care for him–in their own, strange way–disillusionment, becoming even more self-absorbed and depressed, focusing on the fantasy in which he’s–apologies, but I’m going to jump back to how two of my former Archivists often described him–seen as something greater in terms of charisma, success, skill, and political success than Grindelwald.

I watched that mess rise to power and fall from it spectacularly, and my memory has more than enough clarity to state with certainty that the only things I’ve seen that Voldemort is better than Grindelwald at are:

1) Keeping himself out of prison.

2) Being ballsy enough to apply for that Defence Against the Dark Arts position looking the way he did when he got that interview. He had to have known what he looked like, unless he doesn’t cast a reflection anymore and nobody told him how off he looked. Just to note, it’s not that I think he’d have been unqualified for the position so much as he may have come off as only wanting it to use as a recruiting platform which is–one of those things you really need to hide until you’ve got tenure, or at least a signed contract.

3) Being repeatedly thwarted by children yet still having followers willing to both overlook it, stand there with a straight face while he probably blames his wand for it (because they all do, you find any Wizard over 60 that has a spell fail and the first thing you get is some variation of, “I swear this has never happened before! It must be the wand acting up!”), and continue to follow him despite the fact that all they’d really have to do is walk away and start telling people what he’s really like and it’d kill any chances of recruiting anything with any skill or ability to follow through.

4) Talking to snakes, allegedly. Not entirely sure how useful that skill would be but I suppose snakes probably have some interesting things to say now and again.

At any rate, Four of Cups almost guarantees he’s going the Nine of Swords route so it’ll get a bit hairy for awhile but whatever grip he gets on anything is going to be tenuous at best and even holding onto it with both hands his reach is likely going to exceed his grasp.

I never like to see raw talent wasted like that, and he does possess a great deal of raw talent as well as the intelligence to have made it, with right people around him, into something spectacular; it’s just been–misapplied and left in the hands of people who never did have his interests at heart, and it’s easy to take advantage of a kid like that. See it all the time in Knockturn.

Pity, really.