#adds it to my. my endless wall of wips

[caeslxys]

i'm sure people have already thought about it, but. if laudna's thoughts are musical to imogen...could they sound like a lullaby to their potential telepathic kid...with bonus implications if you've read what doesn't break!

I see your "laudna's mind acts as a lullaby to their telepathic baby" and raise you "imogen sings the melody she hears in laudna's mind as a lullaby to their non-telepathic baby"

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

upon his grace 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, bullying, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are called to court after the end of the civil war, but find yourself facing many challenges, expected and not. (fantasy medieval au)

Characters: king!Steve Rogers

Note: friday!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You are summoned to the queen’s chambers shortly after your arrival. You come together with the other young ladies from courtyard in the corridor just before a set of painted doors. Within, Queen Margaret keeps court with her ladies, of whom you are to be one of. The thought alone has you devilishly unnerved. 

The guards in their livery greet you with dull eyes. The groom announces your purpose and receives little in return aside from the one soldier’s lazy reach to tap upon the door. He lifts the lever and eases a space between the wood. 

“Your highness, you’ve some ladies requesting an audience,” he drones through. 

There is some movement from within. A lady servant appears in her white cap and beckons you inward. You are further intimidated by the formality of it all. Marcia and Marigold rush ahead to be first and the three earls’ daughters from the White Plans take up their train. You glance over at Calliope and trail after her. 

The doors shut at your back and the lady maid retreats, her soles scuffing amid the murmur around you. You look around the skirts of the other debuts and see women in recline, others perched upon cushions and stools, all at leisure with needle, book, or frame. There is another at the window, sat between two ladies on the bench, the late afternoon breeze stirring the long waves that hang around her face, the rest of her chestnut hair twisted up behind her hood.  

The lady maid stands at the wall in deference, “your highness.” 

The brunette raises her chin and her eyes narrow at the lot of you. You can barely see much past the shoulders of the twins and the other ladies clustered closely in shared apprehension. Still, the twins stand tall and the other ladies hardly seem as wrought as you in the ceremony of it all. 

“The twins of...Mawsley, is it?” The queen declares, “yes, your father proved himself a valuable asset, didn’t he?” 

“Your highness,” the twins recite in unison and bow, “Marcia,” the first introduces herself, “Marigold, the second adds. 

“How keen,” the queen chimes, “you look as the same person. How amusing.” 

“Thank you, your highness,” the sisters chirp. 

“And those gowns, wonderful. I may have to ask after your tailor,” Queen Margaret preens, “and where is the Countess’ daughter? I recall I met you once when you were still a child.” 

Calliope steps dutifully, “my mother sends her regards.” 

“Oh, yes, that poor widow,” the queen bemoans, “she is ever steadfast despite her plight.” She takes pause as you sway to see her, “and the rest of you, forgive me, these last days have been a whirlwind and I’ve heard an endless slew of names one after another. 

“Lady Selene,” the very lady proclaims. 

“Lady Ameri,” she bows in quick succession. 

“Lady Dorida,” the last shows her courtesy in an elegant bend. 

As you come forward, the twins push their arms together as if to block you out with their sleeves. You sidle side to side and sweep around their skirts with an ungraceful stumble, “your highness,” you greet as if you have something stuck in your throat. You swallow before you can muster your own name and title. 

“Woodsdam,” the queen tilts her head and looks from the lady at her left shoulder to the one on her right, “I’ve never heard of it.” 

“Neither have I,” the leftmost agrees. 

“Farmland,” the right says. 

“Yes, your highness, my father is a farmer, but an earl as well,” you supply. 

“Mm,” the queen looks down her nose as her lips thin, “it appears the Woodsdam style is much... defined. I don’t think I’ve seen that style gown since my grandmother was still on earth.” 

You look down at your modest cotton. The square cut of your bodice is much different than the other ladies’ rounded collars. Your mother crafted the dress from pieces and the seams are tidy, yet it does lack a similar flair to the others around the chamber. You raise your eyes and keep your composure as best you can. 

“Many thanks, your highness.” 

The queen scoffs, “quaint, indeed.” She sits straighter though her posture is already unyieldingly staunch, “ladies, please acquaint yourself. And be certain to pay heed to these ladies who know well the ways of court. For all that’s changed in these past years, we will retain as ever our elegance and our etiquette.” 

You peer around, uncertain what comes next. A lady stands and calls to Calliope, “Lady, it is me, Gwendolyn, of the Spades. Near Clovers, you will know it?” 

Calliope accepts the initiation and there is a swift storm of voices swirling around the lot of you. You flutter hopefully that someone might think of Woodsdam or might’ve been to the waterfall near Aquil, not far from your father’s hold. The twins confer still with the queen and her ladies, trilling and giggling, as Serena and Dorida marvel over another ladies’ sewing frame, and Ameri is overly familiar with a lady swollen with child. 

You drift away from the centre of the chamber, trying not to draw unwarranted attention. It would do little for any to note your insignificance. You’ve all to soon faded into obscurity. No one cares for a farmer’s daughter. 

“Eh, do you read?” The question startles you and has you spinning to face its speaker. She looks as she sounds; squawkish. Birdlike. Her blond waves are woven with strands of silver and her hooked nose is not unbecoming. 

“Yes, lady, I do,” you answer, uncertain if she is genuine or she means it as jab. 

“Have you read Corswin? He wrote a fair tale about a shepherdess.” 

“I’ve not heard of him,” you recover your confidence at her interest. It is clear she humours you, that she is speaking to only keep you from floundering. 

“I must lend you a book or two,” she insists, “come sit with me. These old hens grow tiresome.” 

“Many thanks, my lady,” you accept and claim the stool next to her, shifting it closer. 

“Sarah,” she gives her name, “Woodsdam. I’ve never been. I hate the swamps.” 

“Oh,” you nod, “yes, it isn’t very swampy. Only in the rainy seasons but we get the sun.” 

“Mm, still, I’ve been down Ashton and I hated the place. My horses caught some sickness there,” she gripes, “perhaps though, your home is more pleasant. A woman old as me, though, I don’t venture far as it is.” She tuts and taps her oval nails on the book in her lap, “if my son wasn’t so foolish as to take up his sword, I’d still be in my library, hidden away from these chits.” 

You clasp your hands together and smile. She’s amicable and you wouldn’t want to bother too much. She flutters the pages of her book and huffs. You look around, sensing some intrigue from the other ladies though they do their best not to let their flitting eyes be caught. 

“All these birds know how to do is cloister themselves up like nuns,” she bemoans, “I’d as soon be out in the sunlight. If I were home, I’d be in my courtyard with a better book than this,” she wags the volume in agitation, “and you, lady? What is it you do on the farmstead? Chase hens?” 

“We have geese,” you say, “though they aren’t truly kept. They sort’ve linger around. And some cattle.” 

“It does sound rather bucolic, this must be all so drab to you, castle walls and dusty tapestries.” 

“Oh, it’s all so wonderful,” you expound. 

“It is?” She drawls tritely, “aren’t these ladies of ours so polite? The way they whisper about our hems and our titles. Don’t let yourself be fooled, though I suppose that should be as good a warning against myself. Ladies of the court are like crows; the like shiny things and the hold grudges, and sometimes, they needn’t even a reason to peck your eyes out.” 

You close your lips and swallow. Her tidings only underline the unwelcome forged in the queen’s introduction. All you might forgive is at least she seems genuine in her girding. You look down at your skirts and run your fingers down a crease. 

“The dress is not so hideous,” she assures gently, “some of the ladies do forget we did just fight a war. There are those without silks and without food in their bellies. They should weigh their fortune that they are still alive and well.” 

Your eyes meet and she looks a little less stony. She turns her head to the window and her gaze drifts into the distance. You follow them with a sense of solemnity. Again, you snare a few glances from the others. Many men died, women and children too. It wouldn’t do to care so much for what people think of your wardrobe. 

👑

Your first day at the castle ends in a fine supper of freshly baked bread, beef with gravy, and seasoned scallions, onions, and sweet herbs. It is not so hearty as your mother’s stew which you share as often with the servants nor so delicious. It’s a different sort of taste but not unpleasant. 

You retire at the queen’s behest. She declares she must see to her husband and several of the other ladies claim the same of their own. You rise and wait courteously to tail after other ladies, not wanting to get underfoot as you so often did on the farm. As you stand aside, Lady Sarah swats you with her book. 

Skirts swish against the rows of chairs and benches that line the long table. The dining chamber is set with the portrait of peregrine and similarly hawkish depictions woven into tapestry and tablecloth alike. Despite the uniform decor, the furniture is mismatched and the hews of wood and metal alternate with each piece. 

“Don’t fear the stampede, little calf, run with it,” she chides, “ah, I’ve decades upon these sows and they plod like heifers.” 

He uncouth words draw your surprise. She laughs at the look you send her and waves you off with the hardcover. She shoulders past you without pause. 

“One day you will see, it is better to speak the truth than let it shred up your soul,” she tosses over her shoulder. “Ah, naivete, how entertaining you are.” 

Her voice carries and you notice how the other women shy away from her. There’s a glint of deference to the tilt in their chins as they part for her like a like drawn in the sand with a stick. You wonder how she can be so bold and why the other might tolerate it. As Queen Margaret girded, you are to maintain propriety. Sarah seems to carry the same manners as any farmhand you’d known. 

You hurry to meet Calliope near the door as she departs. She seems the tamest of the lot thus far. Sharp-witted but not needlessly cruel. She turns her head slightly in acknowledgement of your presence. 

“There you are,” she mutters. 

“Did you enjoy the afternoon?” You ask brightly. 

“Enjoy? I tempered it,” she retorts, “I’ve the measure of most ladies.” 

“The measure? They were all quite friendly.” 

“You are too friendly,” she admonishes, “this is court, you cannot be so simple. Each lady is attached to a lord, thus they work upon his purposes. Her ears are always listening, eyes always seeing.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You represent your father and though mine may be in the ground, I carry his mantle all the same. We are our houses, not ourselves here,” she keeps her voice low and slows markedly to keep away from the others, “you should count yourself fortunate for my wise counsel, lady, for no other would give it.” 

You chew on her words, tasting their bitterness, “so why do you, Lady Calliope?” 

“For I despise those twins and I know they aren’t so keen on you,” she sighs, “and I saw you as any other did with the dowager.” 

“The dowager?” You echo. 

“The king’s mother, Lady Sarah,” she sends you a sharp look, “don’t tell me you didn’t realise?” 

“Oh? No? She spoke of books and her gardens, she didn’t mention...” you peter off and snap your mouth shut. But she had, she did say her son ran off to war. “Oh!” 

“Oh! Indeed,” Calliope mocks and shakes her head. “Look, I’ve not the patience for these women, but you’re not so bad. You don’t speak without meaning. Shall we be companions?” 

“Pardon?” You let your surprise bleed through. 

“I need at least one person I might stomach, how about you? I don’t think the others are so eager to be friends. Marcia did say how you look like a peasant.” 

“She did?” You frown. 

“Hm, you need me,” she insists, “you can’t let yourself be so whimsical. Never mind what they say or think. What do they care so much for anyhow? They are a duke’s daughters, they will do well enough.” 

You carry on next to her. You feel as if you’re being pulled in all different directions though all tell you just the same. Be wary 

[true-blue-sonic]

6, 13, 14 ^^

13. What's a character or ship you haven't written/drawn yet but would like to some day?

From what I can remember, I've never made any official Sonilver drawings; I did doodle a bit of the two of them today, though! But any full-fledged drawings or silly comics like I've done with Espio and Silver before, I haven't yet done for them. I'd definitely be open for it, but first I need to figure out how Sonic's stupid top-most quill works when drawn in the Sonic X style😩 (I keep making it too big lol)

14. Is there a character or ship you were so sure you would never write/draw but now you've changed your mind?

Hmm, none of them pop to mind so quickly... I've written an AU Sonilver fic for a friend before, and years ago also one wherein they celebrated Christmas, so it's not a ship I'm surprised I've begun liking more, haha. And as for Espilver: the reason New Beginnings became an Espilver fic was because a friend encouraged me to, but I was privy to the ship before that and I liked it as well (just not as much as I do now XD). But other than that, I think not really!🍀

6. Show us a bit of a WIP!

I've been fighting for my life trying to get out a second chapter of Change of Heart. I need to do more with Sonic and Silver making up way earlier in '06👀👀 I've got almost everything worked out plot-wise, but it involves what's kind of A Fight Scene, and those are not my forte. So it might go into a few more rounds of editing first!

☆☆☆☆☆

“We did it,” Sonic smiles.

Quietly Silver stares at the grandiose window placed in the even more grandiose white walls of the princess’ palace. Yes, they did do it: Elise talking to more people crowding together than Silver has ever seen in his life is the testimony to that. Palpable relief resounds in the voices rising from the group, the princess herself nodding and getting fussed over and altogether drowning in the sea of attention. “I’m glad we did,” the blue hedgehog besides him adds, more pensively himself.

“Hm,” is all Silver responds with. There’s too many people here… and yet, though a part of him had expected Sonic would have loved mingling between them, the speedster had taken mere seconds to join him in this quiet corner of the massive hallway just outside the room Elise is in.

Green eyes look him up and down, Silver glaring back. “It’s busy, huh?” the other muses, gesturing to a half-opened door all the way at the end of the hall. “Let’s go to the terrace, get some fresh air.” And with that he’s already bounced off, Silver grimacing as he drags himself towards the exit as well. If anything, Sonic’s sheer inability to not do everything fast had been beyond exhausting, if comforting in a way. They hadn’t dawdled a single second this whole adventure, and Silver can’t help but appreciate it. Their efforts have paid off, after all.

As Silver shambles onto the balcony Sonic’s already leaning over a barrier equally ornate as the rest of the palace, the blue sky stretching out in an endless expanse above them. Quietly the grey hedgehog joins him, eyes drifting over it all. The orange of the setting sun, the peach of the clouds, the way Soleanna glimmers underneath it all…

Now Elise gets to enjoy it again too, after everything that had happened, and he cannot tear his eyes away from it either.

“How are you doing?” Sonic speaks up first, over the waves that crash into the island and the distant mutters of the town far underneath them that the wind carries up. Silver can only shrug back; he has no idea anymore. But the blue hedgehog merely smiles, as if he understands. “It’s been quite the trip. But a fun one too, right?”

“Fun,” Silver huffs back. How could it have been fun, with the safety of the whole world and Elise’s life being the things they had to protect?

And yet, he had been amused with Sonic. Rarely, but he had. And he had laughed, just once or twice too, at something particularly funny occurring or being brought up. And he had marvelled at the world and all its beauty, and Sonic had been there to tell him about it all, and they had saved a person…

Which means the conditions Silver had set have been met.

Turning around slowly Silver swallows. This is it; this is what he’s been working towards. “I need to go back to the future,” he speaks up, “but first…”

“First part with me as unlikely acquaintances and maybe even friends?” Sonic smiles- before it falls right away as Silver bares his teeth.

“No. I am going to kill you.”

[leconcombrerit]

I decided that maybe I should at least try to finish something, and this redraw I had started a while back seemed like a pretty solid start. I'm done with flats, although I think I could have gone for a more interesting angle (I think that's what I should be paying attention to from now on, perhaps that's what's making me feel like everything I draw is "boring"). Might add close-ups to make a better use of the space or something.

All that to say that I'm really trying. Art block or not, my strokes have become much more confident, let's focus on the bright side !

More recent WIPS for those who wish to bear witness to my endless struggles. And yes, brick walls and concrete are my go-to backgrounds when I don't go for open skies.

[sweeetestcurse]

WIP Wednesday

I haven't done this in a while and for a bit I was struggling with writing (yay major depressive disorder!) but lately I've been killing it so why not share some?

This is long so I’ll put it under a cut.

The first is my second time writing Sienna Harding and John. I'm still trying to figure out their dynamic but I think I'm starting to get those idiots where I want them.

From the instant the Peggie had pushed her to her knees between his booted feet, her vision swimming and head spinning from the bliss arrow she took, she noticed him. It wasn’t a full dose of the drug, but she was feeling it. Flashing motes had taken to the air before the man had finished dressing her wound. Only one of several. By the time he had her wrists bound behind her back, she was downright heated for him.

The way her weight sunk into him when he carried her, the way he smoothed hands over the outer edges of her thighs after making sure she was secure on the bench across from his own… she shuddered. How could she not? He was attractive in that rugged way, strong, and damaged in just the right way that couldn’t be fixed without an exorbitant amount of therapy.

Exactly Sienna’s type. What else could have drawn her to John?

The second is one I've been working on for months and have been playing out in my head since before I actually started writing fics. It's Jodie/Jacob.

“I’ve got a group in the distance. No word yet on the Peggies?”

“Not since everyone went underground. What’re you thinking?”

If she were being honest, Jodie would have shared that her mind went blank the second she saw the movement. But she didn’t. Instead, she pulled something out of her ass at random. “I’ll keep my distance. Just watch and see how they act. If they’re friendlies they might be able to help us get the lay of the land.”

The wind shifted again, and with it the wonderful scents of blooming flowers and all things green were swept away, replaced with something rancid. Her stomach thought about churning and she swallowed. Hard.

“Be careful,” Jess cut in to add, with more than the usual static.

“I’ll keep you guys posted. Over and out.”

Keeping low, she moved through the grass in a way she couldn’t have imagined herself capable of twelve hours prior. With the slinking grace of an apex predator, she closed part of the distance. She missed this, watching a potential threat from a distance.

A thrill ran down her spine.

The third is an OC that I've mentioned before. My half-orc/incubus thing. The first chapter for it is almost ready to be posted. I just need to go over it once or twice and make a custom divider because I need it even if no one cares about it but me.

The heel of her boot met the concrete once more, pushing her another half-foot away from him. Then again. When she turned and began the trek back to the car and away from the hospital and all that way within its walls, Arozoth spoke up again.

“You may have me,” was all he said. Plainly.

Despite herself and everything telling her to keep going, she slowed. Then stopped altogether.

“Or I you, if that is what you would prefer,” he added, his voice taking on a husky whisper that barely made the journey to her ears.

He damn well knew that he already had her full attention. It hadn’t needed to be added.

Her breathing stilled all the same. The possibilities were endless, with an incubus. Pleasure beyond her wildest dreams, and beyond even that. All those fantasies she’s wanted to indulge in, all those scenarios she’s played out in the theater of her mind.

Goosebumps washed over her. Fast. She swallowed. Just the thought, the mere idea, of touching—of tasting…

She turned back to him.

The forth, and final, is another OC story. I've never mentioned it before but I've been sitting on the idea for a few years.

A witch is trying to work a conjuring spell for a companion and things go... awry.

His dirt-caked boots stepped into view as she knelt to gather her things.

“I’m sure you can manage,” he kept on, poking at her. “Just ask me all nice like, and we’ll have a grand ol’ time.”

The heat from his hand brushed her cheek before his fingers made contact. And like she was burned, she snapped back and grabbed his wrist.

A startled yelp stumbled out of his throat. “Hey!”

Hushed words left her lips. Rushed incantations. Heat built in her core and eased out of her finger tips where they touched bare skin, sinking in deep.

Power.

He felt it, she knew he did as he pulled at the clutched limb. At the last word, she rolled her eyes up to meet his and found nothing but fear etched into his features.

She let him go.

He stumbled back, tripping over his own feet. A rush of air was forced from his lungs when he landed on his ass. The words stopped; the vulgar questions halted. Round blue eyes watched her, blinking wildly, as the onlookers gathered around him. Checking in, making sure she hadn’t hurt him.

All but one passerby, that is. The youngest there, a small girl wearing her Sunday best and heading home after church. Her attention was on the witch and the witch only. The two shared a moment of eye contact before her mother came in to scoop her up.

“Stay away from her, sweetie,” the woman said as she hurried away.

The little girl waved over her mother’s shoulder. A wave that was returned.

[o0-iris-0o]

Luminous | Xiao x [F] Reader

Description: After months of isolation and endless work, your friend insists on taking you out for a night of music and escape. But a stranger at the bar has an offer that might take your life in an unexpected direction.

Warnings: Dark Themes | NSFW | 18+

Chapter: 29/29

V AO3 Tags Below V

Graphic Depictions Of Violence | Major Character Death | Dead Dove: Do Not Eat | Dark Fiction | Horror Themes | Depression | Anxiety | Angst | Emotional | Crying | Involuntary Medical Procedures | Blood | Needles | Injections | Vomiting | Captivity | Yandere Themes | Physical Altercations | Drugs | Drug Use | Alcohol | Intoxication | Gangs | Guns | Combat | Action | Romance | Enemies to Lovers | Cuddling and Snuggling | Fluff | Smut | Plot with Porn | Vaginal Fingering | Vaginal Sex | Oral Sex | Cunnilingus | Blow Jobs | Sex on Drugs | Bloodplay | Knifeplay | Hair Pulling | Rough Sex | Gentle Sex | Dom Xiao | Alatus (Genshin Impact) | Aftercare | Reader-Insert | Reader is Not Traveler | POV First person | Alternate Universe - Future | Diluc Cameo

< CH. 28 | Iridescent (WIP) CH. 1 >

Chapter 29

A ding rings off the walls of the confined space as the door slides open, revealing an empty suite bathed in early morning light. 

“Hm, the repairs are coming along nicely…” Xiao comments as we step into the spacious room. “But it’s still pretty empty, huh? Guess we’ll be staying in one of the inn rooms for now.”

I nod in agreement as he glances in my direction, and we make our way across the room side by side. Approaching the opposite wall, Xiao pulls at a tarp to reveal solid glass and a more or less completed terrace beyond it. He quickly locates the door a few paces away, its surface gleaming like new. With a gentle push, the door glides open, and Xiao gestures for me to step outside first. 

The cold breeze floats past as I hesitate. “Are you sure we should be going out there? What if it’s dangerous? It might not be finished yet…” 

“Stop worrying so much—it looks fine to me,” he says, peeking his head out the doorway. His hand slips behind my back, nudging me forward as I resist. “Besides,” he adds with a faint smirk, “I’ll catch you if you fall.”

A chill creeps under my sweater as we step onto the terrace. The tiles gleam, polished and pristine, as we walk around the perimeter of the unfilled pool. I glance into its depths before following Xiao to the railing. He leans against it without hesitation, but I hold back, still skeptical of the unfinished construction. 

He sighs, lowers his head, and mutters, “It does feel good to be back, finally…”

Quietly, I take in the familiar cityscape. The towering buildings are just as I remember. The soft wind whistles past, and Xiao’s hushed voice breaks the silence. 

“Hey,” he starts. “I’m sorry for not telling you about any of this… for not telling you a lot of things.” Resting his cheek in his hand, he gazes out at the city, his expression solemn.

My gaze drops to my hands as I tentatively place them on the railing. “You uh… knew I was poisoned,” I mumble, almost inaudibly.

“Yeah…” He sighs. “I wasn’t sure what to do when I found out, and I didn’t want to freak you out. I tried to handle it quietly, but there wasn’t much I could do. Honestly, I knew Lumine was coming—I just didn’t know when.” He presses two fingers briefly to the bridge of his nose. “I was making decisions as they came. I didn’t have a plan, but… the timing couldn’t have been better. The only way to get a cure for you quickly was by getting in the abyss and finding it myself, so I took the opportunity.”

“Well, you definitely had us fooled,” I reply with a small smile. “I’m not sure if Shenhe will forgive you after that.” I add half-jokingly. 

“Oh, don’t remind me…” He groans. “Archons know I don’t want to deal with that mess yet.” He casts a weary glance at the skyline.

Silence descends over the conversation, but before it can settle, I disrupt it. “Was there… really no way we could’ve helped Lumine?”

Xiao’s shoulders drop slightly. “Lumine was too far gone. She’d been in there for hundreds of years. There was no way to restore her mind. The only thing we can hope for now is that she rests peacefully. Maybe—one day—we’ll all get to meet again.” He shrugs lightly, his voice steady. “I’m more certain of that now more than ever.” 

His gaze shifts to me, and mine meets his. For a moment, he studies me thoughtfully before standing upright and stepping closer. “That reminds me,” he says, reaching toward me. Confused, I give him a questioning look as he slips a hand under the collar of my sweater and pulls out the star-shaped pendant clipped around my neck. I’d almost forgotten it was there. 

The pendant rests in his hand before he curls his fingers around it. My eyes widen as he tugs at the chain, snapping it with a faint pop.

“H-hey!” I exclaim, raising my hands to stop him, but he’s too quick. He tosses the necklace over the railing into the city streets below. “What the hell was that?!” I demand, glaring at him in disbelief.

“Don’t worry—that thing was a piece of garbage anyway. You don’t need it. I’ll get you something better, something nicer,” he says nonchalantly, slouching against the railing. 

“That doesn’t matter. That was a bit unnecessary, don’t you think?”

“If it makes you feel better, we can pick something out together tomorrow.” His hand lands gently on my shoulder, his thumb brushing in a calming gesture. “We still need to bring the other two home later and update Baizhu on everything. He’s probably waiting on my findings to refine the serum’s formula. He’ll probably want to check on you, too, to make sure you’re okay.” Xiao retracts his hand, exhaling heavily. “But we can deal with all that later. Right now, I can barely think straight.”

I watch as Xiao closes his eyes, my thoughts replaying everything that’s happened—the fight, my time with Baizhu and the others, and the terrace when it was still in ruins. It has been draining, hasn’t it? Resting my head on my folded arms, I lean into the railing and quietly gaze at Xiao’s tranquil form. 

“So this was what you were keeping from me, hm?” I mutter, causing Xiao’s eyes to flicker open. “But wait… Shenhe didn’t know? Neither did the others. What’s that about?” 

“Ah, that.” His gaze locks on mine, steady and unreadable. “That’s actually… something entirely different.” He hesitates. “You were right—you deserve to know. But honestly, I’m afraid to tell you.”

“Why?” I ask softly.

“Because I’m nervous you won’t believe me.” Despite his words, his delicate smile tugs at his lips. “How about this?” He straightens slightly. “Why don’t we go ask the front desk to unlock a spare room for us, settle in, and I’ll tell you a nice, long story. It’s about a different time… and a person who holds an exceeding amount of importance to me. Then, after that, you can decide what you think and what to do from there. How does that sound?”

Curiosity flickers in my chest. Unconsciously, I return his smile. “Alright. Lead the way, then.”

< CH. 28 | Iridescent (WIP) CH. 1 >

[siriuslyblacks]

wolfstar fic rec list

this is born purely out of my desire to contribute to the world of rec lists. over the past 5-6 months i have been consuming an absurd amount of marauder ff and wanted to toss my love out there for the fics that i absolutely LOVED. everything is hosted on AO3 unless otherwise indicated. i’ll probably add to this as i read more i really enjoy. everything should be marked with rating, major warnings, a summary -- i’ll put my own thoughts/comments when appropriate as well. i did not include fics where the primary relationship isn’t wolfstar because i already had so many on the list but if you ever want either more recs, more specific recs, or recs for fics where wolfstar is not the primary ship please just send an ask my way! :) happy reading!

fics denoted with ** indicate my all time faves. 

 One to speak, another to hear by seventymilestobabylon 

rating: teen, no archive warnings apply 

The Wizarding Wars are over, but the work of recovery has only begun. Remus Lupin is trying to find his place in an ever-changing world, and when he is invited to serve on a truth and reconciliation commission, he has to confront the truth that lives there—in the past and within himself.

this one i read a while ago and it probably deserves a re-read -- i remember really really enjoying remus’ portrayal in this fic as well as the concept of the truth commission. 

all my cards are here by haey1

rating: teen and up audiences

Sirius cracked a well-practiced smirk, “Nice to meet you, Remus.” Sirius looked at his bandmates loading their equipment into Potter's car, “You wouldn’t happen to know a bassist, would you?”

Marauders Band AU - When the Marauders kick out their bassist, they ask local bartender Remus Lupin to step in. As the band gains success, Remus must navigate his new friendship with Sirius under the public eye.

i love love loved this one! the sequel is currently a wip which i’ve been following as well. to be honest i’m a sucker for band aus featuring a messy r/s dynamic and this does not disappoint. 

** Remain in light by veeagainst 

rating: explicit

What if Sirius Black didn't die? It's been done many times. Here's my take on it.

THIS IS ONE OF MY MOST FAVORITE FICS. i love the wolfstar relationship. i think it’s very realistic and it’s honestly very comforting to me!! i’ve found myself revisiting this fic a few times because i can’t get enough of their characterizations, as well as the plot. i think this deserves all the hype. 

** Beneath a big blue sky by eyra

rating: explicit, warnings: homphobia, homophobic language

The four-by-four heaves its way down long, twisting lanes, little more than dirt tracks scuffed into the surrounding fields and hemmed in by serpentine walls of flat, grey stone. They truly are in the middle of nowhere: the countryside rushes past, all rolling green hills and vast, endless skies, and it's odious. Sirius wants to murder James with his bare hands.

Sirius and James accidentally find themselves on a Yorkshire farm during lambing season. The farmer’s son thinks that’s a bit annoying, actually.

this one actually took me a while before i gave it a chance and it was so so worth it! sirius is absolutely adorable in this one and things unfold so naturally between them. give everything by eyra a chance if you haven’t, i love their fics but this one is definitely a standout in my opinion. 

** Into the Fire by wilteddaisy (taotu)

rating: explicit. warnings include sexual content, recreational drug use, implied/referenced child abuse, non-graphic violence, drinking. 

While war brews on the horizon beyond the walls of Hogwarts, the infamous Triwizard Tournament resurfaces just in time for the Marauders’ seventh year. When the students of Beauxbatons Academy and Ilvermorny School arrive, the champions are in for three unprecedented challenges. Meanwhile, Remus still has feelings, James is still trying to get the (Head) girl, and Sirius has revelations.

not a ton to say on this one except i loved the concept and the sirius characterization! i love too when the differences between sirius’s relationship with james vs with remus are touched on and how they each bring him very different things and one isn’t a stand in for the other! i think this story does it well. 

SHAME by wilteddaisy (taotu) (must have AO3 account and be logged in to read) 

rating: explicit. warnings include recreational drug use, mental illness, drinking, implied/referenced homophobia, sexual content, implied/referenced child abuse.

There were Isak and Even, Lucas and Eliott, Matteo and David… and now, Sirius and Remus. Or, alternatively: Sirius has some figuring-things-out to do. He’s not sure if Remus helps or makes things worse.  

SKAM au! i admittedly have not seen skam. but i loved this. i loved the friends to more, i thought the subject matter was handled well, and overall it was a very enjoyable fic. 

Sweater weather by lumosinlove

rating: explicit. warnings include sexual content, semi-public sex. 

Remus works for the Gryffindor Lions as a physical trainer, and has been half in love with Sirius Black, the Lions' heartthrob captain, for a while now, but he never expected Sirius to return the feelings. Read if you like cute nicknames, slow burn, and pining. Yep. That's it.

i am a physical therapist so this actually has a soft spot in my heart because this career is never featured in fic!! this fic is such a fandom classic now and it has amazing OC’s, great pacing, and the relationship which forms is so natural and just made me smile so wide. i devoured this in a day. 

Blends by rvltn909

rating: mature. 

Words got in the way sometimes, but Remus got the sense Sirius knew what he was trying to say.

-

Another coffee shop au.

!!!! just cute cute ok. 

No Bright Line by lady_grey

rating: explicit. warnings include anxiety, PTSD, implied/referenced homophobia, implied/referenced homophobic violence, smut 

In which Sirius is a famous actor who has stopped believing in authenticity, Remus is a historian with a complex relationship to memory, and Lily is the brilliant filmmaker who brings them together. James and Harry are there too, although they mostly just want to enjoy the beach.

lily is making song of achilles into a movie!!! it’s wonderful!! i honestly forgot about this one until i was looking through my list and it is such a gem and must read. i remember absolutely tearing through this one, i loved r/s dynamic and remus as a historian is perfect. side characters/plots are awesome as well. 

** Primavera by lunchbucket plus sequel Rococo 

rating: explicit

Sirius never had an interest in art, not until he found the right person to show it to him, that is.

the art!! the age gap in the relationship!! sirius needing to grow up!!! i love older remus and this ‘verse has a special place in my heart. i think i identified a lot with sirius in this one and especially in the sequel rococo which literally spoke to my soul. if you’re in a stage of change especially with school/relationships/your career i would recommend. 

Till we have arrived home by prouvairing 

rating: explicit 

Harry takes a deep breath. “I'm quitting the Aurors,” he starts with, which is followed by a moment of stunned silence. “What?” Sirius says. “All right," Remus says. “Do you know what else you want to do? Did you think about it?” Harry blushes, the way James used to—a rosy glow lighting up his brown skin—and says, “I wanted to—that is, I thought I might be a teacher.” Remus, quite suddenly, seems to have something in his eye. "Oh." “What?” Sirius says. “And uh—there's more. I was thinking I might like to. That is. I want to become an Animagus.”

Sirius Black & The Six by bellababe

rating: mature. warnings include substance abuse, drug use, past child abuse, domestic violence, mental health issues. 

“Remus Lupin, frontman for The Six.” Sirius took a long drag off his cigarette, looking up at the dense evening sky. “You know, I asked around about you. You’re quite the mystery.”

Remus shrugged. “Not much for the spotlight.”

“Right,” Sirius drawled. “I bet you’re also not much for the rock ‘n roll perks.”

Remus tensed, sparing Sirius a scathing glance. “I’m sober now.”

Sirius quirked a brow in disbelief. Remus scowled at his nonchalance, unwilling to explain himself and scared that maybe, just maybe, the disbelief was warranted.

Loosely based on Daisy Jones & The Six

** The Cadence of Part Time Poets by motswolo 

rating: explicit. warnings include drug use, mental health issues, drinking, homophobia, im probably missing a lot

“They’re… chaos,” Remus said firmly. “And chaos is—” “Rock and roll.” He looked at Sirius sharply, and for once, matched his grin. “Yeah.” “Maybe that’s my excuse then,” Sirius said. “I cause a bit of chaos now, and maybe one day, it’ll turn into rock and roll.” Remus pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “That’s some goal, Black.”

After losing his mother at age eleven, Remus has spent the better part of the last four years bouncing from school to school or else running around London and pretending as though he wasn't the kind of well-bred boy his father brought him up to be. Now, with his chances all run out, Remus is sent to Hawkings Independent School as a last-ditch effort to clean up his act. There he meets the very people who will set up the rest of his life, and is forced to confront the pieces of himself he'd long thought had been lost.

(genuinely not apologising for the slow-burn in this fic anymore. You've been warned <3)

this is my favorite fic of all time. i mean it. this deserves all the love and attention. it’s wip and going to be for a long time, it’s so worth the read. the world building is amazing. it’s remus centric and you just need to lean into the differences in this universe. it’s au - boarding school au, band au in the making. everything about this absolutely gets me and the r/s slowburn is so so so worth it. the characters are all so amazing and the oc’s are even better. it’s a time investment for sure but i can’t recommend it enough. it’s definitely my favorite non-magical au and i have nothing but good things to say about this. please read it and scream with me.  

No Matter the Wreckage by greyeyedmonster18 

rating: mature. warnings include underage drinking, implied/referenced child abuse, childhood trauma. 

His first summer at the Potters after fifth year--the year of fistfights in hallways, chugging firewhiskey straight from the bottle, too much smoke, exam pressure, scathing letters from his parents, and a careless prank that nearly cost him his friends--was nothing short of painful and illuminating. Sirius Black returns for his sixth year at Hogwarts with longer hair, determined to be different. A story on learning how to love, how to exist, how to be different through cracks and leaks. A story about love no matter the wreckage.

(a sirius focused marauders at hogwarts, getting together wolfstar fic)

station to station by aeridionis 

rating: teen and up 

Beneath it all, at the back of his mind he does know that there’s something terrible in this: terrible in the fact that it’s god-knows what time in the morning and he’s sitting here, sick as a dog, and then Sirius can turn up with his eyes and his laughter and his arm resting against Remus’, and suddenly he could do this forever, Remus could – sit here with him like this. Grow old on the bathroom floor, Sirius’ wandlight casting soft shadows over the two of them like the dark patches on over-sweet fruit.

Sirius’ laughter dies down and he sighs. “Nineteen seventy-eight,” he mutters, as though testing the year out, the way it sits in his mouth. “Mad, isn’t it?”

“A bit.”

or:

Nineteen seventy-eight: there's beginnings and there's endings and there's love and elsewhere, there's war, and when you're seventeen and you're eighteen and you're Remus and you're Sirius, only some of these things are important.

i really enjoy this author’s fics so if you have time definitely check out the rest too!! this one is just such a stand out to me. 

A Wolf’s Heart by mizdiz

rating: mature. warnings include major character death. 

Remus Lupin has a congenital heart defect, and is awaiting an available heart for transplant. Sirius Black is an immature twenty-something, living with a couple other immature twenty-somethings. Both are obsessed with the same obscure book, which becomes their coping mechanism for navigating their instant and torrid love affair. Life, they discover, is precarious at best, but from each other, they learn how to make it something that's worth living.

THIS WAS SO SAD BUT SO WORTH IT. 

** Just what the doctor ordered by WrappedUp 

rating: explicit

This is the story of how Sirius Black finds a dog.

Except, it's not really that.

This is the story of how Sirius Black finds a dog and meets a skilled veterinary surgeon with crinkly eyes and dimples in his cheeks.

Except, that's not really it either.

This is the story of how Sirius black finds a dog, meets a skilled veterinary surgeon with crinkly eyes and dimples in his cheeks, and grows the fuck up (at least a little bit).

older remus!!!! their relationship here is perfect. idk i love fics where one of them has to grow up/have an emotional journey in order to be better for themselves and comfortable with who they are before being in a relationship that’s healthy. sirius’ arc in this is perfect. i have used these tips i will not lie. i love wrappedup’s fics so much by the way so please check them all out <3 i have a few more on this list because i can’t help myself. 

** Happy Birthday, you by wrappedup 

rating: mature. warnings include minor character death, recreational drug use, terminal illnesses, coercion, mildly dubious consent, homophobia, body image. 

Sirius Black is about to turn thirty. But, like, it’s not a whole thing. It’s fine. And he’s absolutely not going to have a meltdown, fall in love with his oldest friend, and sabotage his own happiness.

He’s absolutely not.

i am convinced that this author is sirius black. i love their characterization of him in every single piece of their work. 

Impossible Things by accioromulus 

rating: explicit

Sirius’s thoughts are a slow-moving, impending disaster. How he wants to pin Remus up against the cupboards, to crowd him into a corner; how he wants to intertwine their fingers, to brush his lips against Remus’s forehead, his jaw. Instead, he settles for ducking his head and sliding a finger through the belt loop of Remus's jeans—a ridiculous gesture so utterly intimate, even for the pair of them, that he only allows it because he’s just drunk enough.

“Stop stealing my bloody clothes, Lupin.” He says, very quietly.

Remus looks up at him, eyes dark, and murmurs pleasantly: “Better learn to do your own laundry then, Black. Consider it my fee.”

***

It was an impossible thing, living with Remus Lupin--but Sirius was doing it anyway.

disintegration by moonymoment

rating: mature. warnings include graphic descriptions of violence, arson, war, death, blood drinking, corruption, ptsd

Remus stepped into Sirius’ personal space, leaning down and taking out his holy water doused dagger from his pouch. He placed it flat underneath Sirius’ chin, pushing his head up to look him in the eyes. He hissed as the silver burnt him, red and vicious.

“What,” he whispered, “are you doing here?”

Sirius looked pained for a second, and then he blinked, and that stupid, cocky smile lit up his face once more.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, pretty boy?”

or - Sirius and Remus have been trying to kill each other for eight years, but something always seems to be standing in the way.

VAMPIRE SIRIUS AU! this fic is sooo good i see it all over tiktok all the time. i still need to catch up because i haven’t because i’m the worst. i love moonymoment’s fics though and this one is a whole world you need to sink your teeth into (ha!) 

The Player’s Secret by wrappedup

rating: mature. warnings include implied/referenced suicide, depression, suicidal thoughts. 

“So what’s he like? Full of it? Arrogant?”

“Yes,” he says, because he thinks that is a fair assessment. Sirius Black is full of it. He is arrogant. He’s also entitled and needy and smug. He’s talented, reckless, moody, selfish, childish, charming and sweet, and a million different other things Remus is trying to wrap his head around.

Sirius Black is hard work.

Remus Lupin is a successful documentary filmmaker who is assigned to make a fly-on-the-wall documentary featuring Sirius Black - one of the world's most brilliant footballers - as he competes in the European Championship.

All does not go smoothly.

this one is a cutie 

** from white-hot anticipation to cold-blooded fear and back again by drowsyanddazed 

rating: mature

They’re so close. Sirius can feel Remus’ hot, bated breath on his skin. He can see every one of Remus’ honey freckles and the white spiderwebs that course through his scar tissue. He can hear every one of Remus’ sharp inhales and shaky exhales; It’s the only sound he can hear above his own heart racing through his veins.

And his heart is doing that —racing. But it’s not like a thud, thud, thud in his chest or even a soft, fluttering sound like a warm, Irish lilt. The sound is more like a swoosh, like a pendulum swing, jumping from white-hot anticipation to cold-blooded fear and back again.

-or-

Remus is a storm blowing through Sirius’ small town and Sirius is laid out on the waterlogged cobblestone streets waiting to be washed away.

Ravenclaw remus!!! i love how obsessed sirius becomes with remus in this and how he just does not understand it whatsoever. too too cute. i am a sucker for their history so i don’t tend to gravitate towards fics where they’re in other houses but this one i loved too much. 

ten reasons (to go to michigan) by greyeyedmonster18

rating: mature

Best-selling novelist Remus Lupin, distraught and torn after his relationship of 10 years ends in nothing but doubt and litigation leaves the bustle of New York City, and retreats to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in hopes of reconnecting to his childhood and getting his writing spark back. Sirius Black is a local ceramicist and single parent with a backstory all his own, who happens to frequent the coffee shop Remus grew up studying in. Remus for the first time in his life didn't have a plan when he booked a one way plane ticket--except for maybe the plan to never fall in love again. Except...

A story of simple pleasures, love, and home.

(Modern, Adult Wolfstar AU; set in the states)

Highland fling by picascribit

rating: explicit. warnings include sexual content, outdoor sex, chronic illness

2004: The summer before college, Sirius goes backpacking through Scotland in order to escape his family's expectations. In a small village in the Highlands, an unexpected flirtation turns his whole world upside down. Alternately, the story of how Scotland loves Remus and wants him to be happy.

Carry me away by greyeyedmonster18

rating: mature 

“You know I need you, and that's for sure, you’re just the kind of crazy I’ve been looking for.”

Sirius had devised the perfect plan. Two weeks in London before he started University. Two weeks of bars and football games and time spent out from under his parents gaze. Two weeks without rules or expectations. He concocted the perfect ruse to fool everyone about his whereabouts. And then he met Remus. And suddenly two weeks couldn't have ever been enough time.

(non-magic, AU; Sirius is a sheltered posh boy on his first rebellion, Remus is an attractive stranger who make's him re-think all his plans).

Solntse by lumosinlove

rating: explicit

Sirius, a young Russian billionaire hires Remus, who is working part time as a call boy to make ends meet. Things happen, feelings occur.

** lover, you should’ve come over by dykesiriusblack 

rating: mature. warnings include chronic pain, disability, anxiety, sexual content. 

Sirius Black is a mess. Remus Lupin is new.

It's all quite complicated.

or

The story of Remus and Sirius meeting at age 20, falling in love without meaning to, and not knowing how the fuck to deal with it for far too long.

i love love love these messy boys in this one. another one where i love sirius character arc. i love the pining. i love the complexity of their friendship and navigating feelings. i love the rest of the group. 

** nothing left (but some blood where the body fell) 

rating: mature 

this countryside's burnin' with wolfmen fairies dressed in drag for homicide / they hit and run, plead sanctuary, 'neath the holy stone they hide / they're breakin' beams and crosses with a spastic's reelin' perfection / nuns run bald through Vatican halls pregnant, pleadin' immaculate conception / and everybody's wrecked on Main Street from drinking unholy blood / sticker smiles sweet as gunner breathes deep, his ankles caked in mud.

- lost in the flood, bruce springsteen

i’m currently reading this and it’s very very good! not necessarily wolfstar centric but it’s my current read and i can’t get enough of it so i wanted to include it. i love the relationships, the james/remus/sirius/lily dynamics are all so interesting and overall a good long haul marauder fic following them through hogwarts/the first war. 

Source codes series by flourescentgrey

rating: explicit. warnings include dubious ethics/morality, consent issues, sexually transmitted diseases. 

In 1993, Remus Lupin figures out how to escape from Azkaban.

i just finished this. it was very very dark. but it was so good. it kinda fucked me up for a day or so just the extent of the real world parallels, the dark nature of the plot, and the angst angst angst. there are a lot of dubious ethics in this one. that being said it was worth the read and very well written. 

Dear Your Holiness by MollyMaryMarie

rating: explicit. warnings include implied/referenced suicide, childhood trauma, childhood sexual abuse, conversion therapy, eating disorders, racism. 

During the week of his father's funeral, Sirius Black meets an unusual priest and offers to help write Orion Black's eulogy. At the same time, he's started texting a mysterious bass player from a pop-punk band that he accidentally swapped phones with. Eventually, the conversations between the two start to blur together and Sirius has trouble trying to decide which one he's falling for the hardest.

priest!remus. this one was hot and it was fun and i loved it. you need to read. 

Inked by drunkonturpentine

rating: mature

Remus Lupin is doing just fine, thank you: he's a fully functioning adult, business at his flower shop is steady, and he even has a vague approximation of a social life. But when the vacant building next door becomes a tattoo parlor run by the sought-after, larger-than-life Sirius Black, Remus's carefully constructed world is turned on its head, forcing him to reexamine his past, present, and future.

that’s the art of getting by by sarewolf

rating: mature

“What do you want me to do?” Remus says, tiredly. All he wants is to curl up on his bed. Smoke a pack of cigarettes. Get drunk. He can’t stop looking at Harry.

“Remus...” Dumbledore is gentle. Remus hates when he has that tone. Hates that he knows it will hurt. “There is no one else left.”

A bitter laugh escapes him. “So you’ll curse the poor thing with a werewolf for a guardian?”

a classic :)

on another ocean (WIP) by colgatebluemintygel

rating: explicit

“You want me to come with you on the holiday that you specifically booked for you and your girlfriend?” “Ex-girlfriend,” Sirius corrects. Remus looks at Sirius searchingly, and once again, several emotions flicker across his face; only this time, his expression lands on something like hope. “Yeah. Okay.” or, Sirius is dumped by his girlfriend and drags his best friend on a holiday across Europe. And somewhere between Berlin clubs, Parisian boulevards, and Transylvanian villages, they fall into each other.

i am simply a girl and a girl who is an absolute SUCKER for pining sirius!!! ugh him being absolutely oblivious to remus’ clear feelings back!!! help me!!! im also a slut for slutty remus i love that the string bean can pull 

** wading in waist-high water by colgatebluemintygel

rating: explicit

Remus is a PhD student and hobbyist baker who finds himself adrift following his father’s death. On a whim, he enters the Great British Bake Off and is swept up in a flurry of curdled custard, shrunken souffle, and under-proved dough. Remus expects to be challenged and to embarrass himself on public television. What he doesn’t account for are the friendships he develops with the other contestants and the deep connection he forms with his teenage crush, Sirius Black: charming ex-boy band member and Bake Off host.

or,

Sirius groans, dropping his head back into his hands. “It’s the dough,” he mumbles into the skin of his palms. “It’s the kneading. It’s his hands. They’re obscene.”

Lily laughs. “They are a bit, aren’t they?”

GBBO!!! this fic is pure comfort to me, i love the character dynamics--sirius and lily as hosts have a soft spot in my heart, remus’ chaos and the adorable adorable flirtation between r/s. i love. 

A Bird At Your Door by moongoblin

rating: not rated

A shiver trembles through Sirius, racing up his spine, and he blames the crisp air. Remus leans closer, and his lips are parting-- and Sirius shrieks as a chunk of wet, numbing snow is rubbed into his cheek. He squirms beneath him, twisting his head away, but Remus only presses him harder into the glacial ground.

When Remus sits back, Sirius glowers darkly, using his freed arm to wipe his face with his sleeve. He can't quite remember how to breathe, and Remus is still over him, their legs tangled and bent at odd angles.

"You were a lot nicer to me when you were sick." Sirius says.

"I was weak." Remus smiles, and the warmth from his body fades as he gets to his feet. "Don't get used to it."

Of pub quizzes, old films, Chinese takeaways, broken arms, and impassioned discussions of literature: Remus is confusing, and Sirius is just trying to figure him out.

again. i live for s being obsessed with r. i can’t get enough of it. especially when he can’t figure out quite why. i love the begrudging friendship they form in this one. 

[chelleztjs18]

Grief (W.M)

Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Post End Game Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader and with other Avengers.

Summary: Wanda has been dealing with grieving but how much more can she take it?

Requested: No.

A/N: Hi lovely people! I forgot to add this on my WIP's, I had it in my draft for quite a while. This is a post End Game timeline, but Nat is alive. (I will never accept the fact that she died in End Game. :D ) Also, I don't know much about medical stuff, so for sure there are inaccuracy in medical situation in this story but hey, it's just an imagination, right? Well, I hope everybody likes how this one shot turns out.

Warning: Angst, angst and angst. ( A bit of fluff if you squint.) Character death. (Let me know if there's more.)

P.S:  Detka / Malyshka : Baby.

Grief, five letters word that Wanda is really familiar with. She has lost count how many times she has cried her endless sorrow out. It’s like one thing after another for her, from losing her parents when she was a kid, then Pietro, her twin brother, the only person she has in her life was ripped away by death from her without any single warning leaving her hurt so badly. Then Vision came to her life only to leave her again, drowning her deeper in misery from his death when she thought finally she had the dream life to live happily and have a break from grieving. People always say “Third time's the charm.” but for Wanda “Third time’s a curse.” She thinks she is cursed to live a loop of grieving hell.

Since then she built up the strongest and the highest wall around her heart, not letting anybody close to her romantically nor platonically so she won’t lose anybody anymore. Nat is the only friend she lets be close to her since she joins the Avengers, or to be more specific since Pietro died. Nat helped her go through her days in anguish from Pietro’s death and then also Vision’s. After a few years of Vision’s death, Nat starts to suggest to her not to close her heart to anybody but all the pain and loss she had made her to be stubborn enough to ignore her best friend's suggestion. Her heart has turned into a cold stone.

But then one day, aliens attack the city of New York. All Avengers were called to this mission, including Wanda. She saw you were running in fear and a broken car flying to you, Wanda saw what was happening then she quickly stopped the car with her magic. She saved your life. You were frozen for a few seconds not just from the shock of a flying car almost hitting straight to your face, but also when you saw Wanda. You always admire her as one of the heroes in Avengers but you never knew Wanda would save your life.

The redhead witch also forgot how to function for brief seconds after she saw you. Her cold stone heart felt something that she hasn’t felt for a while after Vision. “Watch out! Behind you!” You screamed to warn her an alien tried to attack her from behind. Luckily, she moved fast and you “saved” her life in return. “Why are you still here? Run!” Wanda warns you as she fights the aliens. You tried to run, but she was worried you couldn’t make it somewhere safe, so after she killed the aliens, she grabbed your hand and led you somewhere safe.

“Okay, you are safe here.” The witch says before she turns around back to the battlefield. “Thank you.” You make sure she hears it. She turns around and nods to you and flies away.

Weirdly, a few days after that Wanda wonders about you, hoping that you are okay. She remembers she didn’t thank you for saving her life too. “Ms. Maximoff, someone is here to visit you. She said her name is Y/N Y/LN. Should I let her in?” Friday, the A.I alerts her through the speaker in her room and shows her the front gate camera. She can’t believe her eyes when she sees you through the screen, standing nervously with a basket full of pastries and beautiful arranged flowers in a vase.

She jumps off the bed quickly. “Uh--okay Friday. Let her in, and I’ll meet her at the front door.” She sees the gate open and you walk past the opened gates.

“Hi.” Wanda greets you with a very confused soft low voice. She is subconsciously happy to see you are okay, but she doesn’t know what else to say. The wall still stands tall around her heart. “Hi. I’m Y/n. You saved my life a few days ago. I--uh I’m here to bring something for you as a thank you. I--I wrote a card too just in case I’m not allowed to go into this huge Avengers building but I’m glad I can give this to you in person.” You smile as you stretch out your hand, giving her the gift you had for her.

“Oh. Uh T-thank you. You don’t have to. I-I'm glad you are safe.” She takes it from your hand and her fingers accidentally brush yours a little bit, but enough to send a small rush to both yours and Wanda’s heart and make you blush.

“I haven’t thanked you for saving my life that day. So, thank you.” Wanda’s lips curve into a small awkward smile. To be honest, she forgets how to smile after all the deaths of the people that she loves but surprisingly she managed a small smile for you.

“Oh no problem. At least we are even now. You know, saving each other’s life.” You laughed awkwardly, regretting the not so funny joke you just said. You didn’t hear any laugh from her nor a word from the taller woman in front of you. “Uh well, okay then. I’m gonna leave now. Once again, thank you.” You gave a small nervous wave then you turned around and when you were about to walk away, her broad accent stopped your steps.

“Would you like to go for a coffee someday?” Wanda hesitantly asks you, doesn’t even know where those words come from. You turn around smiling so wide and happy. “Really?” You ask with an excited tone. “Yes. So, at least we can get even with the ‘thank you’ gift” She answers as she lifts the basket a little to support her reference of the ‘thank you’ gift she mentioned.

“Yes sure, I would love to. I’ll give you my number?” Your eyes light up, you smile from ear to ear. Wanda let you put in your number to her phone contact. “Cool. I’ll wait for your text. See you, Wanda.” You left with a smile.

She closed the door, then she put the basket of pastries in the common room kitchen counter to share it with the teammates. She checks out the card you wrote. “Hey there, hero. I’m Y/n Y/l/n, you saved my life and mostly my face from the flying car a few days ago. Thank you so much. Please accept these pastries I made as my way to thank you. Enjoy!”

She closes the card and once again, she subconsciously smiles. “Wow, that girl made you smile for the first time after a while. I like her. Please tell me, you are gonna text her and take her for coffee, Wands?” Nat teases her best friend out of nowhere.

Wanda startled. “Jesus, Nat! You scared me! And how did you know?” She asks the Russian redhead. “Well, I was looking for you, then Friday told me you are at the front door, so I decided to check out the front door camera.” Nat explains with a smirk.

“I don’t know, Nat. I might not text her. I’m scared. I don’t want to start anything.” Fear evident in her face. “I understand but it has been years, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s just a coffee, she seems sweet. Give her a chance. I’m sure she’ll be waiting for your text.” Nat tried to talk some sense to the Sokovian. Wanda doesn’t say anything and walks to her room.

_____

A week after, Wanda still hasn’t texted you. You have been waiting for it. So you decided to come see her again.

Wanda and Nat are about to train today until Friday’s alert was made for Wanda to hear. “Ms. Maximoff, Ms. Y/n is here to visit you again. Should I let her in, to the front door?”

“Yes, Friday. Let her in.” Nat answers the A.I before even Wanda can react to it. “What? Nat, what are you doing?” Panic can be clearly heard in Wanda’s voice. “You haven’t texted her, have you?” Nat squinted her eyes at her but she got no answer from the red haired shy Avenger next to her. “I can’t believe you did that to her. I feel bad for her.” Nat shakes her head as she lets out a disappointed sigh.

“I’m gonna answer the door for her.” Nat adds as she runs to the front door and opens it. “Wait, What? No, Nat. Wait.” Wanda runs to catch her but it’s too late, Nat greets you. “Hi! Y/n, right? I’m--” Then Nat gasps as she all of a sudden dragged away from the door and disappeared to the side of the door from your sight. “Hi?” You are confused with what’s happening and where did Nat go.

You take a step in to check out what’s going on. You see Wanda walk to the door and Nat complains as she walks behind her. “You use your power on me, not fair, Wands!”

“Hi, y/n. I’m sorry. Please ignore her.” Wanda tries to calm herself down from the awkwardness. “Ignore her? I can’t. She is Natasha Romanoff. She is also my idol. Well, after you, of course.” You answer her in excitement from meeting Nat. “Yes, Wands, let her meet me. Don’t tell her to ignore me.” Nat shows up at the door. “Hi, y/n! Thank you for the pastries last week. They were delicious.” Nat greets you and smiles at you, she notices Wanda rolls her eyes.

“Sure! You are welcomed! I made some more.” You show another basket full of pastries. “Oh my God! Thank you.” You hand Nat the basket. “Y/n, what are you doing here?” Wanda asks. “Uh, It’s been a week, and you haven’t texted me, so I wanted to check if you are okay after you eat my pastries, and apparently you are okay.”

“Uh yeah, about that. I’m sorry, I was about to text you but I got busy with missions.” Wanda explains. “Oh okay, no worries. I guess I'm gonna go now. I hope you like the pastries.” You act shy and awkward. “I love it. Thank you.” Wanda answers and smiles for you.

“Okay, Wanda. See you.” with a heavy disappointed heart you slowly walk away. Nervous and fear fills Wanda’s heart but surprisingly she has this strong urge to know more about you, to spend more time with you. As you walk slowly, you get a text. You actually didn’t really care to check your phone right now, but to distract your disappointment thinking Wanda won’t ever text you, you pull out your phone and the text you read falters your step. “Do you have time for coffee with me today?” Your heart jumps up to your throat and beats loudly to your ears. You look back at Wanda, and you see her look at you then she says “I’m sorry for making you wait, can I make it up to you, today?” Her sokovian accent in her soft voice asks you. You can’t hold back your smile. “Yes, of course.”

That day started everything to move further. Both of you spent a long time at the coffee shop, talking about each other’s life. She feels like she has known you for a long time. The comfort she gets from talking with you is indescribable. She thinks it’s so crazy how someone she has just met can easily tear down the walls around her heart that have been there for years. Her heart with endless emptiness is magically filled up with your cheerful lovely energy that feels like a ray of sunshine spreads warmth in her. If Wanda can tell the truth, it’s almost too scary for her that you could make her smile from her heart let alone make her laugh.

From a coffee that day leads to another coffee time, then turns to a date and more dates after a few months that finally let Wanda open her heart for you, and fall for you, so do you. Wanda falls for you hard enough that she finally asks you to be her girlfriend.

Both of you are living the best of your life together, filled with laughter even though arguments are impossible to avoid but both of you manage to make it work. The two of you love each other so much.

For Wanda, her life with you right now is more than she could ask for. She never thought she would ever find happiness again. And when she thought she couldn’t be happier with her life with you, life proves her wrong. Her life indeed gets better and happier with you. After five years of dating and a year of being engaged, both of you finally set the date to start another step of life together as a married couple.

The wedding was simple, intimate yet magical. All the teammates were happy for both of you, of course, as the best friend of both of you and she can’t pick sides, Nat was the officiant of your marriage, and since both of you don’t have your parents or siblings, Tony walked you down the aisle. He has always liked you since the first bite of your pastries that you brought for the first time, and also when Nat told him how you made Wanda finally smile for the first time after years of grieving.

Wanda asked Clint to walk her down the aisle. She wouldn’t be an Avengers if it wasn’t for his words he said to her back then on Ultron’s incident. And if she wasn’t an Avengers, she wouldn't have met you.

The universe and three years of married life treats both of you so well. Wanda has forgotten her pain she had years ago. You have filled her heart and her laugh with so much love and happiness. To be married to an Avengers isn’t always easy. Even though Wanda is the most powerful among the others, you are always worried whenever she goes on a mission if she will return home injured or not come home at all. Thankfully, Wanda always comes home, no matter what.

The fear of losing her plus her worriedness of not having the chance to have a little family of her own with you encourage both of you to have a baby. Thanks to the technologies nowadays and a sperm donor, you finally got pregnant.

_____

You half lay down, half sitting up with your back leaning on the headboard of the bed with a pillow between your lower back and bed. You straighten your legs, Wanda lays on her side next to you facing your eight months pregnant belly. The butterflies in your stomach that Wanda gave you have turned into little feet. She gently kisses your belly after she feels the kick of your little one inside your belly. Your wife lays her head gently on your belly as she is hugging you while half of her body weight is on her side.

“Okay, babe, so if it’s a boy, we’ll name him Pietro Anthony Maximoff. I want to honor your brother that I never met.” You smile. You and Tony grow close together, he is like the brother you always wish for in your whole life in the orphanage. “And if it’s a girl, we name her Irina Tasha Maximoff.” To honor your mom, and Nat. She already reserved her name to be the middle name for our baby even since I told her that I’m pregnant.” You explain and the redhead on your belly giggles at her Russian best friend’s antics.

“I love both names, but one question, why Tasha? Why not Natasha?” She asks in a relaxed tone as you gently stroke her hair. “Because it sounds better than Irina Natasha, besides I already asked Nat, and she is okay with Tasha.” You answer as your hand now gently rubs her cheeks until she slowly falls into a sleepy state. “Hmmm, okay. Irina Tasha it is. I love you, y/n.” She hums in contentment. “I love you more, Wands.”

_____

One day, you were adding some decoration for the nursery room when you heard your doorbell. You thought it was Wanda coming home from her mission. You wonder why she rings the bell but then you think she probably lost her key again. You go downstairs in excited steps, you wish you could walk faster to open the door for her but the baby bump is getting bigger. You open the door. “Hi bab--Nat?” You found Natasha in front of the door instead, still on her black widow suit. You can see some bruises, scratches on her and even a bit of dried blood near her lips. She looks dirty as if she just got out of the ruins of the building but most importantly, she looks sad. “What are you doing here this early?” Then it hits you, you realize. “No. No. Where is Wanda? What happened to her?” Your heart drops to your stomach. Your heart stops a second then beats at an uncomfortable pace. You start to hyperventilate.

“I’m so sorry, y/n. We ambushed one of hydra secret bases, everything went well until more hydra’s soldiers came. They all came for Wanda because they know she is the most powerful one. Clint and I tried to come to where she was to help her fight them but gunshots came from different directions and one of the soldiers wore a vest of big explosive and did a suicide blows up. It happened too fast, a big explosion. Then we tried to find her, but we couldn't find her. Her COMM is dead as well. We have been searching for her for over 24 hours. I came back straight from where it all happened to tell you that.. that we lost her.” Nat explains with tears in her eyes, she swallows hard. “I’m so sorry, y/n.” She adds in her silent cry.

You almost fall, but Nat catches you. “Are you okay? let’s get you seated.” Nat helps you walk and get you seated in the living room. “I don’t know what to do with my life without her, Nat. She can’t be dead.” You start to cry, indescribable pain felt in your heart and chest. You sob on Nat’s shoulder as she hugs you. “She can’t be dead. She promised we will grow old together.” Nat cries with you as she keeps hugging you, she doesn’t know what to say except trying to comfort you with her hug.

After a few minutes she finally lets out her words. “I will stay here with you, okay? So you won’t be alone, just in case you have contractions in your belly.” Nat’s eyes swim in tears seeing how broken you are right now. She is worried about you.

Nat is sleeping in the guest room, but you can’t sleep no matter how hard you try. You can’t stop crying. You sit in the nursery room, crying in the dark. “Please come back, Wands. Don’t leave me and our baby. Please, I beg you.” Your heart wrenches. A noise from the door wakes Nat up. She heard you crying. She cautiously checks the surroundings.

“Detka, I’m home.” You raise your head quickly and turn it to look back. Your tears of sadness turn to tears of joy when you see Wanda standing in front of the nursery door, wounded, looking so pale and exhausted. “Oh my god! You are alive!” You cover your mouth with your hand with disbelief and relief as you cry more happy tears then you run to her and hug her. “Be careful malyshka, I don’t want you to trip and fall.” She tries to hold a grunt of pain when you hug her so you won’t let go of your hug as she hugs you back. “You came back! I thought I lost you.”

“I always promise to come home for you, love.” She answers in a weak whisper then kisses your forehead. You feel alive again in a heartbeat.

“Wanda? Oh my God! You are alive!” Nat is in great shock. “This is great! Don’t you dare scare us like that anymore! We're gonna have to take you to the compound for all your wounds.” The black widow added as she is calling the compound.

Wanda leans down to kiss your stomach then looks at you and your smile as she lays her hand on your baby bump. All of the wound and the pain feels like it fades swiftly. All she cared about was to come home to you and the baby.

You go with Wanda and Nat to get medical help for Wanda as she told you and Nat what happened to her after the explosion, she got captured by hydra then she fought them all, she fought for her life so she can come home to you. She flew home straight to you. Then she promised you to always call you right away the second the mission is done so you won’t be worried sick like tonight.

_____

After that night, Wanda is allowed to have a month off to recover which works great for her to spend more time with you and be ready for whenever it’s time to deliver the baby. Until one evening when you were cooking dinner, your water broke. She rushed you to the hospital right away.

She holds your hand, you scream in pain from the contraction. “You can do it, darling. I’m here.” Wanda tries to comfort you even though she knows it doesn’t help. You try to control your breath as you try hard to push the baby out of you. It has been fifteen hours of contractions and almost an hour of you pushing and it still hasn’t ended yet. She notices you look so pale and weak sweats roll off your forehead. “I can’t do it anymore.” You weakly try to catch your breath.

“The baby’s heartbeat gets lower in every contraction.” Wanda vaguely hears the doctor, as she puts all her focus on you. “No. No. Look at me, my love. You are strong. You can do it.” She whispers to you as she looks at you, shoves your hair back off your forehead. You look at her dearly, your gaze looks so weak, half shut trying its best to stay open, locked with her green eyes. “I love you, take care of our baby.” You are barely able to patch a smile for her. Suddenly the medical equipment beeps like crazy as if it’s alarming everybody in the room at the same time as you close your eyes followed by a one long flat beep.

“No. No. Wake up, y/n. What happened?” She calls you and then asks the doctor and his nurses but they are all too busy and look so worried as they pick up their pace in their actions. The room feels like spinning and stops at the same time, the lights are too bright for Wanda to stay focused, burning her eyes even though tears start to fill up her eyes. She hears the conversation between the doctor and the nurses with words that she doesn’t understand.

“Somebody tell me what’s going on with my wife! What happened? y/n, please wake up.” Wanda rambles. “Ms. Maximoff, I’m sorry, but you need to wait outside. Your wife has complications and it threatens her life and the baby’s as well, so we need to do C-section right now. I will update you when everything is done.” The doctor explains shortly before the nurse escorts her to the door to wait outside.

Nat tries to calm Wanda down while waiting. Fear claws through her, her heart is in her throat. Her heart thudded. She is barely able to breathe and sweat trickled down her spine. The wait feels like an eternity until the door finally opens and she quickly stands up as soon as she sees the doctor, not with a smile. “How is my wife? How’s the baby?”

“I’m so sorry Ms. Maximoff, we tried our best to save both of them but your wife couldn’t make it. Her complications were really bad, she was too weak to survive. We managed to save your daughter but she is still very weak and needs a close watch. I’m so sorry for your loss.” The doctor explains with a very heavy heart. The news felt like a knife to Wanda’s heart.

“No. No. You have to save her! Get back in there to save her!!!” She grabs him by the collar as her eyes glow red. Nat quickly stops her before she blows up with her emotion, once more with her.. heartbreak. “Wanda, stop. Stop.” Nat’s voice reminds her as her eyes no longer glow red but also no longer light up. It turns dark, empty and soulless just like how they were before she met you. “I-I’m sorry Ms. Maximoff.” The doctor goes back inside.

Her body felt leaden, despair drags her down and weakens her knees. She falls on her knees. After almost a decade of being happy, once again, sadness shattered her and grief hollowed her out. She could hardly move, she cried with no single sound. Nat’s heart breaks looking at Wanda in this state.

“Wands, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Nat cries with her, letting her heart break together with Wanda’s. “Why? Why does this have to happen to me, Nat. I’m tired and sick of this pain of loss.” She talks in her cry. “Wanda, you have to stay strong. You have your daughter now, stay strong for her. Raise her to be a great woman as great as her moms, y/n and you.” Nat tries her best to talk some sense into her. Wanda nods as she continues crying. “I have to see, y/n. I need to.” She forces herself to stand up even though her bones ache in every move.

Nat follows her, she knows that her best friend wouldn’t be able to take it, she knows how much Wanda loves you and it will hit her the hardest ever. And Nat was right. Your wife breaks down the second she sees you laying lifeless in front of her.

She quickly leans down and hugs you trying to feel all the warmth that’s left on your body for the last time before you slowly turn cold. Then bawls her tears out on the crook of the neck with her left hand stroking your hair. “Y/n, please come back. You can’t leave me. I need you. We promise to grow old together.” Sorrow closed up her throat. She raises her head a little bit, her face is so close to yours, looking at your face, imagining your smile on your face. Both of her hands cup your cheeks and she gently presses her forehead to yours with her eyes closed, she talks in a shaky whisper, “I can’t feel you.” She crumbled inside and her spirit fell into another sobbing crying. She then gives one last long kiss on your forehead as she closes her eyes, holding back her tears but she fails.

Nat lays her hand on her shoulder. She can feel Wanda’s body is shaky from her crying. “I’m sure y/n wants you to see your daughter, Wanda.” The Russian redhead trying not to break down as well in front of her broken mourning Sokovian Avenger.

Wanda finally pulls herself up, then she raises your right hand to kiss the back of it. “I love you. I’m going to see our daughter.” She then tries to wipe her tears as if she is trying to look her best to see her daughter for the first time. “Wanda, I want you to change her middle name to y/n’s name, not mine.” Nat addresses her requests to her. “But Nat, y/n told me that you’ve been asking that it has to be your name since forever.” The taller woman asks with her brows furrowed.

Nat shakes her head gently refusing the idea “I want her to remember her mom. So please agree to it.” She answers without leaving any room for Wanda to disagree. She nods and they walk to see the baby.

Wanda comes into the room where your daughter is. She sees the little human in a baby incubator, wires around her from the medical equipment that’s attached to her tiny weak body, her vital stats are under close watch by the doctor and nurses as the oxygen machine helps her to breathe. A spine chilling beeping sound from the equipment fills up the small room that reminds her what happened to you less than an hour ago.

She walks closer, her eyes flooded with tears. “Hi little one. Welcome to the world, Irina Y/n Maximoff. You look just like your mom.” She pauses, taking a long breath hoping the pain will go away but it doesn’t, forcing her to continue talking with stabbing pain in her heart. “I will always tell you stories about your mom, y/n, so she will always live in your life, our life. I will raise you to be as great a woman as she is. I will not let anything bad happen to you, I can’t lose you too. You are all I have.” She holds back her tears, trying to make a smile in front of the weak little baby even though she can’t see her other mom yet.

The torment this time is harder and more painful for Wanda yet she has a little tiny hope from Irina to move on even though it’s impossible for her, even though she doesn’t want to.

_____

Wanda standing in front of your last place to rest. She stays for a little bit after your funeral. “Hi detka. I miss you already. I wish you were with me and Irina. She is still in the ICU. She is a fighter like you, she is not giving up. I promise I will raise her right and to protect her. I know you can see us from up there. I love you.” She pulls her hands up to her face and wipes her tears as she sniffles then leaves to see Irina.

Wanda visits Irina every day, telling her stories about you and her. Days soon turned to a week and shifted to weeks. Wanda keeps your phone number active just so she can keep hearing your voice every time she calls it and goes to your voicemail. She listens to it every day, sometimes leaving a voicemail as if she is talking with you. She plays your voicemail to Irina every time she visits the little angel. "It's your mom's voice, sweetheart. She has a beautiful voice. I'm sure if she is with us, she will sing to you every day." Her heart wants to cry but her eyes are tired as if it's giving up on crying.

One day, Wanda is on her way to the hospital, as she walks through the hospital hallway, her phone is ringing. It’s from the hospital. She answers. “Hello, is this Ms. Maximoff, the mother of Irina Maximoff?” says the lady on the other line. “Yes, I am. I’m walking to Irina’s room now.” She answers, the pit of her stomach fell. Fear twisted her gut. Her heart is hoping that it’s not bad news as she picks up her pace as the nurse says “Oh okay, we need you to be here as soon as you can.”

Wanda hangs up and runs to where she has to be. As she walks into Irina’s unit, she sees the doctor and the nurses surrounding her giving her the treatment she needs. There it is again, the same sounds of those scary beeping sounds, this time she notices the serious and urgent tone on the doctor’s voice. “What happened? What’s happening with my daughter?” Her stomach churned after she repeated the same question she asked them when something went wrong with you weeks ago, when you were dying.

“Her complications got worse, her lungs’ and kidneys’ function are declining fast.” The other nurse explains as the doctor is trying his best to save Irina. Everything the nurse told her felt like lightning hitting her so hard as if it’s trying to kill her. Technically, yes, it can kill Wanda if something happens to Irina, if she can’t make it.

The heart monitor machine all of a sudden screaming the sign that Wanda never wanted to get. The sign that tells her that Irina has gone. Then she sees the doctor look at her with huge sympathy from knowing what she has been through the last few weeks. He walks closer to her, before he starts to talk, she interrupts her. “No. No. Don’t tell me you are sorry. Don’t tell me that Irina is dead too. Please don’t, she is all I have. Please save her, I beg you.” Her lips quivered from her biting back a scream of another loss she has to handle.

“We tried our best Ms. Maximoff. My deepest condolences.” The doctor tries to use different words to avoid Wanda breaking down even worse.

_____

The dirt on your grave hasn’t even dried yet and Wanda has to see it open again to bury Irina with you. Wanda is there but she is not. Everybody knows she is in her worst state right now.

Time flies. It has been a month that everybody does their best to help her get through this. After they let her take days off as long as she needs, Wanda asks to be back on missions. They let her but the problem is she lets out all her anger and mourning to all the villains and hydra soldiers. She accomplished every mission but she kills every single one of them, giving them the worst way to die, sometimes even in gruesome ways. She even starts to chase and kill criminals that’s not related to Avengers’s cases to make her feel better or forgetting the endless nothingness she is feeling until it no longer helps her. She starts to get exhausted with no point in her life.

Hydra is taking hostage a whole office floor full of civilians, releasing a deadly gas. “Wanda, take the gas out of the building then the rest will take the civilians out.” Captain America commands her through the comm. “No, I will take the people out.” She refused the command. Little does everyone know, she has a plan of her own. “Stick to the plan, Maximoff.” Tony talks through the COMM but Wanda ignores him.

She managed to take everybody out, and when the other team mates are focusing on the victims, Wanda flies into the building with the deadly gas still in it and locks everything with her powers.

The Iron Man got notified by the A.I. “Sir, there is another person left in the building who needs to be saved now. Tony scans the location with his system. “Maximoff, what are you doing?! Get out of there!” He flies up to the window, trying to shoot the windows to break her out but it is no use. Her magic protects all the windows from anything that can destroy it. She locks everybody out, not letting them save her.

“Romanoff, are you at the door, we have to save her before it’s too late.” Tony sees Wanda sitting on the floor, leaning her back on the wall. Wanda keeps taking deep breaths to inhale as much gas as she can. “I’m trying to open it, but it doesn't work. The explosive doesn’t even work to open the door.” The black widow answers Tony then tries to talk to her dying friend from the other side of the door. “Wanda, please don’t do this. You have to stay alive for y/n and Irina.”

The Sokovian chooses not to answer and pushes Nat away, out of the building and lands her safely on the ground near the quinjet. She takes out her phone and makes a call. “Hello detka. I’m calling to let you know, the mission went as planned and I’m okay. I’m happy. I’m happy that I'm finally going to see you and Irina. I’m coming home, to you and our daughter. I love you, malyshka. We'll say hello again.” She left a voicemail to you like she always does, keeping her promise to update you every time she is done with her mission. Her hand slowly falls from holding her phone up to her ear. As the deadly gas starts killing her inside, eating her alive, it weakens her and her magic. Tony finally breaks in and grabs Wanda out. “Friday, reads her vital.” Tony commands the A.I

“Her lungs are collapsing sir, so is her heart. Chance of surviving is less than five percent. It means she only has less than ten minutes of life.” Tony hears the stats the A.I tells him.

“No. No. Witchy, stay with us. Don’t die.” Tony lands and brings her into the jet. “It’s okay, Tony.” Her voice barely makes it out of her lips. Nat comes and grabs her best friend into her arms. “Why did you do this, Wanda? Why?” Nat asks in a cry. Her lungs burn, her heart beats getting slower and slower, the toxic hurting every inch of her muscles, leaving her paralyze but she doesn’t care. All she cares about is she’s coming home to you. “I’m okay Nat. I will finally be with y/n and Irina. That’s all I need.” She weakly smiles. Her green eyes slowly lose their color as her eyelids slowly close and she takes her last breath shortly before her soul leaves her body.

Nat hugs her lifeless best friend, crying together with the other Avengers in the quinjet that’s no longer needed to rush Wanda to hospital. Silence covers every inch of the quinjet. Even the engine can’t beat the silence from their grief of Wanda’s death.

Masterlist

A/N: I'm so sorry. It hurt me to when I was writing this. Let me know what you think. As usual reblogs, likes, comments, and feedbacks are always appreciated. Follow me for more. See you in next.

Cheerio!

Chellez TjS.

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New Ways of Turning Into Stone

A/N  Another long drive, another Outlander fanfic idea that dropped into my brain out of nowhere, shoving aside the historical AU I have been wrestling with for months.  Here’s the pitch: Claire Beauchamp is a psychiatrist specializing in grief counselling.  Jamie Fraser is referred to her by his sister, who is worried for his well-being after a series of family tragedies.  You can probably guess the rest, but I’m going to write it anyway.   The title is taken from a song by the amazing Phantogram that was playing as the story idea came to me.

After losing my WIP virginity posting Ginger Snap, I’m going out on that limb again and posting this first chapter with only a rough outline mapped out in my head.  You people are a terrible influence!  Also, there will be some trigger warnings on future chapters, so please watch out for those.   And now, on with our show.

Claire Beauchamp glanced down at the leather-bound calendar open on her desk.  The ivory page for Thursday was packed to the margins, each hourly block filled with the name of a patient followed by a series of cuneiform symbols she used to remind herself of the last session, course of treatment, overall progress, all while maintaining strict confidentiality.  Not even Geillis Duncan, her office administrator and very good friend, knew how to decode the script.

Geillis liked to laugh at the old-fashioned day planner, reminding Claire that their practice utilized software that could perform the same function electronically, but she enjoyed the act of physically logging each session.  The solid heft of her Mont Blanc pen in her hand, a medical school graduation gift from her Uncle Lamb.  The scratch and grab of the nub as it bled black ink over virgin paper.  It was a tactile ceremony in a detached world.  Geillis would nod and then tell her she needed to get laid.

Speak of the devil, a sharp rap on her office door was followed by the appearance of her strawberry blonde head. blue eyes alight with mischief.

“Yer two o’clock is here.  Did ye need more time tae finish bolting down tha’ chaff ye call a salad, or can I show him in?”

“It’s kale,” she defended.  “It’s full of anti-oxidants.”

A disdainful scoff was the only response.

“Yes, Geil, please show Mister...” she glanced down at her planner, “...Fraser in, thank you.”

The tiny rectangle contained only a name, which meant this was their first appointment.  Geillis vetted all prospective patients, but Claire preferred to go into the first meeting blind, with no assumptions or pre-conceptions.  

She wondered what misfortune had caused Mr. Fraser to seek out her psychiatric services.  The death of a child, perhaps, or the end of an extra-marital affair.  People grieved for very different reasons and worked through or around that grief with a surprising variety of coping mechanisms.   Most called upon her practice in much the same way they would a breakdown truck when their car’s engine failed.  They simply wanted to get back on the road to happiness.

Despite the degrees and accreditations that decorated her office wall, Claire wasn’t certain such a thing was possible.  In her experience, grief was a phantom limb that never really went away.  The best one could hope for was to learn healthier ways of living with it.  

The sound of Geillis clearing her throat snapped her back to the present.

“Was there something else, Geil?”

“Och, no’ really.  Just, when yer considerin’ how tae thank me later on, remember tha’ my favourite stone is an emerald, that I prefer gold tae silver, but platinum is ne’er amiss.”

“What are you on about, Duncan?”  But her friend had already disappeared back into the reception area, leaving behind only the glow of her Cheshire smile.  Claire was shaking her head, bemused, when another knock rang out, this one considerably heavier than the first.

“Come in,” she called as she looked up.  And up.  And up some more.

The man who now practically filled her office door had to be at least six foot four, with powerful shoulders and a broad torso encased in a blue henley.  His nearly endless legs were likewise muscular, as testified by the stretch of his jeans across each thigh.  As if his physique wasn’t remarkable enough, he had a head of outrageously wavy red hair, worn long enough to graze the tops of his ears and the nape of his neck, but swept back from a high brow by a judicious use of product.  His face was angular in a pleasingly unique way, with a day or two’s growth of beard counter-balancing an almost youthful, earnest appearance.  But his most striking feature by far were his aquamarine eyes that shimmered like a tropical sea.  Eyes that were currently observing her with perplexity.

“Dr. Beauchamp?” a deep Scottish brogue inquired.  He pronounced it as though she were French.

“Yes,” she startled.  “That’s me.  And it’s pronounced Beecham.  Please, come in Mister Fraser.”  She shuffled a few items around her desk needlessly as she tried to compose herself.  Damn Geillis for not giving her a bit more warning that her newest client was some sort of fitness model.

“Thank ye,” he replied.  “An’ it’s pronounced Jamie, if ye please.”   She added wit to the growing list of the man’s attributes.

If anything, he grew even more impressive as he approached.  She could see he was nervous, although hiding it well.  His striking eyes darted about the room, trying to get a sense of his environment.  She indicated the well-upholstered armchair that sat to one side of her desk.

“Have a seat,” she invited.

With a surprising amount of grace for one so tall, he eased into the chair but didn’t lean back.  The fingers of his left hand tapped restlessly against his thigh.  She watched him quietly, waiting for him to speak.  This was a trick she had learned when she first started practicing psychiatry, but in this case it also allowed her to continue her appraisal.  He was, she concluded, the most attractive man she’d ever seen in the flesh.

“No couch,” he finally observed.

“No.  That’s a bit of a Hollywood trope, I’m afraid.  Lying prone in front of a stranger is hardly conducive to feeling at ease.”

He nodded his acceptance of her logic, but was otherwise silent.

“So,” she spoke at last, unable to wait him out, “what caused you to seek out counselling, Jamie?”  His name suited him, she thought as she spoke it for the first time.  Both boyish and imposing at once.

“I didna.  Twas my sister, Jenny, who insisted I see a doctor.”  His mobile mouth twisted into a grimace.  She could imagine the sibling discord that such a demand would have caused.  Whoever this Jenny was, she was made of strong stuff.  Unfortunately for her, a hostile patient would receive no benefit from merely visiting her office.  Counselling was a participatory process, and she could tell from the stubborn set of Jamie’s shoulders that he had no intention of participating.

“I see,” she said carefully.  “Well, it’s your time and your dime, Mr. Fraser.  This session lasts for forty-five minutes, and you’ve not been here for five.  There’s a carafe of hot water on the table over there, if you care for some tea.  Or you’re welcome to just enjoy that comfortable chair for another forty minutes.  I’ll be working on some administrative necessities.”

She turned her chair away from him, but from the corner of her eye she could see his gobsmacked expression.  He had clearly expected her to cajole and manipulate him into co-operating, but that simply wasn’t her style.

“I meant no offence, doctor.  I’m certain ye’re verra good at what ye do.  Tis only... well, Jenny is my older sister, ye ken.  She practically raised me.  And so ofttimes she treats me like a muckle-sized bairn, and no’ a man who’s capable of lookin’ after himself.”

As he spoke, Jamie leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees, expressive hands gesturing in front of his face.  Hostile to the notion of counselling he might be, but he clearly wanted her to understand it wasn’t a slight.  As a physician, she had been trained to never take a patient’s reactions personally, but it didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate the effort.

“No offence taken, Jamie.  If you don’t need my assistance, I’m happy for you.  That’s one less person hurting in the world.”

“I didna say I wasna hurting.  But I can handle it my own way.  I am handling it, that is,” he hurried to add.

Unable to sit still any longer, he rose and walked over to the small table where she kept an assortment of herbal teas and a tray of Geillis’ homemade biscuits.  Bending over, Jamie set about making himself some; chamomile by the smell of it.  The sound of spoon ringing off porcelain as he stirred in some honey made her smile, reminding her of Lamb and his obsession with the lost art of afternoon tea.

“Can I make ye a cup?”

The question was so unexpected, it took her a moment to process it.  The tea was there as a distraction for her patients, to give them something to do with their bodies as they worked through difficult emotions.  None of them had ever thought to offer her a reprieve as well.

“No, thank you.  I just finished lunch.”

He dipped a shortbread into the steaming tea, then ate it in a single bite.  Instead of sitting back down, he began to browse the framed certificates and photographs along the far wall as he sipped his tea.  With his back turned, her eyes dipped to admire his ass, which filled out his jeans perfectly.  When she caught herself, she gave her head a shake, appalled at her lack of professional detachment.  Maybe Geillis was right.  Maybe she really did need to get laid.

“How long have ye been a doctor?” Jamie asked without turning around.

“Ten years,” she replied.  “But I’ve only been a psychiatrist for the last two.”

It was a dangerous topic, and she blamed his ass for letting the words slip out.  Fortunately, his inquisitiveness took him in an entirely different direction.

“Were ye some kind of prodigy, then? Ye hardly seem old enough tae have yer own practice, let alone fer a decade.  If ye dinna mind me sayin’ so,” he added quickly, as though realizing what he’d just said.

“Not at all.  And you hardly seem young enough to be a, what was it? A muckle-sized bairn?”

As he turned to look her way, she understood the expression ‘shot-gun smile’ for the first time.  It spread across his face like a sunbeam, transforming what was already remarkable into a work of art.  If she hadn’t been sitting, she likely would have stumbled backward from the force of the blow.  Scrambling for something familiar to keep her from making a very grave fool of herself in front of this man, she clasped her clinical training with both hands.

“Are you and your sister close?” 

“Aye, when we’re no’ tryin’ not tae kill the other.  Our Mam died when I was only four, and with Da workin’ dawn til dark on the farm, Jenny was parent, teacher an’ playmate all rolled inta one.”

“You’re not from Edinburgh, then?”  Although what that had to do with his counselling, she hadn’t a clue. 

“Nah, I hail from a wee village in the Highlands ye’ve likely ne’er heard of called Broch Mordha.”  She shook her head to indicate she was indeed unfamiliar with it.  Jamie launched into a detailed description of the place, his hands sculpting the landscape out of thin air.  He obviously cared very deeply for his home, and she felt a twinge of jealousy, having never known that feeling of deep belonging  herself.

“And what brought you to Old Smoky?” she asked as he wound down, her interest piqued.  It was like slamming a lead door on his previously sunny disposition.

“Family obligations.” Said in such a way as to make it clear that no further words would be forthcoming on the topic.  She regretted her nosiness immediately, despite what it revealed about his emotional state.  Jamie was most certainly grieving something, but handling it he was not.

Before she could find a way back to the easy flow of conversation, a chime from her laptop indicated that the session was up.  She couldn’t bear to dismiss him without trying to set things right.

“Listen, Jamie, I understand that you only came here today to humour your sister, but I want you to consider something.  Whether we’re grieving or angry or jealous, or any destabilizing feeling, we’re often the worst surveyors of our own landscape.  Just like you can’t know your place on the sea without referencing the stars, it takes something external to ourselves to measure how far adrift we have become.  Your sister obviously loves you.  Ask yourself, what has she seen in you that prompted her to force you to seek help?”

They parted with cordial but muted goodbyes.  The door closed behind him, leaving Claire to stare at the blank rectangle in her planner that bore his name.  No coded symbols flowed from her pen.  When the door re-opened, it was Geillis, closing it firmly behind her.

“Weel, did I no’ tell ye?  Wee fox, tha’ one.  And he told me he liked my shortbread!”   Geillis said this as though it was some kind of sexual euphemism, which for all Claire knew, it was.

“Yes,” she replied distractedly.  “He’s very nice.”

“Nice!  Nice?  Tha’ man is tae nice what Wagyu is tae beef jerky.  Have ye completely lost yer senses, woman?”  

“Yes, well, he’s a patient, Geillis, as you well know.  And not one I’m likely to see again,” she added, acknowledging out loud what she already knew.

“Oh, no?” Geillis sing-songed.  “Thas’ strange, as he just made an appointment fer the same time next week.”

Claire’s eyes flew to where her friend looked on, smug as could be.

“Yer three o’clock called tae say she was runnin’ five minutes late.  I’ll leave ye tae think about yer... patient.”

Claire picked up her pen, trying to pull together something resembling a professional summary of her first appointment with Jamie.  Her mind replayed their interaction, but all she could remember was the way his eyes crinkled when he was listening attentively, the tidy half-moons of his fingernails, the seam of his jeans as it contoured his thigh, and the cymbal-crash in her chest that accompanied his smile.

Patient, she reminded herself.  Jamie Fraser is your patient. 

[trashyinferno]

my life goes on in endless song (raise the seventh, lead me on)

This is a WIP I've been working on off and on for a month now, but I wanted to share a bit of it just to get something out there!

Enjoy some Wilbur Soot and Philza found family... fluff? I think?

No warnings needed :)

From the beginnings of his life in the orphanage (tonic to a minor subdominant) to the moment he ran (minor submediant to a major dominant; raise the seventh, lead it somewhere when you’re running to), he remembers vaguely.

He remembers his caretakers (calm and gentle but not quite, not his – not his tonic). He remembers his playmates (only in sleep, their faces blank). He remembers the guitar he got for Christmas one year (and there’s the beginnings of his melody: one chord, then the next, and then his bass no longer plays in pedal).

There is one thing he remembers very well.

When he left, the melody soared.

And as he took one last look at the cold stone walls that had been his home (not quite, not ever, not his tonic), he knew that his symphony, wild and raucous with the thrill of the unknown, had finally begun.

----

The swirling cacophony of excitement fades a few days later when he realizes that his food stores are dangerously low. He figured he’d find something, but other than the occasional traveler, he hasn’t found anything remotely useful.

(Minor. Minor. Minor.)

He tries not to notice the way the progression sours when he steals a loaf of bread from a campsite someone’s left unattended. He can’t fight the way his gut twists and contorts as he takes the first bite.

(Tonic to major mediant. Push forward to half-diminished supertonic. Thrust into minor dominant. The progression is wrong, all wrong, defying every rule.)

Stealing comes easier after that.

(The people who wrote the rules are all dead, anyway.)

----

He realizes that he’s made a big mistake when the winged man - too big, too tall, wings stretched wide (no escape tone, no appoggiatura) - lands in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. The man’s eyebrow rises up his face, and Wilbur isn’t shaking. He’s not.

(Plagal cadence. No way to move. Finality.)

This is his end. Wilbur drops his gaze; his knees shake.

A hand enters his vision. “Just give me the sword,” the man says with unquestionable authority in his voice. “Keep everything else. Give me the sword.”

The apple in Wilbur’s hand glitters brightly beneath the sword's soft purple glow. He’s never seen a gold apple before, but he’s sure that it’s valuable - maybe more valuable than the blade. He worries at his lip with his teeth.

The hand stretches slightly.

Wilbur drops the sword into its palm.

“Thank you,” the man says as he yanks the hand back. Wilbur watches with curiosity as the man carefully, worriedly, examines the blade with narrowed blue eyes. His shoulders visibly relax when the blade passes its inspection.

Wilbur wants to leave. He should leave, but he’s rooted firmly to the ground when the man swipes at the air experimentally with the suddenly very dangerous looking blade.

(Sharp. Very sharp. Ear-shatteringly sharp.)

The man nods and tucks the sword into a sheath hooked to his belt. He looks at Wilbur thoughtfully, his head cocking ever so slightly to the side. His blue eyes glitter beneath his green and white bucket hat. “You look hungry.”

Wilbur blinks.

“You’re hungry.” The authority is back, and Wilbur can’t help but follow obediently when the man motions for him to follow.

He gets a good meal and an even better full night of sleep for the first time in weeks.

The man, Philza, doesn’t comment when Wilbur trails after him the next morning, but the boy doesn’t miss the small smile on the man’s face as he makes camp for the night.

----

“Do you play?” Philza asks the second night, gesturing to the guitar at Wilbur’s feet with his spoon. Dinner is mushroom stew, again. Not that Wilbur is complaining.

Wilbur glances down at the guitar and lifts his eyes to stare at the man with his best wry expression.

Phil’s hand goes up in surrender. “Just curious, mate.”

Wilbur rolls his eyes, shoving another spoonful of soup into his mouth with a scowl.

“Y’know, you could play, if you wanted. I wouldn’t mind the music.”

Wilbur ignores the hopeful tone in his voice. He’ll play when he wants to, and not a minute sooner.

(But he wants it. He wants it so badly, the chords flashing through his mind - tonic, inverted supertonic, dominant - almost too quickly to catch.)

His fingers itch with the need to press against harsh wire for the rest of the night.

----

It’s the fourth night when he finally breaks.

(He plays a melancholic progression of A, f#m, and F7 just to spite Philza.)

His guitar hums softly over the crackling of their small campfire. Wilbur’s fingers ache painfully - he hasn’t played since that first night on his own - but the relief (D, A, D7) that he can even play without fear of attracting some mob overrides his sense of self-preservation. He needs the callouses, anyway, especially since he’s going to be playing more often.

(A, f#m, F7.)

If he’s going to be playing more often, he corrects mentally. If.

The twang of carefully tuned guitar strings rings in the quiet forest. Somewhere nearby, a cricket sings along. A soft breeze ruffles Wilbur’s curly brown hair.

Philza is careful to hide his smile when Wilbur looks his way. Wilbur pretends he doesn’t see it.

If.

(f#m, E, D, A.)

----

For some reason, Philza seems to take this as permission to start babbling at him as they walk the next day. Granted, the man had tried to make conversation multiple times in the past few days, but Wilbur had shut that down with non-verbal responses and lots of eye rolling.

Apparently, that tactic isn’t going to work anymore.

“Y’know, I’m quite surprised you haven’t asked where we’re going.”

Of course he hasn’t asked. He’s not sticking around to see Philza’s final destination.

“I’ve got a little cottage a couple days journey from here - right in the middle of the forest. I think you’d like it. Lots of little nooks and crannies for you to hide in.” Philza glances back at Wilbur, a soft, almost wistful, smile on his face. “And you’d like Techno, I think.”

Wilbur doesn’t bother to stifle his snort of disbelief. He’s not going to like this man’s cottage, and he’s certainly not going to like some person named Techno. Seriously, who hated their kid enough to name them Techno?

“If you want to join me the rest of the way, that is,” Philza adds quickly. “You can stay a few days, maybe get some food in you before you head out again?”

Even Wilbur has to admit that the man’s suggestion makes sense.

If his stomach rumbles in response, no one mentions it.

--------

The sound of wood cracking loudly behind Wilbur cuts through his mellow chord progression like it’s butter. His hands still as Philza shoots upright, his hand thrusting out in a stopping motion toward Wil.

Wait. The hand tells him. Let me take care of this.

A fuzzy feeling warms Wil’s chest. He feels… He isn’t sure what he feels.

Philza pulls his sword - purple, shimmering in the night, but not the one Wilbur stole, which still hangs in its sheath from his belt - from the other sheath on his waist and glares over Wil’s shoulder.

“I’ll be right back,” the man murmurs. His black wings flare out once before they tuck tightly at his back, and then Philza is noiselessly creeping around Wilbur.

He hears a moan behind him, a soft chk, and the sound of something thumping against crunchy brown leaves. There’s a soft sigh, and Philza walks back into view. Hideous green goop coats the deadly purple blade in his hand, but outside of that, there’s no indication that anything might have happened.

Philza settles back into a comfortable seated position. He smiles at Wilbur warmly, like there’s something Wilbur did in the past couple minutes that helped him. Wil raises a curious eyebrow.

“Zombie,” the man says with a shrug. “The adults aren’t a big deal, but the babies can be a bit of a problem if they catch you off guard.” His face scrunches in distaste as he looks off into the distance. “Learned that one the hard way,” he says bitterly. “Techno still hasn’t let me live it down.”

Wilbur isn’t sure how he’s supposed to respond to this, so he returns to playing.

(D, G, A7.)

Philza’s expression softens. He opens his mouth as if to say something but closes it after a moment of thought.

The feeling of warmth returns with a vengeance, and this time, Wilbur thinks he has an idea of what it might be.

He feels protected.

[vaire-gwir]

Some Cat and Wolf fanfic I had in mind

Edit: I think I fixed it now, should make a little more sense.

I was listening to I Lost a Friend and it made me me think about Lambert and Aiden for some reason. Why, you may ask, well I don’t know. This is just my poor attempt at what happens after Aiden‘s death (spoiler?), Lambert coping with the loss and remembering. This thing was sounded better in my head so, is it terrible? probably, I mean I’m trash, not the sexy kind. Attention please: I’m a sucker for feedback, give me all the feedbacks, I want to know if you liked it, hated it or if it’s so bad you stopped reading after 5 lines. 

Attention please, pt2: this is hardly canon, obviously, and it’s also surely out of characters but I mean no disrespect, sorry if it offends you. Leave me a comment or message me to tell me where did I go wrong and I’ll be a very happy cookie. It was originally longer but pt2 is still wip. Thanks to any single person that will spend their time reading it, I’ll love you forever <3

***

There’s no body and there’s no grave. Dead Witchers? It doesn’t make sense to have a grave for something that already filled people’s nightmares when it was alive. There was a space somewhere, a dirty and soon forgotten corner of earth where the medallions were buried, but that was it. Not wanted in life, not missed in death. And yet, Lambert fucking missed the Cat.

For a time he wore the cat medallion around his neck hidden and tucked away under his shirt, he made the chain longer for that sole purpose, even if it was weird wearing two. It seemed such a great idea until he woke up one night scratching and clawing at his chest, cause he felt like there was not enough air in the entire forest for him to breath in and the cold eyes of the cat were definitely moving, watching him, twitching and staring like they expected something from him but he has absolutely nothing to give. Another dream filled with green eyes slowly turning dull and empty, words dying on chapped lips, blood-splattered hair, and a cloud of red blooming under a familiar body. It’s not the first dream of this kind he had in the last month, Aiden’s death haunts every moment of his life except when he’s killing something. When he tears off the chain from his neck Lambert stares at it like it has all the fucking answers in the world, If he listens hard enough he’ll catch them, he just has to learn to listen.

The night is still and calm, the fire still crackling over the soft sound of the wind between the trees carrying nothing but silence. His life has always been filled with silence, noise usually meant bad news: his mother and he had to be quiet in the house to not further irritate his asshole of a father, cause they didn't want to give him another excuse to lash out at them, he was already beating them enough. Kaer Morhen was always silent, except during the trials so if the silence broke it was replaced by screams and agony and cries for endless hours. Life on the path was not without sounds, never the good kind though, cause nobody ever willingly talked to witchers unless they had a contract and monsters were harder to fight when they were irate because of the noise, already screeching and scratching enough as they were. Silence was the uncomfortable calm before the storm in his life.

Everything had to be silent to be fine until Aiden appeared. Then, the silence was comfortable, filled with a heartbeat as slow as his own, holding no expectations that he couldn't fulfill. Not that the cat was ever silent for too long anyway, but the words out of his mouth somehow never bothered Lambert cause Aiden never expected anything from him and never demanded more than what he could give. He didn't push him to talk when he felt like being on his own, he accepted his horrible habit of not thinking before speaking, and he called him out on his bullshit when he tended to lash out at anything and anyone just because he was upset or trying to protect himself. Aiden seemed to recognize the difference when he was silent because there was no need for words and when his mind was racing too fast and his thoughts were all dangerously closing in and choking him. Not only Aiden knew when to leave him alone and when not, but he also seemed to be able to pull him out of that rushing jumble of dark thoughts threatening to overwhelm him and he made it look so fucking easy. Soon enough Lambert discovered that everything in his life required a huge amount of effort: fighting, living on the run, the hardships of the path, the choices always taken from him. Being with Aiden was easy. Being with Aiden was simply effortless. Traveling the path together seemed to make more sense and for once in his life, Lambert chose this. His choice was to be with Aiden, it's the only one that was not stripped from him, and the one he never regretted.

Before Aiden, he longed for winter. His poor excuse of a home was still better than life on the path, and while Kaer Morhen housed some of his most painful memories, it was the closest thing to a place and a family he ever called his own. But after he met Aiden there was not the same peace in the idea of walking up The Killer to the empty ruins for the long winter months, too much time to be on his own, and facing his brothers always made him understand how he was still not enough. He loved them, he'd die for them, but they represented everything he could never be. Spring seemed an entire lifetime away, and by the end of winter Lambert was fidgeting and itching to leave as soon as possible, the promise of seeing Aiden in Kaedwen alluring as the song of a siren and he couldn't even pretend he wanted to resist it. His brothers had their fair share of snarky comments and jokes ready for him, but not even the concern for whatever opinion they shared on his behavior was enough to keep him in the castle as soon as the snow melted. Aiden had the habit of asking him how much he missed him as soon as they were in the quiet bubble of their room in some inn or the other and Lambert had the habit of telling him to fuck off, kissing him hungrily and biting on his neck too hard on purpose, as if he was trying to reclaim something that belonged to him. There was this need under his skin to touch and feel Aiden everywhere at once, committing again to memory the map of his skin, the only place where he could lose himself. He'd notice if there were any new scars, breathing in the scent of spices and mint that now meant home to him, and always kissing with something close to reverence the long scar under his ribs that Lambert patched up himself the year before. He missed the Cat, terribly. He missed him when he was gone for two days on a contract, months were nothing short of torture. The knowledge that he'll miss him for the rest of his miserable life is too much for him to take. Aiden never hesitated before answering I missed you too.

He gave up any fantasy of sleep he may have had, coming to terms with the fact that he's clearly not going to rest tonight. Again. He stares into the fire, willing the tangled mess in his mind to sit still, but it never works when he's alone. Aiden would help, but Aiden's not here. He's not anywhere. Would it be better if there was a grave to dig? Or a pyre to build, if there was wood to collect, something to set on fire and watch it burn until dawn, maybe, just maybe, Lambert could force himself to finally say goodbye. To tell him how wrong he was about that vampire nest contract, and how he always cheated at Gwent because he's an asshole that doesn’t know how to lose, that his words always come out all wrong and I really wanted you to come to Kaer Morhen for winter, I don't care what anyone says, sorry, I love you. Will you still hear it I say it enough times now? It's always words that cause trouble in his life, words he meant to say but he never did and words he shouldn't have said and he regrets them now when it's too late to take them back. Between the two of them, it has always been a constant push and pull on a rope stretched thin by too much anger, and not enough choices.

Lambert remembers the first time they met. And the first time they kissed. The cold tight squeeze in his chest just where the medallion usually rests never seems to ease. There's this cat-shaped necklace dangling in front of him and it seems to whisper at him about how he failed again, as he always did his whole life, and Aiden could have had so much better. And it's true, cause in the middle of the night every part of him knows that Aiden deserved someone better, not someone who ran or kissed him in the middle of a rotting vampire nest. Aiden deserved the world and he couldn't even give him one winter.

*****

<<I told you it was a nest.>> Aiden extracts his sword from the body of the last vampire he killed, the one that managed to claw at his thigh. The cut already stopped bleeding by the time he catches his breath and looks around at the mess of severed heads and bodies surrounding them.

<<Why are you still fucking talking?>> Lambert is laying against a tree, there are claw marks on his chest where one of the beasts scratched his armor and his back is probably already one giant black and blue bruise considering how many times he was slammed against the wall of the cave.

<<Well, it got my leg darling, not my tongue.>> The cheeky tone doesn't go unnoticed, Lambert raises his eyes to where Aiden is standing, cleaning his  swords before he starts rummaging through their packs.

<<You never shut up, do you?>> Lambert adds growling, trying to hide the pain spreading from his side and back while he sits up, using the trunk as support. He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, steeling himself to get up and prepare to finish their job and the next time he hears Aiden’s voice is suddenly much closer than he anticipated. The Cat is leaning on the very same tree, looking down at him with a vial in his hands.

<<You know you don't scare me you big stupid wolf, growl all you like. Now let me take a look at that.>> Lambert wishes he had enough strength to come up with a nasty comment or punch him, but he doesn't feel like moving anymore. The scent of the Cat so close to him is  relaxing him, more than it should be, his shadow is so close to him that if he stretches his fingers just a bit he'll be able to touch him. He wants to touch him. For weeks he has been craving something he can't have, and he knows he's not supposed to need that, though that knowledge doesn't stop him from wanting. He's convinced that the Cat sure as hell don't want to be touched by him, his attitude is just empty comebacks and nothing more, but at times it is harder to focus on that. Certain times like when Aiden is that close to him, and he's been thinking way too often about how bad would it be to kiss his...friend.

<<I'm fine.>>

<<Sure, I hear your bones cracking every time you breathe but you're doing great, I see that.>> Aiden passes him a vial and he gratefully gulps down half of it, the familiar taste of Swallow spreading on his tongue. Lambert must admit that it’s nice to have the Cat around. It will be painful when Aiden leaves like everyone else. It’s just a matter of time before he gets tired of the Wolf. Lambert doesn't believe in the Gods, he'd pray to them if he did, pray to be ready for that pain when it happens. He hopes they still have some time together before Aiden decides he can’t stand him anymore and their little agreement is over but he also knows that nobody ever stays for long.

<<Good to know you didn't poison me.>>

<<See? I didn't kill you yet, don't we make an excellent couple? Will you let me take a look now or are you scared I'll bite? I promise I won't. Unless you like it of course.>> There's nothing funny about their situation, but leave it to the Cat to flirt with him when they are stranded in the middle of nowhere 'cause their horses ran away scared. And it is fun to pretend there’s more underneath his words, except it wasn't flirting of course, Aiden talks like that to everyone. He has been warned countless times about how witchers from the School of the Cat can be too passionate, physical and most of the times unbalanced. Some mage decided it was fun to tweak with the formula before the trials and realized his mistake only when everyone involved died. Of course the bastard didn’t stop there, mages never did, and kept playing with the mutagens until the children involved lived. Well, 5 out of 13 lived, the asshole considered it a victory and sent the recently made Witchers on their merry way. Lambert has heard the story before, it’s different when Aiden tells him though, cause he was there. It still doesn’t stop him from pointing out the obvious from time to time.

<<You cats are really fucking weird.>> And Aiden doesn’t even get mad anymore, he knows there’s no judgment behind Lambert’s words.

<<Yes, comes with the package love, thank you for noticing. Take this off so I can properly look at you, want to make sure nothing is broken. >>

<<Don't need you to. I'm good.>> He'd never admit that he likes Aiden's attention on him cause he can almost believe that the Cat cares for him in some way. Almost. Lambert's mind quickly supplies that Aiden probably doesn't want to drag him across a swamp and the forest with a few broken bones cause it would take forever.

<<Clearly I'm the only one with some sense here, so how about you keep that pretty mouth shut and let me help you.>> Aiden kneels next to him on a patch of dry ground, and Lambert never really understood how the Cat could always be so attractive.

<<Clothes off, now pup.>> There’s no way he’s allowed to say something like that, more so because Lambert seems unable to resist him, and his hands are already making quick work of the buckles on his armor. He likes to believe that Aiden stares as if he was enjoying the view.

<<Well kitty, I know I'm hard to resist but you don't need an excuse to see me half naked.>>

<<Don't I? Oh, I'll hold you that promise later.>> Lambert wants him to, he'll deny it  to himself later when they're in a rented room and he's not listening to the Cat’s  breathing to fall asleep. He discards his sweaty shirts and tries to relax, fighting the suddenly kicking instinct inside him that doesn't like the idea of having someone so close when he's so exposed and he's not even clutching a dagger or two. For a few seconds, he has a hard time remembering that the Cat wanted to help him and not kill him. Aiden must sense his thoughts cause he's removing his two swords to gently lay them on the ground next to his legs, the metal shining in plain sight like some weird peace offering.

<<I'm not going to kill you, wolf.>>

Lambert turns around while the Cat silently moves behind him, he wants to say something but he's unable to put together the words to express his appreciation. It's not a small thing for a witcher to leave his weapons, he knows that very well, he's always reluctant to do the same, he's not sure he’d even think of doing it if the roles were reversed. Aiden did, and he had no reason to be this considerate with him, not a single one.

He so lost in his own though that the first touch catches him by surprise and the feeling of Aiden's fingers on his back make him jump a little, but it's his voice right next to his hear, close, so close that he feels the gentle puff of his breath on the skin of his neck that makes him shiver.

<<Just relax and be a good pup for me.>> Lambert is sure that Aiden said something else but he didn't catch it. The Cat is too close to him, his words, his scent of spices mixed with the sweat of the fight, the touch of his hand, it all overwhelms his senses in a way he had never experienced before. He desperately wants to lean against him and feel more of everything that Aiden seems to be so easily offering and it takes a willpower Lambert didn't even know he has to stop himself from moaning when both of his hands press over his back. He tries very hard to remind himself that this is not supposed to feel good, this is simply an act of kindness, a friend checking if you're hurt, it's not meant to make him feel like he's standing too close to a great source of magic and his senses are alerted, but then Aiden's hand is at the back of his neck, warm and inviting and there's no way in hell the Cat missed the sound that escaped his lips. He's cursing every God he can think of for the way his body betrays him, but then the feeling is gone, Aiden is gone, he's standing and collecting his swords again as if nothing ever happened. He knows there's a smirk on his face by the sound of his next words but Lambert is afraid he'll do something stupid if he looks up at him, so right now staring at his hands in his lap is perfectly good for him.

<<Good news, whatever was broken is already fixed but your back will be blue for a while. Bad news, we still have a pile of dead vampires to burn.>>

It takes a moment longer than necessary for Lambert to register the meaning of his words, his body still tingling from where Aiden touched him, the scent of spices and something fresh, is it mint? lingers around him. Oh he's so screwed.

<<Lambert?>> He pretends to busy himself with his shirt, just to keep his hands occupied and preventing him from reaching out to the Cat. He finally composes himself enough to look at Aiden: long and deceptively lean legs stretching in front of him, clothed in blue and covered in a layer of dust, narrow waist with too many belts tightly buckled, strong muscular chest and arms crossed over the layers of leather and armour, a scar on the side of his neck, barely visible under the dark caramel curls, green and intelligent cat-eyes looking straight at him. Lambert wonders for a minute if his eyes were that green even before he was turned into a Witcher, cause usually the colours were always altered. Wolf at best had amber eyes, at best meaning Geralt, lucky bastard as always.

<<Are you sure nothing is still broken? Cause I really don't feel like moving around vampire's heads.>>

<<That, my dear wolf, is called being a lazy ass, and has nothing to do with your not-broken back.>>

<<Fine, fine, if I strain myself I'll blame your poor nursing abilities.>> says Lambert before standing up. Aiden’s lips were curled in a smirk, he looked all too pleased with himself. Nobody should be so beautiful.

<<Oh trust me wolf, I’d knew perfectly well how to take care of you.>> Damnit. That was not supposed to sound enticing.

They start working together, dragging the bodies around and collecting the dry wood they could find. Aiden was moving quickly, keeping his hands and mind busy to get rid of the adrenaline rush. Lambert finds himself staring without even realizing he's doing it. He is torn between feeling unnerved by how Aiden managed to keep a sense of grace even covered in sweat and dust, collecting firewood to burn some fucking vampires after the shitty night they had, and the burning temptation of running his fingers through his sweaty hair down the side of his face, just to feel the warm skin under his palm. Sometimes he sees him panting with strain and when his lips twitch in the most inviting way, lips that seem to demand to be kissed, and it's a sin to leave him waiting....

<<See something you like pup?>> Aiden's voice distracts him from his dangerous thoughts, and thank for that cause there's no way he was thinking about how good it would feel to kiss the only friend he ever had. Lambert is determined to not ruin the frail bond between them just because he's probably horny. He never had a friend, especially not one like Aiden. He constantly fears losing him, he knows it will happen, but he doesn't want to speed up the process and send the Cat running away cause he dreams of his mouth. He has reasons enough to dump him anyway.

<<Don't call me that. And there's not much to like about this rotting nest.>>

<<Oh you know how to brighten the mood, don't you, pup?>>

<<For what? Burning vampires? If this is your ideal date then I'm sorry for your lovers, but I've got bad news.>> He can't seem to remember when was the last time Aiden mentioned a lover but he's pretty sure he talked about someone from the caravan. Lambert tried to make fun of the weird Cats habit to easily sleep with others from the same school as if he never spent a winter in Eskel’s bed. Lambert also knows that there's an asshole out there that left him and hurt him, when Aiden shares that story he has to stop himself from hunting the whoreson down wherever he may be and rip him to shreds.

<<And you are a real expert when it comes to dates and lovers, aren't you?>>

<<Wouldn't you like to find out, kitty?>> He wasn’t an expert, considering that he rarely even asked for the same whore in a brothel and every attempt at relations ended in his lovers running away, vanishing or dying. It was always bickering and poking fun at each other between the two of them, trying to get under the skin, riling the other up just to see who would quit first. It was nothing more than a game. He's still chastising the part of him that decided to be jealous of anyone that ever had Aiden in ways he'll never be allowed to have. There must be some lucky bastards around the Continent that kissed him, touched him, fucked him, woke up with sheets full of his scent.

<<Well, I'd love to find out. Is that a promise? >>

Lambert quits first this time, because there's something in Aiden's tone that tells him the cat is not kidding, and what if he isn't? Maybe the teasing is not just empty banter and there's a very small chance that Aiden wants him too. Lambert shakes his head, internally laughing at the absurd thoughts that cross his mind, and goes back to the pile of wood, brushing the stupid idea aside. The Cat didn't want him. It was good enough that he treated Lambert as an equal and most of the times he didn't judge him for his idiotic decisions, there's nothing more he could ask. That's more than anyone has ever been willing to give him. Aiden could have anyone in the world and he's too smart to be interested in a mess like Lambert. Nothing is interesting about him. He doesn't have bright and clever green eyes, he doesn't know what patience is and he can barely string enough words together on a good day to make sure people understood him, he doesn't smell like mixed spices and yes, the fresh tang he detects its definitely mint, it reminds him of the field behind his house when he was a child. Oh yes, it will burn like hell when Aiden leaves. If only the Cat would stop being so....easy to like.

<<Let's just burn this motherfuckers so we can get a drink.>>

<<I like how there's a we now. Any plans for us?>>

<<Gods you're exhausting, how does anyone put up with you?>> It’s one second after the words leave his mouth that Lambert realized what he said. It's one second after the shadow of anger and hurt flicker on Aiden's face that he understands he fucked up and he can see the cloud of emotions passing inside him.

<<Oh fuck, I...don't....>>

<<It's fine, exhausting is hardly the worst thing I've been called. Won't be the worst. I probably am anyway.>>

<<Didn’t mean it, fuck, I....>>

<<Save it. Not the first time I hear it.>> The pieces of the puzzle suddenly clicked inside Lambert's head and stories traded in front of the fire echo in his head. 'Oh you're wrong, I'm not the one doing the up and leaving part. I'm the one that is too much to deal with and they leave. There's a reason why they say Cats are not very stable, everyone gets tired of that.’ Aiden doesn't look at him, his eyes are focused on the pile of dead bodies before him and this gives Lambert an accurate idea of how much he fucked up: it speaks volume if your companion (friend?) would rather stare at dead vampires than at you. He didn't even mean to take it so far, it was just supposed to be another joke. He would never hurt Aiden on purpose.

<<Listen, what I meant was....>>

<<Don't. I don't need pity. Not from anyone, and especially not from you. Let's finish this up and let's go.>>

<<Oh you stupid bastard, it's not that! I say the wrong things all the time, there's a reason why everyone always says I have no brain left to save my own life, Eskel is the smart one, I'm just the angry idiot, point is...>> He looks up at the Cat and Aiden is upset. His hands are clenched at his sides and Lambert doesn't really know how to fix it. He wants to walk over and grab him, hold him close until the anger is gone, and if he was a better man he'd try to explain that nobody ever taught him how to fix anything, let alone how to not break things. He can't stand the idea of Aiden being angry at him and he doesn't need to add this to the list of reasons why he hates himself.  

<<....I'd put up with you. >>

<<Oh thank you, how very generous of you. You'd put up with me like you put up with your duty and your contracts? You know what, shut up. You made it clear enough you don't like me and you don't want to have me around, I got it.>> Aiden is still not looking at him, and he sounds so different than any other time they fought before. Disappointment, that's what he sounds like. That's how every person that ever mattered spoke to Lambert at some point, usually before beating him, leaving him or disappearing from his life. He could take a whipping any day now, but he still can't take the disappointed voices telling him how much he messed up.

<<I....I don't. I mean I do like you. Not this...close to me. The longer you stay around the harder it will be for me when you go.>>

<<Do you want me to go? >>

<<I don't know, I never thought you would not not go.>> Since they decided to travel together after Temeria, Lambert has been waiting for Aiden to go, trying to prepare himself for the inevitable moment of truth. He's been expecting it like you expect a storm when you see dark clouds brewing at the horizon. Something inevitable you can't escape.

<<Why? I made it clear enough that I liked sticking around you.>> Aiden's voice is softer now, still laced with pain but less angry, less hurt.

<<Yes, for the contracts, slaying monsters is easier if there's two of us, less dangerous. >> Aiden moves too quickly for him to follow his steps and he is standing right in front of him, looking straight at him.

<<You honestly believe I kept traveling with you just because I want someone to watch my back? >> There's something in his tone he can't picture what it is, but Aiden is looking at him, and he has a little smirk on his face, so maybe this means things are not as bad as they were two minutes ago, maybe Lambert can hate himself a little less now. If Aiden leaves now, he won't leave angry at least. It's a small victory.

<<Seemed like a good idea as any. You kept sticking around. I've been trying to get rid of you but you don't get the hint.>>

<<You're not doing any better when it comes to hints dropped around. Do you want to get rid of me? >> Lambert doesn’t have the presence of mind to collect his thoughts, he’s feeling too raw, like the pink edges of the almost-healed gash on Aiden’s leg where his eyes fall.

<<What the fuck does that mean? I don't fucking know! Sometimes I want you to get as far away from me as possible. Sometimes I want to kiss you.>> It's more words than he ever had the guts to tell anyone, probably in his entire life, and this conversation was never meant to happen. Aiden never had to know, he has already plenty of reasons to leave. There must be something he can say to take back that last part, maybe Aiden will agree to pretend it never happened.

<<Then fucking kiss me you stupid pup!>>

<<Stop saying things you don't mean, it's....>>

Aiden crashes their lips together before any other question could be asked out loud. It takes Lambert the fraction of a second to close his eyes, frozen in his spot and trying to make sense of the whole thing, but it feels as good as it always does in his dreams just before he wakes up. Maybe this is not something that he needs to make sense of, so he dares kissing him back. His heart is racing too fast, and his mind blanks out the very instant Aiden's hand is on his neck. He can't get enough of his lips, Aiden tastes like the best thing he ever had, and he wants to stretch time in a slow line before them so he can savor him for a little longer. Or forever.

When Aiden moves back to put a little space between them he doesn't want to let him go, the gap there is suddenly too big and Lambert is not completely sure he can survive without kissing him again.

<<I meant it. Did you?>>

Lambert really wants to say yes, but words, treacherous things as they are, refuse to crawl out of his throat, so he just leans his forehead against Aiden's and breathes in his scent, mint, and honey, and a mix of spices that will always mean happiness from now on. He has never felt so vulnerable, but for the first time in his life, this doesn't make him want to run and hide or put on his armor. He just wants to kiss Aiden until the noise in his head stops. He sneaks a hand into the soft brown curls, fingers itching to touch what he never thought he could have, and brings their lips together again, hunger and desire pooling inside him as he roughly kisses Aiden once more. He's quickly growing addicted to that taste, Aiden's mouth is sweet and warm and he feels all of his anger and frustration melting away against him. Lambert deepens the kiss, and can't help but moan when a hand presses at the small of his back, the strength and power of the body wrapped around his own is strangely reassuring, in a way no one has ever been before. Lambert raises a hand to trace the side of Aiden's face, his beard tickling his palm and the first touch of their tongues makes him burn. Lust sparks deep inside him, making him crave more, he wants to know what Aiden tastes like everywhere, and if he feels like is skin is on fire too. Aiden pressed their bodies together as close as possible, moaning in the most sensual sound Lambert has ever heard in his life.

Aiden has the nerve of licks his lips after they part, making a scene of savoring their combined tastes, as if he doesn't know what it does to Lambert.

<<Took you damn long.>>

<<You could have said something!>>

<<Wolf, I've been saying something for the past three months. You spend so much time in your head you didn't notice.>> Lambert mutters something under his breath that suspiciously sounds like 'how could I have known' and Aiden just laughs.

<<Let's finish this up and get a move on, if we're lucky our employer will pay without making a scene and we can find a room. I’d like to do this some more without the added bonus of dead vampires.>> Lambert blinks twice, looking around as realization dawns on him.

<<Fuck! I forgot about the damn nest!>>

<<Did I kiss you stupid, pup?>>

<<Shut up.>>

He's growling at the Cat, pretending to be mad while he piles up wood and Aiden is laughing again. That is the best sound in the world.

[stevebillyrecs]

Summer of ‘85 Fic Recs

If you live in the northern hemisphere and are anything like me, you’re starting to really miss summer right about now! Or maybe you hate the heat, and want to experience it only from a distance by reading about it in your safe, cool living room. Or hey, maybe you’re only in it for the lifeguard crop tops, sailor shorts, and ice cream licking, that’s valid, too. In any case, I’m here to interrupt the Halloween mood with some sweet, sticky summer fun (or summer angst, or summer smut)!

Included: fics featuring Scoops, Starcourt Mall, Hawkins Community Pool, the Fourth of July, and other summer shenanigans. Not included: fics dealing with all the other stuff that happened in S3, recovery fics, fics set after the epilogue or outside of Hawkins.

35 fics under the cut – happy reading!

Salted Caramel (And Other Flavors) by kate_button / @un-buttoned (3k, E)

Billy’s all tan and smug and shitty and Steve has. Feelings about it. He’s not too happy about it - Billy’s kind of a dick. And Steve can’t stop thinking about the way he smells. It’s a Problem.

there’s something about a sailor by gothyringwald / @gothyringwald​ (1k, E)

Billy gets Steve to leave the sailor hat on.

bloom by crappyfriday / @softloucre (20k, NR)

In a small town in Indiana, two boys spend the summer listening to music, eating summer fruits, smoking weed, and falling in love with each other. Vignettes throughout the summer of ‘85.

so many ways to talk about longing by lymricks / @lymricks (3k, M)

Steve wakes up–in a pool lounger–to Billy Hargrove looming over him. Billy pushes his sunglasses down and Steve thinks sleepily that it must be so that Steve gets the full impact of Billy’s narrow-eyed glare. “Harrington,” Billy says. “We’re fucking closed.” (or, three times Billy doesn’t let Steve touch the radio and one time he kind of does).

Bright by Kerasines / @kerasines (10k, E)

Steve’s face looks golden in the light of the setting sun, and when he drops his eyes from where he was holding Billy’s gaze, his eyelashes paint shadows on the light flush of red in his cheeks. He looks so fucking pretty that Billy’s breathless with it. Doesn’t know what to do, just holds still and can’t tear his eyes from his face as Steve leans in close, too close, to put lotion onto the front of his shoulders, rubbing it in carefully, so carefully, as if he’s trying not to hurt Billy. Touching Billy’s chest, staring at it where it rises with every shallow breath under Steve’s hands. Then he looks up, straight into Billy’s eyes, and Billy’s sure his brain stops working for a second.

Cherry by LazyBaker / @granpappy-winchester (WIP, 33k, E)

They’ve got ten minutes before Steve’s break is up and he has to go back to wishing for death with a smile.

I Like The Way You Look At Me by XxmerthurcatxX / @callmelilyshameless (800, T)

Steve stares a lot. Billy doesn’t mind.

No Running At The Pool! by Thei / @ihni (2k, NR)

“So”, she said, faux-casually, and thus sending a chill down everyone’s spines, “what you’re saying is that you care about us?” “No”, he said gruffly. “I said that you’re not drowning on my watch. I’m a lifeguard. It’s my job. If you’re gonna drown, do it in your own time.” Another smile, sweet like poisoned honey. “But this is our own time. And you’re off duty.”

Those American Thighs by Veeebles (2k, E)

He smokes the rest of Steve’s cigarette, tosses the butt away into the trees and lounges down beside him. Steve is still just sitting there, staring at how Billy stretches his body out, arms behind his head as he bathes in the sun. Those swim shorts should be illegal. They pull tight over his skin, leave absolutely nothing to the imagination where his dick is concerned, and barely reach past his mid-thigh.

something good right now by Highsmith / @rhubarbdreams (1k, M)

When Billy’s skin is almost feverishly hot from the sun, Steve’s fingertips touch his freckles like they’d touch the inside of him, carefully and longingly.

The Drowning of Will Byers by hoppnhorn / @hoppnhorn (2k, M)

Billy never imagined working as a lifeguard would mean actually saving a life.

spark to a flame by gothyringwald / @gothyringwald (1k, T)

Billy’s stomach swoops. He can’t believe he’s holding hands with Steve Harrington, watching fireworks over the quarry. It’s so stupid and girly and…and…fucking romantic.

Buckle (When You Think of Me) by trashcangimmick / @trashcangimmick (4k, E)

Billy doesn’t really ask. He just kind of does stuff. Steve is apparently filthy enough to be cool with it.

cherry pie by brawlite / @brawlite & ToAStranger / @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger (133k, E)

Billy Hargrove lives for summer. Endless sunshine, heavily chlorinated pools, roaming ice cream trucks, and unencumbered freedom? There’s nothing better. Even being stuck in Hawkins can’t ruin the summer for him. He eats it up, devouring every day whole.

A Day at the Fair by LazyBaker / @granpappy-winchester (500, G)

It’s pink. It’s a flamingo.

You Got That Hair Slicked Back (and Those Wayfarers On) by moonflowers / @eatingmoonflowers (4k, M)

Five times Billy knows Steve is hiding something, and one time he finds out what it is.

you (FINALLY) rule by brutesa / @brutesa (3k, G)

“Ahoy, ladies!” Steve calls out when a group of girls enter the shop. Behind him, Robin rolls her eyes, picking up the whiteboard marker.

and you’re trying not to tell him by lymricks / @lymricks (3k, M)

Whatever. They don’t talk, is the point, and Billy doesn’t need to finish all these big, deep, tragic sentences in his head. He needs to know if Harrington can’t swim. For lifeguard reasons. It’s his job, all right?

I’m so bad, best that you’ve had by kate_button / @un-buttoned (4k, E)

Steve doesn’t like mustaches. Billy grows one because he’s Like That. Steve bitches about it. A lot. Until he doesn’t.

Turned Bitch by LazyBaker / @granpappy-winchester (2k, E)

Steve’s rock bottom has a name—Billy Hargrove.

ice ice baby by hoppnhorn / @hoppnhorn (1k, E)

“It’s just so hot out here.” And then the fucker takes the ice cube, rolls it down his chin, along his neck, and down to his collarbone. “I need something to cool off.” Steve usually would suggest using the pool sitting less than a few feet away. But he’s not that incredibly thick. He knows a game when he sees one, and he’s not about to give Billy any reason to stop putting that ice cube where Steve wants his tongue to go.

something happens and i’m by brawlite / @brawlite (10k, E)

Billy loves his job as at the Hawkins Community Pool. It’s even better now that Steve Harrington’s a lifeguard, too.

Scoops by itscrybabyharrington / @itscrybabyharrington (1k, E)

Steve presses his face against the cool lid of the ice cream freezer, watching the metal fog up with each gasp that slips from his mouth. It feels good against his overheated skin, a contrast to the solid wall of heat that is Billy pressed up behind him, fucking into him with enough force Steve finds himself lifting up on his tippy toes trying to squirm away. Or, Billy fucks Steve with an ice cream scoop.

I Couldn’t Help It, It Had To Be You by moonflowers / @eatingmoonflowers (4k, T)

Determined to overcome a summer of boredom and too much ice cream, Steve joins the Hawkins running group. Unfortunately, it turns out the secondary purpose of said group is for the ladies of Hawkins to gush about the effect Billy Hargrove is having on their rosebushes. But maybe if Steve wasn’t so busy being offended by Hargrove’s mere existence, he’d realise he’s completely missing the point.

Holy Shit! by harleygirl2648 / @somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds (2k, T)

There’s no swearing on duty, even if those are the only words that apply to a sudden realization that is going to ruin/better your entire summer.

Back Atcha, Pretty Boy by XxmerthurcatxX / @callmelilyshameless (2k, E)

Steve goes to the pool to pick up the kids still in his Scoops Ahoy uniform and is less than thrilled to find out that Billy is the new Hawkins Pool lifeguard. Honestly, who thought putting Billy in those tiny ass swim trunks was a good idea? It was doing things to Steve’s brain that he’d rather not think too hard about. But he doesn’t have to worry since it seems like Billy is pretty taken with Steve’s sailor uniform…

Hopeless by LazyBaker / @granpappy-winchester (400, G)

Steve Harrington has chest hair.

wicked little town by gothyringwald / @gothyringwald (20k, E)

The summer after graduation stretches before Steve, seemingly endless and utterly empty. He can’t remember ever being this bored in his life. But when he runs into Billy one night, after hearing a rumour about him at a party, it feels like summer might not be so boring after all.

Tacky Tattoos and Red Trunks by mAadMax / @c0bblenygma (2k, E)

Steve keeps hearing about Billy’s new tattoo and can’t help but being curious about it.

Billy, Steve, Robin and the Not-Obsession by williamastankova / @samaraclegane (3k, G)

In a nutshell, Billy is convinced Steve and Robin are secretly dating (even though they’re really, really not) and it starts to get on their nerves - especially Steve’s.

A Simple Plan by flippyspoon / @flippyspoon​ (5k, T)

Billy has a plan. Steve hanging out at the pool is definitely not a part of it.

Lets hear it for the boy! by nipsu / @nipsus (1k, T)

It’s raining and without thinking Billy gives Steve a ride home. Steve’s shirt is see through and Billy drools like a baby.

You Are What You Eat by XxmerthurcatxX / @callmelilyshameless (800, T)

Steve eats a banana. Billy likes it. A lot.

Won’t You Lay Me Down in Tall Grass (and Let Me Do My Stuff) by moonflowers / @eatingmoonflowers (6k, T)

Fourth of July BBQ at the Byers’. Billy takes out a demodog with a lawn chair while wearing red speedos and smoking a cigarette. Other things happen too, but that’s a highlight.

Ocean of Flavor by itscrybabyharrington / @itscrybabyharrington (700, G)

Billy shouldn’t even be back here, if they get caught it would only add on to the multitude of reasons Steve should rightfully be fired.

[millennialzadr]

WHY I LOVE ZADR!!!

HEY GUYS WHASSUP? LMAO

So this is a whole ass giant long post of me absolutely spewing my feelings of love for ZADR, it was the very first thing I wrote when I made this blog and I think it’s a nice, positive thing for my fellow shippers to inhale and enjoy 👌👌

it was originally a reply to mitarashiart’s post about why HE loves ZADR (link in replies) but I decided to delete that and make my own post since MY WHOLE ENTIRE TEXT WALL WAS SHOWN IN THE REPLIES and drowned out anyone else who was trying to talk (thanks tumblr mobile u fuckin idiot)

I had also posted a summary of an AU that I’m working on in the original post, but decided to remove it since it just about doubled the length (I’m thinking about posting it separately along with the wips I’ve been putting together, we’ll see 👀)

But ANYWAY, here is about a million reasons why I think ZADR is the fucking best, so if you like reading gushy gay ship feelings, please enjoy ❤️❤️❤️

[Posted June 2019][WARNING, LONG ASS THOUGHT BARF]

SOOO, holy hell y’all my journey back into this fandom has been a wild and unique experience for me, i went from adding invader zim to my bookmarks on kisscartoon, rewatching the series, finding out theres a movie coming out, finding out there was a shitload of content i’d never seen before (commentaries, lost episode scripts and audios, panels, the COMIC, episodes i’d never seen because the dvd i used to watch was scratched!! and a FUCKLOAD of quality modern fan art like oh my GOD) and finally curiously googling ‘zadr’ (which i was way into when i was maybeee 13/14) to see if there was any interesting new art, and holy hell, mita (the artist above) singlehandedly THREW me down the hole into modern zadr hell, first with his absolutely stunning IZ art (all his art is dope tho check him out yo), then reading the above explanation put the final nail in the coffin like, 100%

so i wanted to add onto his post here on why this ship got me so fucked up, both for anyone who might be wondering why on earth i’m shipping two characters from a kid’s show (i’m very aware how weird that is at first glance trust me) and also so i can get some ideas down for possible future reference (will i ever draw them? maybe)

(first of all, a disclaimer, and this is not pleasant to write but it’s important to address for clarity’s sake: I have no interest in romantic or sexual relationships between minors, and do not ship zim and dib as they are presented canonically in the show (as children). what i’m interested in is the conceptualized relationship they may have as modern adults, and i view zadr more as taking the concepts of existing characters and experimenting with them with different interpretations, which i personally think is a constructive and fun creative outlet, especially if these characters hold personal significance for you (childhood faves of course). growing up together is an important facet of their relationship, and certainly they were important to each other even as children (see: mopiness of doom) but as an adult i’m personally curious about what kind of adults they might’ve become, and that’s the focus of my interest. i’ll still be reblogging regular IZ art because it’s dope but if you see shippy looking art of them as tiny lil beans its either friendship or chibis (and i personally headcanon zim as getting taller with dib but some people stick with his canonical height when drawing them as adults, which is super short. it still doesn’t mean he’s a kid). aaand i wish i didnt have to write this and it would just be obvious but we live in a sick sad world and it is sourced from a children’s cartoon so i feel its necessary. end of disclaimer)

NOW THAT THAT’S OUT OF THE WAY

- ok, first reason’s a bit obvious - the nostalgia. holy hell, the feeling of rediscovering a ship that was popular when i was a preteen during the mid 2000s and discovering a totally new perspective on it as an adult comes with an almost totally overwhelming sense of nostalgia and comfort, as well as inspiration!! the kind of art that seems so common for zadr, these sketch pages of scenes and expressions and visual gags where artists would just scribble every idea they had and LOVE doing it, this was exactly the kind of art that made me so passionate about drawing as a kid, and it still sparks such a powerful feeling of love and admiration for me to this day. fan content of iz and zadr is simultaneously achingly familiar and totally new and fascinating, and it just makes me SO damn happy to consume, it is most definitely my new comfort content. and just, GOD. THE ART!! SO GOOD. FUCK

- now for the characters themselves: for some reason i just really love the thought of a mid twenties, modern Dib?? lanky goth dork, disaster bi, depressed as shit, uses bad sweaters and memes to cope?? when i was a kid i didn’t even LIKE Dib, but now i totally sympathize with him! he’s just a hyper obsessive nerd wishing there was more to life than the situation he got stuck with, how wildly relatable. he was a pretty big asshole as a kid (even to people besides zim) but he was also totally isolated and constantly bullied, so there’s a lot of room for growth. i feel there’s a lot of juicy character development potential for that boy, and there’s always been a special place in my heart for characters who are totally sad and screwed and hopeless, but there’s one thing, or person, that means the world to them and could possibly save them…

- aliens. Zim. i love nonhuman characters, i love monsters, i love aliens, i love characters that don’t understand human shit (and thus have much less room for shame or fear bc theyre just totally oblivious the negatives of modern society) and need guidance (bonding!!) from their human. i also love morally grey characters and characters with skewed logic, they’re always really interesting, and Zim himself just has such a unique personality and set of mannerisms, he contradicts himself a lot and you can never quite expect how he’ll behave, and i love that in a character, it makes them super versatile and fun, especially since there’s so many different possibilities for their development. Also, Zim is a gremlin, a little shit, and a disaster. I also love those traits in a character. And don’t even get me started on his character design?? big sparkly eyes? expressive antennae? monster teeth? complimenting colors? he’s adorable.

- mutual obsession. for someone like Dib, who seems almost repulsed by how boring and slow the people around him are, Zim quite literally personifies Dib’s  escapist fantasies, both as an inhuman entity from beyond the stars, and as a person who’s knowledge, charisma and mystery far exceeds that of anyone Dib has met in his entire life. (so basically what i’m saying is that for a shunned, jaded misanthropist, an actual alien is terribly alluring, even if said alien is dangerous, stupid, and possibly insane). not to mention Zim vindicates Dib’s entire life passion, the supernatural! Even when their relationship is totally negative, there is not a single inch of room for Dib to get tired of Zim. as mita explained, they validate each other. for Zim, WHO AGAIN, IS TOTALLY SHUNNED, ISOLATED, AND HATED BY EVERYONE HE KNOWS, Dib is the only person in the universe who gives a single shit about him!! he gives Zim credit as a threat, a capable invader, which if you ask me is the sole thing Zim is after (he’s hellbent on his mission because it would win him the approval of the tallest, all he’s ever wanted is recognition from the people he thinks so highly of). He literally gets depressed when Dib isn’t around to pay attention to him, not even the tallest were enough to motivate him before Dib came back. these two have no one and nothing without each other, and while lifelong nemeses is fine and dandy, i personally prefer friendship, affection and love, cause i’m a softie like that. how could they possibly get there after years of actively trying to kill each other?? well, i think under just the right circumstances it could become a possibility after a long, long time.

- growth. i. love. me. some. good. character growth. especially for characters with trauma/mental illness, bc again, relatable. these boys have issues, and as mita mentioned, their canon stories are actually INCREDIBLY sad! but the happy thought is, they could recover! they could help each other recover, for little reason other than the two are the only source of happiness for each other. now of course this also opens the gate for angst lovers, but at the same time offers potential for comforting, uplifting content of the boys supporting and inspiring each other, maybe even to the point of becoming happy and healthy enough to create the lives they want for themselves (as in appreciating life and doing things that make them actually happy instead of the delusions of grandeur they both sought when they were younger). gimme that positive shit and let the poor beans be happy  щ(ಠ益ಠщ)

- LITTLE THINGS. LITTLE THINGS THAT ONLY COME WITH CHILDHOOD FRIENDS. WITH HUMAN/NONHUMAN. WITH THE SHOW’S WEIRD LOGIC. Zim being the person Dib knows best and vice versa. Zim having an involuntary respect/admiration for Dib because he’s tall. Learning each other’s needs, limits, and communication methods, both emotionally and biologically. Sensitive antennae. Affectionate bickering. Being less insecure bc your partner literally has no idea why you see your flaws as flaws. Laughing at the flaws they do notice because they make no sense. Zim only wanting to eat waffles and chow mein. Dib being forced to overcome his depression lethargy and stay hygienic/keep the apartment clean because Zim has a sharper sense of smell and is afraid of germs. Endless conversation about anything and everything because they’re from literally different worlds, and endless intrigue. TOUCHING. TALKING. DOING EVERYTHING LIKE ITS THE VERY FIRST TIME AND ALWAYS NEEDING THE OTHER TO GUIDE THEM. HOLY HELL THERE IS SO MUCH POSSIBILITY FOR TINY LITTLE MOMENTS THAT MEAN THE WORLD. FUCK. GOT ME FUCKED UP.

so that wraps up the why. fuck man. its just such a good ship. if you read this big ass text post, thank you for indulging me, i hope you enjoyed it! because i enjoy it very much 👀 so stick around if you’d like to for a shit load of IZ and zadr content on this blog, possibly (MAYBE) even from me!! come roll around in alien hell with me why dontcha ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ its a fun time! thanks for reading!!!

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SO THAT’S MY MANIFESTO Y’ALL, FEEL FREE TO REPLY WITH YOUR OWN REASONS!! I WOULD LOVE FOR THIS POST TO JUST BECOME A BIG GIANT PILE OF LOVE AND YELLING!! GO NUTS! SCREAM ABOUT IT! INFODUMP! DO WHATEVER YOU WANT! I’LL READ EVERY LAST REPLY! Y’ALL DESERVE TO ENJOY YOUR SHIP BC IT’S LITERALLY THE FUCKING BEST!!! LOVE Y’ALL!!!!!!

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Mourning at Midnight

(UwU so Hey. i’m back with some more trash)

Word Count: 7480

Summary: It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

Warnings (could potentially be small spoilers, nothing too big, but if you don’t have any triggers I’d suggest you skip reading this!):

There are no u!sides in this, nor does anyone have malicious intent, but the other main three (Virgil, Patton, Roman) and Thomas, to a lesser extent, treat Logan unkindly (not on purpose) and don’t realize their errors. This will be resolved! Just… not yet OwO

Being ignored/talked over

Mental/emotional breakdown

An unidentified illness with symptoms including: [extreme persistent nausea (lots of mentions), vomiting (once), bile, weakness/weariness, shaking, lightheadedness, double vision (once), headache, body aches/pains, breathing difficulties]

General negativity including: [self-doubt, self-deprecation/depreciation, feeling worthless or unloveable, self-hatred]

Anger management/temperament issues

Unintentional self-harm (not anything like c-tting, Logan gets a bruise as a result of an angry outburst)

Separate small, vague allusion to self-harm, but it’s not outright and not detailed in the slightest. Could be read as not even talking about self-harm

Potentially triggering descriptive imagery (metaphors and similes to describe how a character feels or percieves a situation, not anything that actually happens) including but not limited to: [glass, sharp things, blood, injection, live wires, loud noises, screaming, general mentions of pain, masochism, sound torture, knives/blades, wounds, drowning/suffocating, pressure]

Temporarily unresolved tension between Logan/Deceit/Remus and the other sides/Thomas (there will be a happy ending in the next fic, though, don’t worry!)

A few vulgar threats of violence (somewhat explicit, be careful) to the other sides from Remus (out of protectiveness; Remus means well but he does Not express it in a healthy way) that is not carried out or even humoured

Remus’ morning star and descriptions of its destructive capabilites

Loceit as a romantic pairing (for now…. UwU)

Sympathetic “dark” sides

That should be it for warnings! Let me know if I need to add anything!

A/N: So! This is finally done :D !! I’ve been working on it on and off for the past week or so, and although I know it could be way better, I think this is where I’ll keep it! This is technically a sequel to my other fic Tea at Twilight and it takes place in the same universe, and although you don’t need to read that before this to understand the story, I strongly suggest reading that first to get more of a feel for the dynamic! 

This is inspired by @illogicallyinclined and her absolutely amazing Disaster Trio™ headcanons/au, and was prompted by this post so I just started writing! I meant for it to be a bit shorter, but of course my brain would Not let it go, even despite my ADHD, executive dysfunction, and massive amounts of writer’s block. 

This is also unfinished! It is the second of three main works, all happening chronologically in the same universe. The first one is Tea at Twilight as stated previously, then this one, and there will be a third and final installment added to finish off this short little trilogy! I’ll be adding this to the series on AO3, so when the final fic is up, it’ll all be together for an easy reading experience. It is also possible that there will be other small fics in this universe (UA, as has been recently coined) that operate outside of the timeline of the main story, so be sure to watch out for that! 

Thanks to Jay once again for creating these lovely headcanons that haunt my dreams every night, and for inspiring me to get back into my writing groove despite a writer’s block that’s lasted for over three years! Hope this isn’t too terrible, Jay! ilyy <333</p>

Also, a huge thank you to @illogical-anxieties for being such a good cheerleader/enabler! You really do help to keep me motivated and on track (and keep my ADHD in check), which is probably why this was even able to become a full-fledged story rather than a WIP to be buried where unfinished fics go to die T~T Love you tons <3</p>

(If I’m being honest with myself, this is just an excuse for me to live up to my IRL title of “Living Thesaurus”, coined by a friend many years ago and has since spread around to other friends and family. My title is thriving, and I suppose that means I should actually have proof of it, so there’s that.)

(Cross-posted to AO3)

(Read Part 1 here)

He can feel it building.

There’s far too much left to be desired when it comes to frustration. The natural helplessness that makes way for anger when you try so hard to do something or be something for someone and you’re pushed down by anything and everything between ignorance and antipathy. The fear that nothing you can do or say will ever be good enough. The buzzing, ticking, pinpricks upon pinpricks of heat injected into you until your blood and heart have been replaced with glass, fragile as a crumbling stone wall. It’s not as if he hasn’t had his outbursts before, spurred on by the familiar sharp pulse of rage that courses through him in a split-second whirlwind. It builds inside him, and he can feel the pressure in his limbs expand until it feels like his muscles are being squeezed out of existence and then he snaps like a rubber band that’s been pulled too taut. He’s not in denial of the fact that his impulsive, blinding reaction when met with frustration is not okay, and only detrimental to the demeanour he’s trying to retain. He knows it’s childish. He knows it’s immature, and pathetic, and wholly invigorating, at least until the adrenaline has worn off and he’s in the aftermath of his knee-jerk reaction to the tension coiled in his arms and legs and head.

It doesn’t mean that Logan is particularly in control of it though, despite his self-awareness being far above the level that most people with anger management issues are at. Maybe there’s a certain quality to it that allows for growth; it’s not as if Logan stays angry, or that he wants to hurt people. He loves the others, painfully so (as much as he loathes to admit it), to the point where he’s so desperate for their approval that he tampers down his passion, that spark that used to drive him to learn and speak and be happy just to avoid being cast out and abandoned, alone in the way he never wants to be. He wants to find a way to temper the fall into those dark, consuming waters, a way to mute the buzzing and ticking. He wants to seal those exposed live wires and release the tension to the point where he never lashes out ever again. He wants to, and he doesn’t know how to, and that fact infuriates him in an ironic, endless cycle of self-imposed and self-directed enmity.

Logan still thinks on this often, even now, wracking his brain for solutions to problems that realistically won’t be solved as easily as he wishes they would. Excerpts and quotes and data and statistics from many different studies about anger and temper management and irritability and everything in between seem to figuratively run amok through his brain, a screaming crowd of witnesses to the chaos and failure found in his ability to filter through the nonsense and come to a satisfying conclusion, any conclusion at all. He notices how his fingers tremble as they slip into the handle of his coffee mug, endures the dull ache in his mid-to-lower back from falling asleep at his desk for the majority of the day under the guise of work so important he holed himself up in his room to complete it. He ignores the way his head pounds, how he feels so dizzy that he might fall over and pass out any second from lightheadedness. He suffers through the loud conversations between the other three that are typical to the dinner routine that Logan cannot deal with today, not with this headache poking at him like figurative needles in his head.

When he senses the summons from Thomas stirring up the familiar but nonetheless odd ticklish sensation on the back of his neck, Logan can feel the tension knot up his muscles, and the combination of the two just makes him want to growl in irritation. The others, having also felt the summoning, seem to get impossibly louder, ringing and stinging and singing in his head. He still persists, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t be out doing anything today that’s likely to exacerbate his sickness, because Thomas is important, more so than Logan himself. No matter how much he wants to hole himself up in his room and sleep the day away, his host needs him, so Logan simply forces his mask of indifference to melt into steel. He refuses to budge, not for the first or last time, and he rises up in the real world standing straight and rigid and as put together as he’s always expected to be.

When he’s finally settled into his usual spot, as still as he can possibly be to not exacerbate the roiling nausea disquieting his stomach, he’s able to take in the other four arranged in their usual positions in Thomas’ living room, already having begun a conversation that Logan has missed the premise of entirely through his all-eclipsing, obfuscating malady. His vision doubles, like broken fractals of glass reflecting onto themselves, and then it pulls back together, merging back into something visible, something manageable.

“Well, I’m sure Danny likes you, too! You just gotta ask him, kiddo!” Patton exclaims, high voice pushing through the heavy, suffocating cotton in Logan’s ears, and the words snap the bespectacled side to attention. He needs context, needs to know what they’re talking about, needs to be able to help for once. Maybe he has to endure the bad to be able to put out the good, and this is where the climax is, the top of the rollercoaster at such a high altitude that oxygen is thin and dispersed before he shoots down the tracks in a rush of fresh air, relieving and calm and sanguine as he’s finally able to ground himself. A shiver runs through Logan’s body, between his shoulder blades and down his hip and through his leg, and his eyes flutter under the weight of consciousness. It recedes, the flow is ebbed, and his head clears to a more sustainable level.

“Oh, that’s so boring, Padre! Thomas should hire a band to play! And we can rig up streamers and confetti and there can be a cake and dancing and a party to celebrate!” Roman crows, throwing his arms and hands up into his signature pose to match his full, booming tone. Patton squeals, clutching his cardigan in his hands to pull excitedly at the sleeves as he bounces giddily on his feet. At the suggestion, as the polar opposite to Patton’s reaction, Virgil grimaces, hunching over even further in his jacket as he protests with every way he can think of that the situation could go wrong. Unsurprisingly, Roman takes personal offense to it and refutes Virgil’s points with the same intensity and fervour that’s been present in himself and his interactions with the anxious side since day one. Logan sort of understands, can infer that they’re discussing how to ask out Danny, a new friend of Thomas’ who has very quickly turned into a crush. In that case…

“If I may interrupt? While I don’t share all of Virgil’s worries, I do agree with his position in regards to the fact that there isn’t a need for such extravagance. It might embarrass Danny, for one, and for two, there are many ways such an excessive venture could backfire, such as technical difficulties or general human error. The idea is, while exciting, frankly outrageous,” Logan says, his role as the voice of reason renewed once more. It’s his job to sift through the conversations they have and get to the important parts, and he likes his job. He’s good at micromanaging, mediating the chaos, good at storing information to sort and consider and veto and bolster. It’s how he operates, how he copes. “We can think of something else to–”

“Oh, shut it, Pocket Protector. We all know you don’t care about romance, but this is important! Thomas wishes to find love with the second most handsome prince in the world! After me, of course,” Roman exclaims, in that boisterous, self-aggrandizing way of his, the way that hides his real insecurities he buries so deeply in himself he doesn’t know how to find them again. Oddly enough, it’s not Roman’s defense mechanism that throws Logan off, it’s the way that Logan stopped talking almost reflexively to allow the other side to finish his statement, as if the prince’s words were more important than his own, and it speaks as testament to how much Logan’s been conditioned (or maybe he’s conditioned himself all on his own) into putting everyone else before himself, even when it hurts him or Thomas. Logan is ignored in the face of his implicit trust, and he hates that even as it pours salt in the open wound, he finds himself taking a depraved, spiteful comfort in the familiarity of it all.

“That’s not what I–”

“Awe, c'mon, Logan! Thomas deserves to have a happy relationship and someone he can live out the rest of his life with! Doesn’t that sound nice, to grow old together with someone you love? Isn’t that romantic? Oh, it just makes me so warm and fuzzy thinking about it!” Patton interrupts, hands clutching each other over his heart as he swoons. Logan knows Patton doesn’t mean to be rude, but he still can’t help but be a little hurt by it, especially since he’s now been ignored twice consecutively. He’s just trying to help, and if that means reigning in Roman’s exorbitant ideas that border on egregious at times, then Logan knows it must be done. Although he encourages Thomas to seek a relationship to improve his mental health and provide more financial stability, there is a limit to how much he can disregard himself and others in doing so, and that doesn’t mean that Logan is the bad guy for pointing that out. He knows that. He knows that, so why does the dismissal still feel so sharp in his chest?

“Yeah, romance is cool and all, but what if it doesn’t work? What if Danny actually hates us? What if we ask and he laughs at us or says no and then we’ll be standing there like an idiot and then he’ll never wanna talk to us again because he thinks we’re pathetic and stupid and–”

“Hey, now, don’t be such a Debby Downer, kiddo! I’m sure it’ll go just fine! We’ll just ask him. The worst thing that can happen is he’ll say no, right? Shouldn’t we give it a shot?” Patton consoles before Virgil can go into a spiral. Although his well-meaning reassurances are meant to be comforting, his voice just grates on Logan’s ears, tinny and hollow and misdirected.

“That’s what I’m afraid of!”

Logan wants to keep listening, he really does, but the noise is rising to levels where it’s too much to handle. He’s already sensitive from his illness, but the discussion that is very quickly turning into an argument falls in pulses through his head, sound torture to the broken, hopeless masochist. He’s barely holding onto himself at this point, consciousness like a dangling thread that swirls and dances and twirls with even the tiniest breeze, a hint of movement sending it shivering and quivering as it spins. It wouldn’t take much for the thread to fray from the weight pulling it down, or to saw through it in a clean slice that leaves it floating feather-light upon air currents, petals spiraling to the ground.

Petals. Flowers. Thomas could bring Danny flowers! It’s perfect! Danny is especially predisposed to gardening, and he frequently talks about different flowers and what they mean based on the type and colour. His interest in botany could make this a sweet gift, to show that Thomas pays attention to what Danny enjoys, and can be the perfect segue into asking him on a romantic outing. Yes, this could work! It would appease Roman’s inclination to classic romanticism while still being practical and not unreasonably expensive, give Patton his ideal relationship fantasy (and a “warm and fuzzy feeling”, apparently), and allow Virgil a little more breathing room, so-to-speak. This is something they all should be agreeable towards, and that confidence is enough to supply Logan with enough energy to push past his lightheadedness and offer a solution. He’s proud of himself for taking the others’ feelings into account, something he knows he’s not always been the most proficient at, and for coming up with a compromise that will likely satisfy everyone’s wants and needs.

“What about bringing him flowers?” Logan asks, pleased and antsy as he feels hope well up in his chest. He doesn’t push it down this time, and he thinks maybe, just maybe they’ll finally listen to him, that they’ll tell him that he did well, that he’s being considerate and maybe even say thank you–

“How would you even know, Roman? It’s not like we just go out and hire mariachi bands every Saturday!” Virgil says with furrowed brows, and Roman huffs in indignation, and Patton sighs as he looks between the two of them, and Logan’s words fall on deaf ears. They didn’t even hear. They didn’t listen. They didn’t care they didn’t care–

“Uh, hey, Virgil, what if–” Logan tries once more to speak, nausea rolling angrily in his gut, head spinning dizzy round and round and round and round and Virgil flinches.

He flinches. Because of Logan.

Virgil hasn’t been afraid of any of them for a long time. Sure, in the beginning, when they fought one another on nearly a day-to-day basis, there would be a moment before he could pull on his figurative mask that a flash of fear would go through Virgil’s eyes, and the sadness kept within wouldn’t subside even when he growled and snapped and blustered whichever side had the misfortune of picking a fight with him during a time where his first instinct was to keep away the pain and longing and loneliness the only way he knew how. Over time, that flash of fear dulled, morphed into something more manageable, more trusting. The sadness never really went away, but it was met with warmth, a soft contentedness that danced in his eyes when he realized he had a family to turn to. He hasn’t been afraid for a long time. And yet, he flinches away from Logan, just from him speaking.

Is he really that bad?

Does even simply the sound of his voice have such a negative association for Virgil that it prompts genuine fear and discomfort? Has he really scared Virgil that much? What did he do? How can he fix this?

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Logan’s felt disconnected from the others for quite a while now. He loves them, of course he does, but he doesn’t feel like he fits. He’s the metaphorical jagged puzzle piece, the one that should snap into the final vacant space but is so broken beyond repair that it doesn’t fit quite right. He wants to belong, to feel at home whenever he’s with them, but he doesn’t. He yearns for the acceptance that Virgil earned, the support that Roman is held up by, the respect and adoration Patton seems to acquire so casually and naturally that it’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Logan wants to be like them. He wants to be loved, but… that isn’t really his place, is it?

Love is not an inherent thing. It’s something that’s earned, by doing good things and being important enough to someone that they give it freely. It’s something Logan doesn’t understand, but despite that, still desperately, painfully yearns for. He wants to be loved, the way he loves the others. He wants to be a part of their famILY, to have that implicit trust in each other that only comes from acute, profound, deep-seated love. He wants that fondness directed towards himself, that devotion borne from hapless, radiating appreciation. The humbled esteem, the maudlin, theatrical longing, the passion and yearning and helpless, acquiescent love that bursts from the seams in a manner that will never diminish or fade. He wants that. Badly. And he’s finally ready to accept that he will never have it. He’s okay. He’s okay. He just needs a moment. He just needs to breathe.

The others must have continued with their arguments long ago, seemingly unaware of anything outside of themselves. Logan supposes he shouldn’t really berate them for that since he often falls victim to getting lost in debate as well, but something is wrong with Thomas, going by his expression and demeanour and the logical side can’t ignore it anymore. It’s highly unlikely that the other three will come away from themselves for long enough to notice, and it doesn’t sound like they’re anywhere close to coming to a conclusion amongst themselves, so Logan is perfectly fine with bearing that responsibility upon himself to check up on his host and make sure he’s okay. He’s the most important one here, after all, and it’s Logan’s job to help him, guide him in his life and decisions.

“Thomas? Is there something wrong?” Although the words come out clear and precise as usual, Logan’s throat burns, and he can barely breathe. He wants to sleep, he wants to sleep, but Thomas needs him, and that doesn��t happen often nowadays, so Logan does nothing but wait impassively. His host bites the inside of his cheek, then sighs as he stares off at the wall, lost in thought. Since he says nothing, the logical side assumes he will continue to say nothing for a few more moments, and decides to give him a once-over to gather more information and any possible context. Thomas’ eyebrows are furrowed, and his posture far from adequate. His expression is troubled, and his arms are crossed loosely, a pointer finger scratching at his elbow unconsciously. There is no obvious cause for his confusion and/or upset in himself or anywhere in the room, apart from the current dilemma, but he was fine before, so something must have changed to distress him now. Logan cannot ascertain what Thomas needs simply from observing him, so he concludes that the best thing for him to do is wait.

So he does. And he does so for a minute, two, five. Every second that ticks by feels like a needle is being shoved into his eyes, his brain, his legs, his everything and it takes more effort to stand than he’s used to. Breathing is difficult, but that isn’t exactly a new development, so at least he knows how to ignore it. Eventually, ten minutes pass with only the sound of the other three arguing in the background, and it doesn’t seem like Thomas is really all there. Although the action makes him want to throw up, Logan shifts forward, moving out of his usual spot and into Thomas’ own. He still doesn’t acknowledge any kind of input outside himself, so Logan lays a hand on his host’s arm gently, which snaps him out of his trance in a slow, unhurried kind of way. Thomas gives him a glance when his logical side sighs, tampering down any audible signs of his nausea in a manner that is unbeknownst to the host, but returns to staring at the wall without a second regard.

“Thomas?” Logan murmurs, bile rising in his throat and shoving his hidden suffering even closer to the forefront of his mind, as though it hasn’t been there all along. It’s hard to think, through all of the white noise and weary irritation and the tiniest sliver of hope that he crushes immediately, but thinking is his job, and he needs to help. “Are you alright? You can talk to me.”

And then Thomas is shrugging him off, turning away as he tells him he should “just stop” with piercing words, that he “can’t do anything to help”, and the rejection feels like a metaphorical knife has been shoved into his gut. Logan can feel the pain and the heartbreak and the insecurity materialize into a cold blade, twisting and twisting just to make him hurt more. Logan is ignored for the fourth time today, by the person it hurts to come from the most, and he can feel the sun whipping and screaming in his chest. His breath is stuck, sucked down into his throat, a sharp pain localizing in his neck, and he can’t help but bring his hand up to rub at the spot with trembling fingertips as he unsteadily lurches back to his regular spot. The others don’t notice, of course, or if they did, they don’t care. Then the nausea he’s been fighting against surges like a violent wave at full force, drowning him and the hurt is forcing its way into his mouth, his throat, his lungs, and he can’t breathe–

His fist flashes down from his neck to the banister, punching the railing so hard it echoes in the reverberation created from his vicious, angry snarl.

It’s scary, in a way, how in moments like this one, Logan feels as if his consciousness floats away from him, leaving behind only a wave of white-hot, searing anger that drains out of him just as quickly as it comes. There’s sleet running through his veins, and his brain has frostbite, and his fingertips are numb in the face of the ringing resonance after his outburst. The pain comes next, a simmering heat blistering below his fist until it’s coated and red and the beginnings of a bruise are starting to form. He can’t help but stare helplessly in front of himself, eyes burning and filling and blazing with how much they beg to close.

He doesn’t want to look up, to face the suffocating silence that’s fallen over the room. He doesn’t want to see their faces, their disappointment, their anger, their contempt. He wants to yell. He wants to sleep.

Logan sinks out.

There’s a very short window of time where the logical side rushes into the en-suite bathroom after rising up in his bedroom, trembling legs aching with exhaustion. Barely a second passes between him falling to the floor and emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet, the bile burning in his tender throat as a reminder of his failure. The floor is cold and hard beneath him, ridges of tiles pressing unrelenting into his knees through his wrinkled jeans. His head spins, unbalanced as it whirls through itself, words and thoughts and ideas that mean nothing and everything simultaneously existing hollowly in a falling echo. There is pain, and aching, and soreness, and exhaustion, and Logan wants to sleep.

It’s hard to rise to his feet, head throbbing and knees shaking as he wipes the spit from his mouth on a folded square of toilet paper. The pain nags at him, persistent and irritating in its attempts to shut Logan out, almost clear in a way that belies the foggy haze blanketing his nearly incoherent thought process. Marking a clear vantage, a faultline to anchor onto is no easy task, and all Logan wants as he stumbles over to his bed is a landmark to pinpoint and find his way back to. He careens toward the mattress once he’s close enough, finally letting his legs give out underneath him when he’s as near as he can bear. It’s so difficult to stay upright in stiff misery, pangs and twinges of sharp pain coursing through his limbs and his back as his muscles are forced together under pressure.

In another familiar, frustrating bout of anger that seizes his breath before it can escape his lungs, Logan shoves his fingers in the knot of his tie, yanking it forcefully even as the motion jerks his own head forward uncomfortably along with it. His fingers run down the length of the fabric, and it falls apart at the end of its cycle, much like Logan has, and he snaps his arm back to chuck the dark blue, silky length to the ground in a motion that does little to relieve the rage built up inside him.

He can feel it building. The buzzing, the pressure, the glass in his veins running on shards. He feels the pinpricks upon pinpricks, the fire burning in his lungs, and the stone crumbles, and tumbles down, and he’s like a rubber band pulled taut.

He cracks, shrill pressure in his knuckles and head and torso, and nothing happens.

Then Logan hears the telltale squeak of his door swiveling on mildly rusty hinges, and a familiar voice echoes right through his bubble, shatters the stone wall like a bulldozer running at full speed, and then the wetness spills over his lashes and over his stony, impassive face.

“Oh, Lo,” Deceit murmurs, sad and tender as the breath rushes out of him and Logan can’t do this. He wants to throw out his fist in a wide arc and pummel the wall next to him until his knuckles are raw and bloodied and bruised beyond repair. He wants to scream until his throat is torn and his voice is gone, lost in the uncaring, empty void that coldly swallowed up his passion. Happiness has never seemed further away, and he knows he deserves it. But then he remembers all of the times where the pressure in his limbs and the buzzing in his brain forced him to lash out, to hurt others, and he thinks that maybe it’s okay for him to hurt right now to even the score. With the last of the metaphorical wall around him in tiny pieces, fragments of a life he never wanted to live but he desperately fought to keep, he lets his guard down for the first time in years.

Logan’s face crumples under the weight he’s burdened his being with, body immediately drooping under the heaviness that he’s forced himself to fight through. He finally submits, and the tears come in an endless stream over his cheekbones, itchy and hot and terribly, mindlessly relieving. It feels so good to finally let the negative emotion he’s pent up inside him out, to fall out of his cage he’s lived in high above a swirling ocean of release and fear and freedom. And he’s so, so lucky because he has someone to save him from the fall.

Deceit’s kneeled down in front of him, wiping away the tears as they fall with uncharacteristically degloved thumbs, and Logan can feel the smoothness of the scales twisting and trailing down his fingers. Every so often, Deceit’s pointed thumbnails catch lightly on the skin of Logan’s cheek, and it just causes him to cry harder. The vulnerability in the room is palpable, a wispy breath of worry and insecurity and trust trailing over their skin, blanketing the room in a warmth that runs even warmer when Logan reaches up to gently lay his hand over Deceit’s own. He shows his appreciation through tactility when the words he so desperately wishes to say are lost in his throat, blocked by the barrier that separates his newfound submission and the part of him that’s still clinging to the feeble grasp at acceptance he craves so dearly.

Logan can barely tell what’s in front of him through the kaleidoscope in his vision, but he doesn’t really need to see to throw himself forward off the bed and bury himself in Deceit’s chest, of whom lets out a surprised noise but doesn’t hesitate a single second in wrapping his arms tightly around the other side. He strokes Logan’s back comfortingly and offers him whispered reassurances through the heart-wrenching sobs and broken, croaky whines that disappear into his cloak, hand coming up to cradle his head in the overwhelming reflexive instinct to keep the logical side safe and happy. It feels like a dagger has gone through Deceit’s chest at the knowledge that Logan has been suffering for so long and hasn’t been able to let it out or just simply be held, the self-preservation that is at the core of his function as a side going off like alarm bells with every sniffle. Logan curls into the first person who’s ever offered him physical affection and emotional safety, and his fists clench the fabric at the snake-like side’s shoulders as tightly as he would if he were to never, ever let go.

Logan is out of breath even as his heart begins to calm, beating and beating in his ribcage and in his lungs. The lump in his throat prevents him from speaking, but he figures it’s okay to not be heard audibly, just this once, and speak with his actions. Although he doesn’t know what he’s saying when he pulls back and wraps his arms around Deceit’s neck, laying his face in the crook of other side’s neck like a small child would, not really, he hopes that his intent still comes across in some sort of intelligible, hopeful way. Deceit seems to take this as a request, a promise, and slides his grip to a point where he can hoist the smaller side up in his hold, carrying him just like a parent carrying their kid to their bed after they fell asleep during a visit to a friend’s house. This situation is much more loaded, stained with impurities and unsure withering, but it’s just as raw, just as real, and Logan finds himself feeling safer than he ever has before.

At some point, they end up on the bed, Logan having been manhandled into a more comfortable position for both of them, which is laying across Deceit’s lap without ever having let go of his neck. The logical side feels small and vulnerable, something that he would normally hate, squash down, bury so deep within himself that he doesn’t even have to acknowledge it. But honestly, right here, right now, he’s so goddamn exhausted, and forcing himself back into the state of repression he’s been in for so much of his life would take too much of a toll, more than he already has on himself. The wetness rolls down his cheeks, bold, blue precipitation falling in droplets onto his skin and the fabric of Deceit’s cape, sinking and spreading and thinning out into airy nothingness. And the nothingness enraptures him, pulls him in even as he breaks and whimpers and spills wisps of forgotten feelings into empty space, at least until his bedroom door opens once more with a loud click, because nothing Remus ever does is truly quiet.

“Hey, are you guys having a sexy party without me? How c–… are you… crying?” Remus asks, suggestive tone split and watered down into something confused, and surprised, and angry. The younger twin kicks the door shut behind him with his foot, more out of muscle memory than conscious forethought, something that stands with nearly every action Remus executes. Logan turns his head wearily, not lifting it from where it rests on Deceit’s collarbone. The latter of the two takes that chance to clear away some of the tears that didn’t get absorbed into his clothing, hoping that since the stream is slowly dispersing, his cheeks will stay dry this time. Remus slowly approaches, body tense and eyes piercing as Logan’s face is wiped off for the nth time, offering no other sounds or words as he crouches down to examine how the bespectacled side’s skin is rubbed red and sensitive.

Logan just whines softly, stare falling to the bedsheets, observing nothing in particular as he tries to figure out why words are failing him. Something that’s such an intricate part of himself, the communication of thoughts and ideas and knowledge that defines so much of who he is and how he exists, it’s dwindled and diminished into nothing. Deceit seems to understand, he always does, and reads him so perfectly it’s a wonder the two didn’t become closer in the beginning, with how much they truly are alike. A scaled hand makes it’s way up to Logan’s head and cards through the soft, disheveled hair there, scratching lightly at his scalp in a motion that seems to draw the aching tension caused by his distress out of his body, leaving his muscles to relax and melt into the chest that holds him upright.

“Something happened before I came in here. I assume it has to do with the others,” Deceit murmurs into thick, heavy air, stale with shame and tired hopelessness. Remus’ eyes flick to Logan’s own, actively searching for some sort of confirmation or denial. There’s a beat of silence, and Logan’s eyes flutter in a fatigued attempt to stay awake, and the nausea creeps its way into his stomach once again like a predator stalking its prey. Deceit repositions himself quietly, pulling the smaller side impossibly closer, as if he knows that he’ll need the added comfort. With his body squished into a protective embrace, and his tie laying flat on the floor below, forgotten and scorned for what it represents, Logan swallows hard around the sharp block in his neck and nods through his nonverbal affliction.

At the minimal admission, something in Remus’ eyes darkens, bathing the bright craze that typically resides there in something hateful, and vicious, and dripping with chemical absolution. He shifts away, rolls onto his haunches in a way that doesn’t read as entirely intentional, as though he’s been physically forced back with the weight of the confession. There’s so much there, in the way his breath comes out shallow and gravelly and low like a beast biting and snapping at the bars that contain it, fighting against the cage it’s locked inside. Nostrils flare, and jaw sets, and fists clench white as bone, and Remus straightens up to his full height, intimidating and looming and dangerous.

“Who?” he spits, venom coursing through the single word in molten streams. It’s a protective fire, serious in a way Remus rarely is, and the storm in his eyes and aura only becomes more turbulent and intense and solid as he reaches behind himself to slowly seize his morning star from where he keeps it at the ready. Pulling it to the front of him is an unexpectedly slow event, yet still ferocious in its quiet, cold fervour. The silver weapon swings in a steady arc around the side of Remus’ body, catching the dim light in a threatening glint, the gleam alluding to its deadliness in a way that’s almost unexplainable. The spiked mace finally comes to its resting point, hovering in the air just beside the fierce side’s leg, unassuming and ready to drive its way into an unlucky antagonist’s skull.

“I’ll cut their fucking throats. I’ll rip off every single limb from their bodies until they’re nothing but a pile of flesh and blood. They’re gonna pay for this,” Remus snarls, each threat bathed in acrimony and malice and choked by fury ripping through the tempest. Logan stares through misty eyes, half-lidded and concerned but too out of it to muster much of a coherent thought. Thankfully, Deceit is still there, soft and warm and well-equipped to deal with Remus and his behaviour. The snake-like side sighs, reaching out to just barely snatch up a frilly black sleeve, tugging him closer and meeting surprisingly little resistance despite the rigidity of the tallest side’s posture. Each breath from Remus comes out like a bullet, brisk and arduous and punctuated by a pang of impermeable guilt.

Even as Deceit motions Remus to lower himself onto the bed in front of them, the latter of the two is still apprehensive, terse movements and restless eyes that flit between anything and everything they can to avoid stagnation. It’s almost fearful, in a way, primal in its aptitude to think, and cultivate, and vindicate a wrongdoing that was never his fault or responsibility in the first place. Logan hates that they need to save him, hates that he doesn’t truly believe they actually care. There’s a level of certainty with himself and with others that the logical side hasn’t reached yet, and it feels too close and yet too far, kept obscure and secluded and almost clandestine in the way it’s ostensibly unreachable.

With the help of Deceit’s hand to guide his way, Remus slowly lets go of his morning star, tossing it to the side with a pensive, trembling swallow. It clatters to the ground, metallic clang resounding in vibrations, tilde-shaped waves that bounce off the façade and yell out to one another. Muted shrieks upon perfect, flat, neutral paint, sepulchral oscillations attacking the drywall.

“You can’t hurt them. I know you’re angry. I am too. But hurting them won’t solve anything, Rem, you know that more than anyone,” Deceit says meaningfully, smiling in a way that’s sad and distant but caring and compelling and relaxing for the tension wrapped so tightly around the three of them. The snake-like side lifts the hand that’s not in Logan’s hair and reaches out to grab Remus’ own, firmly but gently as he squeezes his fingers in a way that reassures, and consoles, and reprimands, not unkindly. He admonishes, and breaks that anger and frustration, and builds up positivity and alleviation and reprieve from everything that allows that buzzing, ticking, those pinpricks upon pinpricks. His care and concern washes over you, paternal in a different way than Patton operates, and it’s why Deceit is so comforting to be around. He manages a respite from vexation, a refuge in sanctuary, discreet freedom for the flawed, defeated dreamer.

“I’m mad. I’m mad that they hurt you, Lo-Lo. I want them to feel the pain you’re feeling,” Remus mutters, frigid and defeated, head bowed and gaze distant in that transparent manner of his that easily broadcasts all of his thoughts and feelings and wishes. Logan feels the pride welling up in his chest without even realizing it, quietly delighted at the progress Remus has made in being clear and forthcoming with his emotions and impulsivity. A weary grin makes its way onto his face, predictably aggravating the soreness in his cheeks, yet he finds himself indifferent to it, unperturbed by the plight that’s ravaged his body for the day, and probably longer without his notice. He wants to reassure the younger twin, to smile and laugh and brush all of it off, but his eyelids droop, and a pathetic mewl is the only thing able to escape his lungs. Of course, since there’s something Logan wants to say, Deceit somehow knows how to communicate it, just as prompt and courteous and perceptive as always.

“We can talk about this later after Logan has slept. Don’t worry too much, Rem, and don’t do anything stupid. If you get angry again, please go to your paints instead of your legs,” Deceit instructs, more of a suggestion than a demand, but he hopes Remus will listen and be mindful anyway. The latter of the two bounces his leg anxiously, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath as he stands up in one swift, fluid motion. As Remus makes his way over to exit the room, Logan nudges Deceit’s hand with his head gently, trying to bring his attention back to the massaging motion that ceased sometime during the conversation. The snake-like side’s eyes flick downward to meet the smaller side’s own half-lidded, teetering gaze, and he huffs a laugh after a moment of searching. Logan doesn’t know what he finds, but he realizes that he doesn’t really care that much about worrying over every little interaction anymore.

Remus finally turns and glances back as he swings the door open, brows still furrowed and shoulders still hunched, but simply shakes his head and leaves. The door closes much softer than before, thankfully, so as not to be too harsh on Logan’s migraine, an unusually conscientious thought from someone that rarely shows consideration to the needs of others that the logical side appreciates that much more. As the sound of Remus’ footsteps slowly fade with his retreat down the hallway, the two of them left are bathed in silence, one that is marginally less heavy and thick than before.

A small while passes afterward, only punctuated by soft breathing and light scratching noises from nails trailing through messy hair. Logan feels like he might pass out any minute, what with the comfortable, quiet understanding the two have come to rest at, but some part of him says to wait, to push through the mind-numbing exhaustion for just a little while longer. That part of him is probably just being considerate toward Deceit, who Logan can’t imagine would be very comfortable with another side falling asleep on him and laying on him for an extended period of time, but he figures that it’s a good of a reason as any. It’s not about him feeling like a burden. It’s not.

Eventually, Deceit must start to get tired as well, or maybe he’s sore from Logan’s weight on his legs, so he sits forward, apologizing quietly for disturbing the peace, and he moves them into a more comfortable position. The new arrangement is far more snug and cozy than the previous one, Logan thinks drowsily, as his head hits the pillow across from Deceit. They lay there on top of the blankets but make no move to pull them up, just content to stare lazily at one another in the dim, ambient light cast by the desk lamp in the opposite corner of the room.

“Why?” Logan finally asks, and although he loathes disrupting the silence, he needs to ask. The words are scratchy in his tender throat, a charcoal whisper on a steel canvas that scratches and sketches away with nothing viable left to keep through the wind that blows the dark dust off the surface. “Why are you helping me? Why do you care?”

Deceit just hums, sending Logan a weak, distracted smile. He mulls over the words, tossing about the meaning and possibilities in his head and on his silver tongue, rushing in an uncertain river through valleys of golden sand.

“I am self-preservation at its core. I exist to keep Thomas safe and healthy and thriving, and that also means you and the other sides by extension. But… it’s not just that. Even though I feel physical pain whenever one of you or Thomas is hurt, I specifically want to help you because… I care about you, Logan. I love you, and want to see you healthy and happy. I haven’t really been doing a good job of that lately,” Deceit mutters, gaze somewhere on their shared pillow, and there’s a quality to his tone that’s bitter beyond the line of frustration. Although Deceit doesn’t expand on it, doesn’t offer up a single clarification despite the heavy air and his resigned demeanour, Logan gets it. He understands, and he wants to prove him wrong.

So he does.

And that comes in the form of surging forward, fighting against the current, the pinpricks in his stomach and shoulders and abdomen, disregarding the exhaustion for just a little while longer so that he can let Deceit’s lips meet his own. Logan’s so close he can feel the shocked rush of air leave Deceit’s nose, feel the vibrations through the air as his body trembles in fear and anticipation and relief. The other side eases in, sinks closer, closer, and finally moves his lips in a careful, emotional dance that leaves Logan dizzy and breathless, for entirely different reasons that have plagued him for the past day.

“Lo,” Deceit breathes, low, wanting, and he pulls back to give Logan a chance to catch up. A scaled hand comes up to caress the logical side’s cheek, a soothing, cool balm for the raw skin beginning to heal there. “I didn’t… I didn’t think…”

“I love you,” Logan breathes, the words he’s refused to say, to acknowledge, to confront welling up through his throat and for the first time, he lets them spill out. The dam has broken, debris left to descend and submerge in the depths of the sentiment crashing through in a roaring, passionate rapid at the narrowest point yet. The words come, and they don’t stop, and Logan almost can’t believe how right they feel on his tongue. “I love you, I love you, I–I love you so much, Dee.”

Logan is like a rubber band, pulled taut and still and trembling under the pressure. And maybe he’ll split, shoot apart, torn in two pieces that will never fit back together again. But maybe he won’t. Maybe instead of snapping in half, he’ll snap back, and that thought alone gives him a quiet comfort that he’s not used to allowing himself. He’s waiting, hoping, and he’s okay enough for now.

[etherealwaifgoddess]

A Good Night’s Sleep, Pt.1

Main Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky has been plagued with nightmares since he left HYDRA and the Avengers all have been trying to help him overcome them. Bucky meets you by chance on a coffee run and finds that the solution he was avoiding might be exactly what he needs.

Warnings/ Content: brief mention of PTSD

Word Count: 3.6k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! So this little 3 part series came from an idea that @marinaaniseed had a few weeks ago. I absolutely couldn’t get the idea out of my head and so, while I should have been working on my many WIPs, this little fic was born. Parts two and three are going up immediately after this, it’s all done and I don’t feel like dragging it out. Hope you all enjoy it as much as I have. Especially you @marinaaniseed, thank you so much for the idea!!! XOXO- Ash

A Good Night’s Sleep, Part One

“Come on, Buck.” Steve calls out while banging on Bucky’s door, “You gotta wake up, pal.”

Bucky wakes with a jolt, his body rigid and his throat sore from screaming. He’s panting hard, trying to adjust to the world around him. He pulls himself out of bed on shaky legs, wobbling down the hall to open the door right as Steve goes to knock again. “Sorry. Again.” he rasps. 

“Want to come get a cup of tea with me?” Steve offers with sympathetic eyes.

“Nah, I’m gonna grab a shower. Go back to sleep, Stevie.” 

“You know you can talk to me about it if you want to.” 

“I know. I’ll be okay.” Bucky insists, closing the door to end the discussion. 

Under the burning hot spray of the shower Bucky lets himself breakdown. 

After Wakanda Steve had convinced Tony to let him live at the tower with the rest of the team and everyone had been leery of the former assassin joining their ranks. As they slowly came to know him though, he became a welcome addition to their little family of Avengers. The only issue was the nightmares that woke not only Bucky, but everyone else on their floor. Bucky hadn’t slept through the night since he escaped HYDRA, plagued with visions of the destruction he’d wrought as the Winter Soldier. It was an endless stream of death and terror every night when he closed his eyes. When he was on his own in Romania he’d accepted it as his penance for what he’d done. After Shuri and her team pulled him out of Cryo in Wakanda he hadn’t been hopeful the nightmares were gone along with the trigger words. And he had been right - they persisted. 

Bucky warned Steve when he invited him to live at the tower with the team. He told him he had nightmares and was prone to have low days where he just needed solitude to work through his own mind. Steve had promised he’d have his own living quarters and the team would understand. They all had their demons, afterall. The team was very understanding the first days but after that the concerned glances turned to long, worried looks and the team started speaking up.

Bruce had been the first to speak up, suggesting therapy to help him work through what was causing his nightmares. Bucky went and as much as he liked his therapist, nothing they tried stopped the nightmares. Even the meds blew through his system too fast to be of any use. She did give him some good tips for managing his PTSD and depression during the day though, so Bucky considered it a win and still went to see her once a week. 

Nat gave him a spicy Russian tea she swore would knock him out enough that no dreams would come. Nat was wrong, all Bucky got out of the tea was heartburn. She grumbled something under her breath in Russian that sounded a lot like “cursed’ the next morning over breakfast. 

Steve took him for a long run before bed one night, thinking the endorphin high and exhaustion would help Bucky sleep soundly. It helped Steve sometimes with his own dreams of war. It didn’t help with the nightmares, it only made him more exhausted the next day after getting little sleep. 

Tony offered to get him drunk but it would take entirely too much alcohol to overcome the serum in his veins so he declined the offer. 

Wanda suggested she try popping in his mind while he was having a nightmare to see if she could reshape it and try to correct whatever in his mind was causing him to have the dreams. Bucky threw up at the idea of someone meddling in his mind again.

The care and suggestions from the team were sweet, and Bucky knows they have the best intentions at heart, but it’s all still a little overwhelming. Bucky wants to stop having nightmares, he would do anything to sleep for more than three or four hours a night. A small part of him still thinks it’s punishment from some higher power for everything he’s done, but rationally he understands it’s just his PTSD. 

After his shower, Bucky trudges out to the team kitchen for coffee. If he isn’t going to sleep he might as well start on his caffeine routine. Sam is already in the kitchen whipping up a smoothie for himself while Natasha stares at him over a cup of tea, the human embodiment of heart eyes on her face. 

“Mornin’.” he rumbles as he crosses the kitchen, rummaging for his favorite cup in the dishwasher. 

“Another bad one, huh.” Nat asks, but it really isn’t a question.

“Yeah, sorry.” 

“You’ve got to figure these out, James.” 

“I know it.” 

“I know what you need.” Sam interjects causing both Bucky and Nat to whip around to stare at him. Sam just shrugs, “You need to get laid, man.” 

Bucky chokes on his coffee. “What?” 

“You. Need. To. Get. Laid.” Sam repeats slowly. “Seriously, man. Find yourself a nice girl, or a guy, and get some. You’ll be all happy and cosy and you’ll nod right off. No nightmares if you’re wrapped up in the arms of a good woman, or man.” 

Bucky shakes his head, the last thing he needs is to terrorize some poor person trying to spend the night.

“It’s not a bad idea.” Nat agrees.

“Not happening.” Bucky says with a warning tone. He fills his cup and retreats to his bedroom, unwilling to continue the conversation. Adding another person to his mess of a life is not the solution. 

Sam’s suggestion spreads through the team like wildfire. Everyone seems to have a friend they could set him up with. Tony even hacks into his smartphone and adds apps for Tinder, Grindr, and Match.com. Bucky deletes them quickly before chewing Tony out about privacy rights. It becomes a bit of a running joke within the group and Bucky is less than thrilled about it. Bucky hasn’t had a date since 1941 and he isn’t sure how to navigate dating in the 21st century. He knows the times have changed, people are more free with their sexualities and casual relationships are normal instead of taboo. Eventually, he thinks, eventually he’ll get back out there. But certainly not just for the sake of random sex. 

Bucky has another particularly rough night. One where he doesn’t dare sleep because the second his eyes close the images start up like a motion picture. He’d spends the night alternating between pacing and reading, trying to not be disruptive while everyone else sleeps. Sam and Steve get up for their run just before dawn and find him pacing in the common room. 

“Did you sleep at all?” Steve asks him.

“I will later. Probably.” Bucky grumbles. 

Sam shakes his head, “Let’s go get coffee. You look like hell.”

Bucky can’t argue with that and instead goes to grab his shoes with a nod.

The city is bustling despite the early hour and the line at their favorite coffee shop is almost to the door. It’s worth the wait though and Bucky likes the thrumming energy of the shop, the blur of muted sounds around him oddly comforting. The woman in front of them is fidgeting with her leather bag, it must have something heavy in it the way she keeps adjusting the strap on her shoulder. Bucky tries not to let his gaze linger too long but the way her long hair falls in soft waves all the way down to the small of her back is distracting. The even softer looking rounded curves of her body are even more distracting, he admits to himself. She reminds him of the women in Renaissance paintings, when lush curves were still revered, before these modern stick thin bodies became the ideal. Bucky wishes the Winter Soldier could go back and pay a visit to whoever started the “thigh gap” craze. 

The woman adjusts the leather strap again and a small white card flutters out onto the floor behind her. Bucky reaches down to pick it up, noticing the card has business information on it. Sam and Steve are chatting and distracted when Bucky taps the woman on the shoulder, “I think you dropped your business card.” he says hesitantly. 

You’re cursing yourself for lugging everything along with you in your enormous bag when you feel a tap on your shoulder followed by a warm masculine voice. You absolutely do not have business cards, you’re a freelance writer and market yourself entirely online. It has to be another pick up line, probably from some smarmy Wall Street asshole who wants to slum it with an artsy girl for a change. You’ve been burned by that type enough times and won’t let yourself do it again, no matter how long it’s been since you’ve had a date. “Does that line work a lot for you?” you reply, turning around with an unamused expression. 

Bucky’s face falls, upset he’s offended you when all he was trying to do was return what you’d dropped. “I wasn’t. I don’t. You. Um, you dropped this. It fell out of your bag.” Bucky fumbles for words, blushing brightly and drawing the attention of Sam and Steve who wear twin smirks of amusement watching him flounder. 

Your irritation dissipates when you see the gorgeous, stuttering man in front of you. He’s tall, though not quite as tall as his companions, his dark hair falls around his shoulders in a way that is either true bedhead or carefully crafted styling to mimic it. His grey blue eyes are wide and honest, clearly not some smarmy pick up artist like you’d assumed. He’s wearing a black hoodie and dark grey sweatpants so it’s unlikely he was the business card type either. You force yourself to stop ogling the poor man and look at the tiny card in his outstretched hand. Recognizing it immediately, you realize you’re the asshole in this scenario. “Shit, that is mine.” you curse, “I’m so sorry. I don’t usually have business cards but my friend gave me this one yesterday for a new bakery that went in over on 2nd Avenue.” 

Bucky looks at the card for a second before you take it from him. “So you’re not Beth Yardley?” 

You raise an eyebrow at him, wondering if that’s now a ploy to get your name. You really need to be less suspicious but after living in the city for five years you’ve become jaded. He’s cute though. “Nope, Y/N. Nice to meet you…?”

“Bucky.” he offers quickly.

The name doesn’t ring a bell, but he looks familiar for some reason. “Nice you meet you, Bucky. Thanks for saving that card for me. I’m dying to try these cinnamon buns my friend keeps raving about.”

Bucky is smiling again, hoping his face doesn’t betray how eager he is to keep the conversation going. He wasn’t trying to hit on you a few minutes ago but now that he’s seen your face and heard your voice, he sure as hell is. “I love cinnamon buns.” 

You stifle your laugh at the way his cheeks burn bright pink after his admission. He has to be flirting at this point. And he really is cute. Damnit. “We should go try them, then.” you decide, giving him a chance to make a move. 

Bucky feels like he’s swallowed his tongue, “As in, together?” 

“Yeah, sorry if I wasn’t clear. This is me hitting on you now.” you smirk at him as his blush spreads.

Sam is leaning on Steve as they fight for composure, trying not to erupt in laughter and ruin their friends moment. Bucky glares at their backs for a moment before realizing he still hasn’t answered, “Yeah. Yes. Let’s do that.” 

Getting a better look at his companions you realize why he looks so familiar. Of all the people to meet in a coffee shop, you muse. You’re still interested though. “Are you free after this? I was going to get my coffee to go and then head straight there for breakfast.” 

“I’m free. These idiots can find their own way home.” 

“Great. Now, the deciding factor is: icing or no icing? Think hard Bucky, there are two camps of people and if you fall into the wrong one I’ll be forced to shame you for all eternity.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, worried he’s going to mess up two seconds into what could potentially be a date. “Icing?” he tries.

“Right answer!” you announce him happily. Then, in a conspiratorial tone, you whisper, “It wasn’t really a deal breaker but it’s good to know you’re not some sugar hating monster.” 

Bucky’s grin widens, “No, I have a serious sweet tooth.”

“We’re gonna get along just fine.” you assure him. 

After you order your coffee, quad shot latte with whole milk don’t judge me, and Bucky orders his, the biggest white mocha frapp you have please, you swipe your card before he has a chance to get his wallet out. Bucky balks at you paying but you tell him he can get it next time with a flirty smile that has his brain shutting off, unable to continue complaining. 

Steve and Sam give Bucky small waves and thumbs up, not interfering when Bucky leaves with you. “Your friends seem nice.” you say kindly as you step out onto the busy city sidewalk.

“They’re the best.” Bucky agrees with a nod. 

You make idle chit chat on your way to the bakery, keeping the topics light and superficial. Bucky tells you he grew up in Brooklyn, moved away for a bit, and recently moved to Manhattan with his friends. He seems hesitant as he explains it and you realize he’s trying to not be obvious about who he is. Like you couldn’t have already guessed.

You snort a laugh into your latte. “So what was Brooklyn like in the 30s?” you ask bluntly.

Bucky’s eyes practically bug out of his head, “How did you...?” 

You give him a half smile and shrug, “The hand is a good clue, plus your face was everywhere for a while. It doesn’t help that your best friends are Captain America and the Falcon.” 

Cringing, Bucky figures this will be the end of his almost date. “We don’t have to go get breakfast. I’ll understand if you don’t want to be seen with me.” 

You stop in the middle of the sidewalk, shocked by his response. “Whoa, hold on. I knew who you were before I asked you to join me. I don’t care what other people think about you or your past. You seem like a nice guy and I want to get to know you. The real you.” 

Bucky takes a moment to process your words, finding it hard to believe someone is willing to look beyond his past. He can't find a shred of deceit in your expression though, so he answers your question. “Well, there were less cars and it smelled worse if you can believe it.” 

You huff out a laugh, resuming your walk to the bakery. “I can’t. Tell me more.” 

Bucky tells you stories of the Brooklyn of his youth as you make your way across town. You aren’t in a hurry and Bucky is happy to spend extra time out in the warm sun with a beautiful woman. 

The bakery is a little glass fronted shop sandwiched between two larger brick buildings. You would have walked right past it if you hadn’t been looking for it. Bucky opens the door for you and you smirk, amused by the old fashioned gesture. The scent of vanilla and caramelized sugar hit you the second you’re inside. “Oh my god.” you groan the amazing smell. 

Bucky’s steps falter at the sound you made, trying desperately not to let his mind go where it was headed. “This place smells amazing.” he says, inhaling deeply.

“It had better taste as good as it smells or I’ll riot.” you joke. 

The line is short and before you know it, Bucky is ordering two iced cinnamon buns plus an assortment of other pastries he picks at random out of the display case. 

“Are we feeding an army?” you question as the tray piles higher and higher with plates of baked goods.

“Sorry,” he blushes, handing over his card to the waiting cashier, “Um, my metabolism is pretty high and I have to keep up with it or I get cranky.” 

“Ah, okay. No hangry super soldiers on my watch.” 

Bucky chuckles and nods. 

There’s a sunny spot in the window of the bakery with an unoccupied cafe table, Bucky motions towards it and it’s your turn to nod, following him over to it. The tray takes up most of the table and you perch your coffees on your respective sides, eager to dig into the spread in front of you. You go for the cinnamon bun first, knowing one of them is yours and not wanting to presume you’ll be trying any of the other treats. 

The taste of caramelized sugar and cinnamon explode on your tongue, eliciting yet another moan that makes Bucky fidget in his seat. “Okay, that’s it. I can die happy now.” you announce dramatically. 

Bucky takes a swipe of the icing off the top of his cinnamon bun and his eyes widen slightly. “Oh wow.” he lifts the entire bun up to take a large bite and closes his eyes happily as he chews. “This is incredible.” he says once he’s swallowed, quickly taking another large bite. His cheeks puff out adorably and you grin around your own bite of cinnamon bun. 

“I can’t believe you just bite it like that.” you tease. 

“Well, what else am I supposed to do with it?” 

You demonstrate the way you’ve been peeling yours apart from the outside in, “You uncoil it, like a normal human being.” 

“Takes too long.” Bucky scoffs, “My way is faster.” 

“But then it’s gone. My way you can enjoy it more.” 

“Pfft. I enjoy it plenty, and I would have time for two of them while you eat just one.” 

“Not all of us have super soldier metabolisms, one bun is enough.” 

Bucky looks at the four other plates on the tray and shakes his head, “Then I guess it’s good to be me.” 

You laugh at his antics as he takes another big bite, smiling while his cheeks chipmunk out again. The look you’re giving him almost makes him swallow wrong. He knows this look, he remembers it from the dance hall girls in the 30s. Attraction. Desire. You’re flirting with him in your own, unique, modern way. And Bucky is shocked to realize he’s been flirting back. He didn’t intend to get back out there so soon but here he is, enjoying breakfast with a beautiful woman. He wonders if you’re the type who would appreciate being asked out on a date, or if you’d rather exchange numbers and call him up when the mood strikes. A booty call, Sam had called it. Bucky still doesn’t get how there’s such a big difference between a booty call and a butt dial but thankfully Sam had corrected him when he got the reference wrong. 

Bucky finishes his cinnamon bun and starts in on a vanilla bean scone, enjoying the way the light glaze crackles as it gives way to the soft, buttery dough. You’re still enjoying your bun, about half way through, so Bucky tears the other pointed corner of the scone off and deposits it on your plate. “It’s really good.” he insists, not wanting you to miss out.

You glance from the bite of scone up to Bucky who’s looking at you hesitantly like he’s waiting to see if he’s done something right or wrong. You pop the bite of scone into your mouth, chewing slowly before nodding, “Yeah it is. Thanks.” 

Bucky practically beams. Maybe he can figure out 21st century flirting. He’s not sure if flirting via baked goods is a thing or not, but it absolutely should be. Bucky methodically works through all of the plates on the tray, offering you bits of each different item. You snag two bites of the cream puff but decline when he offers to buy you your own. The conversation shifts to the best meals you’ve had in the city. Food is an easy common ground for you both. You explain to Bucky that the small town you grew up in was pretty limited restaurant-wise and you’ve tried a lot of different places since moving to the city. You’re great in the kitchen but some days, after spending hours alone working at home, you like to get out and around other people for a while. 

“There’s an Italian place, Sapori, near the tower you would love.” Bucky tells you, “I don’t know what the big deal about the place is but Stark always gets reservations when we’re celebrating something. They make everything from scratch and it’s damn good. There’s these little pillowy pasta things. Starts with a g but you don’t pronounce it. I don’t know, but they’re amazing.”

“Gnocchi,” you say, stifling a laugh. 

“Yeah! Those. Best meal I’ve had in the city by far.” 

“That’s only because you haven’t had the food at Xián Tián.” 

“Well, you should let me take you to Sapori and then you’ll understand.” 

“Did you just ask me out?” you raise your eyebrows at him in surprise.

Bucky blushes and nods, suddenly feeling more shy. “Yeah. I did. This is me hitting on you now.” he says, paroting your words from earlier. 

“Well done, Barnes. When are we going?” 

Read part two HERE!

[westywrites]

The Safehouse (a.k.a. the farmhouse)

Tucked safely in the woods near a small town at the end of the line of the canal boat, this house has been a safe-haven for the Corvine for decades. Thankfully it goes mostly unused except as the home of Mme Geheim and her adopted child, Helio. Helio maintains the extensive gardens and plant-life around the house while Mme Geheim works the shop in the city. With Mme Geheim missing, and danger knocking on the door after the arrival of young Lennox and his friends, the house is left empty under the watchful eyes of the local ravens.  

Ahead, the endless rows of trees broke. Mid-afternoon sun poured down into a clearing. In the middle, a house sat grandly despite its simple nature. A plain rectangle of two-storeys, the only decoration that adorned the house was the thick layer of vines that climbed the walls, scarlet berries dazzling against the green leaves and white-painted wood boards. Wrapping around the side to the back of the house were gardens in harvest that stretched all the way out to the trees. On a large post amid the plants, a raven perched, keeping watch. The others didn’t seem to notice and approached the house cautiously. Lennox watched the bird, but it did not seem to care that they were there. 

The wood of the door was dyed a deep blue. Avenir knocked loudly, but there was no response. She knocked again, calling out to see if anyone was home. Peeking in the windows, Lennox could see empty rooms with simple furnishing, though plain they were nicer than anything he had ever touched. The door creaked as Avenir pushed it open.

“What are you doing?” Lennox hissed. “We can’t just walk in.”

“It was unlocked,” Avenir raised an eyebrow, “and we do have an invitation.”

This excerpt is from my WIP The Corvine. Masterpost here.

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