#and in some ways i get it because his thread of trust frayed every time scully refused to believe what was so blatant for mulder

[loubetcha]

hi <3 like that wetwired post right now I am thinking about s6 angst and how it wasn’t really about Diana, not really, but about every lie Mulder has ever told her and Scully’s greatest fears. We know that Scully fears that Mulder will choose his quest over her; Wetwired tells us that her greatest fear is him allying himself with the people who were responsible for her abduction and her sister’s death— that he is lying to her. And in one fell swoop, with his callousness, he manages to confirm all of these.

It’s only her faith in him that keeps them together. Agh.

OUCH????

but you’re so right it wasn’t about jealousy or neglect it was about that by putting his trust in someone else who was exceedingly untrustworthy, it ultimately felt like the trust they held so close was shattered. “sleeping with the enemy” so to speak doesn’t imply jealousy on those who see it, but betrayal.

[zeke-in-devildom]

Dissonance - Chapter 12: Fate and Fury

Satan was a good teacher. Zeke learned dozens of new words. Time flew by as they sat together, shoulders touching, the book open between them. He found the demon’s voice almost distractingly pleasant and warmth radiated from him in a comforting way. It might seem odd to some that he would find the presence of the Avatar of Wrath soothing. As he occasionally focused on Satan’s aura he could tell that his reading companion was just as content as he was in this arrangement.

That made him happy. The glimpses into Satan’s aura had revealed enough about the demon for Zeke to feel a sense of kinship with him. He felt sure that Satan would understand him, that he wouldn’t judge him when he lost his temper or got angry the way others always did. The judgment had always only ever made the problem worse. 

Zeke could have spent the rest of the evening and night holed up in the library with the blond demon. Satan wasn’t loud and outgoing like Asmo, but he was kind in a quieter way. A way that he could appreciate. He liked Asmo, but the Avatar of Lust was a bit high energy for him. Spending this time with Satan was far more his speed. However their peace was interrupted when he sensed Lucifer returning - and the firstborn was not in a good mood. A few moments later the eldest stepped into the library, red eyes glinting with barely contained outrage.

“Zeke, come to my office.” Was he in trouble? What could he have done to get in trouble?

“We were busy.” Satan was not helping, but Lucifer’s presence had caused Satan’s irritation to bubble up. Whatever tranquility that Zeke had been able to give the wrath demon was shattered for the time being. That only served to make Zeke’s own frustration and annoyance rise.

“Now.” Lucifer ignored his brother as he made his way to a specific bookshelf. Zeke had noticed it earlier. Many of the books in here were magical, but that bookcase was definitely hiding something, so he wasn’t surprised when it opened to reveal the way into a secret study. If he wasn’t already getting angry he’d have appreciated just how cool having a secret room in the library was.

Reluctantly Zeke passed the book fully to Satan and followed Lucifer into the hidden room, the door sliding closed behind him. Lucifer was still in his RAD uniform as he took his seat. He didn’t indicate that Zeke should sit, so he awkwardly shuffled to stand in front of the desk. Was this sour mood a holdover from this morning’s attack? Had Lucifer been in a bad mood all day because of it? No, this anger and disappointment was definitely directed at him this time.

“I told you that you could associate with the sorcerer, but did you truly agree to become his apprentice? I told you he wasn’t to be trusted.” That’s what this was about?

“So what? He saved my life and he can teach me a lot. I don’t have to fully trust him to learn from him.” It was better to trust your teachers, or so he’d been told, but he didn’t fully trust anyone. He certainly didn’t trust his RAD teachers. Every demon was a potential threat to him - the brothers included. At least Solomon was a human.

“You are receiving instruction from RAD. I could give you further instruction if you were so eager to learn beyond the curriculum. Why would you turn to that damnable sorcerer?” It was apparent even without his ability to read others that Lucifer was seething. How did he even know about that? It had to have been Asmo. Zeke’s temper flared, barely contained now.

“Sure, but I’m only here for a year. Solomon can keep teaching me once I get sent back, and becoming his apprentice is my decision to make. I don’t know why you’re so upset about this. It isn’t your business.” It wasn’t anyone else’s choice if he became Solomon’s student or not. The threads holding back his anger frayed that much further.

“It is my business! You are my responsibility. Do not forget that you are mine. Even should you return to the human realm, we have a pact. I did not make a pact with you lightly, no other human has ever held a pact with me and it is unlikely any will again. Your return to the human realm will not change the fact that you belong to me.” Lucifer had risen to his feet, hands slammed down on the desk, demon form revealed, dark wings spread in all their glory. 

He was breathtaking. And infuriating. 

“Remind me again which of us is the master?” Zeke’s voice held an edge of cold fury, eyes glinting dangerously, the violet softly glowing with a dark blue ring. He felt the mark at his nape tingling as he embraced the infernal power coursing through him. Rather than shrink away from Lucifer’s anger, he stepped closer to the desk and leaned forward to make a bold claim as he clung to the last threads holding back his temper from exploding. “Make no mistake Lucifer. You belong to me.”

The firstborn looked slightly taken aback. Zeke was willing to bet no one had ever dared challenge Lucifer the Morningstar so openly before - except maybe Lord Diavolo. He didn’t plan on giving him time to recover from the surprise. 

“I agreed to your house rules, but make no mistake, you do not own me, and I will not be controlled by you or anyone else. If I want to be Solomon’s apprentice, then I will and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. Now if that was all, I’m going to my room.” Zeke pivoted and stormed from the study. 

“How dare you, come back here this instant!” Lucifer practically roared, moving to follow the human that dared talk to him that way.

“Do not follow me.” The infernal magic wove around his tongue as the words left his lips and Lucifer stopped abruptly, unable to continue moving towards Zeke with a pact order in place. Those threads had snapped.

“Ezekiel!” Ignoring Lucifer was dangerous. Talking back to him, disrespecting him, challenging him - it was reckless. Zeke was too angry to care about any of that. 

Satan was still in the library, looking very worried as Zeke brushed past in a huff. He did not want to take his anger out on any of the other brothers. It was best for him to just be alone right now. He could usually hold his temper better, but the controlling and possessive attitude of Lucifer had been too much. He had lived with someone controlling his every moment and he would not live that way again. 

Zeke winced as his bedroom door slammed behind him. It was childish. He already regretted losing his temper. Lucifer was the Avatar of Pride and a demon. Picking a fight with him was stupid. He knew better. Still, that surge of power coursing through him was not intentional. That was a pact order, right? It had to be. He had ordered Lucifer and the demon had obeyed - he had felt the magic twisting in the air around him. This lack of control was going to be a big issue. It was like now that he was surrounded by the magic of the Devildom something was stirring inside of him. Almost as if he held dormant magical power that was just now waking up. Coming to the Devildom had to be the trigger. Or was it the pacts? He was getting a headache.

There was also the issue of his empathetic tendencies. Zeke could pick up on the emotions of others, but he could also project his own emotions outwards. Up until yesterday he had let the professionals convince him that it was all in his head, but he knew better now. The last thing he wanted was to let his anger bleed out and infect the demons around him. Lucifer was already plenty angry enough, and Satan was naturally inclined towards bursts of rage. It was safer for everyone if they all just stayed away from him. At least until he had regained control of his emotions.

Zeke was used to being alone, to isolating himself. It protected others from him as much as it was to protect himself from them. For the first time in a long time, being alone actually felt lonely. He knew it was only a matter of time before Asmo came knocking at his door in an effort to comfort him. The lock twisted into place even as he moved to his desk and opened his laptop. He knew work would take his mind off of everything else. If he could just get lost in his current book then everything would be fine.

It was longer than he thought it would be before Asmo and Belphie came knocking on his door. Well the handle jiggled uselessly first, then they knocked. 

“Hon, dinner’s ready. You should come eat.” Dinner meant all the brothers at the table, including Lucifer. He wasn’t ready to face the eldest after earlier. Asmo must have read his mind because a moment later he added, “Lucifer won’t be eating with us. He was called back to the castle to handle something.”

“I made human world food.” Belphie tried to bribe him, but neither of them knew Zeke all that well yet. He had spiraled into a full-blown manic writing episode, bound to be the first of many during his year-long exchange.

“Not hungry.” Was his dismissive reply. It was true, food and sleep were both long forgotten. Nothing but the story mattered when he got like this. Zeke was staring intently at his laptop screen, fingers flying across the keys as he punched out word after word, sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph. The pages were nearly flying by for the rough draft. It was how he published so many books despite being fairly young for such a best-selling novelist.

The doorknob jiggled again, but didn’t budge. Zeke might have found it strange, since he didn’t remember locking the door, but he was too focused on work to pay attention to such trivial details. He was vaguely aware of the pair speaking in hushed whispers on the other side of the door, but eventually their auras moved away from his room. 

Subsequent attempts were made, something about leaving his dinner by the door, then leaving notes from class, but it barely even registered, he was too focused. Nobody tried to force their way into his room. He had half expected them to, but was relieved when they simply gave him space and left him alone. They were distracting him from his writing. Zeke thought he might actually be ahead of schedule on it. The rest of the night was spent this way, with no further interruptions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were only a few kinds of nightmares that Zeke had, but they were so very frequent. Usually it was the sound of screeching, twisting metal, his mother screaming, followed by pitiful whimpers in the dark. The others were of falling. Those dreams were always dark too. No light to give him any indication of why or how he was falling, just the sickening sensation of being grounded by nothing while the wind rushed past.

This was different. It was still dark, but not pitch black. White feathers were burning all around him and his whole body was screaming in agony. He realized his wings were being scorched away from him, but since when did he have wings? Zeke let his eyes close, wishing that the darkness would return and the painless free fall would return. 

Someone was screaming his name - no, not his name.

“LILITH NO!”

It was hazy, but he recognized that voice. Zeke opened his eyes to see Lucifer reaching out for him, diving through the air even as his white wings burned black, halo cracking until it shattered as horns erupted from his head. That was an unbearable pain, he knew it was, but Lucifer barely flinched, the pain and panic in his eyes wasn’t from his transformation, wasn’t for himself, but for Zeke.

No, not him. It was for her. 

Lilith

His already broken body impacted the ground. No, it was her body? Zeke’s mind was so fuzzy. It felt like trying to wade through molasses. 

B l i n k

He blinked and his body was still broken, but it was his. The pavement was cold beneath his cheek where he lay sprawled, gasping for breath. Zeke recognized this, it was the vision from right after he first was visited by Barbatos. His eyes tried to dart around frantically, to find the demon, but he could barely make out shapes and colors. 

B L I N K

Lucifer was cradling his (her?) broken body once more. Six scorched wings had been ripped from his back and out of them was clawing a frantic, confused, and very enraged Satan. 

B L I N K

Oh he was back in his body now, still broken and bloody, still gasping for air, still clinging desperately to life. Satan was cradling him now. He couldn’t see, his eyes were too dim, but he could feel Satan’s comforting aura, stricken with grief, and could hear his sobs, along with the cries of the other brothers.

B L I N K

Zeke jerked awake with a scream, clutching at his chest as he tried to scramble away from the memory of the pain. This only caused him to let out a current pained grunt as he had squirmed out of his bed and hit the floor. When had he gotten into bed? He was almost positive that he hadn’t put himself to bed, so one of the brothers must have finally decided to undo the lock and let themselves in.

The bedroom door flew open.

[shortpplfedup]

Anatomy of a Scene Let's Just Talk About It (TW: dubcon)

KinnPorsche, Episode 4 Directors: Khom Kongkiat Khomsiri, Pepzi Banchorn Vorasataree, Pond Krisda Witthayakhajorndet Writers: Pond Krisda Witthayakhajorndet, Poi Patchayamon Theewasujaroen, Yok Sitthichai Panya, Ning Bhanbhassa Dhubthien Cast: Mile Phakphum Romsaithong (Kinn), Apo Nattawin Wattanagitiphat (Porsche)

Dominance and submission. Control and loss of control. Where power resides, relinquishing power and taking power for yourself. Letting your guard down and lowering inhibitions. Succumbing to desires unspoken, hidden, leashed, buried. Trust. Vulnerability. Shedding one's armour. And consequences.

The show treated the dubcon LIKE DUBCON. Getting high out of your mind and choosing to fuck somebody you've been curious about is a tale as old as time. Similarly, knowing that you shouldn't fuck somebody in a situation like this, but the person is saying and doing the all the things you want to believe is also a tale as old as time. If Porsche had chosen to take the drug instead of being drugged the conversation would be very different. But the point remains that we DO see Porsche make choices here, inasmuch as those choices are influenced by a drug that lowers your inhibitions. That's why it's dubcon and not noncon. Wrong on Kinn's part, absolutely. But let's remember that KINN IS NOT A GOOD PERSON, as much as he may want to be. He's the mafia heir despite being the second son because he's good at it, and you can't be good at something you don't enjoy even a little bit. Kinn likes power, he likes the challenge of staying a step ahead of his enemies, but he also wants a respite from all of that. He wants to be able to be vulnerable and soft sometimes, and to not have to think so hard and just do what he feels. Sometimes he wants to relinquish his power entirely and have somebody else be in control. He wants to trust somebody enough to allow that. And something in him is telling him he can trust Porsche.

For Porsche's part, this is a man who has been forced to wrest some level of control from a life that has given him very limited control since his parents died. Porsche's real choices are so few; what power he does have is so small. It's why he's such raging id: one thing he DOES have the power to do is take very little seriously. We see that he can be reckless, promiscuous, less than honest, mischievous. He'll fuck a random woman in an alleyway on his break. He'll piss in a koi pond as a 'fuck you' to his supervisor. He'll put wasabi in his boss' drink. He'll scam a spa day out of the auntie. He'll drink on the job. Petty rebellions, but all the rebellion he can get away with.

I made the point before that despite all the ways that Kinn has power over Porsche in general, but especially in this scene (he's the boss, Porsche is the employee; he's sober, Porsche is not; he's older and we assume more experienced sexually with men than Porsche), that Kinn is the one who seems vulnerable somehow. His self-control with regard to Porsche is a fraying thread, and Porsche is deliberately pulling at that thread. Porsche LIKES that Kinn likes him, that he obviously treats him specially, that he has this power over Kinn. How he touches him and grabs him in this scene is taunting. 'You want me, and only I can give me to you, only I can give you what you want.' He grabs his dick. He flicks his nipple. He makes him grope his crotch. He grabs him by the neck, almost by the throat, and kisses him, hard. If he wasn't drugged, these would all be considered Not On. Kinn hasn't consented to being touched like this, and he pulls away, slaps his hands away at first. But Porsche's power over him is an incredible turn on for them both. It's pure D/s. Kinn has been shown to be extremely careful, cautious. But when it comes to Porsche he's not careful at all. He throws caution to the wind in every sense. He goes out and gets drunk with his bodyguards, leaving himself unprotected and open to attack. He doesn't kiss his lovers but he kisses Porsche, passionately. He HAS to know if Porsche is seeing anybody, and what Porsche thinks of him so badly that he's obvious to anybody with eyes. When he gets to touch Porsche, he's worshipful with his body. We see that he practises safe sex with his lovers but he has very unsafe sex with Porsche.

Consequences will clearly arrive with the morning. There's a reason we consider having sex with somebody under the influence to be somewhere on the spectrum of 'a bad idea' to rape, depending on the context. There's a reason D/s dynamics and ESPECIALLY D/s sex should be discussed and the rules laid out BEFORE anything happens. There will be repercussions to this for both Kinn and Porsche, socially and emotionally. And that's how dubcon SHOULD be treated: it should have consequences. Their path to each other, and their entire relationship going forward (professional AND personal) WILL be warped by this first encounter.

On a technical level, the way this scene is written, acted, shot and scored is incredible. That's just a phenomenal amount of trust for and between your actors, and between actors and directors.

Side note: I am now extremely ready for Tawan to enter the tale, because I want to see who Kinn used to be, and how he's different now. Pete alluded to Kinn changing after something happened, Vegas taunted him about having his heart broken, Tay and Time are encouraging him to flirt with Porsche in a way that seems like they're delighted he's into somebody...they all see that Kinn treats Porsche specially and you get the sense that they haven't seen this side of Kinn for a while.

By the way if this gets punted by Tumblr, I'll repost sans video.

[mrsgiovanna]

The Escape Route (Yan! Don Giorno x Fem!Reader)

A request from a lovely nonnie mouse asking how the Don would handle his darling attempting to escape from his home. A bit of a drawn out scenario... I really hope you enjoy the read.

TW: Manipulative relationship dynamics, possessive behaviour, yandere behaviour

Word Count: 2.7k

Your brisk walk was slowly turning into a run as you worked your way through the busy streets of Naples. With your breathing ragged and eyes darting around to make sure nobody was on your tail, you tried to think about how best to put your escape plan back on track.

You knew that Giorno’s influence extended further than most, but you hadn’t expected him to have the power to derail every single option you had thought of to escape from his overpowering grip. You had been running around for hours now, from station to station, none would book you a ticket to anywhere, every cab ride was hastily halted after a dubious phone call… resulting in you being unwillingly ejected from the vehicle each time. So there you were, running into the more dangerous parts of Naples, frantically looking for some kind of shelter to house you while you thought of what you would do next.

Thankfully, you found a tiny inn, sparse amenities, small and far removed enough you thought, to not be on Giorno’s radar. The kindly old lady didn’t ask many questions, and you paid with the cash you had been slowly hiding away for such an event.

You couldn’t pinpoint when your relationship with Giorno had descended to this but you knew that if you stayed any longer his charming brand of captivity would best your common sense and you would be trapped forever. With Giorno, you had access to anything, no request was too demanding… in exchange though he required you to be within his confines at all times, listen to and obey his honeyed instructions with minimal fuss, and to not run off in the occasions when he did take you out of the mansion. I’m just keeping you safe he said… little did you know that the most dangerous one of all was the Don himself with his hypnotic gaze.

To give him the benefit of the doubt, it could have been much worse, he never harmed you physically, never pushed the intimacy boundaries further than you allowed… in your moments of weakness, it was you who had sought out his embrace. The absurdity of it all- vacillating between love and hate for this man, and so to protect the fraying thread that held your sanity together, you decided to make a run for it. It was not an impulsive idea, you had spent the better part of the year planning your grand escape, trying to imagine every way in which your plan could go awry and possible solutions to the problems. Ironically, this was a habit that you had picked up from Giorno himself, and should your plan actually work, it would be quiet poetic- escaping using the traits of your captor against him. You had gathered small amounts of cash here and there, not enough to rouse anyone’s suspicion, and made sure that any and all evidence of you memorizing the layout of the surrounding areas was completely erased. Perhaps the most difficult task of them all, was to lure Giorno into false sense of security regarding your disposition towards your situation. In the weeks leading up to your escape, you had flawlessly played the part of the dutiful ‘wife’, listening attentively, spoiling him with gentle touches and loving gazes, making sure to build up your affections gradually, as if they had been blooming naturally so as not to trigger any suspicion.

Finally, you saw your opportunity to make your move that morning. Giorno had to leave early to meet with a few associates from Japan, so you rose with him, and watched as he got ready, helping him with his hair and doing up his tie. Looking up to meet his crystalline eyes, you noticed he considered you with an expression you haven’t seen on him before.

“What is it tesoro? Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked in a gentle tone.

“You’re… just so beautiful… would you like to come with me today? I’m sure they would love to meet you… I call them associates but in actual fact one of them is a relative of mine. You’ll only be bored for a little while; after that we can do whatever you would like to,” he asked with a gentle smile. You thought about how you were going to answer, ultimately you knew you didn’t want to go, favoring your grand escape instead, but denying him that quickly would definitely set off alarm bells in his mind.

“Ah! Perhaps next time my love, I’m not going to be good company today, I woke up with a bit of a headache… I’ll probably go back to bed and sleep it off after you leave,”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to make you feel any better bella, I hate the fact that you’re hurting,” Giorno cupped your face in his hands and gently stroked your cheeks with his thumbs, “get some rest bella mio, I’ll be back to check on you as soon as I can,” kissing you on the forehead he left without another word. Waiting for him to be completely out of the villa, you watched as his car exited the driveway before quietly packing what you could, mentally going over your checklist more times than you cared to count. Since your change in attitude, the staff at the villa were more accepting of your whims, partly to do with the fact that Giorno had instructed them to do so - within reason, but also, because you had won over their trust and if you had to be honest with yourself, there was nothing you could fault them for. The dynamic Giorno had with them was not ruled by fear, but rather by admiration… all of them being drawn in by his charisma. Managing to maneuver your way through the mansion and out an exit that saw you climbing over a hidden portion of the eastern wall surrounding the villa, you had finally been outside the confines of the villa on your own for the first time in well over a year.

In the car on the way to meet with his guests Giorno was preoccupied. He had noticed the gradual change in your behavior and as much as he would have loved to give you the benefit of the doubt, a nagging inclination that you might be lying always clouded his thoughts. He loved you- entirely- even though there were days in which you rejected his affections, he was patient with you… eventually you’d understand, the dangers that lurked in every corner made your captivity, as you so unceremoniously called it, a necessity. He had grown so accustomed to making decisions with little to no advice, he had adopted that stance in his personal life as well. He rationalized that once you had accepted the fact that his actions were all borne from his desire to protect you, your lives would be peaceful, until then, he would be patient, enduring your tantrums and snide remarks with the grace of an aristocrat… which only upset you further. To Giorno, you were to be looked after, protected- treasured, and so no matter how much you had tested his patience in the beginning, not once were you ever hurt or taken advantage of. Violence and shackles were much too unrefined for a gem like you, so to correct your behavior, the young don resorted to other, less threatening means of discipline.

“Don Giovanna? We have arrived,” shaken out of his musings by his consigliere, his attention was drawn to the fact that they had arrived at their destination ready to discuss the matters at hand.

“Thank you Lorenzo, would you check if the staff has everything ready while I greet our guests?”

“Of course, excuse me,” with that, Lorenzo had left, hastily attending to a call as he walked.

“Ah, welcome to Italy, I take it you and your associates have settled in well?” said Giorno with a polite bow, being mindful of the cultural conventions of his esteemed guests. Drinks were ordered and everyone present had settled down in the private lounge, except for Lorenzo who had been animatedly conversing on the phone for enough time to make his absence felt. Frustrated by what he was tasked to do, he abruptly ended his conversation and sought out Giorno to give him the news, finally, the staff at villa Giovanna had realized you were gone.

“Don…”

“The expression on your face can only mean one thing… when did they notice?”

“A few minutes ago, she couldn’t have gotten too gar given the timeframe… what would you like me to do?”

“You stay here and keep our guests company, I’ll handle this…” not even bothering to alert the driver, Giorno collected the keys from the valet and zoomed off. Making a short drive even shorter, he arrived home in foul mood, although he did assign some of the blame to himself, recognizing his fatal error when he ignored his gut feeling, he was disappointed at how easily you had managed to slip from his grasp and wondered if his staff had been plotting with you all along. He would have to address that later on though, his primary concern now was to locate you and bring you back home.

“Mista, I have a special request to make, please come to the villa, bring Fugo with you,” said Giorno in a quick call, there were few who he trusted more than his underbosses, and this task was something that required only the most competent people. After a short explanation of the situation at hand, both men had already started making calls to the relevant people in an attempt to thwart your plans.

You would think the most frightening thing about Giorno would be his god-like requiem ability. But over and above the raw power he possessed was his reach, the world seemed so small, as if it had rested comfortably in his elegant hands- and you had been getting reminders of this inescapable fate over and over again. By the time you had given up on the idea of escaping through any traditional means of transportation, you must have tried fifty different avenues, each attempt failing more spectacularly than the last. Having had enough, you resigned yourself to the fact that you would not be leaving Naples immediately, and found refuge in the outskirts of the city. You climbed the rickety staircase behind the lady as she prattled on about her day.

“Shall I get you something to eat dolcezza? You look like you could use something warm and comforting in your system. In fact, let me do just that, you get settled in so long,” said the innkeeper before you had a chance to interject. Deciding to take a shower to wash off the day, you took comfort in the fact that this place was so remote, you were almost certain you were safe for the meantime. The tiny bathroom was a far cry from the palatial one you had grown accustomed to while being in Giorno’s villa, but it served the same purpose, only this time, you had your freedom. The place was peaceful though aside from the sound of what must have been a car backfiring and the small creaks from the natural expansion and contraction of the dwelling, it was quiet enough for you to calm down and organize your thoughts. Now that you were comparatively more at ease than before, you felt the strain of the day in your body, aching muscles, sore feet and cuts and scrapes that began to smart affixed a slight grimace to your face as you rummaged through your belongings to find some sort of pain relief.

A sharp knock on the door disrupted your search. You stayed silent for a moment, contemplating if you should ignore it or answer.

“Dolcezza, I’ve brought you a small snack, you’re going to enjoy it,” you just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the day you had, but you also didn’t want to snub her kindness, you reached out to unlock and open the door.

“Buongiorno tesoro… enjoying your little excursion? Marina here was kind enough to show me to your room so I could surprise you… seems like it worked, look at this charming expression,” turning to the smiling woman, Giorno nodded for her to leave. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, you wanted to cry, to run, to jump right out through the hazy window but your feet were rooted to the ground.

“Well (y/n) … you’ve been running around Naples for the entire day, have you found what you’re looking for?” his usual honeyed tone was laced with derision as he critically eyed your surroundings. “is this what you were so desperate to escape to? Look at this place… look at the condition you’re in… how is any of this better than everything I’ve given you?”

“I have my freedom here…” was all you could muster as your mind raced thinking of how he had still managed to find you despite all the precautions you had taken. “Giorno, how…”

“How did I find you? I always have my ways…” he said, sauntering over to the window, opening it just enough to make eye contact with whoever was outside, dismissing them with a nonchalant wave of his gloved hand. Pulling out his cellphone, he showed you the opened application, explaining that he had been using it to track your location, following the signal from the diamond earrings he gifted you on your birthday, carelessly left on when you had made your hasty escape. In all fairness, you hadn’t considered that the dainty gems were anything more than that. Feeling your legs starting to give out under you at the revelation that you were the cause of your own undoing, you sat on the bed hanging your head in defeat.

“Freedom, you say? Tell me how has that worked for you?”

“That’s not fair! You’ve basically controlled every single encounter I’ve had, and even when I thought I had escaped you by coming here, you still somehow managed to manipulate the situation…” you shouted, tears of frustration running feely down your face.

“Stop being dramatic, the world is full of horrible people, everyone is looking out for themselves, I wish you would realize that… tell me tesoro, how many people turned you away? Threw you out of their cars, made up excuses to deny your requests? Not one of those people looked into those pleading eyes and thought you were worth helping. Why? Because people are selfish…”

“You… you threatened them all, you…”

“You give me too much credit, it’s not like I was going to kill them, I hate violence, despite your disappointingly low opinion of me, even you have to admit that I’ve never done anything to physically harm you… all I want is to protect you, you don’t understand how things work out there,”

“It’s not like you’ve ever given me the opportunity to find out how things are… I”

“Some people are just meant to be loved and protected tesoro, isn’t that enough? Why would you want to risk being hurt to get a taste of something that’s actually not even worth it… you’re not cut out for this life… I’ve been here so I know this isn’t what you deserve. You’re coming back home with me,”

“But, I- “ you attempted to interject but his intense glare halted you.

“(y/n), I’m very patient under most circumstances, but please don’t test me now, I won’t say it twice…” said Giorno with a slight bite to his voice, it was clear he was growing tired of this conversation, and you were losing your will to fight back. With a quivering lip and misty eyes, you moved to gather your belongings but was stopped by the young don, arguing that he can replace whatever is there, wanting no other reminders of this transgression to follow you both back. Resigning yourself to this fate, realizing there was nowhere beyond his reach, you grasped his outstretched arm and followed him to the car to return to your life of opulent captivity. Months and months of planning all resulting in nothing, it became glaringly obvious to you that escaping was futile…

[sequencefairy]

shyan + 'shane uses non-sexual kink techniques to calm ryan down after an spn shoot' setup?

It’s the hand around the back of his neck that does it. 

Suddenly, in the midst of the buzzing static of his brain, Ryan finds silence in the grip of Shane’s fingers on the back of his neck. It’s not a tight grip, and it’s quick, just a fleeting moment of pressure, enough to reel in all the loose and fraying threads of Ryan’s ability to reason and logic himself through the rest of this shoot. It’s not on camera, because Shane would never, just that quick reach up, the close of his fingers around the back of Ryan’s neck, and then, blessed silence in that brief warm squeeze. 

The rest of the shoot goes as well as can be expected, and Shane doesn’t touch Ryan again. He won’t, Ryan knows, he never does. It’s only these little moments of grounding, to remind Ryan of the lines and borders of his body, to bring him back inside of them, contain the ever-expanding spiral of anxiety back inside of his flesh where Ryan can beat it back with measured breaths and catching the steady gaze of his partner out of the corner of his eye. 

At the hotel, Ryan’s restless again. He usually is after a shoot, but this is different. It’s humming under his skin, buzzing in his ears, like the panic is still trying to win. It fades out under the pounding of the shower on his shoulders, but it’s back with a high-pitched whine when he turns off the light in the bathroom and steps back out into their room. 

Shane’s sprawled out on the bed closest to the window, all eight hundred miles of his limbs spread across the dizzy pattern of the comforter. He’s not asleep, Ryan knows, because he’s tapping a rhythm against his sternum with one finger. It’s steady, slow and even, and Ryan’s eyes catch on the movement of Shane’s hand, the tap of his nail against the button on his henley. 

Shane’s eyes open when Ryan sinks down to sitting on the bed he’d claimed as his own when they’d dropped their shit off here earlier in the day. 

“Still buzzing, hey?” Shane asks, voice low. He always knows, seems to be able to read it in Ryan’s body language, no matter how much he tries to hide it. Ryan nods, because even if he tried to lie, Shane would know and Ryan tries very hard not to lie to Shane. 

Shane sits up on the bed and turns so he’s facing Ryan, his long legs crossed. He looks at Ryan.  For the first time in their long partnership of not saying anything about the elephants they keep bringing into every room they’re in, it looks like Shane might say something after all. Ryan holds his gaze. 

Shane looks away first. Something that’s fine in the dark and under the cobwebs seems not to be fine in the low light of a hotel room across town. Ryan looks down at his own knees. His palms are sweaty where he skims them against his thighs, the fabric of his sweats catching. He shivers, shrugging his shoulders up and then rolling them back and down. 

He closes his eyes, sucking in a breath. He’ll need to settle, find his way back into his own skin, pull in the scattered shadows of his fears and seal them back inside the boundary of his own physical form. If he doesn’t, he won’t sleep. 

There’s a touch to his knee, then a grip, just above the joint, Shane’s fingers pressed into the pressure point, enough that it draws Ryan out of his breathing count. Shane’s sitting on the edge of the other bed now, feet flat on the floor. He’s leaning forward, and when Ryan doesn’t shake off his grip, he grabs hold of Ryan’s other knee. 

“This helps.” It’s not a question but Ryan nods anyway. Shane squeezes a little tighter, and Ryan feels something in the top of his spine come loose. Ryan breathes out, and Shane shifts forward, close enough that their knees brush. When he looks up this time, Shane’s watching him, eyes dark. 

“Get on the floor,” Shane says, letting go of Ryan’s knees. He leans back to give Ryan some space. 

Ryan hesitates. If he does this, what does it mean for them? If he lets Shane put him back together like this, what does that change about who they will be in the morning? If Shane sees him like this, sees him coming apart at the seams still, even hours after, what does it change about how Shane sees him? 

What if it changes nothing at all?

Ryan slides forward and then off the bed entirely, going to his knees in front of Shane. He looks up. Shane’s watching him, eyes searching Ryan’s face, hands pressed against his own thighs. There’s a wild feeling behind Ryan’s ribs, something untethering him from himself as he kneels here, for Shane. It’s just kneeling, Ryan tries to tell himself, but he knows it’s not. He knows it’s more than that, that is has been more than that since Shane gripped him by the back of the neck so many hours ago. 

The thick carpet and soft bedding deadens everything in the room, snuffing any extraneous sound before it can begin to ring. 

The energy under Ryan’s skin seethes. 

Shane’s watching him. Ryan shivers in a breath, the tension in his spine still ratcheted tight. 

“Hands behind your back,” Shane suggests but Ryan knows it’s not. Something about Shane’s tone makes Ryan want to scramble to do whatever Shane is asking of him. “Lace your fingers together.” 

Ryan does what he’s told. Shane reaches out and pushes his fingers into Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan locks up his core to resist the overbalancing. Shane nods to himself. 

“Stay like that,” he says, and sits back on the bed, leaning back on his hands. “Feels okay?” 

Ryan nods. Something warm and longing curls in his belly, but Ryan ignores it. Eventually this position will be uncomfortable, what with the way his shoulders are pulled back and the pressure against his knees, but for now, Ryan feels like he could stay here for hours. Feels like he might want to stay here for hours, with Shane giving the instruction. He packs that thought away to examine not here on his knees in front of Shane.

“Tell me about the property again,” Shane says, after a moment. 

“What?” 

“You heard me. I want a history lesson.” 

“A what?” 

Shane sighs. He scuffs a hand through his hair. “You’re still keyed up from earlier, right? So, stay there on the floor, and tell me a story.” 

“I don’t see how this is going to help.” It comes out as more of a question than anything else. 

“Why don’t you just trust me and see,” Shane says. He turns on the bed and settles against the pillows, arms crossed under his head. He looks like he’s ready to sleep. He gives Ryan a few seconds of silence to fill and when Ryan doesn’t he pushes himself up a little on his elbows. “Well? Go on.” 

So, Ryan does. 

It takes a couple of tries to get into the rhythm of telling the story, but once he’s found it, the words just keep coming, until his voice starts to get hoarse and the ache in his knees and his shoulders becomes too pressing to ignore. 

What he stops feeling is the thrumming anxiety.

 When he pauses for a deep breath, Shane sits back up. 

“How’re you feeling?” 

“Knees hurt,” Ryan says. He shrugs his shoulders as best as he can. “Shoulders, too.” 

“Okay,” Shane replies, and reaches out, big hands landing on Ryan’s shoulders. “How’s the rest?” 

Ryan takes a moment to check. Aside from the physical ache of kneeling on the floor for however long it’s been, he’s fine. He yawns, ducking his head to hide it since his hands are still laced together behind his back. 

Shane’s face softens. The slight smile that curves his mouth is full of a fondness Ryan knows Shane will never attach words to. “Think you can sleep now?” 

“Yeah,” Ryan croaks. 

“Good,” Shane answers. “Unlace your fingers for me, okay? Then slowly roll your shoulders out, you’ll get stiff otherwise.” 

Ryan rolls his shoulders out, reaching up first one hand and then the other to rub at the muscles that have stiffened while he’s been kneeling. 

“Standing’s gonna suck,” Shane says, when Ryan’s finished moving his shoulders. “Let me help.” 

Shane offers his hand and Ryan takes it, letting Shane steady him as he pushes himself up off his knees, one leg at a time. His knees both pop when he straightens, and it makes Ryan shiver. He feels laid out like he does sometimes after a hard run, the good kind of exhausted. He looks up at Shane. Shane’s looking down at him. 

For a moment, they stand there, until Shane reaches out with one hand to brush his fingers along Ryan’s jaw. The tenderness of the gesture makes Ryan’s toes curl into the carpet. The moment is broken when Shane steps back out of Ryan’s space. 

“I’m beat,” Shane declares, rocking back onto his heels with a dramatic yawn that he covers with one hand. 

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees. He looks over at the bed he’d claimed and then back at the rumpled one Shane’s been lying on. 

“Just get in,” Shane says, slipping around to the other side of the bed. “Grab the light when you do.” 

By the time Ryan remembers how to move, Shane’s already under the covers. He’s got his glasses in his hand and he waggles them at Ryan when Ryan reaches to pull down the coverlet and get in. 

They get situated, Shane on his back, one hand thrown up behind his head, and Ryan curled up tight on his side. 

“Ryan,” Shane says, into the dark. “Chill. Just sleep, dude. You need it.” 

“Shane?” 

“Yeah, bud,” Shane says, and Ryan can hear him moving behind him. 

“Just--”

“C’mere,” Shane says, from much closer than he was previously. Shane’s hand curls around Ryan’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “Stop getting in your head so much about this,” Shane suggests, “you’ll undo all that work from earlier.”

Ryan takes a deep breath and exhales slowly through his nose, forcing himself to relax. As he does, he realises that Shane’s snugged up almost directly behind him, warmth of his body bleeding into Ryan’s. Shane’s hand smooths down Ryan’s arm and then lands in the dip of his waist, the weight of it soothing in a way Ryan hadn’t expected. 

Ryan closes his eyes. 

He falls asleep thinking about whether it would be weird to reach back with one foot and find Shane’s calf with his toes. 

[cdroloisms]

maybe you could talk about the dynamic between c!wilbur and c!tommy / c!tubbo? i think it's very interesting and i have conflicted feelings about them, i'd love to see your takes

c!wilbur my beloved ,, he’s such an interesting character and his relationship w/ c!tommy and c!tubbo is simultaneously so ,, twisted and heartbreaking. i think he really did care about them, to the end, but c!wilbur had always been characterized with his ,, love for lmanburg, to the point of obsession - think him in the revolution, saying “we would rather die,” him and his unfinished symphony in the button room on the sixteenth. in the end, it’s this obsession that really comes to destroy him,, but i feel like he still *cared* for tommy and tubbo, you know? tommy, canonically, saw wilbur as an older brother figure, and i feel like to some degree that feeling was reciprocated - not in the healthiest way, especially as c!wilbur became more manipulative, but that came from his untreated mental illness and growing paranoia and other things. i think that he saw himself as a sort of,, mentor figure, to both tommy and tubbo, and he hurt them, in the end, in very very deep and unjustified ways ,, but he still cared. it doesn’t make it right, or even better, but i think that w/ the way wilbur thought, he wasn’t necessarily trying to be cruel.

anyway, take this mutually assured destruction au (credit to @dreamsclock for the au) interaction of c!wilbur and c!tubbo!

tw: mentioned abuse, death, manipulation, toxic relationship, unhealthy thinking, mental illness, derealization (? wilbur thinks of everything as a twisted story), c!wilbur critical (not really? but just in case)

“Do you know what he did to Tommy?”

Wilbur turns, blinks, smiles; Tubbo is standing in front of him, spine straight, shoulders pulled back; there’s a fire in those eyes, highlighted by the starburst scar that stretches over his face. He wipes the gunpowder with a quick snap of his wrists, one-two, and cocks his head to the side. Amusement bubbles under his skin; now this is interesting.

“Tubbo! Can’t say I expected you here,” the kid is wearing netherite, but doesn’t move closer, keeping himself just out of reach of a sword. Smart, Wilbur shifts, stuffs his hands into his pockets, he’s learned.

“Wilbur,” Tubbo’s voice is firm, tired. Wilbur stays silent, prompting, something satisfied becoming a curling warmth in his chest; he’s always been perceptive, moreso than Tommy. Tommy lives, breathes a sort of unpolished sincerity, drawing attention, bleeding heart and loyalty and emotion so brilliantly and shouting so loudly that everyone has no choice but to listen - to contain him is no easier than to cage a flame. Wilbur knew this, even back in Pogtopia, let his and Dream’s passion and drive and bone-deep feeling burn each other out.

Tubbo sighs, lifts his chin; his eyes are cold. Something amused pulls at the corners of Wilbur’s lips; where Tommy is fire, Tubbo is ice, waiting, watching, letting Tommy charge into the fray while he hangs back and simply observes. He’d known, even then, that when push came to shove, Tubbo would be the one to get the job done, that he was the one that would smile serenely with an arsenal of weapons hidden up his sleeve, had looked into those ice-blue eyes and seen the same snake-in-the-grass determination that he recognized from every time he looked in the mirror.

“I know,” he says, finally, every word carefully measured, just smooth enough to edge on the side of sincerity. He doesn’t miss the way that Tubbo flinches, the tremble of his bottom lip, but turns away and pretends not to notice. “He told me, and even if he didn’t, I still have Casper the friendly ghost’s memories, as much as I don’t like them.”

“Then-” Tubbo’s voice cracks, goes quiet, and Wilbur watches from the corner of his eye as the kid purposefully untenses, hiding his shaking hands behind his shield. “Why are you helping him?”

Wilbur pauses; it’s not a question he didn’t expect, but the weight of it is- startling, even so. Something bubbles, hot and vicious, in his throat, almost tasting like anger, revenge, love. He remembers his hand placed, calming, on a too-tense shoulder, nestled in wind-blown hair, remembers star-bright eyes following him, hanging onto his every word like they had the power to coax the sun into the sky. Remembers, even in the hazy joy and grief that had been the world falling to pieces under his hand on the sixteenth, that spark of blue-tinged sorrow that had almost felt like regret burning cold and quiet in the middle of his chest.

“Have you read Shakespeare, Tubbo?”

Wilbur turns away, but it’s not early enough to miss the way Tubbo jolts at his question, a mumbled, incredulous “what?” falling from his lips.

“His tragedies, specifically,” he counts the TNT in his inventory, thumbing through the rows and rows of dynamite. “If you haven’t, they all follow the same basic formula - it’s how tragic heroes work, after all. It all boils down to one flaw - just one mistake, that sends the entire house of cards crumbling down.” Just one button pressed. Just one person that shouldn’t have been trusted. Just one life.

“I don’t- I don’t see how this is relevant, Wilbur.”

And here’s the thing; once upon a time, these boys - they had been his.

Not his, as in family, or his, as in followers, but some muddled mix of the two. They’d been his to guide, to some degree, his to keep out of trouble, his to teach about drugs and blackmail and propaganda and respect and leadership and honor. And- maybe he never should’ve been trusted with kids, maybe they shouldn’t have given a damned man this responsibility - scratch the maybe, they definitely shouldn’t have - but the universe didn’t operate on “should have”’s so he ended up with these brilliant, lost boys anyway.

And he fucked up, more than anyone, more than even Dream, because these boys had been his in a way they never were for Dream, but Wilbur has always been a selfish, selfish man. He chose his unfinished symphony first and he’d choose it again because that was the flaw in his foundation, the chip in his soul that would send him collapsing from the outside in every time, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try to guide the kid standing in front of him away from the path of self-destruction that Wilbur’s already too far down to come back from, that he and Tommy and Dream have been damned to.

“You’re a side character, Tubbo. You don’t matter,” Wilbur speaks, ignoring the hitch of breath that comes from behind him, “and this is a tragedy. Everyone that matters dies at the end of a tragedy.”

“Wilbur-”

“Cassio lives in Othello. Horatio lives in Hamlet. Dream, me, Tommy - we’re fucked. We’ve been fucked since the beginning of this story, since L’manburg. I signed our death warrant the moment I signed that declaration, Tubbo! We’re dead men walking. It’s only a question of how much we burn down before we burn out. But you?”

“You’re not like us, Tubbo. When the curtains close, when this story ends - somebody’s going to be left to pick up the pieces. You have people to live for now.”

“This- this isn’t a story, Wilbur.” Tubbo’s words tremble in the air, hang between them like a thread pulled taut - the thread frays, snaps, as Wilbur begins to walk away.

As he leaves, Wilbur remembers Dream, hair white in the moonlight, back when those eyes shone with something other than remembered pain - this isn’t a story - and hopes that Tubbo won’t learn the hard way, too.

[hannie-dul-set]

MISSED TIMINGS | l.ty

PAIRING. ex! lee taeyong x reader GENRE. post breakup! au (like a month or so), college! au, angst jdfj very bittersweet oops WARNINGS. swearing WORD COUNT. 887 PROMPT(S). “do i look like i’ve moved on?”

want to request? click here!

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, come on, come on!

There was both panic and impatience writhing in your gut, only able to be relieved by a means of escape from the area and anywhere near it. Basically you needed to run away as far as possible and as soon as possible, but your only means of doing that was catching a ride on one of the taxis passing by, signalled by the headlights that lit up the dark streets every so often.

You hailed the yellow vehicle approaching. It completely ran past you.

“Goddammit.”

A croaky grumble sounded in your throat, and you stomped your feet against the concrete sidewalk in frustration. It didn’t help that you left the restaurant with an empty stomach— but that was something you could not help. After all, you almost bumped into the sole reason why you were running away in the first place. You scoffed, shoving your hands into your coat with a frown. This was ridiculous.

It was as if the world was trying to string you and your ex together in the same crowded enclosure, three times in a single day. First it was the bookstore, next was the park festival. And just earlier you nearly bumped heads into him at the fast food establishment. He wouldn’t let you go even after cutting all ties with him, unconsciously so.

Another taxi passed by, but once again you were left with false hope because it was occupied. You let out a sigh.

“You didn’t tell me you came back.”

It was like the blood that was supposed to rush underneath your skin froze altogether. You slowly turned around to face the owner of the hauntingly familiar voice, and there you saw Lee Taeyong— barely lit up underneath the dim street light, yet that was enough to squeeze your chest in a way that made memories flash by in a single instant. You stifled out a cough.

“Actually I, uh— I didn’t tell anyone,” you sputtered out. “Surprise? You know.”

“Ah...”

Closure was important in patching up wounds inflicted by a breakup, like closing the end of a rope with a tight knot. And it was something yours didn’t have, leaving the knot not only untied, but completely frayed. Taeyong’s eyes were down the concrete, sucking in a deep breath as he stood on the balls of his feet before dropping back down. He pressed his lips together before speaking. A single car sped by.

“How…have you been?”

“Same old,” you hummed. “Been pretty busy nowadays. I came back to get some papers from uni. Was missing some requirements.”

Taeyong nodded, the tightness of his chest slipping through the way he looked at you with his large, glassy eyes. You chose to ignore that. It was best to ignore that.

“And you?”

Your question weighed like an insult, but it wasn’t like you were faring any better. It wasn’t reflected by his black bucket hat that covered up the mess of hair underneath, the wrinkles folding his paint stained black jacket, but the heavy bags underneath his eyes told the tale that he had spent a few too many sleepless.

“You look like you’re doing good,” you managed a thin smile, inhaling sharply. “It’s good to see that you’ve moved on. I’m happy for you.”

The streetlight flickered.

“Do I look like I’ve moved on?”

You heard a  taxi passed by. You missed the timing to raise an arm.

“W-well— that’s because I have! Yeah, I actually— actually went to eat dinner with Minjee earlier, so—” he shuffled around in the same spot, flashing a close eyed smile that threatened to flicker away in any second. Taeyong couldn’t find your eyes despite standing in front of him. You couldn’t, too. “I’m sure you’ve moved on, as well.”

“Yeah...”

The busy street turned silent. Maybe it wasn’t long until a cab would pass by.

“You still keep labels on your paint and drinking water, right?” you asked, attempting to fill the suffocating silence. He couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“Of course. It became customary when you wouldn’t stop scolding after that incident.”

And the irony came from the comfort settling in when the past was brought up, in the form of your matching, hollowed out laughter. You heard a car nearing, the street brightening once again, and you turned around. Finally.

“I thought you were saving up for a car.”

“It’s better for the environment to commute,” the corners of your lips were tugged upwards— a little fuller this time— just as you placed your hand on the handle. The light hitting the back of his head looked like fluorescent halo, making him look a little further away. You swung the taxi door open. “A—anyway, it’s nice to see you again ‘Yong.”

“You too.”

The last thing you saw before finally entering the vehicle, on your way back to the other side of town, was the look on his face— slightly smiling, slightly regretful, but you couldn’t trust what you saw with your own eyes when your heart was in control. And yet you held on to it, because maybe that was the last memory you’d ever hold of him.

Until the world would string you together again, but there was a chance that this was the world’s last thread.

© hannie-dul-set, 2021

[flameohotwife]

For the prompt thing, maybe 40 or 43? Maybe a combo of both?? I'll let you decide!!

40. "You are crushing me right now."

43. "You're an idiot" (which I kind of combined with 7. "You're an idiot." "But you love me." because why not)

From this fluff prompt list. Rated G-Tish. 1k words.

Katara was pacing back and forth in the tiny Middle Ring apartment she and Aang shared when they visited Ba Sing Se. King Kuei had tried to insist on an extravagant house in the Upper Ring, but they had both refused, partially due to Aang’s minimalist nature and partially because Katara spent most of these visits working at clinics in the Lower Ring, so their apartment was perfectly situated for them both to get to their jobs easily.

Katara stopped at the window and observed the darkening sky. Stars were just beginning to twinkle to life up above, and the rising full moon was making her antsier than normal. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for Aang to be out this late, but on her way home from the clinic today she had heard about an incident at the palace. Nobody seemed to know the details, but each story she overheard became wilder and deadlier than the last, and the uncertainty was causing her heart to race. She had rushed home only to find emptiness. Empty rooms. Empty tea cups leftover from breakfast, still sitting on the table. Empty apartment. Empty pit in her stomach.

Her nervous energy finally bubbled out and she couldn’t stop moving; first clearing the table and washing the dishes, then arranging their belongings and scrubbing the counters, then sweeping the floors, then pacing. She trusted Aang to come home to her every day. This was all part of being the Avatar’s girlfriend (the Avatar’s partner, really--they were everything to each other. It was only the world who saw her only as his girlfriend, as they were not yet betrothed). He would always have duties to the world. Sometimes she could be by his side, but sometimes she would have to let him take care of things on his own, and she always trusted him to make the right choices both for the world and for them. But it didn’t stop the worry.

She was just gathering her things to leave their now-spotless apartment--thinking she could head to the palace herself to see if they needed a healer--when the door swung open and Aang appeared. His robes were disheveled and maybe a little singed, but he was walking on his own and she couldn’t see any blood. There was a clatter as she dropped her bag and keys to the floor and rushed to him, relief coursing through her.

“Hey, Sweetie--OOF!” Katara clung to him like a spidermonkey. She could feel the exhaustion in his muscles, even as his heart still raced with energy. It was the weariness of continuing to fight battle after battle, either physically or in the meeting room. Her heart ached at his lost childhood. He shouldn’t even know he was the Avatar yet; his sixteenth birthday was still months off, and yet he spent his days (and many of his nights) cleaning up the messes of a century-long war. Katara knew that despite the progress he’d made with his chakras, he still held some guilt over his prolonged absence from the world, and that he attempted to atone by being everywhere at once. An impossible task. She squeezed him tighter.

“Katara,” he gasped, trying to wriggle free from her vice-like grip. “You are crushing me right now.”

“Oh,” she said. “Sorry.” She smoothed her dress and discretely inspected his appearance for injury. “What happened, Sweetie? I heard so many rumors…”

“Everything’s okay.” Aang ran his hands down her shoulders and arms as he spoke, trying to relieve some of the tension there. “Some rogue Ozai supporters thought they’d try to assassinate the Earth King and take over Ba Sing Se, but they were subdued pretty easily. Just some minor damage to the palace but nothing too terrible. Kuei is a little shaken, but fine. Nobody was injured. Well… maybe a couple firebenders got hurt by the rock shackles. And their pride. That was definitely hurt.” He smirked down at her. He had only outgrown her in height in the last few months, and she was still getting used to having to look up at him when they were this close.

“You’re an idiot,” she joked, rolling her eyes. She would never admit it out loud, but that cocky little attitude of his that he always had after a win made her heart flutter. She could tell he was still riding the adrenaline rush from the battle and needed an outlet. She needed one, too, frayed as her nerves were from worry, so she snaked her arms up his chest and around his neck, pulling him down to her.

“But you love me.” His eyes twinkled with something mischievous and he dipped to kiss her deeply, threading his fingers into her hair and pressing her against him once more with a hand on her back. Katara caressed the tattoo down his neck, arching into him when he shuddered.

“You’re right,” she said breathily when they finally parted. “I do love you.” She pulled him back down for a chaste kiss on the cheek, and he blushed, melting her heart all over again. She couldn’t stop smiling. They’d been together for years now but his face still reddened every time she did that, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“I’ll always come back to you,” he said quietly, reading her subconscious worry. He leaned his forehead against hers gently, and the air was thick with their love as they stood in the entryway, door still open and forgotten. “I know it’s scary sometimes with all the attacks, but I want you to know that the thought of you keeps me going and will bring me back every time. I couldn’t do any of this without you. You’re my anchor to the world and to this life, Katara. I love you so much.”

“Aang,” she whimpered, and leaned up to kiss him again, pulling him impossibly closer. Both their faces were wet, but their hearts were full. They would always come back to each other. They were each other’s home in a world that had destroyed theirs. Each other’s tether in a life that was constantly threatened. They could find safety and comfort in that knowledge, and in each other. She pulled him fully into the apartment and shut the door, determined to take refuge from the outside world in his strong arms for a moment. An hour. A lifetime. Just them.

[blossom-hwa]

Light the Pyres |Burn| - SUNGYOON

This chapter hurt so much I'm really sorry

Pairing: Sungyoon x gender neutral!reader

Genre: angst, bits of fluff, apocalypse!au

Triggers: cursing, implied death, semi-graphic depictions of blood

Word Count: 7.9k

As the world burns its last goodbyes, you find a jewel amidst the ashes.

Previous: Rise >> Burn

Golden Child Masterlist

If times were normal, three weeks stuck in the same space with anyone but Daeyeol or your mother would probably drive you insane. Only seeing one other person’s face for days after days on end? You’d almost rather be alone.

But whether it be because you have shared memories and common grief or simply because you’re compatible human beings, Sungyoon isn’t difficult to live with, not in the slightest. You don’t fight over food or water or living in the same space. His voice doesn’t grate on your nerves, even after a week of him being the only person you can talk to. He isn’t almost pleasant company anymore – he’s just pleasant.

Maybe even a little more than that.

Over one, two, then three weeks, you come apart to each other, exposing small bits of yourselves from beneath threads frayed by the apocalypse. Sungyoon craves coffee more than anything in the world. He used to be the fastest runner on his high school track team. He tells you his favorite color is black, and just to keep the conversation going you decide that black isn’t a real color since it’s technically the absence of all color, which sparks a debate that maybe grows a little too loud every once in a while but by the end, you’re laughing at Sungyoon’s indignant expression that slowly cracks into a smile.

Laughing. Not smirking. At something not morbid or deadly.

It feels almost surreal, being able to smile at a topic so inane.

“What’s your credibility, huh?” Sungyoon asks when you’ve stopped laughing, having given into a grudging smile himself. It makes his face look sweeter, gentler. “What makes you an expert on colors or the absence of them?”

“I did mechanical engineering in university,” you say, leaning back against the wall. Memories threaten to flood your mind but you keep them at bay, closing your eyes against the onslaught. “Took a few chemistry classes as a requirement. We learned about colors at some point.” You open your eyes and shrug. “It was kind of interesting, but not enough for me to change my major.”

“Mechanical engineering,” Sungyoon echoes, staring up at the ceiling. You kind of have to give it to him – you might be bored sitting around in this empty house sometimes, but he’s confined to the bed if he isn’t using the bathroom and he hasn’t complained yet. “That’s cool. Is that how you got that car to work before?”

“Yeah.” You swallow, a slightly bitter taste in your mouth at the memories of your almost finished second degree. “Mom was a mechanic. I grew up around cars and machines. I was almost done with my master’s when…”

When the apocalypse began and I started out across the country to find my mom.

From Sungyoon’s silence, you gather that he understands what you haven’t said. He also seems to understand you don’t want to talk about it and thankfully changes the topic. “I did sports medicine,” he says. “And I minored in music.”

You sit up. “Music? What did you play?”

“I can play a little piano, but I mostly sing – sang,” he corrects himself, a faraway look coming into his eyes.

You don’t miss the switch from present to past tense. Mood dampened, you both sit in silence for a moment, mourning the loss of your lives before they’d barely begun.

“I used to play piano,” you finally say, trying to salvage the conversation. “I wonder if it’s still at home,” you mumble, more to yourself than anybody.

“If it’s any consolation, people aren’t really looking for valuables at a time like this.” Sungyoon gives you a lopsided smile. “Assuming… well, even if people have broken in, I don’t think the piano would be the first thing they were looking for.”

You know Sungyoon means to comfort you, but the implication that anything happened to your house, to your home makes your heart stutter. It’s not a strange thing, people breaking into houses. Oftentimes they’re already open, the occupants either dead or fled. 

But it’s your house, your home, and the thought that anything might’ve happened to it with your mom there flips your stomach.

Hypocrite. You’re sitting in one of those stolen homes right now, but you have a problem with people sitting in yours.

“Y/N?”

You look over to see Sungyoon staring back, concern in his expression. Swallowing, you try to smile. “Sorry, what?”

“Nothing,” he says. “You just went quiet for a bit.” He raises an eyebrow. “Thoughts?”

What do you say? Do you tell Sungyoon what you’re really thinking? Do you tell him you’re terrified of coming home to a house that’s been ransacked and laid bare? Do you tell him you’re scared of finding your mom in an empty home with nothing around her left, that you’re even more scared of finding an empty home with no mother inside?

You curve your lips, trusting Sungyoon won’t ask even if he sees that the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “No,” you lie. “It’s nothing. So.” You look at him, your smile turning a little more genuine. “You sing?”

. . . . .

He does. He sings.

Beautifully.

His voice breaks sometimes, of course. Weeks of forced silence have taken tolls on both of your throats, and even speaking hurts if you talk too long. But the longer he sings, the longer his song fills your ears, the stronger his voice grows, rich and powerful even in his hushed melodies. It wraps around you like a blanket or a shawl, warming your skin in a way even the sun can’t.

When he first spoke to you so many weeks ago, told you not to hurt yourself by kicking the car down that one horrible day, you thought he could be a singer, thought that his voice was smooth, clear. Like Daeyeol’s. You hated it then, when it only reminded you of your best friend and what he was no longer around to do, what you had lost trying to save this boy with a nice voice who didn’t deserve it.

You still hear hints of Daeyeol’s clarity in Sungyoon’s quiet song. Even more obvious is the love of music in Sungyoon’s eyes that perfectly matches that of your dead friend. The few times Daeyeol hummed old songs to get you to sleep when the sun was still up, he always wore that look in his eyes. It fit him like a second skin, that soft love for music dancing in his expression, and you would try to keep that look in mind as he soothed you into sleep. It brought you both back to better times, when death didn’t lurk around every corner.

It hurts a little to see this look in Sungyoon’s face, for sure, but it also soothes another pain, the pain of knowing that you’ll never see Daeyeol ever again until it’s your turn to go. Because even though you’ll never gaze on his face again during your time on this earth, you’ll still see bits of him, hear parts of him in Sungyoon’s eyes and voice. Where that reminder might’ve felt like a stab in the chest before, it now smooths a blanket over your body, wrapping you in the knowledge that Daeyeol will always live with you, in your memories and in Sungyoon’s voice.

Sungyoon doesn’t ask why you’re crying when he finishes his song, even though he can definitely see you wiping away tears from your perch at the foot of his bed. You don’t make an effort to hide it, really – you’ve done worse things in front of him than cry, and besides, he looks a little teary himself. For a moment, you only sit in your respective positions, trying to rein in your tears until he breaks the silence again.

“That was my sister’s favorite song,” he whispers. “She played it so much that Bomin once threatened to delete it off of her playlist.”

You swallow at the mention of his sister and her boyfriend, guilt snaking its way up your chest. It’s a little easier to ignore right now, though, especially when you realize that this is the first time Sungyoon’s put a name to either of the two people you shot. “Bomin was her boyfriend?” you ask.

He nods. “I never said?”

As you shake your head, it only just occurs to you how little you know of Sungyoon’s family. You haven’t said that much – he knows about your mom and Daeyeol, but little of anyone else – but even that seems like a lot compared to what little he has (more like hasn’t) said about his family. You don’t even know his sister’s name.

You’re not even sure you want to. Putting a name to dead faces, faces that you shot bullets through…

Swallowing, you shake your head again, this time more trying to clear your head than say no. “No, you never mentioned it.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Bomin was Sumin’s boyfriend. Sumin was my sister.”

Bomin. Sumin. The addition of two names to your repertoire (and the past tense for Bomin) nearly makes your head spin. Bomin with dyed, pale hair, Sumin with dark. Bomin with chiseled, handsome features marred by white skin and dark veins. Sumin with a round, soft face and eyes that probably would’ve looked lovely with a smile had they not been shrunken with disease.

You didn’t know either of them at all, which just makes the fact that you put a bullet through each of their heads even worse.

In fact, you pressured Sungyoon into letting you do it.

Both of you agreed not to apologize anymore. But the only words hanging on the tip of your tongue consist of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Sungyoon, I’m sorry –

“It wasn’t your fault.”

You blink. “What?”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Sungyoon’s eyes bore into yours softly, understanding and reproachful all at once. “That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it? Bomin and Sumin.”

Despite everything, a wry little smile curls the corner of your mouth. “Was it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who saw what happened.” Sungyoon shifts on the bed, sitting up against the wall. “You didn’t kill them, Y/N. The zombies did.”

“See, I know that.” You stare at your hands, the smile wiped from your lips. “Logically. But –”

“Your brain won’t let you,” Sungyoon finishes. “Yeah, I know. It’s the same with me and… you know.” He leans forward, fixing your gaze with his. “So I’ll keep saying it until your brain finally figures it out. Okay?”

The tears try to come again, but this time, you hold them back. “Same for you,” you manage, hoping the wobble in your voice isn’t as prominent as it feels to you. “It wasn’t your fault. It never was. And I’ll keep saying that until you know it too.”

Sungyoon turns away. You don’t try to follow his gaze, to probe at his expression. You don’t need to.

It’s enough, this understanding that hangs quiet in the air.

. . . . .

On week three, when Sungyoon’s finally started to limp around the house, Lady Luck puts you in her good graces and you find a source of transportation far better than your legs. You don’t thank her too much, though, since you literally found the two bikes after being chased twice around the same building by a small, though vicious group of zombies.

Even then, a little bit of excitement sparks in your still-racing heart when you pedal up to the front of the house and dump the first bike indoors. Sungyoon pokes his head out through the bedroom at your call.

You grin. “Remember how to ride a bike?”

It takes a second dangerous trip to bring the other one back but you manage, since Sungyoon is still slow on his feet. When Sungyoon feels ready to try it out, you watch closely as he slings himself onto the cracked seat, ready to catch him if he falls.

He does, twice. But the third time, he actually starts wobbling up and down the front of the house, pedaling slowly but steadily.

A cry almost escapes your throat when he turns around on the street, pedaling back with sparkling eyes and lips curving in a rare smile of success. But though you stifle the sound, you can’t help but run up and hug him when he dismounts, one hand holding the bike steady as you wrap the other around his chest.

Sungyoon’s breath catches. The little gasp in his throat reminds you of what you’re doing, that he might be uncomfortable, and you go to apologize and pull away, insides curdling with embarrassment.

But then he wraps both of his arms around you, bringing you in closer with a gentle, uncertain grip, hands locked loosely at your waist. And it’s your turn to catch your breath at the subtle warmth of Sungyoon’s thin body, a warmth more comforting than even the rays of afternoon sun beginning to set in the sky.

Human touch. Human comfort. Human warmth. You bury yourself in Sungyoon and he buries himself in you, earlier excitement forgotten in favor of the comforting warmth of the other’s touch.

You don’t say anything about it, even after you let go. You only part naturally, smiling at each other as your arms fall to your sides before finally reentering the house. Sungyoon goes back to lying on the little couch, resting his leg, while you carefully stand the bike by the door and go to find something to eat. Conversation is quiet. Not awkward, not stilted, just quiet. You still don’t mention the hug.

But later that night, after you’ve barricaded the door and freshened up as best you can, Sungyoon is still sitting up in the bedroom. You pause in the doorway. “Sungyoon?”

“It isn’t comfortable on the floor, is it?” he asks, voice strangely stilted. He doesn’t wait for an answer before rushing on. “Come up here. It’ll be easier on your back.”

It takes several moments to process his words before you start protesting, saying the floor isn’t that bad and that you read something about how sleeping on hard surfaces is actually better for your back, but your voice dies away when Sungyoon holds out his arms in the dark, shifting to make room for you on the threadbare mattress.

Something about this feels like it should be wrong. Taking comfort in someone who isn’t Daeyeol or your mom or even one of the friends you left behind, probably never to see any of them ever again. You’ve only known Sungyoon for a matter of weeks. Daeyeol you knew for over twenty years. Your mom, even longer.

And now you’re taking comfort in someone when none of them are around to experience it themselves. Guilt simmers in your chest.

But walking into Sungyoon’s arms sweeps it away.

His touch is just as soft and unsure as it was earlier under the afternoon sun, but if anything, it feels warmer in the dark. And as you gain a little courage, letting him curl closer into you as your breaths begin to even from exhaustion, the touch becomes a little more certain, a little firmer and stronger as he loosens against your body.

One brave hand reaches up, tangles briefly through Sungyoon’s hair. “Goodnight,” you whisper.

He squeezes you once, gently. “Goodnight.”

. . . . .

The fourth week has passed by the time Sungyoon walks without a limp. You really would have wanted to go the first day he could put weight on his leg, but if you had, you wouldn’t have found the bikes. And considering the fact that you only have two bullets left, you’re thankful for a method of quick escape.

“We need to get out of the city,” you say, swinging one leg over your bike. “There are too many zombies here. Just follow me, I think I’ve mapped out how to get to the highway. It’ll probably be smoother from there.”

Sungyoon nods. “Let’s go, then.”

Your heart pounds as you pedal down the streets, quickly, quietly. The rusty bikes creak a little under your weight and with every weird noise you tense, pedaling faster, but street after street, you and Sungyoon ride without too much trouble.

Until you turn a corner and the faint sound of dead groans echoes from farther down the street.

Both of you stop. Sungyoon looks over. “Is there another way?”

“I mean, probably.” You swallow. “But they’re in the direction of the highway and regardless, we’ll have to go past. I don’t… I’m not sure…”

The groans grow louder.

“Let’s see if we can loop around,” you decide, trying to picture the general layout of buildings. “Just… be ready to ride fast.”

Sungyoon almost smirks. “That wasn’t a given?”

You hit him, even as you stifle a smile. But that smile disappears quickly as you ride closer and closer to the sounds of groans.

The first zombie lurches out from behind a collapsed home. It stumbles over the sidewalk, clawing forward, but you and Sungyoon move too fast and leave it quickly behind.

But then a second pops out in the distance. And a third.

Behind you, Sungyoon mutters a curse. You don’t blame him. Much worse words are running through your mind. “Through the cars,” you hiss, weaving between several vehicles stranded on the road. “Harder for them to get us.”

The sound of limbs slapping against metal and glass makes you want to hurl. Groans and shrieks echo off the sides of the cars, overpowering the creaking of your bike and filling your ears with their sickening sound. You pedal fast, fast, faster, swerving between a last car into open road –

Sungyoon races past, surpassing you as a zombie just misses grabbing the wheel of his bike. You pedal harder to catch up, staring straight ahead towards the entrance of the highway that’s finally in sight.

Something brushes your arm. You shriek, almost tipping off balance as dead white fingers flash in your peripherals, but a backwards glance from Sungyoon forces you to stay upright and you pedal forward with a last rush of speed, rolling onto a smooth, zombie-free road.

You ride for what feels like hours until you have to call it quits. Stumbling behind an abandoned truck, you collapse in the shade, legs shaking with exertion and adrenaline. Sungyoon follows quickly, dropping his bike onto the asphalt to sit next to you.

For a moment, you only sit in silence, panting under the hot sun.

Then you heave a shaky breath and start to laugh.

It starts out as a gasp, really. That first breath doesn’t fully go out the way you want it to and you wheeze a gasp, then another, and another and another until your wheezes turn into breathless laughter that treads the line of hysteria but then Sungyoon is starting to laugh too and all you can do is revel in the fact that you can laugh, snort, giggle because you’re alive. You made it out of that infested city alive, alive despite that horde at the end, and God, now you’re trembling because even though you’ve had close encounters with the undead before, you can still feel cold, peeling skin just dragging against your shirt –

You start crying.

Adrenaline seeps out of your body like blood from a wound. Your stomach hurts from laughing. Your eyes ache with tears. You keep feeling that feather light, deathly cold touch brushing your arm, almost like a wisp of wind curling against your skin but so much colder, like ice freezing your veins even under the burning sun.

Cold. Cold. Cold. And no one, not Daeyeol, not your mother, no one to help you out of this icy sun –

Sungyoon’s shaking arms wrap around you, and you remember what it feels like to be warm again.

You grip him tight, tight, tighter, holding onto this last piece of human life. Everyone else you know is dead or probably dead and only Sungyoon is a constant, still here and alive despite the fact that you could’ve split up all those weeks ago.

Until the day you die, you’ll be grateful you chose not to.

He holds you and you hold him until both of you finally stop trembling in the hot shade of the truck, but even then, you latch on just a little bit longer, memorizing the weight of his thin body pressed against yours. Hunger has hollowed his skin and yours, eaten away the muscle that used to cushion your bones, but Sungyoon’s arms still hold a fragile strength that slowly bleeds into you, giving you the courage to wipe away the tears.

That night, after hours of riding on quiet roads, no silent, tentative question hangs in the air like it always has when Sungyoon slumps against your sitting figure, head falling into your lap as you fight to keep your eyes open for first watch. Without hesitation, you tangle your fingers through his curly hair, soothing him into sleep.

Sungyoon is your warmth, just as you are his. Reminders to each other that even in this blackened world of death and ashes, both of you are still alive.

. . . . .

The closer you get to home, the harder sleep comes. You don’t know why. It should be the opposite, right? You’re closer to your goal. Closer to your mom.

But that also means you’re closer to uncertainty. Closer to the Schrodinger’s cat-type limbo where you don’t know whether or not your mom is still alive. Only with Schrodinger’s cat, there’s an exactly fifty percent chance that the animal is dead. Or so you think. It’s been some time since you had time to think about quantum mechanics.

Doesn’t matter. Odds are now, the scale’s been tipped a little further in that direction. 

You don’t know what you’ll do if she’s dead.

Scratch that. You kind of know what you’ll do. Scream. Cry, probably. Either that or just go silent.

You don’t know what you’ll do if she’s just disappeared.

Because then there’s Schrodinger’s cat again, constantly hovering between life and death. Knowing at least gives you facts – you’ll be certain as to whether she’s dead or alive.

Not knowing will rip you apart.

Sungyoon decides it’s enough when you wake up the third time during his second watch, chest heaving from nightmares where you return home alone and there’s no one. Not him, not your mom, not even a single zombie. There’s no blood on the floor or anything to indicate struggle. The house is perfect, just as you left it when you went back to university the last time.

But it’s empty. Cold.

And only silence answers your calls.

“Okay, that’s it.” Sungyoon’s tone is softer than his sharp words. He gently grips your shoulders, pulling you up in the darkness. “What’s wrong? What are you dreaming of?”

You shiver even in his hold, remembering the chill of the empty house, the choking silence that greeted your calls. How do you begin to describe that, the fear of not knowing whether or not your mother is alive?

Then it hits you.

Sungyoon will understand. He has to. He walked back to a zombie infested city on an injured leg to find his sister and her boyfriend, Sumin and Bomin, all the while not knowing if they were alive or dead.

“What if she’s not there?”

His grip slackens. “What?”

You swallow. “What if my mom isn’t there?”

For a long moment, both of you stay silent. In the dark, you can’t even make out the expression on Sungyoon’s face.

“I don’t know,” he finally replies. “What will you do?”

Fear ices your throat. You can’t speak. What will you do? If it turns out you came all this way, across an entire country, for nothing?

“What did you do?” you manage once it feels like your vocal cords have thawed. “When you went back and…?” A wince of guilt and shame keeps you from saying more.

Sungyoon falls quiet. You recognize this silence not as brooding, not as angry, but thinking. Contemplative. It eases the tightness in your chest.

“It felt like everything was lost to me,” he finally says. “They were all I had left. When it finally hit me that they were gone…” He shakes his head. “But that’s not what you meant, right? You’re asking about before. When I didn’t know.”

You nod, curling closer into him. “Yeah.”

“I don’t know,” Sungyoon says. “Honestly, I don’t know how I dealt with it. All I know is that it was eating at me so much that I had to go back and find out myself. So I was an idiot.”

There’s a little smile in his voice, a twitch of the lips that you can hear in his last few words. Your mouth almost curves, too. “But what if we go back and I still don’t know?” you ask. “What if she’s just… gone?”

“It’ll be your choice whether or not you want to leave it at that or keep looking,” Sungyoon answers after a pause. “I can’t make the decision for you. But…”

You look up. “But?”

“You know what kept me going after all of that?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “The fact that you offered to let me come with you, despite what had happened. It was the fact that someone, more or less a stranger, gave me a place with them.”

“Really? I honestly thought you were going to laugh in my face as soon as I said it,” you admit. “I’d just… done that, and a few hours later, I was asking you to walk across an entire country with me.” You wince. “Not exactly bonding material.”

“I won’t lie, I kind of considered it.” Sungyoon seems to shrug in the darkness. “But even then, I knew you weren’t evil, regardless of what happened. You still lost a friend. You were still trying to stay alive. And when you talked about your mom…” He sighs. “What I’m saying is you were there for me, Y/N.” His grip on your hand tightens softly. “And whatever happens when we get to your home, I’ll still be there for you.”

The lump in your throat refuses to let you speak, so you only sink further into Sungyoon’s body, trying to hold back the tears threatening to escape your eyes. He seems to understand. His fingers rise and card through your hair, stroking smooth against your scalp.

If this is how Daeyeol felt every time you did this when he was sick, you now understand why he asked for head pats whenever he wasn’t doing well. It soothes you, even if one or two tears do make their way down your face at the thought of your best friend.

Fuck. You close your eyes. Daeyeol would have found a good friend in Sungyoon, you’re sure. Your mom would probably love him too. More than anything, you wish they were here.

But you still have someone. You have Sungyoon. You have someone you trust, someone you rely on, someone you can hold close at times like this when you start to spiral and can’t force yourself out of your mind.

You’d like to say that Sungyoon feels the same.

“Is that okay?” Sungyoon asks softly, breaking into your thoughts. His fingers keep stroking your hair gently, softly.

Your eyes are starting to close again, weighed down by sleep. Nightmares might be waiting, but Sungyoon’s words and warmth make you think they might stay at bay. You nod against his chest. “Yes,” you murmur. “More than okay.”

“Good.” His hands don’t stop. “Now sleep. There are only a few hours before dawn.”

You don’t need to be told twice, only curl further into him and shut your eyes. As sleep finally begins to roll over you in waves, you sigh. “Thank you,” you whisper.

His breath stirs your hair. “For what?”

A small smile curves your lips.

“For being here.”

. . . . .

The buildings start looking familiar two weeks and five zombie attacks later. There are more undead here, probably because you’re closer to the site of the explosion. Even though you’re still several states away, the virus spread more quickly here than on the other side of the country.

At some point after the third attack, you try to apologize while patching up several scrapes on Sungyoon’s arms. There isn’t even time to stay – you need to keep riding, find a place to take shelter for the night before zombies find you. He doesn’t deserve this.

“You don’t either,” he points out. “Neither of us ever deserved this.”

“But I have to deal with it to get home. You don’t.”

“And I signed up for the ride.” Sungyoon pats a bandage more firmly in place before taking your outstretched hand and standing up. He squeezes your fingers. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

Your heart pounds painfully as you ride down the last stretch of highway, faded signs bearing the name of your hometown. Everything almost looks the same, if you ignore the dried blood spattered along the sidewalks and panes of shattered glass on the streets.

And the zombies milling about at the base of the exit.

Sungyoon stops when you do, frowning when he sees the faint outlines of white skin and blackened veins. “Great.”

You snort, hysteria building in your throat. “Great” is the perfect way to put it. So close, yet so far – separated from your home by a throng of the undead.

There are only a few right now. From here, up on the highway, you can only count four or five. Zombies don’t move fast and if it’s just those few, you could probably outstrip them.

But they’re definitely not the only ones. And you have no way of knowing just how many are left in the city.

Think, think, think! You hit your head lightly. You grew up here, explored the entire city, walked all the roads by the time you went off to college the first time. Even though things have probably changed, they can’t be too drastically different. Any small nooks, any back roads or alleys you can find where zombies aren’t likely to be…

“What do you think will be more zombie infested?” you ask. “Residential roads or the actual city?”

“… City,” Sungyoon says. “More densely packed people, right?”

You bite your lip. He’s right. The highway leads to a road that cuts straight through the middle of the city and it would probably be faster to follow it straight down and just make a few appropriate turns before reaching your home, but it’ll probably be safer to take the longer local path.

Local it is. God, you hope your sense of direction is as good as it used to be.

“We’re going straight down now before more zombies come,” you say, swinging a leg over your bike. “As fast as you can. We turn left at that first traffic light and then be ready to follow me.”

The downward slope of the highway gives you a burst of speed you dearly need once you reach the road. You speed past abandoned cars and several milling zombies that turn to give chase, but you and Sungyoon are already turning left, racing down a street of empty shops and cafes. You used to hang out there with Daeyeol and a few of your friends before –

Not the time. You pedal faster. The groans of chasing zombies has grown fainter, which is good, but there are definitely more.

As if on cue, several sets of gangly, white limbs pop out from behind a building, lurching towards Sungyoon’s bike. He swerves around a car and you grit your teeth to avoid crying out. “Keep going!” you shout, pedaling faster. Faster.

Street signs whiz past. You almost miss the first turn, jerking sharply to the right at the last minute. Sungyoon curses and you look back but he’s following, still following, weaving around zombies and cars as he keeps racing forward.

Right. Left. Straight. Left. More zombies join the chase, relentless even as you and Sungyoon leave them behind, legs straining to keep the speed. 

Left, left, straight. Pedaling uphill is a pain. Your thighs burn and your chest aches but then you’re rolling downhill and you catch your breath before straining once more.

Straight. Right. Right. Left. You pass by your old high school, grass trampled and overgrown in the front.

Left, right. You race down a street lined with houses you used to envy – if you lived closer to school, you wouldn’t have had to get up early for the bus every morning.

Straight. You pedal past a small plaza. Clubs used to congregate in the restaurants for end of year celebrations. It’s where you went with your friends on the last day of high school and where you had dinner with your mom the next day after graduation.

Mom. Mom. You go right, then left, racing past aching memories, all the while conscious of zombies groaning in the background and Sungyoon panting by your side. Mom, I’m almost there. Almost home.

Please be there.

The last street comes into sight. You swing around a last building and a last car, finding yourself on a familiar street that you haven’t seen in years. You pedal slower, slower, until you stop in front of your house.

Memories almost paralyze you. This was where you met Daeyeol when he first moved in. This was where you almost got hit by a speeding car when you were out playing as a child. This was where you walked from every day to the bus stop for over five years to get to school –

Sungyoon grabs your wrist, glancing behind. Already, the sound of groans is growing louder. “Is this it?” he asks, nodding at the front door.

“Yeah,” you breathe. You squeeze your eyes shut, shake yourself out of your daze. “Yeah. Come on.”

With each step forward, you feel like you’re walking back in time. You grow younger and younger, smaller and smaller, until you’re finally pulling out the house key you’ve kept in your bag for so long, waiting for this moment –

You stop, key held uselessly between your fingers as you take in the scuff marks around the doorknob and the lock.

The door has already been forced open at least once.

Sungyoon notices the marks, notices your silence. He pulls open the door anyway and shoves you inside, slamming it shut behind you.

He plucks the key from your hand. Locks the door with a faint, familiar click. 

You look around in a daze, taking in overturned furniture, books and magazines strewn over the floor, cabinets left open from what you can see in the kitchen. Clouds of dust spring up where you step.

You sneeze. The sound brings you back to the present.

Your home has been ransacked. Someone broke in and took what they thought was worth taking, leaving behind furniture and books and the piano standing against the wall. Someone broke in and either spared your mother or killed her –

Or she wasn’t there in the first place.

You can feel Sungyoon’s eyes following your movements as you step forward, slow and cautious. Dust itches your throat and burns your eyes but you keep moving, surveying the damage. “Mom?”

There’s no sign of human life. Not a footprint in the dust, not a handprint on the wall. But there’s also no blood. No sign of struggle.

So where is she?

“Mom?”

Panic seizes your chest and you walk forward faster, looking into the kitchen as if she’ll be hiding somewhere there. When she doesn’t appear, you turn into the bathroom, the bedrooms, but only a mess of dust and objects meets your eyes. “Mom?”

No one replies.

She’s not here.

You try to reason it away. Maybe she’s out looking for food. Maybe she’s hiding. But you don’t have a basement or second floor so there’s nowhere she could be, and why would she be hiding, anyway? As for food…

Dust comes away on your fingertips as you drag them along the floor. Somewhere along the way, you sank down against the wall, alone in the hallway. Bits of dust rise with every breath you take.

If she was just looking for food, the house would still appear lived in. There wouldn’t be so much dust and dirt everywhere.

But she might have had to leave when people broke into the house. Right?

Or not. You swallow, tears starting to flow down your face. There was no sign of struggle, no blood or cracks in the wall. Just overturned furniture, probably from someone’s careless movements while looking for necessities.

Which means she isn’t here.

Not here. Not here. Not here not here not here not here – you came all this way and survived so many attacks and even lost Daeyeol and she’s not here –

And –

Daeyeol –

A cracked, broken sound emerges from your throat and your pounding head falls into your hands. You came this whole way and watched Daeyeol shoot himself just to find the dusty, empty house from your nightmares –

“Y/N.”

You turn your head to see Sungyoon in the hallway, holding a piece of paper in one hand. His face is pale.

He holds out the paper before you can work through the lump in your throat to ask what’s wrong. “I think you should read this.”

. . . . .

It’s long past dark and you still can’t sleep. Sungyoon drifted off about an hour ago, but even though you lie under the same sheet next to him on the floor, not even his warmth can lull you into dreamland this time.

Well. Probably more like nightmare land. The piece of paper crinkles in your hand, as if to remind you of what you’ve lost.

You try to close your eyes against the words that seem to flash in your vision. No use. They’ve tattooed themselves to the backs of your eyelids, trembling letters written in your mother’s familiar scrawl…

Y/N, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I’m most likely dead.

Why did she feel the need to apologize for being dead? If anything, it’s your fault for not getting here fast enough.

Of course, there is the chance that I’m just out looking for food and will come back soon, but if I’m not home by night, it isn’t likely.

Night has gone and passed. It’s probably closer to morning.

Every time I leave the house, I put out this note. That way, in case you manage to find your way back, you’ll have this much left from me.

Tears start to build up again behind your still puffy eyes.

I heard you on that phone call. I knew you would come back or at least die trying. Because that’s who you are, Y/N, my strong, darling child. Brave to the last.

Brave. Ha. If only she knew how much you relied on others to keep you sane. First Daeyeol, then Sungyoon…

I miss you. Every day I miss you. But I have hope that you will come home one day, return to this house, even if I’m not there to welcome you.

She wasn’t.

If you are reading this note and I am not there, don’t blame yourself. It isn’t your fault. Nothing is certain, especially not our lives, not mine, not yours. If it was my time, then it was my time. Don’t hurt yourself, thinking you should have gotten here before.

But you could have. Maybe you should have. Sungyoon certainly thought so, judging from his silence as you read the note. He read it too, before you, and you know he was thinking you should have left him and his fractured leg back at that house in the city infested with zombies, left him and come back four weeks earlier to hopefully find your mother, alive and whole –

You don’t think you could’ve chosen differently, though. Sungyoon was there, right in front of you, injured and broken and you couldn’t just leave him behind. Even if your mother had still been here then (which you don’t think she was – the thick layer of dust all over the house speaks of over a month of disuse), would you even have made it back? Or, alone, would you have fallen to the trap of your own mind?

And even if you had returned in time, how would she have thought of you, knowing you left an injured person behind? You wouldn’t have been able to keep it from her. It would’ve spilled out, sometime.

Your heart clenches. Even though there logically wasn’t much you could do, it still hurts to think that you might’ve had a last chance to see her before she went.

Always remember that I love you, Y/N. You have always been the pride of my life. You are strong and brave, and if anyone is to survive this disaster, I pray it is you, both as my child and as a ray of hope for the future. We know something like this can’t happen again. I know you. I know you will help prevent it.

The tears start to spill. Again.

I love you. I miss you. I hope I will see you soon, but not before it is truly your time.

- Your loving mother

Tears fall harder, faster. You turn, pulling yourself out of the blanket so you won’t wake Sungyoon, and sit there, shaking with silent sobs.

I love you too. And I miss you even more.

You have little left of your mother but this note. All her clothes were taken from her room, the sheets of her bed pulled away, even her toolbox laid empty. Trinkets from shelves and tables lay smashed on the floor, fallen from careless searching. A few framed pictures survived. Little more. You don’t even have her body – you can’t even bury her, your mom, your hero, you can’t even give her the same respects you paid Daeyeol –

Your watery eyes light on the shadow of the piano, hidden in the darkness. The lid covering the keys is still closed, protecting them from dust, just the way you left it when you went back to university.

As if in a trance, you stand, walking towards the piano and settling on the dusty bench. You haven’t grown in the years since you’ve been at school and it’s still pulled the same distance back, leaving just enough space for you to stretch your hands out on the keys once you’ve lifted the lid. Dust billows and you cough, batting it away, but you put your hands back on the keyboard.

And begin to play.

It’s your mother’s favorite piece, a sonata’s slow second movement that she said never failed to calm her after a long day. But you don’t play it well – your fingers slip. You don’t remember all the notes. Rhythms are wrong, the melodies stilted, and you stop playing, resting your elbows on the edge of the instrument as you grind the heels of your palms into your eyes, tears beginning to pound once more. You couldn’t bury her so you thought you could give her a little music, but holy fuck, you can’t even properly give this tribute because you can’t play the fucking piece –

Sungyoon sits on the edge of the bench. You jump – you never realized he was awake, and you open your mouth to apologize for waking him up – but he just looks at you with a softness you can feel even in the dark. “Keep playing.”

Fingers trembling, you put them back on the keyboard. It doesn’t get better – missed notes and wrong rhythms still plague the piece – but Sungyoon nudges you every time you falter, pushing you to finish. And when you do, tears falling to the dust onto your lap, he pulls you over and wraps an arm around you, letting your head fall to his shoulder as you cry.

He holds you until the sun rises and you finally fall asleep.

. . . . .

As much as you want to leave as soon as you wake, you stay at home another day. Both of you need a break before you keep going west, now that there’s no time crunch, and there don’t seem to be many zombies walking up and down the street. As long as you and Sungyoon keep the window blinds shut, you consider yourself about as safe as you can get.

The security helps a little. Takes away a bit of anxiety. But wherever you go, no matter how messy the rooms are, you always know that you’re in the same house you grew up in. Just with the most important people of your childhood missing.

But Sungyoon is important, and Sungyoon is here. It helps, a little. Though when you find him staring at the few family photos left on a table, photos with you and your mother and one even with Daeyeol’s family, you have to leave the room because it just reminds you that Sungyoon lost everyone and has little beyond his sister’s earrings, as far as you know, to remember them by. And he had to take them from her body, when in any other “normal” situation of death he would’ve left them in for her burial…

Sungyoon cried over the earrings several weeks ago. Just looking at the pictures, comparing the memories they hold to two little gold hoops that can’t even fit around Sungyoon’s fifth finger, almost makes you want to smash the frames to the ground.

You almost don’t take them with you. It’s only when Sungyoon holds out the thin frames that you remember them, two-dimensional faces of people you lost, smiling with a joy that you don’t think you’ll feel ever again.

“You’ll want them,” Sungyoon says quietly. “It hurts now, but you will. Trust me.”

The weight behind his words convinces you.

In the end, you put them in your bag, stuffing your mother’s note into one of the frames. Sungyoon helps you cushion them with your spare clothes. When you’ve finally packed them away, you walk with him to the front of the house before hesitating in the doorway.

Sungyoon glances at you. “Ready?”

You don’t turn around, but you let your eyes wander over what of the living room you can see from here. You’ve left this house many times, both times when you went to university and every time you left after a break, but you always came back. Even when everything happened, you came back. You still came back.

This time, you don’t think you’ll ever return.

“Y/N?”

You hear Sungyoon, but you still say nothing, riveting your gaze to the door. Once you leave this house, you won’t come back. You can’t even hope for it.

But you think it’ll be okay, because home isn’t just a place. It’s with people, too. And though you will never forget your original home with your mom and Daeyeol, you think you’ve found the beginnings of another home with Sungyoon.

You take Sungyoon’s hand, tangle your fingers through his. He looks at you with some concern but you don’t look back, just blink your eyes and take a breath.

You’re leaving your original home for a less certain one, a home bound solely in human attachment without the solid root of a house. It’s a little tenuous, a little shaky, but with your hands joined like this, you think there’s a possibility things might be okay.

It’s a chance you’re willing to take.

“Yeah.” You finally look up, squeezing his fingers once. You twist the doorknob. “Let’s go.”

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for a certain two characters to stay alive)

[pollylynn]

Title: Devisal WC: 2000 Episode: Knockout (3 x 24)

What will she give to this? The thing she walked away from. The thing that gave chase. The thing she has since turned on and bared her teeth, her claws, but what will she give to this?

Time.

This has been the answer for weeks. It has been the answer for months.

She fetches down her mother’s ring from its nail behind the shutters, from the place where it stands watch among the photos, the ragged-edged news clippings, the tight scrawl of her own writing. She begins a new thicket of hash marks—sixteen weeks today. Sixteen times she has fetched down her mother’s ring.

She fetches her mother’s ring from its tucked away place inside her jacket, from where it nestles as close to her body as she can bear these days. She fetches it out and stares as it catches the sallow fluorescent light, as she waits for the buzzer to make the cage sting out. The tiny stone flickers with all its might, urgent as an SOS. The chain hisses against itself as the ring spins. It winds. It unwinds.

She mechanically thanks one guard—a different one each week. A different one much of the time? She’s not sure. There’s only the wait for the buzzer, the cage singing out. There is only the ring with its frantic shower of minute sparks.

And then there is the dance with the man beyond the cage. The man inside is a constant. Ryker. She knows his name. She doesn’t know his name. Now slides past then. This time swaps places with last time—with the last fifteen times. Time is what she gives. This is what she gets, a street punk’s game of Three-Card Monte. Find the Lady. Find the Lady.

She knows the man inside, but he does not know her. What will she give to this? Nothing of herself. Nothing of who she is. This is the bargain she has struck.

She grits her teeth. Officer Ryker, she says, and maybe it’s pleasant. Maybe it’s not. Either way, He has a smile at the ready and a lame joke teed up—today it’s a serial arsonist, an armed robber. For her part, there is the polite laugh. When did that start, she wonders? How much time trickled to the bottom of the hourglass before this became their version of Hi, honey, how was your day?

He—Officer Ryker—puts the kettle on, as it were. He dials up the next man inside, some other faceless inconstant, she thinks. A different one each week. A different one much of the time? Ryker rattles off Hal Lockwood’s prisoner ID from memory.

He does not know her. He has never asked why she comes, who Lockwood is to her, what it is she comes in search of, week after week. He simply does everything she does, backwards in uniform-issue shoes.

This is before, though. This is the fifteen times before, and time is suddenly not enough.

*******************

What will she give to this? The thing that has come for her at last. The thing that has the audacity to tell her that she is not predator, but prey. What is it now that she will she give?

A fucking show.

She blocks Castle’s apologies, his empathy, his pity, like so many blows raining down in the chaos of a bar brawl. She knocks him off balance. She makes a point of how off-kilter they are—how out of the loop he is. It’s all part of the show. He’s sorry about McCallister’s execution? He must not have the faintest idea what she’s been doing for all these weeks, all these months. McCallister’s murder goes in the win column. It’s the paper trail of her dreams. It’s Christmas in May.

Stricken by this, wounded and terrified, by her and for her, he still musters up the courage to point out that Lockwood’s cage is unlikely to rattle? She shows him her back. She struts away at speed, tossing revelations over her shoulder: Lockwood is the B-plot. He is nothing but a drop-kick lapdog. She’s going after the king of the beasts, armed with a chair and a whip.

And that’s all just Act I.

Act II. Interior: Bullpen. She is in constant motion. She she raps out unnecessary orders. The boys are on the case of who ordered Lockwood’s transfer. They are on the tail-chasing mission of trying to find something—anything—on the courtroom impostors. They are on the chopper and recordings of Lockwood’s calls. They are on the job of stating the obvious—say hello to Charlie and Mike: She is Lockwood’s next target, and that suits her just fine.

But it’s a plot twist. It’s an uproar. It’s a red herring? Maybe it’s a red herring.

Everyone’s blood runs cold when the Captain points out that she’d have already been dead on the courtroom floor if it were her back with a target painted on it. There’s no pause for a dramatic musical cue. Castle is on his feet. He is on exposition duty, desperate to change the narrative. his hands fly across the murder board, swapping file photos from slot to slot to slot until the letters that sprawl across each one to spell out deceased become nothing but a blur. Find the lady. Find the lady.

Her eyes are locked on her mother’s picture, the one fixed point she can find amid the frenetic show-time energy. Her ring is missing. The shutters and the nail that tips its head toward the ceiling are nowhere to be found. There is no shower of tiny sparks and no hiss of the chain against itself as it winds, unwinds, winds again.

.

And still, she’s putting on a show. They are putting on a show, and this is how it happens.

What will she give to this? Every poor player among them, piece by piece. Now. This is what she will give.

*******************

What will she give to this? The ravenous, undying thing that winds itself around her and drops its venom in her ear. There is no question of predator and prey now, there is only who she has been and this undying thing, entwined. The words of Gary McCallister, of Hal Lockwood bubble up—So much bigger than you realize. You can’t hide from him. These, whispers the ravenous, undying thing, are the only true words ever spoken. And for this truth, to this truth, what will she give?

Her mind. Her heart. The twanging snip of threads that have bound her to life—to everything other than this. She will give in. That is what she will give.

It begins in the hangar. It begins with the chopper, scrubbed down, reeking of bleach, looming. It begins with one pathetic bullet hole. Details swirl in the air—stolen, hedge fund, the Caribbean. Wherever her feet land, wherever her shoulders try to straighten themselves, the shadow of the hulking bird presses down on her. This is the metaphor.

Why now?

The question is hers. It is not hers. It is the slither and hiss of threads untangling in her mind, though her voice—out in the world—sounds normal. It sounds like a perfectly reasonable thing to ask, and he shrugs. He calculates exactly the gesture, his tone, the glance delivered on an oblique angle. He is wary. He is managing her.

Time, planning, resources, he says, and every molecule of air in that hangar thrums with black suspicion.

What if it was something else?

There is is again, the slither and hiss. What if it was him? That’s what the ravenous, undying thing wants to know.

I will do anything that you need, including nothing, if that's what you want.

What kind of fool believes that, when he’s standing there, perfectly at home next to a two-million-dollar toy,? He gives a makes sense, yeah, that’ll happen nod as Esposito explains the owner might never have even realized the fucking bird was gone without her one pathetic shot dimpling its tail.

Makes sense, he nods, and what kind idiot would never think to wonder what strings he has been pulling since Dick Coonan, since John Raglan, since she was pathetic enough, needy enough to name him someone she trusts? She lives with his ego, day in and day out. She lives with his savior complex, and what if it was him who set all this in motion?

That’s it. That’s it. The frantic blur of bent plastic cards comes to an end. Find the Lady.

She gives in. She lets the black suspicion rear up and bare its fangs, and when he comes to her—when he dares come to her as though he knows her—she strikes.

What about you, Rick?

Is that what we are?

We are over.

And just like that, she is free. She is swallowed whole. She floats, weightless, in the black.

She gives in.

*********************

What will she give to this? What has she given to this?

Her family. The one she has built. The one that has built itself around her. The one that lies in ruins at her feet, because she let this thing blot out everything else in existence.

What has she given to this that she can never reclaim?

A decade and more of her life, spent in hiding—spent behind the cheap plastic mask of a heroine, an avenging angel, a dutiful daughter, a warrior. There is the twanging snip of a frayed elastic band, the almost silent fall of an unconvincing disguise falling, falling.

What is left to her—of her—after all she has given to this?

Nothing.

That is the slither and hiss again. That is cowardice that will not see the shower of tiny sparks, that will not heed the urgent SOS sent out by what little of her mother she can carry with her.

And she does carry her mother with her on this day of days. She wears the delicate links of chain next to her skin, beneath the suffocating weight of her dress uniform. She feels her heart beating, beating, beating, against the solid circle of it. She feels unworthy of it. She knows she is unworthy of it. But she carries her mother with her on this day of days. She heeds that urgent message at last.

What is left of her—to her—after all she has thrown on the pyre? Not nothing.

There is a sea of stalwart shoulders around her, bowed by grief that is hers, that is theirs, that is a terrible weight shared among them. There is a sea of tear-streaked faces brave enough to seek the sun, even now. There is a sea of warriors and dutiful daughters, of shining examples, giving and receiving grace. There is a wordless chorus that knocks around the hollow remains of her mind, her heart, as if to say This is how it’s done. This is how we mourn. Together. This is how.

This is what bravery is—to hear them. This is what is righteous and healing—to be a shoulder, a face, a spark of grace, given and received.

What is left?

He is left. She is left. They are left, despite her craven pronouncements, despite his lies of omission and barbed-wire truths. They are left.

She speaks this into being. A tremulous, unfamiliar voice that seems to be hers speaks this unassailable fact into being.

You find someone to stand with you.

It is a beginning. Not a harvest, but a tentative vision for what might grow here. It is not a question. Not yet. She is still in pieces. He is still in ruins. They are still dragon’s teeth, scattered on still-smoking ground, waiting to be human. Waiting to see if they can be human, alone and together.

But still, it is a beginning—a nascent question: What can she take from this?

A/N: So. After taking on a spur-of-the-moment, enormous editing project with a tight deadline, There was total lack of morphousness until 3 AM. Sprawling, writhing lack of morphousness that was only half of this. So I had to add a second half of absolute absence of morphousness this morning, obviously. OBVIOUSLY.

images via homeofthenutty

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

Do you have any headcanons for Madame Red and a fem reader having to keep their relationship a secret?

you can’t even believe how disgustingly soft I am........

ANNE

She’s really no stranger to having to hide things, now, is she? It’s a toss-up as to whether or not you’ll know about her other activities, but for the most part, she’s near fully open with only two people ― you and Grell. And that’s only because Grell makes it impossible for her not to be. You, though… you, Anne chooses to share everything with despite the fact that you have to hide everything else about your relationship. Not only does she really, truly want to be honest with you, it’s also a way to make up for the fact that you can’t do anything romantic in public. “You’re such a good sport about this, sweetie. I love you, and I owe it to you to give you as much of me as you’re willing to take.”

… That doesn’t mean it’s easy for the two of you having to hide everything. There are always times when one of you will want to take the other’s hand or give the other a kiss on the cheek, and you can’t. If anyone else is around, you have to shove your passion down and pretend as if she’s not the woman you’re in love with. It’s hard. Thankfully, though, most people are accepting of close physical friendships between women; nobody judges you for hugging each other, at least. You can hold onto her for as long as you want when you first meet or when you part and no one will bat an eye.

Faking an injury or illness so you can sneak into her office, who? There’s a little privacy there, and if you’re convincing, sometimes you can have a makeout session while she’s at work. You can get yourself up on the exam table, have her lock the door, and she’ll happily kiss you. She may even get a little risque and let her hands roam over your body… obviously, expecting you to do the same. If you went to all this trouble, you must be aching for her. Though she probably won’t let it get much farther than that seeing as she’s still got other patients to attend you and the thrill of the risk isn’t worth actually getting caught, she won’t leave you completely unsatisfied. After all, she has to come home at the end of the day. Provided you’ve kept the spark going, she’s all too eager to pick up where the two of you left off.

Often she takes you shopping simply so you can dress each other up in different cute outfits. To anyone else, it looks like two friends having a nice day out together, but rest assured that whenever you disappear into fitting rooms to help her tie ribbons and laces, she’s going to steal a kiss or two.

You know she’s been through a lot in her life, and you know about almost every single bit of it. There are times she can’t sleep, where she wanders the house making sure that all the candles and lamps are put out. The image of that fire is burned into her mind and it makes her paranoid. Sometimes she can’t do anything but lie in your arms and cry, with both arms around her stomach, asking you ― if you want to be with a woman, there are plenty of others, so why the hell do you want a broken woman? On more than one night, she’s had to practically throw you into the carriage and drive to the Phantomhive estate so she can make sure that Ciel hasn’t been taken from her again. She’s frayed at every edge, and some days, your love might be the only thing that’s threading through and holding her together.

You, unfortunately, have to deal with Grell. Quite a bit, particularly if you don’t have a career of your own. Grell is home all the time playing butler for Anne, avoiding their own work, and because of your proximity you’ve become their new favorite toy. Sometimes they give you a cup of tea and make pleasant conversation. Sometimes they pretend as if you don’t exist. Sometimes they complain that you’re making Anne too soft and taking away the brutality that they love about her. At some point you’re going to have to seek out a job just to get the bloody hell away from them.

Flower language, like, to the umpteenth degree. Anne likes to mix and match which she sends you on any given day. If she’s feeling incredibly passionate, you’ll get a lot of justicia to remind you of your perfect, feminine beauty. Very soft and you’ll get bridal roses to declare her happy love. When she wants to be cheeky, you get honey flowers and yellow acacia as a display of sweet, secret romance. On some days, she will physically hand you milk vetch, its message very clear: Your presence softens my pains. Although she doesn’t expect anything back, she’d be delighted if you give her any flowers in return.

She introduces you to Ciel as his “other aunt”, but reminds him that he must keep that a secret. He’s the most precious thing in her life, aside from you, and if anyone can be trusted with this, he can. Though he’s awfully dour for a young man, he never treats you differently than he would anyone else. When Anne starts bringing you more often when she visits him, it’s a positive sign that she’s very much settled into the relationship; you’re part of her family now, wife in all but name.

[noctualilith]

What Friends Are For

This was a gift for the lovely @bkfstclubmember as a part of Hazelnoots Discord Server’s Secret Santa 2020! She listed a few wishes and one of them was Leo&Remus friendship, which my muse practically jumped at! The story works as a stand-alone, but is also a continuation of the LoganLoveLetter collab and would be happening a few days after Never Get Enough Of You if you want to read the story of the love letter mentioned ;)

My Santa hat is off to @jacklighting for running the magical place that is the SW/C2C Discord server and for organizing this Secret Santa exchange!

The Sweater Weather / Coast To Coast universe and beloved characters in this fic belong to @lumosinlove !

Merry and happy to all you wonderful people <3

“So, how are you doing, really?” Remus’ voice pulled him out of his thoughts and his hand that was absentmindedly stirring his coffee jerked in surprise, splashing droplets across the table. Leo looked up sheepishly, reaching for a napkin to wipe them away before they dried into an abstract painting on the wooden surface, giving himself a second to gather his feelings and try to put them into words. 

He texted Remus way too early that morning, Hey Loops, up for a breakfast later? and got a reply not ten minutes later. Sure! Come to ours? Sirius will be out in an hour. 

He had woken up before dawn and couldn’t fall back asleep, his thoughts circling and spiraling in on themselves, causing a phantom itch right under his skin that he couldn’t shake off on his own. Normally he’d talk to them about it, his two, currently tangled together under the blankets, Logan burrowed between them, head barely visible and Finn’s arm thrown across both of them, fingers pressing lightly into Leo’s ribs as if making sure he was still there, even in sleep. But this was about them and he didn’t know where to start. His eyes burned as he blinked against the dim light of the sunrise trickling through the curtains.

He loved them so much. He’d do anything to keep them. And still a part of him had been waiting for the day when they’d tell him they didn’t want him anymore, dreading it with a panic bordering on vertigo. He had watched them become more open and trusting with each other, their connection growing stronger and deeper with time, ever since that first time he had noticed there even was a connection, at that damn restaurant in Boston. 

Their missing piece, they’d call him. But what if they weren’t missing a piece anymore? Something had changed over the weekend while he was gone, a subtle shift in their energy that made all the difference and he didn’t understand where his place was now. He needed an outside perspective. He needed a friend. 

Taking a sip of his coffee bought him a couple more seconds, but Remus’ question hung in the air and Leo was wildly grateful for his friendship all of a sudden, of his kind but firm no-bullshit approach and his patience. How was he really feeling?

He took a slow breath and then let it out in a whoosh of air. “I don’t really… I mean, everything is fine?” He winced when he heard the question in his own voice. “Everything is fine. I don’t know what has me so on edge. It’s just a-- a hunch. A feeling.” 

Leo felt his hands dance across the tabletop in agitation, betraying the inner turmoil that he hadn’t quite managed to hide from his voice and even less from his body language. Remus leaned forward in his seat, raising one eyebrow and flicking his eyes down to Leo’s traitorous hands and then back up again, waiting him out silently. 

Leo sighed and closed his eyes. It’s been amazing, having Remus’ friendship and confidentiality, being able to talk to someone about their very specific, shared set of circumstances, but sometimes his no-bullshit radar was bordering on scary; especially when it was forcing him to confront uncomfortable feelings that he didn’t really want to unpack. That is why you’re here, Leo reminded himself. 

He needed someone outside of his bubble to tell him it was nothing, just his paranoia, his insecurity causing him to see problems where there were none. The trouble was, he knew his instincts were right more often than not and the rare few times he got lost in his own head, he got untangled quickly, helped by reassurance from Finn and Logan. 

Finn and Logan. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something had changed. He left on a rainy Thursday afternoon and came back on equally dreary Monday, tired but glad he made the trip and even more glad to be home with his boys again.They had been texting and facetiming every day but he had spent the whole Friday at his cousin’s wedding, surrounded by his extended family and not being able to check his phone all that often. 

Saturday morning was for catching up on sleep and a late brunch with his parents so he only got to call them in the evening, finding them bright-eyed and happy, missing him but keeping themselves entertained and-- they had talked, Logan told him proudly. About their history, about their time at Harvard. Not all of it, but a start, a very good one by the sound of it. 

Actually, Finn jumped in, Lo wrote me a love letter. Can you believe it? It was amazing. I keep re-reading it. Logan turned to stare at him then, You do? Finn just nodded, laughing as Logan blushed and then tried to smother him with kisses. Leo felt the familiar rush of affection for the two boys, his two, but underneath it he could taste the bitter tang of doubt creeping in. The unwelcome feeling that he hoped he had banished for good when it came to the three of them. 

We forgave each other, they told him and he could only smile and tell them how proud he’s of them, that it must have been hard but he could tell they were lighter now, better for it. We love you, Peanut, they said, faces pressed close to the screen, jostling each other and laughing. His heart thudded painfully in his chest when he nodded in response, I miss you both so much. 

“What is bothering you then?” Remus asked him gently, pulling the now empty mug of coffee from his hand. His hands unoccupied, his fingers immediately started plucking on the threads at the fraying hem of his sweatshirt. Finn’s sweatshirt. They both kept stealing his, and he would sometimes pull on one of Logan’s bigger hoodies when they were staying in, but he’d only leave the house in Finn’s or his own clothes, the exception being Logan’s snapbacks that they both took to sharing all the time now. 

They were so intertwined, the three of them; he loved it and he was scared to death of losing it. He wasn’t ready to voice that frightening thought yet, but there were others that he needed to say outloud, if only for Remus to tell him that he was being stupid and there was nothing to worry about. 

“I feel like-- like I’m intruding? It feels like something has changed, like they are somehow even closer now and I wasn’t there for it and now I feel--” Leo closed his eyes and thought back to the first evening after he got back. Logan’s calm joy where there usually was a low current of agitation running through him at any moment, not allowing him to stay still for too long. The almost reverent way Finn was around Logan, constantly pulled into his orbit, unwilling to leave his side and radiating a quiet happiness. Their hands linking every chance they got, basking in this new chord they had added to their harmony and somehow seemingly unaware they were doing it. 

“It feels like I don’t have the right to join in. Like I’m one step behind. It feels so private and I can’t stand to be in the middle of it but it’s driving me crazy to be on the outside, too.” 

Remus hummed and leaned forward, elbows on the table and his fingers steepled under his chin, regarding him thoughtfully and mulling the information over before speaking in a soft voice that Leo grasped at like a liferaft. 

“It sounds like they started to heal some old wounds between the two of them and it also sounds like they would be willing and happy to tell you about it. Though they probably aren’t even aware of how you’re feeling right now. I’d expect them to still be caught up in the emotions of the breakthrough, because it seems to be a heavy topic for them from what you’ve told me, but it is affecting you a lot, too.” 

Remus waited for him to take in his words and Leo nodded, wanting him to continue. 

“What would you need to feel included again?”

Leo let himself think, as he turned his head to the side and stared at the sunbeams breaking through the windowpane and hitting the crystal prism placed on the windowsill in a burst of rainbow reflections dancing across the wall. He felt inwards for the answer and when he stumbled upon it, it rushed out unbidden. Things he had pushed down for later, for maybe even never because they weren’t his to ask for; now they burst forth and he welcomed the flood. 

“I’m not sure, but-- They have this history with each other that I can’t catch up to no matter what I’d do. It just is. I just-- I don’t quite understand it, I think. And it feels so hugely important, it is important to them, but they both weren’t even able to talk about it until now, so I don’t--” Leo sucked in a breath and looked to Remus who was nodding at him encouragingly. 

He still felt like he was grasping at vague shapes in a dark room and having no idea where the door was, but letting it all out might also let some light in, so he barrelled on.

“I don’t really know much about what happened between them back then. Bare bones, yes, but not really enough to be able to understand, or-- help, I guess? They would get this wounded look whenever the topic came up. Logan straight up wouldn’t speak about it and Finn had only told me bits and pieces. Said they weren’t ready to fully talk about it yet. God, Finn would tear up if any of us mentioned his first year with the Lions, after he got drafted. Logan would just clam up and go radio silent, disappear for a few hours.” 

Leo shook his head and pulled the sleeves over his hands, trapping the edges in his fists and then wrapping his arms around himself, the fabric of the slightly too small hoodie stretching over his back and shoulders. It almost felt like a hug, he could still smell Finn’s scent on it when he turned his head and pressed his nose against his shoulder, breathing deeply. “I kinda gathered that it’s better not to ask,” he mumbled into the soft fabric. 

Remus stayed silent, letting him finish his thought, but Leo couldn’t bring himself to speak the words that have been bouncing around his head for the past few days. He was irrationally afraid that they’d become real when he spoke them and the threat, however irrational, brought tears into his eyes. 

“Leo, it’s okay.” Remus rounded the table and pulled out the chair next to him, settling down on it and placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, his eyes earnest and attentive. “That is a tough situation to be in. The way you’re feeling makes total sense in the light of everything you told me so far. So - what would you need from them now?”

Leo swallowed against the apprehension climbing up his throat and stated firmly “I want them to talk to me about it. I want to know more of what had happened between them before we met, at least the parts they’re comfortable telling me. And now they might be ready to tell me more, but I’m scared it has already changed things between us. And-- and I don’t want anything to change! What if they realize they don’t need me anymore? What if--” he trailed off with a gasp, gulping for air and searching Remus’ face, silently imploring him to tell him it’s all just in his head. To give him a solution to stop the rapidly spinning worries in his head. 

Remus squeezed his shoulder in encouragement, and then pulled him into a hug, letting Leo catch his breath and digest the words that were now in the room, fears named and spoken and challenged. Leo thought it would make it worse, saying them outloud, but as they both pulled away from the hug and settled in their chairs again, he had to admit he felt a bit lighter already. 

“It’s perfectly normal to be afraid of change, you know,” Remus said as he reached for their empty mugs and tilted his head in question. Leo nodded and watched him pour them more coffee and drop two sugar cubes into his. “Thanks,” Leo smiled up at him, the gratitude encompassing much more than the coffee. 

“Anytime,” came the answer in kind from Remus who was cradling his own mug in both hands and regarding him over the rim. “The way I see it, it sounds like they’ve had this shared experience that you weren’t a part of and they don’t quite realize how it’s making you feel. But you’re an essential part of their present and their future. Everyone who knows you guys can see it. You should see them when they talk about you, Leo, they both love you so much. Give them a chance to include you and maybe tell them what you told me? They won’t know what you’re worried about if you don’t tell them.” 

Leo groaned, hiding in his hands and then rubbing them across his face. “It sounds so easy when you say it like that. It sounds like something I’d say to them when they argue about stupid shit. Merde. You’re right. I just have to trust them.” He looked up at Remus, letting out a heavy sigh and feeling the resolve settle in his chest. “I do trust them. I’ll talk to them. Thanks, Loops. For the coffee and for the talk. I needed this.” 

“Anytime, Nut. ‘s what friends are for.” Remus’ tone was warm and honest.

Leo was grateful, more than he could say. He felt relieved and clear-headed, the fog of the past few days finally retreating enough to let him think without immediately spiralling out of control. He also felt brave; for talking about it and for deciding to trust the relationship they’ve built and the reassurances he realized Finn and Logan readily offered him anytime he voiced even the slightest doubt. Yes, things might have changed but that could be a good thing. It seemed to be good for Finn and Logan, and now he couldn’t wait to be with them again and find out how he fit into their new harmony. They would figure it out, together. 

The gratitude in his chest made him say it again, “Really, Remus, I mean it. Thank you. How do you always know what to say?” 

Remus burst out laughing at that, and Leo felt his own lips stretch into a smile, welcoming the change of the atmosphere, the heavy topics temporarily put aside. 

“I’ve been accused of that several times already. Seems to be a talent of mine,” Remus’ smile was audible in his voice. 

“Well, I’m glad, Loops.” Leo grinned and settled on his chair more comfortably, dragging his second cup of coffee closer and noticing the rumble in his stomach making itself known, now that the anxiety wasn’t tying it into knots. 

“Now, what about that breakfast?”

[sarcasticfina]

Fic Writer Tag Game

How many works do you have on AO3? 263

What’s your total AO3 word count? 4,901,188

How many fandoms have you written for, and what are they? including the fandoms on FFnet, that haven't yet been moved over to ao3, that'd be a total of 37. separating the larger fandoms (marvel, dcu) into their individual parts: Thor; Arrow; Smallville; The Vampire Diaries; Glee; Captain America; Supernatural; Teen Wolf; Iron Man; Life with Derek; Firefly; Friday Night Lights; X-Men; Fantastic Four; Harry Potter; Sons of Anarchy; Girl Meets World; Batman; Daredevil; From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series; Transformers; Lost Girl; Game of Thrones; Banshee; High School Musical; The OC; One Tree Hill; CSI: New York; Degrassi; Gossip Girl; NCIS; The Unusuals; Criminal Minds; iCarly; Secret Life of the American Teenager; Twilight; and The Listener

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. and I wonder (if everything could ever feel this real forever) - darcy/bucky - Steve tells him that Darcy's harmless. Bucky imagines, on paper, Darcy is harmless. HYDRA wouldn't give her a second glance. But he does. He can barely keep his eyes off her. He's not sure he wants to. | Kudos: 5576

2. I Climbed The Tree To See The World (When The Gusts Came Around To Blow Me Down, I Held On As Tightly As You Held On To Me) - darcy centric | darcy/steve - The path to self-discovery, including becoming Coulson's assistant-slash-liaison-slash-bff, Captain America's lady love, and rating fourth on the SHIELD BAMF scale, was like the yellow brick road; it was chaos and confusion around every bend. | Kudos: 3973

3. Take a little piece of my heart (and keep it for yourself) - oliver/felicity - A collection of Olicity prompts on Tumblr posted here for easier access/reading. | Kudos: 3498

4. You put your arms around me (and I'm home) - darcy/bucky - A collection of Darcy/Bucky oneshots, drabbles, and prompt fills. | Kudos: 3293

5. you (anchor me back down) - darcy/bucky - "I'll be right back." Famous last words. | Kudos: 2747

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? not all of them. i do try to keep up on them, especially on longer stories when there's been significant wait times in between chapters, or when a reader is asking a question or is unclear on something. and especially when someone writes a really indepth comment/review, i like to respond to those and talk about motivations and character growth.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? I've written a number of fics that either had suicide or major character death, so i'm not sure if one outranks the other in terms of most angsty... hmm... i remember "be still and know that I'm with you (be still and know that I am here)" and "light a match, burn the world to ash (I will watch it die, and hold your hand as I fly)" both got some pretty intense reactions when they were posted. And "It's Your Song That Sets Me Free (I Sing It While I Feel I Can't Go On)" was basically just angst from beginning to end. buuuuut, i think i'll say "so you think you can tell (heaven from hell" was, only because there's a build up of everything going so right, only to pivot at the end, so it feels very bittersweet.

Do you write crossovers? If so what’s the craziest one you’ve written? i loooooove crossovers. i find writing in the marvel fandom makes things quite easy, but also smallville. as long as i can find a common thread, i enjoy finding a way to overlap two shows. i'll say the hardest one to write was "ruby red slippers (unavailable in her size)." I'm not sure why, but i found writing each personality together just felt strange. i liked the idea behind the story, but i definitely remember feeling like i was really forcing myself to keep going, like something just didn't fit right.

Have you ever received hate on a fic? oh, definitely. you cannot please everyone, it's impossible. for the most part, hate comes and i either argue back, take the criticism for what it's worth, or just ignore it when it's baseless. i think the hate that bothered me the most was a homophobic PM someone sent me re: "you know I will adore you ('til eternity)," on FFnet. i actually went and searched it up. they've since blocked me so i can't read our whole thread back and forth. but i did put part of it on tumblr so i could rant on it a bit, so you can see that here.

Do you write smut? If so what kind? ha. yes. depending on the story, it can be really detailed or really flowery. it depends on the ship, the plot, and how graphic i feel like being. i've definitely become more comfortable over the years with my writing. that said, i think everybody likes something different. i once had a reviewer tell me a sex scene was too much, just too intense. it was a stefan/caroline story and to be fair, that entire oneshot was just them fucking, lol, but it is what it is. to each their own.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Multiple times.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! for the record, i am always happy to have my stories translated and shared. i just like having a link sent to me and to be credited.

What’s your all time favorite ship? i have a list of OTPs, because interests change and as shows come and go, my love for a ship can be shelved for a while before it pops back up at random. currently, i can't get enough of buck/eddie from 9-1-1. and, historically, chloe/oliver (smallville) and felicity/oliver (arrow) have been two of my top OTPs. but i think i'd have to go with bonnie/damon. they had all the potential and the show dropped the ball by not exploring it. at the same time, that's kind of a blessing, because i don't trust those writers to properly explore what they had without eventually destroying it for the likes of de/ena. it means a treasure trove for writing where it could have gone and all the what if's.

What’s a WIP that you want to finish, but don’t think you ever will? the intention is always to finish. but given how i feel about allison mack and how that impacts my feelings re: chloe sullivan, pretty much anything with her as a main character is not something i see myself returning to.

What are your writing strengths? What are your writing weaknesses? i'm putting these together because my strength is my weakness. i love to write. when i get an idea, i go all in and i will skip eating and sleeping to just write write write. but i also eventually hit a wall and i get so many ideas that i hyperfocus on one until the steam is gone and then i hyperfocus on the next one to maintain that need to keep writing, accidentally leaving the last story in the dust for entirely too long. i also have clinical depression that comes and goes, which hasn't been super great mixed with covid and isolation, so more often recently, i find myself overly exhausted and despite wanting to write, can rarely get motivated to do so. so, pre-covid, wrote so much i left entirely too many stories dangling. during covid, i've just been reading and struggling to get myself focused enough to do what i love.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? i appreciate the authenticity when possible, but i've recently been reading more about how native speakers of other languages feel when a) their language is butchered by google translate, or b) it's just not genuine in terms of how bilingual speakers act or speak.

What was the first fandom you’ve written for? it was smallville, but i remember adopting it out to someone else because i wasn't going to finish it. so if you look at my ffnet, the first fandom i wrote for appears to be x-men: the movie, but i remember writing a chloe/oliver story prior to that.

What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written? i have a lot. i mean, on ffnet, i have 576 stories, many of which were transferred over to ao3, with a lot of oneshots and drabbles getting joined together into collections. so there's a ton to pick from that span a 14-ish year timeline.

"you know I will adore you ('til eternity)" and "let me break (the walls that surround me)" hold a special place in my heart.

honestly, each story is important in its own way. there are bits and pieces of each that i love. every time i write something new it feels like my favorite. my best. and then a new idea comes along. there are scenes i've written that i loved more than the whole of what they became. lines that stand out that are almost too good to be a part of the larger picture.

one of my all time favorite passages i've written was bonnie's thoughts on damon and herself in 'if you love me (let me go)":

He is far from perfect. He is a novel of red, corrective ink. He is frayed pages and torn binding. His life, his choices, his mistakes leave lasting effects on everyone he meets.

She is a lifeboat with a hole in it. An anchor that drowns in the sea while everyone else remains steady above. She is both the calm and the storm, and while she screams that she will not be tamed, she cries. Bittersweet tears that go unnoticed and uncared about.

there are other stories, other pieces of dialogue, that i've been proud of. that make me laugh when i re-read them. that make me cry. and i love them. there are others that make me wilt and cringe and regret. it's a process. love and pride and growth, all bound together.

Tagging: @absentlyabbie, @anonymous033, and anyone else who'd like to fill this all out, haha

[sabraeal]

All That Remains, Chapter 7: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 4]

[Read on AO3]

Written in honor of @claudeng80​′s birthday! I’m only a week and change late this time, but everyone knows what they’re getting into when they request this fic for gifts-- aka, me dithering for weeks on if a chapter needs to be cut and where it inevitably needs to happen. But here is an almost 5K labor of love...and a little bit of hope... :3c

It would easy to speak of good and evil, would it not? To condemn a sorceress for her conjuring, to pity a girl and her deception. That is the way such tales are crafted: for simplicity, moral lines drawn in the sand.

But life does not fit so easily into the pages made to contain it. A line of prose may distill it to its essence, but a word spoken, an act done by a living creature-- these contain multitudes.

“Well.” Lady Mihoko fixes a shrewd glance over the rim of her teacup, pinning Shirayuki to her chair. Bombazine may creak with her every breath, but when Mihoko sets her demitasse upon its saucer, it is silent. “You are much improved.

The words alone would make a compliment, but with the way her ladyship threads them through her teeth, it is an accusation. Her eyes narrow even now, a proctor determined to catch her pupil filching answers from across the aisle.

Still, it’s the kindest words Mihoko has ever managed to spare, and Shirayuki seizes them with both hands. “Thank you, Lady Mihoko.”

All her ladyship’s fine graces do not restrain her from a humorless grunt. “Do not think it so fine a feat. You could hardly have gotten much worse.” With another contemplative sip, she adds, “But your progress is at least...heartening. You might not be entirely hopeless.”

Polite, tea-appropriate smile firmly in place, Shirayuki casts her eyes down at her plate. How fortunate she is to be able to experience such a fine example of being damned by faint praise.

He mouth does not twitch; by now, she knows better than to allow any of her facial muscles free reign in the presence of the lady-- but it does waver. It was not her own voice lilting those words.

A toe nudges her ankle; the consort’s countenance is carefully composed of bland inquiry across from her.

“You are too kind,” Shirayuki manages, smile polished back to its original brilliance.

“I am.” She settles back in her chair, spine straight as a rod, conveying that her enjoyment of the meal now resides firmly in the past. “You are lucky indeed that Her Majesty deigned to take a girl like you under her wing. How fitting it is that my best student is responsible for righting my worst.”

“It is only because I had such a good tutor that I could even attempt to teach.” The consort sets her own cup onto its saucer, mouth rounded in a pleasant curve. Shirayuki’s never mastered the art of it, to smile to brightly with so little teeth or crinkling around the eyes, but on Haki the effect seems natural, right. “But I must say that Lady Shirayuki is a pleasure as a student. A quick mind and a dedicated learner.”

“What she lack in aptitude she certainly makes up with vigor,” Mihoko allows grudgingly. “In my day, that would not be near enough to make a lady.”

It would be easy to condemn the sorceress, would it not? To raise the roses from their bed and cast the bright light of truth upon them, to drag her into the village square and expose her as a deceiver, a most vile villainess to lead this stray girl astray. We would stretch our hands through the pages if we could but shake our girl awake, if we could put our hands around the throat of the conjuress and see she never bent another illusion--

But that would miss the point entirely. You were told, so long ago now, that life does not fit into the narrow confines fiction demands. Surely you have not forgot?

There is a reason for every action. Unfortunately.

“That is true enough.”

The consort speaks in honeyed tones, mouth composed in a thoughtful pout. But that, Shirayuki knows, is merely an inoffensive mask she wears, one that may be discarded at a moment’s notice. It is always her eyes betray her, burning with an intelligence she can never fully quench.

“But was that not also the era of the former Viscount Yuris? Or the Counts of Sui and Lido?” It should be an accusation, a condemnation, but from the consort’s mouth, it is little more than a polite conversation, small talk between two peers. “So many traitors in so few years.”

Shirayuki may have gained some dominion over her face, but not near enough to keep from glancing at Lady Mihoko.

“That is the nature of the peerage,” her ladyship says after a long moment, mouth pursed in a moue of discomfort. “There are always some that choose to overreach their bounds. It is up to every lord to manage his lands in his own way. Though I know Your Majesties have...newer ideas about such things.”

“Better ideas,” the consort reminds her, both silk and steel entwined. “Under the late king, the court grew indolent, as did the crown. If he had not passed when he did, Clarines might have become another Tanbarun.”

Shirayuki’s teeth grit down, stemming the tide of protest that crashes against  them. She had fled her home with little pride or trust in its royals, and it’s not as if she cares for the institution, but-- Raj was no longer the embarrassment he’d once been. It’d be a long time before he’d earn as lofty a reputation as Izana or Zen, but, well, he was trying. And as long as his father remained on the throne, that was enough.

She doubts either of them would appreciate the opinion. It’s not as if any of this is about Tanbarun after all.

Mihoko clucks her tongue. “I would not venture to say we had fallen so far as that.”

“No,” Haki agrees, so pleasant. “But I would.”

A silver spoon clatters to a dish, Mihoko’s aged fingers trembling above it. “That would be your prerogative, Your Majesty.”

“It is my prerogative to see to the quality of my husband’s court, my lady. While once this may have referred to the breeding of its members, I believe we have come beyond that. After all, Lord Zakura was hardly born with silver in hand, or Lord Sui, or Countess Yuris.” The consort hums, delicately setting aside her demitasse. “There would be worse things than to see one of the finest minds of our time raised to a position which suited it.”

Her ladyship does not smile-- a terrible business, nowadays, she would cluck, spoon chiming against the rim of her cup, men should know that every smile returns tenfold in ten years’ time-- but there is a softening in her face. Not of agreement, but allowance.

“We shall see,” she sniffs, waving away another tray of sandwiches. “In time. But none of that removes what a wonders you have wrought with this one, and in less than a month’s time.”

Haki dips her head, the barest bow. “Imagine what a lifetime might bring.”

“Yes.” Mihoko narrows her eyes above the rim of her cup. “Quite unforeseeable.”

What does it mean to conjure, to summon something from nothingness, to breathe life where there once was none? It is no mere illusion; not smoke and mirrors and lies shined until gleaming. Not just a lady’s magic, no substance nor thought, made of wishes and air alone.

No, it is creation; the act of sinking one’s hands into clay and forming something utterly unlike its origin, to take one’s will and give it form. It is any surprise that it is the provenance of women?

But that is the thing, is it not? For every creation, there must be a will, must be a spark. For man to be made flesh, there must first be clay. For illusion to be made real, there first must be a wish.

“One, two-- a sprightly pace if it pleases you, my lady! Lift your feet--”

Sweat spirals down her spine, but Shirayuki picks her heels up of the floor, her sashay the barest whisper of slipper sliding across wood. Far from the ethereal wood nymphs cavorting across the palace’s walls, but it carries her across the floor with far more grace than she’s ever managed before. Like flying, provided it was a hen across the chicken yard.

Shirayuki careens more than glides to the next sequence-- the turn, three, four, return, one, two-- and her heart lodges firmly in the vicinity of her throat. She’s never managed this one before, not without stomping on Arundo’s toes or gravity ruthlessly asserting it dominion over her, dragging her to the earth where she belonged, but--

Haki’s hand squeezes tight around hers before lightening into a lift, pulling right over her head. She curls under it, up-up-down, before swinging back, far less measured, but a thousand times more triumphant.

So many of these story children start with nothing-- unloved and unmissed, abandoned by their parents, scorned by those meant to replace them. But this girl--

This girl was loved. She did not have the mother and father that so many other had, one taken by fate and the other duty; but her grandparents tended her in their place. While other little girls were scrubbing floors, or chopping wood, or being chased into the forest with only the bread in their pockets, she was adored; a treasure on her home’s hearth.

And then, in a breath, it was gone. No time for tears, for contemplation. No time for grief.

She does what all bold little girls do: she moves forward, she adapts. All those fears and grief she locks away; a little drawer inside her mind that only opens in the dead of night, when sleep won’t come to her. How worn those memories are by now, frayed about the edges, folded and thin from neglect.

Strange how it is always children who bear the heaviest burdens. Stranger still that they can grow to used to them, that they can bear them even unto adulthood and hardly realizing they are carrying them at all.

That is, of course, until they are lifted.

“You did it!” Haki catches her arms, stopping Shirayuki’s body from crashing into hers, a smile stretched wide across her face. “With not a step missed.”

“I did,” she bursts breathlessly, nearly sagging in relief. “I did!”

A clap cracks in the cavernous room, but it is only Arundo, his own mouth parted in delight. “Brava, my lady! I am most impressed.”

“As well you should be!” The consort steps back, letting her stand on her own two feet. “There are plenty young ladies I have seen on a dance floor that have not done half so well as Lady Shirayuki.”

Even flushed with victory, Shirayuki knows that for an exaggeration; a thick bit of flattery to bolster her confidence. But it hardly matters, not when she traveled the whole floor without a single misstep.

“I truly despaired of ever teaching Lady Shirayuki much more than swaying in place.” Arundo glances at her partner shyly, color high in his cheeks. “I see it merely took a deft lead.”

“Ah, Master Arundo, it takes a woman to understand how difficult a lady’s part may be.” Haki huffs out a laugh that is far less dainty than one she uses in front of courtiers, sweeping long strands of gold from the frame of her face. “If I knew which place to help, it is only because I remember where I most needed it. As my dancing instructor used to say, we all start at the same place.”

“Still,” Arundo insists, “for you to be able to dance the man and the woman’s part-- a most impressive feat!”

“Not at all!” Haki loops the last of her wisps around her ears, and just like that, the consort’s smiling mask slips into place. “This is but a simple waltz. You yourself must know a hundred or more, and dance both parts with skill besides.”

The dance master waggles a finger at her, playful. “Ah, but in the realm of grace and elegance, Your Majesty has far outstripped my paltry skill.”

With the high drama for which the Viandese were known, Arundo swept into a deep bow, bending near in half. Over his back, Haki glanced at her wide-eyed, mouth twitching, though any proof of it was gone before he rose.

“Please, Master Arundo, I am merely well-practiced.” The consort’s mouth tilts, a wry smile playing at her lips. “Izana and I often switch when we...”

Haki’s eyes pulse wide, her cheeks blossoming with a delicate pink. “In any case, I would not have done so well had Lady Shirayuki not already been through the best instruction.”

You see, Miss? Obi’s laugh is bright in her ears, as if he were only right beside her. Anyone can do it. And if you stumble, only stand on my feet and I’ll guide us both through it--

An arm slips through hers, the consort leaning close. “Won’t my brother be surprised to see such progress?”

Shirayuki cannot fathom why Makiri might care about her dancing. He’s seen it before, both of them often pressed into the same endless dinner parties at Lilias, the sort that always seemed to turn into dancing and awkward moonlight professions. He’d been light on his feet when any of the girls dared to approach, not a born dancer like Haki, but a competent one; when she’d clomped past him, dragged by regretful partners, he’d only raised an eyebrow-- an improvement upon the usual sneers she garnered from fellow revelers. He’d never been forced onto her dance card, but still--

Haki slips her a wink, and oh, it’s not her brother she means, but Zen.

You’re supposed to be learning to dance with him, after all. Even in memory, Obi’s smile cuts like a knife’s edge. No wife dances with any man besides her husband.

Shirayuki’s palms sting where her nails cut crescent into them. This room, it’s-- it’s far, far too small. Too tight. So confining, little more than a cage--

“Shall we break for a moment?” Arundo’s jovial lilt crashes through her thoughts like a bird to a window. “And then we shall start the next!”

“A perfect idea, Master Arundo.” Haki smiles down at her, so bright that the shadows of her thoughts burn away. “I dare say my sister has earned a break.”

It was always just enough for this little girl: a grandfather, a grandmother, a loving home and hearth. There had been no dreams of another there, not even when she lost them, not even when she pruned her roses and found another set of hands to take hers. Not even when those hands became a home in themselves.

But with a single word, uttered so casually, a drawer springs open.

Sister. The word echoes through Shirayuki’s head as they walk. There’s an itch of irritation beneath her skin, a pebble in her metaphorical shoe, but still--

Sister. She’s damp, not gently dewed like Haki, so drenched in sweat that her dress clings to her. Fatigued too, every muscle aching, including a few that hadn’t been in her textbooks. She has every reason to want to bury herself in her covers, to try to find the reason her skin feels too tight.

But that’s not what her attention’s caught on, not in the slightest.

“I’m not your sister,” she says, wishing she hadn’t at all. It would be so easy for it to be taken away, for that soft glow in her chest to be snuffed out.

“No,” Haki agrees, looping her arm through hers as if it belongs there, as if she belongs. “But you will be.”

In the morning the girl rose, the cottage empty save for the scent of honeysuckle and forsythia. Her small feet padded across the floor, right to the window latched tight against the night. She pushed up to tip-toe, fingers flicking against metal, and--

And her first sight was a garden, piled high with blooms; a paradise that belonged on a canvas in oils, not at her fingertips.

Do you see? the sorceress asks, rising from where she tends her beds. I awake to this glory every morning. You could as well, if you wanted.

I can’t, the girl says, certain.

The sorceress blinks. And why not?

I... The girl stares out over all this beauty, its scent surrounding her. I do not remember.

Ah, well then. The sorceress smiles, the way she always thought her mother would, had she known her. Then stay a while, and perhaps we will help you remember together.

“May I...” Shirayuki hesitates, biting her lip as they take another winding curve through the halls. The longer she stays within the palace, the more she’s certain: she could live a lifetime here and never knows all the twists and turns it takes. “My I ask you a question?”

The consort peers down at her, both eyebrows lifted in gentle question. “You may.”

“How do you do this all day?” Shirayuki restrains herself from sagging in her stays, whalebone the spine that keeps her upright. “It’s hardly evening and if I hold my shoulder back a moment longer, I think I’ll...”

Collapse, she means to say, but it lingers at the tip of her tongue, too sweet, too untrue. Scream is close, rend this dress to pieces closer still, but closest--

Her mind snaps tight around the thought, a steel trap with a wolf’s paw between its teeth. From the murmurings she’s heard since she first came to Clarines, Wistal has seen enough madness for a lifetime.

“Ah, you see, the secret is--” Haki leans in, looping her arm through hers-- “I don’t.”

Shirayuki blinks.

“You are still learning,” the consort continues, setting herself upright, setting their arms into the proper form ladies strolling. “And thus, you must memorize protocol every day, eat your meals under supervision, and practice the mazurka. I, however, have mastered all this, and thus, I cannot remember the last time I waltzed outside a ball.”

“But the etiquette--” the poise, the presence, the elocution-- “surely..?”

“Well, of course.” She shrugs, jostling their elbows. “But those lessons were a part of my childhood, much like how you probably learned to cook and clean and pick herbs instead of poison. It all becomes second nature to you, in time.”

Shirayuki doesn’t have the heart to tell her how easy it was to mistake mushrooms, but her point-- well, it’s a good one. “I’m not sure that will ever happen for me.”

“Perhaps not,” the consort allows mildly. “Certainly they will never seem as natural to you as they might to a lady born to manors and castles. And had you continued to try to learn manners from a book, than you would have had no hope at all. But--” Haki pulls her closer to her side, mouth curled with satisfaction-- “you are not alone, you have me.”

Her cheeks flush with heat; the very same as the flame that warms her chest. “Do I?”

“You do.” The consort nods, the sort that says she expects her will to be followed to the letter. “I have always wanted to share these things with someone. Alas, I was given but a single brother, and he my elder. But now I have you.”

What was it we said? A human heart has four chambers, beating in concert. A complex thing, a puzzle box of wants and desires, one buried beneath the other, a dangerous tower of longing crushed inside a container too small to hold it. And all of us live our lives never knowing its depths, not until a drawer springs open, and oh--

Oh how easy it is for our longing to sneak up on us, all unknowing. How easy it is to be blinded by it.

When the consort smiles-- really, truly smiles-- it’s too bright, like looking into the sun, and Shirayuki has to duck her head or be blinded. She’s light-headed from only a moment of basking in its radiance; she can’t imagine what might happen if she dared to look more.

“Besides,” Haki continues blithely, skirts brushing their slippers as they walk. “You could drop an entire tureen on my brother and I think he would adore you just the same. Maybe even more, if you dropped it on the right person.”

A laugh bubbles up from her, and oh, oh, it has been far too long-- it leaves her, a cage thing finally freed from its chains, and rampages through the hall.

Haki stares down at her, pale eyes wide and almost wary. For a moment her mouth works, rounding as if she might say, a lady laughs like a bell, not a gong, just like Mihoko--

And then she joins in, just as wild.

But how can she forget about her precious boy, you might ask? How can she forget about her home?

The answer is easy enough: one must only provide a new one. Oh, how easily a heart may be fooled when the illusion is so pleasant, when it is so wanted. Men on the verge of death imagine entire cities in the desert, oases just over the horizon, luring them yet another step to their doom. When there is no relief, no hope, when only doubts encompass us--

That is when we are most in need of fiction. Of an escape, of respite. How simple it can be to close ones eyes to harsh reality when it is paradise that lays before them.

But take heart-- such things never last. They cannot. It is folly to suggest there is no life without suffering-- an excuse to give breath to all kinds of evil-- but for plenty to have meaning, there must be a lack. To know joy there must be sadness, to know wisdom there must be ignorance, and when all one’s days are filled with a mindless, monotonous bliss--

Well, there is no paradise from which man does not escape, and no garden that will keep a little girl from what she seeks.

“Ah!” Haki’s jolts ahead, a filly at the end of her lead. Shirayuki nearly is dragged with her, her feet stumbling over the hem of her gown, but the consort extricates herself just in time, setting her to rights.

“Just-- just wait here a moment, if you would,” the consort tells her, fingers wound tight over the rounds of her shoulders. “It seems as though there is, ah, someone waiting for me at the door. I’ll only be-- a moment.”

Shirayuki blinks as the consort scurries away, skirts sweeping against the carpet in a rhythm and pace too hurried for Clarines’ stately queen. “But, your room is...”

Around the corner, she almost says, a better shorthand for not yet visible, which is what she means. Both points are moot; the consort springs away long before she can speak, the only part of her that remains the lagging lace of her train. And then even that is gone, all disappeared down the hall.

Perhaps it is the angle, Shirayuki allows. With her on the inside of the turn and the consort on the outside...?

Well, it hardly matters. She huffs out a breath, straightening her shoulders, and comes to stand in the intersection. This is a safe enough place to wait; the consort’s chambers are the first door on this hall, and--

And there is someone waiting. Or was, since all she catches of them the flash of a white coat.

The girl knows every inch of this garden in time, every undying bloom. For that is what they must be, at least for them to be so many, for so long. There are daffodils and daisies, dahlias and tulips, marigolds and gardenias, lilacs and lilies of the valley. A hundred flowers and more, too many to ever name crawling up lattice and sprawling over the bounds of their beds.

And yet, there is something missing. It sits at the tip of her tongue, begging to be said, but she cannot find the word, no matter how long she thinks on it. The only thing that comes to her is the memory of loam, and the warmth of hands brushing hers.

Don’t ever leave me, the sorceress would say, a smile on her lips, fingers tangled in her hair.

How could I, the girl would laugh, an inexplicable knot of dread tightening in her belly, when everything is so beautiful here?

“Shirayuki!”

Haki approaches her, smile wide and warm but also-- strain lingers at the corners. Maybe even displeasure. “I thought you were going to wait.”

“I was,” she says, wide-eyed. “I mean, I am. Who was...”

“No one.” The consort waves her off. “Just a delivery. A tisane. For my migraines. I ran out just the other day.”

“Oh.” Her mouth works, grasping for the words that had come so easily no so long ago, but now were like grinding glass. “From the pharm--?”

“Come!” Haki sweeps her arm up into her own, pulling her firmly against her side. “It’s time for dinner, isn’t it? We must see that you’re ready.”

It ends like this: she finds a petal.

It is no crimson red, no passionate pink, but instead a simple and clean white, not so unlike the gardenia. But it is too small for such a flower, too rounded, too plush. She presses it between her fingers and it is familiar as her own skin, as the scent of vanilla on the air, and yet she cannot find the name, nor envision the bloom from whence it fell. Surely it is nothing in this garden.

What it that you have? the sorceress asks, her voice suddenly sharp, like a blade placed between skin and bloated tick. Give it here.

The little girl has not reason not to. It must have blown in from elsewhere.

The sorceress takes it in her hand, slender fingers curling into a fist around it. When they unfurl it is gone, merely dust in the wind.

We need none of that world here, the sorceress says, kinder but firm. You will never leave me, after all.

Of course, the girl says, turning to her with a wide smile. The sorceress has a new hat on, black and covered in flowers, even finer than the ones she’s worn before. Why would I, when--?

Her teeth snap down, words stuck between them. It’s the only way to be safe, the only way to stop herself from saying now what she knows she cannot. Right there, painted on the cloth, next to a blood red dahlia--

--There is a rose. The sorceress’s hat has roses, and this garden does not.

Of course, she says again, stilted. This is where I belong.

Shirayuki stands frozen in the hall, mind churning like a mill’s wheel in the storm of her thoughts. The summer months mean whites and creams and ivories are in season, a playful palette that the consort’s court adorns with floral embroidery. But she did not see a floating train of silk, or the fluttering layers of linen, but instead--

A white coat. A brown paper package done up with twine and ink scrawled illegibly on the outside, passed so quickly from one hand to the next. The scent of herbs is fresh on the air, valerian among them.

She misses it. Almost as much as she misses...

“Shirayuki?” The consort tugs at her, a question writ across her brow. “Is something wrong?”

“Haki...” Her hands clench at her side. “Has there been any news of Obi?”

That is the thing about magic: it is easy to weave wishes into illusion, but to maintain it-- a different matter entirely. A woman may send all her roses underground, never to be seen again, but to remember to remove them from every vase, from the back of a brush, from a hat--

Impossible.

“Obi?” The consort’s grip tightens, even as her smile spread wide. “No, none at all.”

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 20: A Line

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs. 

Rumple and Jefferson explore some boundaries.

Read on AO3

It was still raining as Rumpelstiltskin drove Mrs. Gold back to the pink house. She had dried off, in the hours since she had come into the shop and seen him standing too close to Jefferson. Her clothes had dried, but her attitude was still as stormy as the thunder and lightning in the sky.

That morning, the silence between them had been sullen, resigned. The silence of two people who couldn’t speak to each other, even if they wanted to. Now, Mrs. Gold’s side of the car crackled with unspoken hostility. If he looked at her closely, Rumpelstiltskin could almost see her trembling. Poor woman was fighting to keep silent, straining to keep herself from saying any words that would finally sever the last fraying threads of her marriage. 

Once the car was in the garage, Mrs. Gold burst through her door and bolted into the house. She didn’t even stop to pick up her shopping bags from the back seat. Walking around to her side of the car, he took as many of the bags as he could carry. There was one still left on the floor. He would have to come back for it.

He entered the kitchen just in time to hear her door slam shut upstairs. He sighed, and shook the rain off his coat.

Could he offer her an explanation? Would she care about what he had to say? Mrs. Gold already knew that there was someone else. He had told her Belle was a woman, but she had no reason to believe him about anything. Throughout all the years of the curse, Mrs. Gold had trusted her husband. She had trusted in his cruelty, in his rules, in his appetites. She may have been on her knees, but at least she knew where she stood. In only a few months, Rumpelstiltskin had destroyed that trust.   

He made dinner, wondered if she would come down to eat. When she didn’t, he brought a plate up to the guest bedroom and knocked on the door. 

“What?” Her ragged voice was at the exact midpoint between rage and despair.

“I brought you dinner,” he explained to the door.

“Leave it.” Even through the wood, he could hear her labored breathing. “Then go away. I don’t want to look at you.” 

Wincing, Rumpelstiltskin set the plate on the ground. Then he stood at the door a moment longer. He should say something. He should apologize. He should be kind to her.

But the longer he waited, the longer she didn’t open the door because she didn’t want to look at him, the more he understood. The kindest thing he could do for Mrs. Gold would be to leave her alone. She was allowing him to provide for her--taking his money, eating his food. She wouldn’t leave her room, as long as she thought it was safe.

He would make her feel safe. As best he could, at least.

Limping, he headed for the stairs. Halfway down, he heard her door open, and the china plate scraping across the floorboards. She had been listening for him, to make sure he was really gone. She had been listening for the tap of his cane.

He heard the door shut. And the metallic mechanism of a lock.  

Once, he had locked Belle in a library, in order to keep her burgeoning love for him from ever coming to life. Now Mrs. Gold was locking herself away, because any love she’d had for her husband had already suffered a messy, painful death.

With a heavy tread, he kept walking. 

****

In his study, Rumpelstiltskin sat down at Gold’s desk and poured himself a tumblr from a sky-blue bottle. Johnnie Walker Blue Label. The liquor was a dark, golden brown, but the glass bottle was the same color as Belle’s eyes. 

From his breast pocket, he took the paper where Jefferson had written his address and telephone number. He tossed it on the desk and stared at it. 

Jefferson. His truest friend. The only person he had trusted, before Belle. He hadn’t been the first man Rumpelstiltskin had taken as a lover, but he was the only one who had been just as pleasant company outside of the bedroom. They had gone on many adventures together, fetching items from different worlds, running errands for kings and empresses, sometimes getting richly rewarded, and sometimes barely escaping with their lives. Jefferson had always been loyal, brave, and clever. A good man to have by his side.

He could have loved him, if he hadn’t been such a fool. If he hadn’t kept the boy at a distance in a thousand tiny ways. If he hadn’t insisted that he leave him after every adventure. Jefferson would have lived in his castle, if Rumpelstiltskin had asked him to. Jefferson would have traveled with him forever, if he had ever indicated that he wanted to. They could have stayed together. If Rumpelstiltskin had thought that anyone could have loved him.

As it was, Jefferson had found Leona Ogg, a woman who never doubted that she could love and be loved. They had married, and had a daughter, and Rumpelstiltskin had wished them well--from a distance. From the lonely darkness that he knew was all he would ever deserve. 

Belle had changed that, of course. Too late for it to benefit Jefferson much. But now Belle was gone. And even Mrs. Gold didn’t want to speak to him. And Jefferson’s wife was in another world, alive but inaccessible. 

Jefferson had spent the past twenty-eight years alone in his house, spared from the curse, but unable to interact with anyone in Storybrooke. Finally, he had come to Rumpelstiltskin in need of a friend. 

Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a friend as well. 

He dialed the numbers on the black telephone on Gold’s desk. He emptied the glass and didn’t pour another. After a few rings, there was an answer. 

“This is Dodgson,” Jefferson’s voice said.

“Are you sure about that, dearie?” The alcohol had eased his tension, but talking to Jefferson had truly loosened him. Dropping the mask of being Mr. Gold felt like being able to breathe again.

Over the phone, Jefferson’s tone became softer, warmer. “Hello,” was all he said. One word, full of meaning. 

It wasn’t flirtatious. Flirting was asking a question. But these questions had already been asked and answered long ago. 

“Hello yourself,” Rumpelstiltskin answered. He heard his own voice as low and heavy, thick with want. 

“I’d like to continue the conversation we were having earlier. Are you free?”

“Magic always comes at a price. But for you, I am free indeed.” 

He heard Jefferson breathing into the phone. “Tonight?”

“I can leave right now. Your house?”

“I’d rather die,” the boy said quickly. “But come here to pick me up, and I’ll tell you where to go.”

“I’ll be there soon.” Rumpelstiltskin was already standing up. 

“Good.”

****

The rain had stopped by the time he got to the winding forest road where Jefferson lived. He was waiting in front of the driveway, leaning against a stone pillar, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Rumpelstiltskin stopped the car and he got into the passenger side.

“Now follow this road for another two miles.”

Nodding, Rumpelstiltskin drove. “Where are we going?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most interesting place in Storybrooke.”

Jefferson didn’t say more and Rumpelstiltskin didn’t ask. Unlike with Mrs. Gold, he could relax in the silence between himself and Jefferson. He knew the answers would come. He just had to be patient. 

“You know the town well?” he said after a while. There weren’t many turns on this highway, just woods and darkness. 

“I’ve had twenty-eight years to look around.” Jefferson stared out the windshield. “And six months to explore.” He sighed. “I tried to map it, you know. I tried to figure out the limits of this place. Find out if there were any… I dunno, weak spots.”

Trying to keep his eyes on the road, Rumpelstiltskin glanced over at Jefferson. “What did you find out?”

He scoffed. “If there was anything useful, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. There’s a spot over here where you can pull over.”

The tires crunched on gravel as Rumpelstiltskin parked the car on the shoulder. They were still in the forest. The road kept going on ahead of them. There didn’t seem to be anything interesting about this spot. 

No, there was one thing. 

“What’s that sign up there?” he asked Jefferson. They faced the back of a sheet of metal on a pole. “Do you know what it says on the front?” 

“‘Welcome to Storybrooke,’” Jefferson sneered. “Three of the most loathsome words in this world.” He opened the door and stood up. “Come on, Dark One, I want to show you around.” 

By the time he had gotten out, Jefferson was standing in the middle of the road behind the sign. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk forward. His pace was measured, careful. In the still night, Rumpelstiltskin could hear the boy muttering under his breath. 

Counting. 

“What are you doing?” he asked after a moment.

“Watch,” was all Jefferson would say. “It should happen any minute now. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty--FUCK!”

From out of the darkness, a deer came barreling down the road. It ran at full speed along the painted yellow stripes on the pavement. Head bent, antlers pointed, it was dead set towards Jefferson. 

With impressive agility, Jefferson swerved from his path in the center and raced back to the car. Once he was behind the signpost, the deer also changed course. It leapt into the brush along the roadside and--utterly unperturbed--walked back into the forest. 

Rumpelstiltskin looked over at Jefferson, who had braced his hands on the hood of the car. He was breathing heavily, but not too heavily to speak.

“I hate it when it’s deer,” he panted. “The moose and the bears just kind of stand there, being big and scary. But the deer are always on the attack, always out for blood.” Shaking his head, he straightened up and turned to Rumpelstiltskin with his arms spread wide. “So this is the town line, and that’s my parlor trick.” 

He stared. “You knew that would happen?”

“I knew something would happen. Animals are a pretty regular method. A few weeks ago, this road was a sheet of ice once you got past the sign. If we had come out here while the storm was still going on, a bolt of lightning wouldn’t have been out of the question. Or a fallen tree. Something like that.”

Rumpelstiltskin said nothing, so Jefferson kept explaining.

“It’s actually safer when you’re walking. Whatever happens will just kind of shoo you back to the town limits. In a car is where it gets really bad, I guess because you have a better chance of actually getting somewhere. You ever hear the locals call this the widowmaker highway?”  

“Mrs. Gold said something about that,” he nodded. He was beginning to understand. 

“Funny thing, that. If you look at, say, twenty-eight year’s worth of newspapers, you’ll see that no one has ever actually died on this highway. Lots of accidents. Lots of previous fatalities. Every family knows somebody who’s died here, sometime in the past. But no one has been killed on this road since October 23, 1983.”

“Of course not,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “The curse wants to keep people alive.”

“It wants to keep people inside,” Jefferson agreed. “Trapped like animals in a simulated habitat.” He made his way over to Rumpelstiltskin, leaned against the car next to him. “Nothing is real in this town.”

He had worn gloves against the chill. Black leather driving gloves. The headlights reflected against the rain brought out the dull sheen of them, especially contrasted with Jefferson’s gray wool coat when he put his hand on his arm. 

“You’re real,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “I don’t know how you managed it, but you are.”

Jefferson looked down at the place where they touched. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, that’s the whole point of this world--this is the place where we only exist as stories. None of us are really real. We’re not supposed to be here, not walking and talking and--feeling.”

Rumpelstiltskin could only squeeze more tightly on the boy’s arm. Early in his own experience with immortality, he had spent a decade or two grappling with the potentialities of existence and non-existence. Whether or not anything could really be true. Whether or not actions actually had consequences. Whether or not every reality and every world he knew was nothing more than a grain of sand on an infinite, eternal beach full of other realities.

It was the sort of thinking that could drive one mad. 

“I tried calling the real world once,” Jefferson went on. “The world without magic. I found the phone number for a chartered plane service in Bar Harbor.”

“Where?”

“Bar Harbor!” Jefferson snapped. “It’s a town, in Maine. A real one. Unlike Storybrooke, it shows up on maps! I called the airport there--and I was just so happy to hear another voice. This was after things started changing. Before that, all the phones in my house were disconnected.”

Jefferson rubbed his hand over his eyes, his forehead. The poor boy looked so weary, so defeated. 

“I called. And I told the lady on the other end of the phone where I was, and that I wanted a plane to come get me. There’s over a hundred thousand dollars in cash in a safe in that house, I would have given it all and more besides. But the lady just laughed at me. She thought I was playing a prank. Because Storybrooke, Maine doesn’t exist! She’d never heard of it and it wasn’t in her database when she looked it up!”

He began to laugh, a wild, manic sound that could turn into sobs at any moment. “The next time I tried to call, I couldn’t get through! I called a hundred times one day and they’d never pick up!”

“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said softly.

But he couldn’t stop. “Then! I tried to rent a boat! Lots of boats in the harbor! I went to this grumpy drunk and gave him a thousand dollars to take his boat out for the day. It was a clear day--freezing, but not a cloud in the sky. I picked a direction and I just went. I motored out into the harbor until this town was just a speck in the distance.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I could see the open ocean in front of me. The horizon was limitless. It was beautiful. For one shining instant, I though I could go anywhere.”  

Then the boy shuddered. He curled in on himself, head between his hands as he nearly bent over double. 

“And then the fog rolled in,” he whispered. “One second you could see for miles, the next I couldn’t see past the front of the boat--the bow or aft or whatever it is. The next time I saw anything, I was back at the docks.”

“Jefferson,” Rumpelstiltskin said again. He put a hand on his shoulder, wished desperately that he didn’t have to use the other hand on his cane. Jefferson needed him, needed whatever strength he had. He couldn’t be crippled now.

He stroked his back. “Jefferson, my boy, I’m sorry.”

He looked up. His dark blue eyes glinted like steel. “You’re sorry?” Slowly, he registered Rumpelstiltskin’s hands on his body. He backed away. “You’re sorry?” he snarled. “Twenty-eight years of this hell and all you have to say is that you’re sorry?”

Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “We have all suffered, my boy. Do you know what the curse did to--”

“To you?” The edge in Jefferson’s voice was sharp and jagged. “Or to Belle? Yes, I know both. I know all about the proclivities of Mr. and Mrs. Gold.”      

“And I’ve had to live with that--”

“For six months! Oh boo hoo! It’s such a fucking tragedy that you’ve got a brain-dead bimbo begging you to fill her up in every hole!”

“Don’t.” Rumpelstiltskin spoke through his teeth to keep from shouting. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

For a second, Jefferson seemed taken aback. He looked at him, level and even. Appraising. When he spoke, the hostility had ebbed away. “You know I meant Mrs. Gold, right? Not Belle.”

Rumpelstiltskin unclenched his jaw. “Yes,” he said. He took a breath. “But even then… she is still a person.”

“No she’s not.” Jefferson turned away, to look up at the trees overhead. There were no stars in the sky, nothing but gray clouds. “Even if we’re real--if we were real back in our old world--the people in the town aren’t real. Not now.” He sighed. “Mrs. Gold isn’t any more real than Dodgson or Gold or little Paige Lewis.”

“Grace,” Rumpelstiltskin said. “Your Grace.”

He nodded. “She has different parents now,” he said softly. “At least they love her. They’re giving her a good life. I watch her, every day.” Jefferson swallowed hard. “I do have you to thank for that.”

Rumpelstiltskin raised his eyebrows. “Me?”

“You remember the telescope you gave me and Leo? The magic one?”

“Of course.” The enchanted spyglass could see across distances and worlds, to focus on any single person at any time of day or night. In the old world, Rumpelstiltskin had adjusted it so that Jefferson and Leona would always be able to see Grace, and she would always be able to see them. “Did it come with you?”

A slow nod. Jefferson stood in the road while Rumpelstiltskin remained by the car. “It doesn’t have magic, but it’s still damned useful. I can see her, even if I can’t do anything else. I know she’s alive, I know she’s happy. At least I have that.”

He covered his mouth with his hand, and Rumpelstiltskin understood. 

“As for Leona...?”

Jefferson shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Nothing. Not for twenty-eight years. I don’t know if she’s happy, if she’s safe, if she’s even still alive.” Tears brimmed in his eyes and ran down his cheeks as he looked at Rumpelstiltskin. “What if she’s grown old, Dark One? What if she’s outgrown me, forgotten me? What--what if she found someone else and got married again? I wouldn’t blame her for that. But what if she had other children? Her children could be older than I am now! What if Leo moved on and lived this full, rich life that Grace and I didn’t get to share with her? And what if I never know? What if I never see her again?”

He was sobbing now. The sound was a weary ache, an old wound that had never had a chance to heal. Jefferson, poor Jefferson, was giving voice to demons that had plagued him since the curse was cast. For twenty-eight years, his pain had festered in silence, in loneliness. There had been no one for him, the poor boy. Not a single human soul.

Until now. 

Despite the uneven, rain-soaked forest floor, Rumpelstiltskin hobbled over to his friend on his cane. He wrapped his arm around Jefferson. He let the man lean against him, and silently prayed that he would be strong enough for the task. He rubbed his back, while Jefferson moaned out his agony. 

“It’s all right,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “It will be all right, my boy.”

Jefferson didn’t answer, just shook his head and swayed to the rhythm of his sorrow. Rumpelstiltskin stood by him. He stayed, while Jefferson wept. He offered whatever support he could. The crying eased, though the pain would take far longer to abate. 

A drop of water landed on Rumpelstiltskin’s ear. Had that come from a tree branch, or was it starting to rain again? 

“Come on, my boy.” He shook Jefferson gently. “Let’s at least get into the car.”

With a deep, shuddering breath, Jefferson managed to stand. He walked on his own to the side of the road. Opening the backseat door on the driver’s side, he slid across the red leather bench. There was plenty of room for Rumpelstiltskin.

He didn’t wonder why Jefferson had chosen to go to the back seat instead of the front, why he wasn’t in a hurry to drive out of the forest, what he expected to happen next. Those were questions that had been answered already.

Jefferson was waiting for him. He had wiped the tears from his face, but when he tried a smile, it was too shaky to be convincing. His back was pushed up against the far door. His long arms and legs tried to sprawl out, but the car was too cramped for that kind of thing. They would have to be close, if they were going to be there at the same time. 

Before he got in, Rumpelstiltskin took off his heavy coat and laid it over the front seat. He left his cane up there as well. He wouldn’t need it in such close quarters. When he took off his gloves, his wedding ring glinted faintly. 

He hadn’t fucked Jefferson since he had married Belle. There hadn’t been enough time. The curse was coming, and every moment he had he wanted to spend with her.

But Belle was gone now. 

And Jefferson was here.

Rumpelstiltskin sat down in the back seat of Gold’s car and shut the door behind him. 

They stared at each other for a moment, as best they could in darkness. Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t see Jefferson’s eyes, but he knew them well enough. He knew how they could darken as they filled with want. How he could gaze, unblinking, lips parted, waiting for the next move.

But this time he didn’t wait. Jefferson made the first move. He leaned forward with his hands outstretched. Rumpelstiltskin felt his fingers on his face. Then his palms on his cheeks. Then his mouth on his mouth.

Jefferson had always been free with his kisses. When they’d first started, that had been a shock for Rumpelstiltskin. Many of his lovers had held kissing as something altogether different than fucking. Something far purer, more sacred, more meaningful. They would offer every part of their bodies to every part of his--all except for the meeting of their mouths. That would be too much of a violation. Jefferson had never seemed to think kisses were that important.

Or maybe he did, and that was why he gave them so generously.

When they broke apart, Rumpelstiltskin held Jefferson by the back of his neck. “What are we doing?” he whispered. 

“Missing our wives,” Jefferson answered. Then he kissed him again. 

It was thrilling, even to be this close to another person. To feel his heat and his weight, to hear his breathing in his ears, to smell the scent of another man’s body--the cologne and the sweat and the unique essence of Jefferson. That hadn’t changed. Even after all this time. Even after marriages and curses and resentments--Jefferson tasted just the same. 

They began to touch. Shirts were pulled out of trousers. Buttons were undone. The boy’s body was so smooth, so firm, so strong. Jefferson’s hands started cold, but soon warmed on Rumpelstiltskin’s skin. Ties and scarves were cast aside. Rumpelstiltskin ran his lips over the scar on Jefferson’s neck, as he had done a hundred times, before the boy had started wearing the collar that marked him as Leona Ogg’s. The sigh Jefferson gave out at the sensation was the most erotic thing Rumpelstiltskin had ever heard in this world.         

“Hey,” Jefferson rested his large hands on Rumpelstiltskin’s shirtfront. He was more or less on top of the boy now. His suitcoat was draped over the front seat, his waistcoat was unbuttoned and hanging open. “Did I see what I thought I saw in that plastic bag?”

It took a moment for Rumpelstiltskin to understand what he was talking about. Then he saw the pale shape of a shopping bag on the floor of the backseat. Mrs. Gold had left it there.

“I have no idea what’s in that bag,” he answered.

Reaching down, Jefferson pulled it up and examined the contents. “Yep.” There was a smile in his voice. “Condoms and lube. You are hospitable as ever, Dark One.”

Rumpelstiltskin let out a breath. “Why did she buy all that? She knows I won’t use them.”

Jefferson looked up from the bag, a black paper box in his hand. “Not at all? Because this world isn’t like the old one. You really should--”

“Not on her,” he clarified. “I can’t touch Mrs. Gold. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“To Belle?”

“No.” He sat back, a little away from Jefferson. “To Mrs. Gold. It would be too cruel to her.”

There was a crisp rustle of plastic and paper, then the quieter movement of cloth. “If that’s cruelty, I hope you won’t mind being cruel to me.” 

“She doesn’t know who I am,” Rumpelstiltskin said simply. “You do.”

 In the darkness, he felt Jefferson’s body shift again, leaning against him. Deft hands undid his belt buckle. Strong arms lifted him up, for just long enough to pull down his clothes. Smooth fingers glided over his legs, his thighs. 

His cock.

“I know who you are.” Jefferson’s voice was soft as he stroked Rumpelstiltskin into beautiful hardness. “And you know who I am. You always have.”

He felt the needful, wet heat of Jefferson’s lips on the head of his cock. Then, in one skillful, fluid motion, the boy opened his mouth and swallowed him to the hilt.

“Oh, fuck!” Rumpelstiltskin moaned loudly enough that it echoed around the car interior. “Gods, boy! Give a man a bit of warning first!”

Without seeing him, Rumpelstiltskin knew that Jefferson was smirking when he came up. “You look different, but you feel the same in the dark. It’s been too long since I’ve done that to you. Or to anybody.”

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes. “Have you had sex at all? In the past twenty-eight years?”

He shook his head back and forth between Rumpelstiltskin’s thighs. “Good thing I’m ambidextrous.”

“And I thought six months was bad.”

“We have each other now,” Jefferson said. “We may not have anyone else in this world, but we have each other. We have now.” He grasped Rumpelstiltskin by the shaft. “I have this. And I’m going to make the most of it.”

“Fuck.” Rumpelstiltskin threw his head back against the headrest while Jefferson set to his work. His hands felt for his body in the darkness. His bobbing head, his tense shoulders and arms, the sensitive shell of his ear. “You don’t have to,” he whispered. “I do like talking to you too.”

Jefferson came off his cock with a pop. “We can talk when I’ve got my cock in your ass. How about that, Dark One?” 

“Wait.” Rumpelstiltskin pushed him up. Jefferson went along, but his hands kept moving. “Don’t call me that, Jefferson, please.”

He was still stroking him. “You told me once that your name has power.”

“It does, but not here. Not in a land without magic. And besides, we’ve been through so much together. I think this is a power I can trust you to wield.”

Jefferson chuckled a moment, and looked down. One of his hands was still pumping back and forth along the length of Rumpelstiltskin’s cock. The other was gently cupping his balls, rubbing them ever so slightly. He placed a kiss on his groin, around the base of his shaft. 

“Alright,” he whispered. Then he gave him another kiss. “Rumpelstiltskin.”

The shudder began at the base of his spine. Perhaps there was a hint of magic in it. Emma had brought magic to Storybrooke, it was possible he was feeling it. Perhaps it was only that Jefferson was the first person to touch him since Mrs. Gold’s failed attempt to pleasure him on their anniversary. Perhaps it was that this was the first time he had heard his own name--his true name--in more than twenty-eight years.

“Again,” he breathed. “Please, my boy.”

Jefferson was moving faster now, his caresses were rougher. His voice was more sure when he said, “Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Oh fuck,” he gritted his teeth. He felt his body tighten. His hips jerked up erratically, but Jefferson was there. Jefferson was with him. Jefferson would make this so good, he always did. “One more time.”

It didn’t have to be three times, but it was such a nice number, and people expected this sort of thing.

Knowing what was coming, Jefferson clenched his grip into a choke-hold. He moved his face into the dim light coming through the car window.

Rumpelstiltskin could see the boy’s eyes as he looked at him. He could see his plump lips begin to form the word that would make him come undone. He could even see the smooth stretch of skin between Jefferson’s cheek and his nose and his mouth. That was where his semen would land.

“Rumpelstiltskin!” 

The name was a roar, and he roared back--hungry and desperate and heart sore but not now. Not in this moment. Now he had Jefferson. Now he had completion. Now he had peace and satisfaction. Now he could rest in oblivion.

He breathed. And he heard Jefferson’s breathing in the darkness. He collapsed against the leather seat, and Jefferson settled in beside him. Blearily, he felt the boy take his wrist and put his fingers to his face. Hot, sticky fluids dripped down Jefferson’s cheek. Moving Rumpelstiltskin’s hand for him, Jefferson coated his fingers in semen, then sucked them into his mouth.

“You’re delicious,” Jefferson murmured. “But this is very much why I said we should use a condom.”

Dazed from the intensity of his orgasm, at peace for the first time in months, Rumpelstiltskin chuckled. “You can put one on,” he sighed. “When you stick that massive cock of yours up my arsehole.”    

[adiwriting]

(gif by @darlingnotso​ <3 )

@arielana​ requested: I would love to see them actually talk about some of the moments from previous seasons that hurt or were awkward when they happened, for example ”ends with a whimper” or ”tortured lust/sup bro” (or anything else, so much tension to choose from). Not as a fight, but instead when they are cuddled up together, feeling safe, able to have a soft conversation about how they both felt and to comfort each other, realizing how far they have come, maybe able to tease each other about it even.

As always, prompts for this verse are open. Drop them in my inbox or message me  - anon is off for the time being while I wait for some hate to die down, but if you message me and want the request to remain anon, just say so and I will honor your privacy always <3 

PSA: As I stated last week, I will be putting money towards the Navajo Nation COVID-19 Relief Fund every time that I post Malex fic. If you are willing and able to help, feel free to donate as well, every small bit helps. My friend @michaels-blackhat​ also made an excellent post of other ways to help if you are unable to do so financially. 

Week 15

Alex sits between Michael’s legs on the chaise, leaning against his back as he drinks his morning coffee. The dogs are running around the yard, distracted for a change, giving them a quiet moment to themselves. Like they used to have before they adopted four dogs at once and their house had become complete chaos. Lovable chaos, a chaos that they both thrive under, but still chaos. 

“The garden looks great,” Alex comments. “Good job, babe.” 

Michael nuzzles his nose into his neck, his breath tickling Alex in the most delightful way. “Thanks, I’m thinking about building the dogs a playhouse next,” he says softly, leaving a trail of kisses. “It’s nice to have a yard.” 

“It’s nice to have somebody to tend to the yard,” he says, tilting his head to provide Micheal with greater access in his explorations. 

He’s stopped questioning all of Michael’s multiple projects a while ago. Alex just loves that he’s been making their house a home for them both. Something that’s uniquely both of theirs. It’s everything he’d hoped for when he’d bought this house. He’d been naive then and thought their path back together would be smooth. That the moment he showed up with open arms, Michael would be there waiting for him. 

Looking back, that hadn’t been fair. But Alex is glad that, despite everything, they’ve still managed to make it back to each other. 

He takes another sip of his coffee, smiling at the caramel Bailey’s that Michael had spiked it with. They’ve got nowhere to be today and it’s the perfect excuse to day drink. They’ve both had a long week between work and the latest alien drama and they deserve to spend the day doing nothing but lounging around. 

“I will happily tend to your yard whenever it’s needed,” Michael says. “Gotta make sure everything’s pristine in case Mrs. Register decides to call HOA on us again.” 

Alex freezes at the words and Michael immediately takes notice, stopping his kisses and pulling away to watch his face.

“It’s our yard,” he says carefully. 

They haven’t talked about this. Not really. Alex has been too nervous to mess up their domestic bliss with a potentially difficult conversation. After all, Michael is sleeping here every single night. It hardly seems important to get caught up on the semantics of it all. 

Except hearing Michael say ‘your’ instead of ‘our’ has a wave of panic moving through him and he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t know why. 

Michael smiles at him and leans in to kiss him, but Alex pulls away before he can. 

It’s not the first time Michael has said something like this to him. Each time Alex has allowed Michael to kiss him and change the subject, brushing it away like it doesn’t matter. This time, though, it matters. 

Alex takes a deep breath, summoning all of his courage and prays he’s not about to ruin things between them. “Why do you always tell people you don’t live here.” 

“Um…” Michael looks away, shifting in his seat. Alex scoots back and sits on the edge of the chaise so that they can look at each other properly. “Because I don’t?” 

The words sting and Alex’s immediate impulse is to push back. To come back with biting words of his own and retain some power in the conversation. But those are old habits that got them nowhere in life, and they’ve both been working actively on doing better. He swallows down several mean and unhelpful retorts, before it processes in his mind that Michael isn’t looking at him with any spite.

Michael is playing with the fraying hem of his sweatpants. His shoulders are squared like he’s ready for war, but his eyes tell a different story. He’s nervous and insecure. He’s not preparing to go to battle, he’s bracing himself for bad news. 

Alex scoots closer and reaches out to place his hand on top of Michael’s. “You’re going to ruin those sweatpants if you keep pulling on that thread.” 

Michael looks up at him, and while he doesn’t reach out for Alex, he doesn’t stop Alex when he reaches to hold his hand properly with one hand, and threads his fingers through his hair with the other. In fact, he leans into the touch. 

“I consider this place as much yours as it is mine,” he says, knowing that Michael has to feel the same, at least to some degree. After all, he’s spent the last 3 months making this place into a home that works for both of them. Taking complete ownership of all the upgrades. 

Or maybe Alex was wrong. Maybe the fact that Michael has been constantly working to remodel the house is because he doesn’t feel at home here. There’s a twisting feeling in his gut that used to send him running for the hills, but he doesn’t do that anymore. He doesn’t run away from hard things. 

“You never asked me to move in with you,” Michael says pointedly. 

Alex snorts, dropping his hand from Michael’s hair. “That’s because you already live here. All of your things are here—”

“Not all of them,” he interrupts, defensively. 

Alex just keeps going. “And you already sleep here every night.” 

“That’s because it’s easier for you to move around here than the airstream with your crutches and all,” he argues. “Plus, the dogs need a fenced-in yard.”

“Michael,” Alex says, seriously. He waits a moment or two before Michael meets his eyes. “I didn’t ask you to move in with me because you were already here every night. It didn’t seem necessary.” 

“Is that the only reason?” he asks. 

Michael stares at him and it’s moments like this that he’s convinced Michael has the same psychic abilities as Isobel. He’s always able to see right through him. It was unnerving at first, but Alex has learned to appreciate it. He has somebody to call him on his bullshit. 

“I guess I was scared to ask because I didn’t want you to say no and lose all of this,” he admits. 

“Why would I say no?” Michael asks, not unkind but clearly confused. 

“Why would you say yes?” The words come out of his mouth faster than he can think and when he realizes what he’s just said, he’s positive that he’s just opened up a much bigger can of worms than simply a conversation about where Michael gets his mail delivered. 

Michael looks at him like he’s a dumbass. 

“Because I’m already here,” he says a fond smile growing slowly on his face. He tugs on Alex’s hand until he practically falls into Michael’s lap. They shift around until they are both comfortable, Alex with his head in Michael’s lap and Michael with his hands in Alex’s hair. 

“Does this ever feel temporary to you?” Alex asks, his voice barely a whisper, but Michael hears him just fine. 

“Like we’re living in a glass house?” he asks. Alex nods and Michael says, “Yeah.” 

“Why?” he asks, frustrated for the both of them. “We both know that we love each other.” 

Michael shrugs and leans his head back to look at the sky. “I guess I’ve never had anything permanent before. Or unconditional.” 

“You’ve had Max and Isobel,” he says. Alex’s own thoughts and feelings about Isobel and Max’s behavior towards Michael after Rosa died aside, Alex knows that they love their brother unconditionally. 

“Yeah, that’s different though,” Michael argues, and Alex almost misses it when he adds, “They’ve never left.” 

The defensive part of him nearly brings up the fact that Max died and left Michael to pick up the pieces, but that wouldn’t be fair nor would that help their relationship. They are supposed to be communicating. Alex has been working with his therapist on how to talk through his feelings without feeling the need to throw his walls up. 

“I’m not leaving,” is what he says instead, because it’s what Michael needs to hear.  

“I know,” Michael says quickly. 

“Do you?” he asks, watching Michael’s face carefully. 

“I do,” he says with a soft smile. “In my heart I do know that.” 

“But?” Alex asks, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. Alex feels it sometimes, too. On his worst days when his insecurity gets the best of him, he starts questioning how long this can really last. 

“I guess it’s hard to trust that I’m worthy of it,” he says. 

Though it’s the answer that Alex expected, actually hearing the words shatters Alex’s heart. He knows that Michael has a laundry list of traumas that lead to him feeling insecure, but the fact that he’s contributed to that list actually breaks his heart. 

“I know that we never apologized for the things that happened before,” he says. 

Michael shakes his head. “We didn’t need to. We wiped the slate clean and promised to look forward together and do better.” 

“We did,” he says carefully, choosing his words wisely because he’s never been very good at conveying what he wants to say in a way that Michael can actually hear. “But maybe we should have talked about it first.” 

“Okay…” 

Michael squirms around in his seat like he wants to be done with this conversation, but his eyes tell a different story and that’s when Alex knows that he’s right. It had been easy when they first were getting together to just look ahead and stop keeping score. But pretending like they’ve never hurt each other in the past and aren’t perfectly capable of hurting each other again in the future if they aren’t careful was the easy answer. It allowed both of them to avoid a difficult conversation where they would have to face some pretty ugly truths about themselves. 

“You know all those times I walked away were never about you,” Alex tells him. 

“Weren’t they?” Michael says with a scoff. “You’re a decorated airman and I’m a criminal.” 

Alex sits up, angry at the words coming out of Michael’s mouth. 

“You’re not a criminal,” he says sharply. It doesn’t matter who is talking badly about Michael, even if it’s Michael himself — especially if it’s Michael himself — Alex is always going to get defensive. 

Michael gives him a knowing look and Alex deflates. “When I said that, I was out of line. I didn’t mean it.” 

“You meant it,” Michael says, eyes trained on the game of tug of war that Wendy and Peter are playing so he doesn’t have to look at Alex. 

“Maybe I did,” he relents. “But I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I was just frustrated.” 

“With me,” Michael says, always so quick to confirm whatever self-deprecating narrative he tells himself and Alex hates that. 

“No, that what happened with my dad unraveled your entire future,” he argues. “I felt so guilty for the fact that you didn’t become some brilliant engineer. I was mad at myself that I let my dad destroy your life.”

“What happened in that tool shed didn’t destroy my life, Noah did,” Michael says, tears filling his eyes. “Project Shepard did. Years of abusive foster homes did.” 

“I know that now,” he says. 

Michael opens his mouth a few times to speak, but closes it each time, shaking his head. Alex doesn’t say anything. Since adopting Bell, he’s been reading a lot about how to help animals that have been through severe trauma. He’s been surprised to find that so much of the literature relates to his own needs coming from an abusive home. He’s come to realize that both Michael and he have their own unique way of reacting to the trauma in their lives and those reactions, while they align nicely at times, often push against each other. 

This isn’t the time for Alex to force an answer out of Michael in an effort to gain the control that he feels he needs to be able to breathe. Alex needs to wait for Michael to come to him. He needs time. 

Bell comes over to them and Michael sits back so that she can jump onto the chaise with them and curl up between them. They both reach out to pet her, hands touching in the process and the smile that Michael gives him helps assure Alex that everything is going to be okay. Even as they discuss the ugliest parts of their relationship, there’s a trust there that Alex has never experienced before. 

Michael isn’t going anywhere. He never has. Even when things between them were at their worst, they still somehow always knew they could rely on each other. 

So Alex lets go of his need to control the conversation and refuses to allow his brain to start coming up with strategies on how to handle whatever Michael is going to throw at him. He just waits. Waits and trusts. 

“After you left that summer, I was really angry,” Michael finally says. “And I stayed mad for a long time. I used to hate that you could just show up, whenever you wanted and get whatever you wanted, and yet, I never seemed to get what I wanted.” 

Alex takes a deep breath, biting his tongue on the words that could so easily tumble out of his mouth right now. Nothing Michael is saying is untrue, it’s just bias. He doesn’t have the entire story, and that’s not Michael’s fault. That’s Alex’s fault. 

“I never got what I wanted either,” he says with tears in his eyes. “I wanted you. I wanted this.” He gestures around at the home that he thought they were building together. That he hopes they still are building together. 

“I know that now,” Michael says, repeating his words back to him with a soft smile. 

“I know that you were just being defensive because you needed to guard your heart and couldn’t trust me to stay… but when I first came back, the way you would speak to me sometimes just broke my heart,” Alex admits. “I fell in love with a boy who would whisper the cheesiest romantic lines in my ear, and I came home to a man who was sarcastic and bitter and looking to hurt me.” 

“I think we both were looking to hurt each other at times and knew exactly which button to press,” Michael says. “I’m not proud of how I acted when you first came home.” 

“You can be proud of some of it,” Alex teases, trying to lighten the mood since Michael’s face is starting to look too sad for his liking. 

“Like the reunion kiss?” 

“That was a good kiss,” he says, remembering how relieved he had been when Michael had finally reached out and taken what both of them wanted but Alex didn’t know how to ask for. “Or that time you told me you never look away.” 

Michael shakes his head making a face. “I don’t like that memory.” 

“Why?” he wonders. 

There aren't a whole lot of memories when Alex first came back to Roswell that he’d describe as happy, but pretty much everything from Michael telling him he never looks away right up until Isobel had shown up with those damn bagels, Alex holds pretty close to his heart. 

“Do you really feel like I’m the one that looks away?” he asks with a deep frown. “Like I was the one to leave back then?” 

“You never even said goodbye.” Alex isn’t trying to start a fight here, but Michael has to get that he’s the one that pushed first. 

“I was in jail,” he says defensively. 

“You got locked up on purpose,” Alex says, not letting go of this one. It’s one of the pains that has fed a large chunk of his Michael related insecurities. That Michael didn’t care enough about him to give him a goodbye. That perhaps Michael hadn’t loved him as much as he’d told Alex he did. 

“I didn’t know how to say goodbye to you,” Michael says, grabbing his hand over Bell, his eyes imploring him to understand. “My entire life was falling apart and you were the only good thing I had… Then you told me that you were leaving me and you never even explained why. You just said it like it was no big deal and I had all of 36 hours to adjust to the news that you were shipping off.” 

“I didn’t say I was leaving you. I told you I was leaving,” he corrects him. 

“Same thing.” 

“I would have made it work,” he said. “To keep you, I would have done long distance.” 

Michael shakes his head. “No, Alex. You wouldn’t have.” 

“I would have tried,” he argues. 

“Really? You would have risked everything with your dad and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell? You would have risked that all for me?” Michael says with disbelief.  

Alex sighs, thinking back to what things were like for them back then. Perhaps Michael is right. Maybe he was too broken and scared back then to fight for what he wanted. But he’s not that boy anymore. 

“I wanted to. I wanted you. I just… I couldn’t deal with everything,” he admits. Michael reaches over to wipe a tear from Alex’s cheek. “I’m willing to risk everything for you now though.” 

“I know,” Michael says, thumb caressing his cheek lovingly. “I know you are and I love you for it.” 

“I wish I had been braver back then,” Alex says. 

“Hey, we’re here now, right?” he says, and Alex is so grateful that they are at this point in their relationship where they can talk about these things without it dissolving into a huge fight. But still, it doesn’t change the fact that not talking about all of their past has led to both of them feeling insecure in their relationship. 

Alex leans over Bell to give Michael a sweet kiss. When they break apart, Michael has that look on his face like he wants to say more but isn’t sure he should. 

“What?” 

“Was I really that bad?” Michael asks. “I mean, I know I was getting into fights, but I was getting into fights with the town bigots. It’s not like you never punched any of those assholes. And I was stealing because I couldn't go to the doctor and I couldn’t afford medical supplies. But I was never violent around you. The worst I ever did around you was smoke weed, and half the time you were the one supplying it.” 

Alex debates how to explain it to Michael in a way that he’ll understand. Even now, with some distance and time, he’s not entirely sure that he was seeing things clearly back then. To Alex, it didn’t matter that he rarely saw Michael drunk and out of control, or that he never actually saw him in any of the fights around town. He heard about each of them. 

And each time he would hear about it, all he could think about was his dad, who would come home to get drunk most nights and with each drink his abuse would shift from emotional to physical. He didn’t want to stick around and see how long it would take for Michael to escalate. 

Now, he knows that Michael never would have. He knows that Michael has spent his entire life learning to control his temper and his powers. That he never drinks enough to lose control. That he never lets himself get violent with anyone unless they’ve said something hateful about somebody he cares about. Michael is soft and good. He’s not the kind of man who thrives under anger and violence. 

But how was Alex supposed to know that at the time? All he’d ever known was anger and violence. 

“You weren’t the only one who never had anything permanent or unconditional,” he says instead. “I didn’t know what I was doing either. Or how to help. And I didn’t know how to handle the guilt I felt around you for what happened with my dad. I think… I think it was easier for me to run.” 

“Run off to war,” Michael says, giving him a look that has Alex rolling his eyes. 

“Yes, I see the irony, thanks,” he says, rubbing at his leg. “It’s not like my dad gave me much choice in the matter.” 

“So he forced you into it?” Michael asks. “When I asked you if your dad was making you do it, you brushed me off. Gave me some bullshit line about finding your own power.” 

“My dad told me that I was either going to enlist or I would be cut off completely,” he said. “Those had been my options since junior year when I started looking at colleges. I was prepared to be cut off. But after Rosa died and Liz left and you started spiraling… I just didn’t feel like I had anyone.” 

“You had Maria.” 

“Maria was never leaving Roswell. And I sure as hell wasn’t staying. So I enlisted,” he says. “I know it must sound stupid to you, the fact that I didn’t know how to survive without my dad’s money… But I didn’t. And I still really wanted his approval for some stupid reason. I felt like… Like maybe if I enlisted…” 

“Like he would finally love you,” Michael finishes for him. 

Alex nods. “I know you think I’m stupid for giving him so many chances to be a decent human being.”

Michael looks like he’s about to give an angry retort of his own, but swallows it down. “I should never have called you stupid that day, I was just frustrated,” Michael says. “I’m just not like you. People suck and the world is overwhelmingly awful. My anger does make me feel safe. It’s what fuels my power. I don’t know how to let it go and I’m not sure I want to.” 

“You don’t have to,” Alex says quickly. “I mean I do hope that you eventually will. Because anger is bad for your health and I’m assuming that is true whether you’re human or alien. But it’s not fair for me to criticize your healing process. We both have a lot of trauma in our backgrounds. And we survived this long because we each came up with different coping mechanisms to get through. We shouldn’t judge each other or expect each other to deal with things in the same way.” 

“Did Dr. Celan tell you that during your last checkup with Bell?” Michael asks with a teasing smile, wiping away the tears from his eyes before Alex has a chance to. 

“Hey, dog trauma and people trauma isn’t that different,” Alex argues. 

John comes walking over to them and collapses on the ground beside them, whining in the way he always does. 

“Guess it’s probably time to get them back inside in the air conditioning,” Michael says, leaning down to pick John up and hold him against his chest. 

Alex looks across the yard to where Wendy and Peter are currently harassing a poor rabbit. “Wendy! Peter! Leave that thing alone!” Alex calls after them. 

“Let ‘em. That damn rabbit is going to destroy the garden,” Michael complains. 

“Yeah and the moment those two idiots bring a dead bloody rabbit to the door, I’m going to lose my mind,” he says. 

“You’ve been to war and a dead rabbit is too much?” Michael teases.  

“What if they eat it?” 

“You worry too much,” Michael says, standing up and walking towards the door, whistling for the kids to come inside. 

“Says the dad who literally carries that one everywhere,” Alex says, grabbing his crutch so that he can follow everyone into the house. 

“He gets cold,” Michael says defensively, covering John’s little ears as if his feelings might get hurt. “And his legs get tired.” 

Alex smiles at him fondly, rolling his eyes. Michael is ridiculous but he loves him for it. Seeing Michael with the dogs has only increased Alex’s desire to see Michael with a baby. With their baby. But they shouldn’t get too ahead of themselves. First, he has to convince Michael to move in. 

“So, back to the original topic,” he says. 

“Which was?” Michael asks, distracted as he puts John down in the kitchen in front of his water bowl. 

“Moving in with me.” 

Michael stands up and gives him an amused smile. “Are you asking?” 

Alex lets out an annoyed huff at Michael being deliberately obtuse, because he knows that Alex isn’t always the best with his words. But if Michael wants to hear him say it, he can do that. 

“Michael Guerin, will you move in with me,” he asks. 

Michael beams at him, moving to stand in front of him and place his hands on Alex’s waist. “Of course. I was waiting for you to ask.” 

“I want you here,” Alex assures him. “Always.” 

Alex leans in and captures Michael’s lips with his own, tasting the coffee and Baileys on Michael’s lips as well. His hand slides up Michael’s sides as they shift closer together and deepen the kiss. He holds onto his crutch with his hand, feeling unsteady, but trusting Michael to make sure he doesn’t fall. His hand moves around his shoulder until it finally finds its way into his beautiful curls. Their tongues slide against each other as they both pull one another closer, Alex feeling Michael support his weight with his telekinesis, so that he doesn’t have to cling so tightly to the crutch. Alex’s hand moves to pull at the drawstring of Michael’s sweatpants when Michael pulls back. 

“Before we change the subject completely,” Michael says, sounding out of breath, which gives Alex endless satisfaction. “Can I tell you something?” 

Alex nods. 

“I’m not angry all of the time,” he says. 

Alex gives him a confused look. Unsure what he’s getting at. 

“You said that you want me to let go of my anger and I said that I wasn’t sure that I wanted to,” he says. Alex nods. He remembers. “I’m not angry all of the time.” 

“Okay...” 

“I’m not angry when I’m here with you. With the dogs. I’m actually pretty content,” he admits. 

Watching the way that Michael smiles at him, Alex is pretty sure that he understands exactly what Michael is talking about — He’s never been more content in his life.

Tagged: @callieramics​ @redstalkingdeath​ @alexmaanes​