#and then I stubbornly beat my head against a challenge that was really ridiculous

[claypigeonpottery]

ahhhh 😌

the relief of getting to build pottery again after… like three weeks 😬

finally starting on some commissions I’ve had on my whiteboard since 2024! feels good

[gabekidd]

Know You Better Now (BTOOT sequel), Part 2

Probably not the best idea to drop this right after Extreme Rules, but I can’t wait because 😭 And that’s all I’m gonna say. Thank you for reading, and please enjoy!

Know You Better Now

Part: 2/?

Pairing: Kenny Omega x OFC x TBD 👀

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: Language, ANGST

Find more of my fics here.

Tag squad: @galacticstat @hotyeehawman @hdbngsprnva @kingswitchblade @bec0m @betsy-bradock @heelchampbucks @linziland13 @librathepheonix13 @gabbynorth98 @exe-babymox-exe @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @brokenglassslippers @rocca09 @meteora-fc @kawaiikels @adriii-omega @thatgirlforever5 @sugar-melts-mo-fo

“Did you see the look on PAC’s face when he realized Alex broke up the pin? He was so-ho-ho piiiissed.”

Nick could barely finish speaking before he emitted a laugh that sounded more like an asthmatic wheeze, and everyone else joined in, the boisterous boom bouncing off the walls of The Elite locker room and making Alex’s ears ring. She’d never felt so out of place.

“He looked like an angry gremlin,” Karl piled on. He contorted his face and hands and made everyone guffaw and bark even louder. Alex rolled her eyes. Out of all of them, Karl annoyed her the most.

“Yeah, that was quick thinking, Alex,” Matt said. “I knew you wouldn’t let us down.”

He sent her a crooked, shit-eating grin. Had he not tacked on that last part, it might have been half a compliment. But he knew exactly what he was doing—and Alex did not have the patience for it.

“Us? Last time I checked, Kenny is the AEW Champion, not The Elite.”

The room went dead silent. Matt’s smirk vanished.

“Don’t act like you know anything about The Elite,” he bit. “You’ve been here all of two seconds. We were selling out the Tokyo Dome when you were still working bingo halls.”

“Whoa!” Kenny interjected. “Watch who the hell you’re talking to like that, Matt.”

The atmosphere went from shocked to tense; palpable. Matt’s jaw flexed, obviously embarrassed to have been put in his place in front of the boys. Alex smirked. He deserved it.

Kenny sighed into the quiet. “Alright, you know what? Everyone out.”

“What?” Gallows balked. “We gotta celebrate your big win, man—”

Don cut him off. “You heard what he said, everyone out!”

He herded them all toward the exit, and other than a few side-eyes and under-breath comments, they went without argument. It was the first time Alex had ever been thankful for Don to step in.

The door fell closed, and Alex and Kenny were left alone. His eyes were much softer than they’d been just a few seconds before.

“Are you alright?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It’ll take a lot more than that for Matt to get to me.”

“I know, but he shouldn’t have said it at all. It was out of line.”

“It’s Matt. What do you expect?” she returned. It made Kenny purse his lips in disappointment.

“He’s not out to get you, Alex. He’s just protective of his friends.”

Her eyes darkened. “Is there a reason he thinks he needs to protect you from me?”

He breathed out in frustration. “Come on, that’s not what I said.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I wish you two would get along.”

Alex stubbornly crossed her arms and looked across the room. This wasn’t the first time he’d said that to her. She knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“Hey.” Kenny gently gripped her shoulders, and she looked back up at him. “I want you to feel like you’re a part of the group, Alex. And I know right now you don’t,” he quickly added before she could interject. “But give it time. You’ve been at home working on getting healthy, and the boys just want to be sure that you’re a team player. Which… I’m pretty sure you proved you are tonight.”

She lightly sucked her teeth. “I did that for you, not—”

“I know,” softly interrupted. “But any of them would have done the same thing.”

Alex rocked back on her heels and turned her eyes down to her shoes. She understood where Kenny was coming from, one thousand percent. But she didn’t think she should have to prove herself to “the boys.” And truthfully… she didn’t want to be a part of The Elite, either.

But she also didn’t want to get into an argument with Kenny, so she just let it go. “Well, thank you for putting Matt in his place,” she said. She wrapped her arms around his waist and drew herself close to him. “I’ll do my best to get along with him so long as he’s not an ass to me.”

“That’s all I want,” Kenny returned, and he placed a kiss on her lips that was perhaps meant to be short and sweet, but neither of them pulled away. He brought his hands to either side of her face, and she pressed her fingers into his back as she lightly sucked on his bottom lip. He smirked against her mouth. “You want to get in the shower with me?”

She pecked his lips again. “No.”

He pulled back in surprise. “Why not?”

“Because. I look way too good right now to ruin it.”

He flashed a crooked grin. She already knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Fine. I’ll just ruin it when we get home.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Alex had honestly hoped Kenny would ruin it when they got home. But unfortunately, they didn’t go home alone; Matt, Nick, and Don went with them. At least the Good Brothers had decided they’d rather go drink at the hotel bar.

“So, have you officially moved in yet, Alex?”

Nick smirked at her from across the kitchen island, his mouth full of pizza. They’d ordered some “late night celebratory pies,” as Kenny had put it, but Alex didn’t have much of an appetite. She didn’t dignify Nick with a response either, instead just pursing her lips and taking a sip of the red wine she’d poured herself. As if he wouldn’t have already known if she’d officially moved in; he was one of Kenny’s best friends.

“Shit, I forget that she doesn’t ‘officially’ live here,” Kenny commented, making air quotes around the word. “It already feels like you do. Isn’t most of your stuff here?”

“Most of my clothes are,” she answered. “But I still have an entire house full of stuff in Virginia.”

“Wasn’t your cousin interested in potentially buying from you?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I suppose. She asked me if I was thinking about selling, but we haven’t discussed it.”

“Well… maybe you should.”

He sent her a grin. She chewed the inside of her lip. “Maybe,” she returned, and took another sip of wine.

“Speaking of official,” Don segued. “Is Alex officially with us now?”

Alex stiffened. She didn’t at all appreciate that Don had spoken as if she wasn’t standing right there. But she couldn’t really answer him, either.

“Come on, why wouldn’t she be?” Kenny returned.

“Because tonight was the first time she’s been on AEW programming in what—nine months?” He fixed Alex with his beady eyes and finally addressed her directly. “People still think of you as part of Best Friends. And even though you broke up that pin in Kenny’s interest, the fact of the matter is that you technically helped Orange, too.”

“What?” Kenny let out a loud, disbelieving laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Don! She would have done the exact same thing if it had been Orange going for the pin instead of PAC.”

“Would she?” Matt challenged. He glanced at Alex. “Would you?”

Kenny’s eyes widened at him. “Really, Matt?” he charged—but Alex spoke up.

“No, if they’re so concerned about it, then I’ll tell them.” She leaned forward on the island and looked Matt dead in the eye. “Of course I would have done the exact same thing if it had been Orange going for the pin instead of PAC. And you know why? Because I was out there in Kenny’s corner tonight, and tonight was the first time in months that I’ve seen or even spoken to Orange or any of the others. So no, I’m not a part of Best Friends anymore.”

It hurt to finally say that out loud; but it wasn’t anything Alex hadn’t already known deep down. She’d known it as soon as Kris had popped out of that claw machine a month ago… maybe even sooner. And their behavior toward her that night—Trent’s behavior—had only proven it.

Kenny wrapped an arm around her waist and placed a kiss on the side of her head. Matt, meanwhile, said nothing. It seemed she’d finally shut him up—for now.

Don nodded. “That’s all I need to hear.”

Alex shifted. Somehow, she doubted that.

“Well, now that that’s out of the way,” Nick interjected. “Do you guys have any ice cream?”

“Jesus, Nick,” Matt breathed; but Kenny perked up.

“We do, actually. Alex has turned me onto Blue Bell.” He started for the freezer. “Do you want some, baby? We still have mint chocolate chip.”

Alex shook her head. “No. I’m actually gonna head upstairs; I’m exhausted.”

Part of her knew that, by going to bed, she was only inviting them to talk about her more. But she didn’t care. Matt could spew whatever bullshit he wanted; Kenny knew where she stood, and that was all that mattered.

He nodded. “Okay. I’m honestly not far behind you.”

She put her wine glass in the sink and gave him a kiss on the way out of the kitchen. Her legs were tired as she climbed the stairs to their bedroom. Our bedroom, she realized she thought of it as, not Kenny’s bedroom. She wasn’t sure when she’d made that switch, but she was hyper-aware of it now after Kenny’s comment just a few minutes before. But just the thought of selling her house stressed her out; she had enough on her plate as it was, and she didn’t want to give any of it any more of her energy for the rest of the night—

Beep-beep!

But she got a text just as she crossed into the bedroom. She sighed and pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans—and stopped when she saw the screen.

It was from Trent.

I’m sorry about what I said tonight. I just didn’t know how to react.

Alex’s brow lowered as she read the message. She knew Trent, and something in her gut told her that he hadn’t sent that on his own. No; Kris had probably beat him over the head until he’d relented. He would have been better off not sending anything at all.

She purposefully opened the text so that he would get the “read” notification, and then she locked her phone, tossed it onto the bed, and went into the bathroom to do her nighttime routine. If there was one thing she definitely would not give any more of her energy to, it was that.

* * * * * * * * * *

The Dynamite following Double Or Nothing wasn’t until Friday, so Alex had nearly an entire week to mentally prepare herself. She needed the extra time. Because, in the interest of “publicly clearing up any confusion” about where her loyalties lied, Don had booked her a sit-down interview with Excalibur.

She’d been furious when he’d told her. So had Kenny—he’d set it up behind both their backs. But of course, Don had talked him down and convinced him that it was “the right move.” Afterward, Kenny had profusely apologized to her; but she’d just told him to forget it. She’d do the damn interview. She wanted to speak her mind.

But now that she was sitting across from Excalibur in one of the backstage areas at Daily’s Place, she felt like she might vomit.

He spoke to the camera as he opened up the interview. “I’m sitting here with Alex Hawthorne, who made a surprise return after a nine-month absence at Double Or Nothing this past Sunday… and before we get into the interview, Alex, I just want to say welcome back. You were gone rehabbing a shoulder injury, and you’ve clearly come back in fighting shape. I think we all did a double-take when you walked out with Kenny Omega on Sunday.”

Alex felt herself relax a bit. It felt good to be acknowledged. She hadn’t felt that in a while. “Thank you, Excalibur, I appreciate that. It feels good to be back, and I have come back in fighting shape—not just physically, but mentally, as well. When I found out that my shoulder needed surgery, it was a bitter pill to swallow. And I’m not gonna lie; I struggled with it at first. But I distinctly remember waking up in that post-op room after surgery, and I realized right then and there that I could either let this injury drag me down, or I could use it as an opportunity to come back even better than before. And I promise you—and the entire AEW women’s division—that this isn’t the same Alex Hawthorne who competed in that ring nine months ago.”

Excalibur nodded. “Which begs the question: when can we expect you back in the ring?”

She breathed out. “Soon,” she nodded, her tone determined. “I still have some work to do, but it’ll be soon.”

“And we all look forward to it,” he said. “But you mentioned that you’re not the same Alex Hawthorne you were nine months ago. We’re used to seeing you at ringside in support of Best Friends… however, you returned in Kenny Omega’s corner for the AEW World Championship match at Double or Nothing, a match that also included Orange Cassidy. Is it safe to say that this new and improved Alex Hawthorne has moved on from Best Friends?”

Alex’s heart jumped into her throat. There it was, the million-dollar question, the reason for this entire interview, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d think Don had fed that line directly to Excalibur. But he didn’t like Don any more than she did—and she needed to give an answer. So, she did.

“It’s safe to say that, yeah.”

Her stomach churned and she looked down at her hands in her lap. It was out there now. She couldn’t take it back.

“Well, I have to ask,” Excalibur started, and she flicked her eyes back up at him. “You interfered in the match on Sunday and most likely prevented PAC from winning the AEW World Championship. But you also prevented Orange from taking the pin. Is there no part of you that did that for him?”

Alex’s brow lowered. First Don, and now this? Why was everyone so confused about her motive? “No. I did that for Ken—”

“Who cares who ya did it for!”

She was abruptly cut off by an angry, distinctly accented voice, and then PAC unexpectedly stalked into the interview area. He fixed Alex with a wild-eyed glare. “It’s like Excalibur said… you cost me the AEW World Championship.”

Alex leaned away from him in her chair as he moved closer. The entire sight of him was jarring, that ubiquitous scowl of his contorting his face, his dark, wet hair dripping water down his bare chest. She looked him over in confusion. Why was he already in his gear, ready to go? He and Penta had a match that night against the Young Bucks, but the show didn’t start for another two hours.

Excalibur tried to intervene. “PAC, we’re doing an interview here—”

But PAC just talked over him. “I know you’ve been gone a long time, Alex. And I have to admit, you do look good. So, here’s a bit of advice: instead of interfering in his matches, why don’t ya stick to being Kenny Omega’s arm candy.”

Alex’s eyes darkened. Suddenly, all her surprise turned to anger. “Arm candy?”

“You heard me,” he spat.

“Do you even own regular clothes? Or do you just live in your gear dripping wet like you emerged from the Atlantic Ocean?”

“Hey, PAC!”

Another person interrupted then, and Alex and PAC both looked over to find the Young Bucks, Brandon Cutler, and the Good Brothers stalking toward them. But it wasn’t just them. They had Rey Fenix—and it looked like he’d already been jumped.

Matt smirked. “Did you lose something?”

PAC growled in his throat. He charged toward them—but they dumped Fenix to the floor and retreated, laughing as they did. Nick held up his hands. “We’re saving our energy for the match tonight!”

PAC let them go, choosing instead to help his friend. Meanwhile, Alex jumped up and ran after them—the interview was over.

“Hey!” They all turned to look back at her, but her focus was zeroed in on Matt. This was his doing, she knew it. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

He scoffed. “To send a message, obviously. Come on, Alex… I thought you were with us now?”

He flashed another crooked smirk, and then they all started off again, patting each other on the back and hyping the Bucks up for the match that night. And Alex just stood and watched them go, all the while realizing that she was with them now—and she’d all but said it for the entire world to hear.

* * * * * * * * * *

“You ready to head home?”

Alex looked up at Kenny, re-emerging from her thoughts. She nodded. “Please.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile and held out his hand, and she took it and let him pull her up and lead her out of the locker room. It was the end of the night, and she’d been ready to head home before a single match had even been contested.

To her great surprise, Dynamite had started off by airing the footage of her interview. Alex had barely been able to watch, knowing what was coming, what she’d said. But when it was all said and done, it didn’t even feel like it was about her anymore. The interview had led right into the tag match between the Young Bucks and PAC and Penta—the story became the Super Elite’s attack on Fenix, not her return. And Alex wasn’t sure if she was more relieved that they’d distracted from the fact that she’d basically disowned Best Friends, or more angered that they’d taken away from everything else she’d said.

“I am ready to just relax and spend the weekend alone with you,” Kenny said as they walked down the hall. He grinned at her. “I told everyone to lose my number.”

Alex returned his smile, and Kenny lifted the back of her hand to his lips; but she barely noticed as he kissed her. She was too distracted by the group of people who had appeared in the corridor.

Best Friends. All of them. And it didn’t take long for Trent to say something.

“Where’re you going, Alex? Kris has a Dark match. Oh, wait—that’s right. You’ve moved on from us.”

“Dude,” Kris chastised and lightly smacked his shoulder. “Don’t.”

Kenny scoffed. “I’d listen to your alien friend, Trent.”

“No one was talking to you,” Orange returned.

Kenny narrowed his eyes at him. Alex squeezed his hand in protest; the last thing she needed was for him to go on one of his power trips. Thankfully, he let it go.

“I’ve already taken care of you, so I won’t embarrass you in front of your friends,” he dismissed. “Come on,” he said, and he started to pull Alex past them; but Trent just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Was that you giving that interview? Or were Kenny and Don pulling the strings on your mouth?”

“Fuck, Greg,” Chuck breathed—but Alex spoke over him.

“Was that you who sent that text Sunday night, or did one of them make you send it?”

She glared a hole through Trent, unwavering and angry, waiting for him to say something for himself. Anything. But he just bit down on his jaw, silent. Alex scoffed. It was just as she’d suspected.

“What text?” Kenny asked in confusion. Alex didn’t take her eyes off Trent as she answered.

“Trent sent me a text after Double Or Nothing apologizing for being a dick to me before your match. He said he ‘just didn’t know how to react’ to seeing me.”

“I didn’t know how to react,” Trent fired back.

“Oh, so it was just the apology that was bullshit, then.”

He breathed out and looked stubbornly away, nothing to say again. And as she continued to stare at him, Alex realized that she wasn’t surprised or even hurt by his reaction. Instead, she was vindicated in everything she’d been feeling.

Her gaze sharpened. “But since you asked so nicely; yeah, that was me giving that interview, one hundred percent. And you have no room to be angry about it, Trent, because whether you want to admit it or not, you all moved on from me months ago.”

Chuck’s brow furrowed in confusion. In hurt. “What? Alex—”

“Save it,” Kenny cut him off. “Good luck in your match, Kris,” he added, and then he tugged on Alex’s hand, and she turned and went with him, ignoring the way her sinuses burned.

[hotholiday]

hiiiii mecs I wrote a little drabble and I posted it on ao3 last night but i thought why not put it on tumblr too bsjsbdbd so here enjoy some fluff of elu at the beach☺️

here is the link to the ao3 :)

~

Lucas really should have prepared himself better for a trip to the beach with Eliott, he thinks to himself as they set their backpacks down on the sand.

It’s ridiculous, because it’s not like Lucas doesn’t see Eliott shirtless pretty much every single day, as he sleeps without a shirt, and of course during…other things. But the thing is, this is the first summer that they’re a couple, and of course that means they saved up their money for a little weekend trip in the middle of July, between Eliott’s and Lucas’ birthdays. And that means that Lucas has to be around a shirtless Eliott for three days straight, pretty much unable to do anything about it, being surrounded by other people on the beach. It might not sound like a real challenge, but for someone who was deep in the closet until just a few months ago, having to shove down all physical longing again is going to be difficult.

So that brings them to now. Lucas and Eliott shrug their backpacks full of water and snacks off of their tired shoulders and spread their towels across the hot sand, kicking off their shoes. And then Eliott is reaching down and pulling his shirt over his head, exposing his pale skin (Lucas is really going to have to pester him to wear sunscreen), broad shoulders, toned abs, muscular back and all, to the sun beating down. Lucas pulls off his own shirt too, but not before taking a good look at his boyfriend, who is just staring at the sea through his sunglasses with a goofy smile on his face. 

Eliott turns back towards Lucas, apparently catching the distraction on his face, because he walks over to Lucas and takes his face in his hands, giving him a quick kiss. “This isn’t going to be a problem for you, is it?” He asks, teasingly, motioning down to his body. Lucas lightly slaps him in this chest. “Oh, fuck you. Walking around all model-like, you seriously expect me not to stare?”

Eliott chuckles and takes off his sunglasses, tucking them into a pocket of his backpack. “Hm. I see. What do you say we take a quick dip to cool off?” He asks, gesturing towards the ocean. Lucas supposes it would be a good idea. Not only is the sun’s heat already causing him to sweat, but what would a beach trip be without swimming?

“Okay, yeah. But I swear, if you try to dunk me I’m breaking up with you.”

Eliott just smiles further and takes Lucas’ hand, whispering, “No promises,” into his ear, earning another slap to the arm. They run from their spot on the beach to the ocean.

They splash into the water, the cool temperature immediately relieving the heat from Lucas’ skin. Lucas is stopped where the water is only up to his calves, but Eliott seems to have other ideas, wading determinedly to where the water is already covering his stomach. Before Lucas can ask what he’s doing, Eliott dives under the next wave, back muscles contracting beautifully if you ask Lucas, and he comes back up, pushing his hair out of his eyes and grinning at Lucas.

Eliott opens his arms, raising them towards the sky, basking in the sunlight, and yells, “Come on, Lucas! It feels amazing!” Lucas crosses his arms stubbornly and just shakes his head, with a smirk resting on his face. Nothing about the ocean bothers him, he really just wants to work Eliott up. And it works, because at once Eliott is standing up completely and making his way purposefully through the waves in Lucas’ direction with a devilish grin on his face.

As he gets closer and Lucas doesn’t have to shout, Lucas says, “You better not do what I think you’re about to do.” 

Eliott is close now, and he mocks a confused expression. “Oh, what would that be?” He says, right before scooping Lucas into his arms, his tight grip not letting him squirm. And then Eliott’s turning back around, walking back into the deep ocean.

“Eliott, put me down! I swear to god, if you throw me in I’m going to kill you. Do you have any idea how long it’ll take for my hair to dry? Eliott!”

But Eliott isn’t listening, just keeps the smile on his face, walking further into the water, so that now Lucas can feel the water gracing his back. And even with Lucas trying to break free of Eliott’s hold, Eliott isn’t budging, his grip is too tight. Then Eliott stops, when he’s about waist deep in the water, and just looks down at Lucas in his arms with a fond look in his eyes, not saying anything until Lucas has stopped moving.

Lucas finally stills, returning Eliott’s gaze. “Well you got me out here, now what?”

If possible, Eliott’s smile grows softer, and he simply says, “I love you.”

Lucas’ mind stutters, but he can’t let Eliott know that just yet. “Asshole,” he mutters, but then he brings up a hand to rest on Eliott’s face, and Eliott turns slightly towards the touch. “I love you, too.” Eliott leans down and kisses Lucas softly, then, just a brief press of their lips together, and Lucas can taste the salty water on him. When they pull apart, Eliott keeps his forehead leaned against Lucas’.

And then Eliott whispers, “One.”

His grip tightens once again around Lucas.

“Two.” 

“Eliott I swear to fucking god if you throw me in-“

“Three!”

“Eliott!”

All of a sudden Lucas is launched into the air as if he weighed the same as a feather, arms and legs flailing around, until he hits the water with a splash.

He scrambles around helplessly under the water for a moment before coming up for air, harshly shoving his soaking wet hair away from his face, only to find Eliott bent over, laughing so hard his eyes turn into crescent moons.

“Oh, you think this is funny, do you?” Lucas says as he makes his way over to where Eliott is standing. He doesn’t give Eliott a chance to respond, jumping into Eliott’s arms, entirely with the intention of knocking him off balance, but it just ends with Lucas’ legs wrapped around Eliott’s waist, Eliott’s hands holding him under this thighs. 

Eliott leans forward, nuzzling their noses together. “Was this your big, bad plan? Come jump in my arms, let me hold you, and you thought I wouldn’t like it?”

Lucas scoffs. “Be quiet. It’s not my fault you’re a thousand feet tall and won’t budge. The day I grow a few extra inches it’s over for you.”

Eliott grins but doesn’t say anything, just closes his eyes and keeps his face against Lucas’. And Lucas can feel Eliott’s breath on his face, can feel the salt already collecting at the nape of his neck where he sifts his fingers through the hair there. And suddenly Lucas is overcome with a wave of feeling; for this boy right in front of him, this gorgeous boy who Lucas somehow gets to love, when just a few months ago he never could have imagined this life for himself. 

His face must have gone blank for a minute, because Eliott moves his face back to look at Lucas more clearly. “Are you okay?” He asks, all joking tones from earlier aside.

Lucas smiles and nods, bringing their faces closer together again, pressing his lips firmly to Eliott’s. “I’m perfect. I love you, Eliott.”

Eliott seems taken aback by the sudden sentiment, and it shows in the way he blinks wetly, his eyes full of emotion. “I love you too, Lucas, so much. God, you have no idea.” Eliott moves his hands from Lucas’ thighs to wrap around his waist, holding him tighter. And now they’re just hugging, standing in the middle of the ocean, feeling each other’s heartbeats from how close they’re pressed together. It’s peaceful, the two of them, surrounded by screaming children and rowdy groups of friends, and they’ve managed to create this little bubble for themselves.

Until Eliott spins around and tosses Lucas from his arms once again.

[freddiesaysalright]

Soft in Love Part 9

A Gwilym Lee x Student!Reader Fic

Summary: Y/N is an acting student in her last semester of college. When a professor unexpectedly can’t make it for the senior capstone class, a very famous (and handsome) substitute is called in. When they connect, they face a few challenges.

Word Count: 3.2k

Tag List:  @psychosupernatural​, @someone-get-a-medic​, @bensrhapsody​, @deakyclicks​, @crazylittlethingcalledobsession​, @minigranger​, @crazyweirdocalledfriday​, @benders-diamond-earring​, @im-an-adult-ish​, @anincurablefangirl​, @kiainspace​, @lookuptotheskiesandsee​, @god-save-the-deaks​, @assembledherethevolunteers​, @misslolasworld​, @not-john-watsons-blog​, @spacedustmazzello​, @theindiealto​, @riddikuluslypotter​, @depressedbitchxox​, @tenement-funstah​, @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls​, @sarablog10​, @johndeaconshands​, @coincidence-ithinknots-blog​, @simonedk​, @queenlover05​, @goodoldfashionedloverboyy​, @the-claire-bitch-project, @kerouacsroad​, @rose-writes-prose​ If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: The drama intensifies! Gwilym and Y/N make some important decisions regarding Edith’s blackmail.

Warning(s): none!

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8 

Part 9 here we go!!!

That night, Gwilym picked you up from your dorm. His hands were sweaty as he waited for you to emerge. Again, he was debating telling you about Edith and her threats. That way you wouldn’t be so angry at him. But a stronger part of him didn’t want to make you feel bad. Still, he knew you were going to have questions. He had to come up with something to say to satisfy you.

You slid into the passenger seat, his heart skipping its usual beat at the sight of your smile. When you leaned over to kiss him, he was surprised.

“You’re not angry with me?” he wondered as you sat back to buckle up.

You shook your head. “Daniel told me what happened.”

“Daniel?”

You explained what Daniel told you in the dressing room. You even shared his suggestion to break up and take away Edith’s power. You carefully watched Gwilym’s expression at this. His mouth turned down and he narrowed his eyes. He pulled up to his hotel in silence. As you followed him to his room, you grew more anxious. He wasn’t actually considering what Daniel said was he? You had refused it as an option because it felt impossible. Did Gwilym not feel the same? What did that mean?

Gwilym opened the door for you and you walked inside, legs slightly shaking. You weren’t sure what he might say now. Would he end it?

He flopped down on the bed, lying spread eagle. You crawled up after him and cuddled into his side. His arm draped over your shoulders. It made you feel so safe.

“We’ve got to figure something out,” he said. “She can’t take shows from you.”

“I dunno, baby,” you said. “Maybe we should just let this happen.”

“It’s not right!” he protested.

“No, it’s not, but what can we do?” you replied. “We’ve sort of done this to ourselves.”

“I know,” he sighed irritably. “But I hate this for you.”

“I do too,” you agreed. “I really do. Especially opening night. I wish you had given her closing instead.”

“She asked for that,” he said. “But I couldn’t.”

You sat up and looked sharply at him. “What?! Why?!”

“Now that, I really can’t tell you,” he said. “I’ve got something in mind for that night.”

“A surprise?” you asked, curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?” he returned.

He sat up too and pressed his lips to your temple. Then he sighed again. Your eyes searched his face. You saw in his eyes a deep sadness. It had come on so suddenly, it frightened you.

“I think Daniel’s right,” he said. “I think we should...call it a day.”

Once again, tears filled your eyes.

“Is that really what you want?” you whimpered. 

He looked at you, took in your tearful face, and he pulled you into his arms.

“Of course it’s not,” he said. “I just don’t want you to miss out on your rightful chance. I care about you too much, and if being without me is better for you -”

“Stop it,” you sighed and tugged yourself away from him. “Gwilym, you either want to be with me or not. Which is it?”

“I want to be with you,” he answered without hesitation. “It’s just that -”

“No, listen to me,” you said. “It doesn’t matter if we break up. She still heard what she heard, and so did Dan. We can get through this as a couple or separate and still have the same problem.”

He looked thoughtfully at the floor.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have considered it.”

You offered a watery smile. “It’s alright. Just...fuck, Gwil. What are we going to do?”

“So now you’re on board to do something?” he teased.

“Yes!” you said, perking up. “Edith can’t do this. She can’t take my shows away from me and she can’t take you away from me.”

“I admire your conviction, darling,” he said with a soft smile.

“Well, she can’t,” you repeated stubbornly. 

His heart swelled as he looked at your determined face.

“You’re so cute,” he said, cupping your cheek. You closed your eyes to his touch. “I love you.”

Your eyes snapped open to meet Gwilym’s. His were wide, frightened, as if he’d just told you something terrible instead of perhaps the most wonderful thing you’d ever heard in your life.

“You...you love me?”

Gwilym took a deep breath, relaxing his face. He looked at you. This time with strength and confidence.

“Yes, Y/N,” he said. “That’s where my heart is. I love you.”

A smile spread slowly across your face as he said it again.

“I love you too,” you replied. “So, so much.”

He grinned. Then pulled you in for another kiss. It was soft and tender and expressive. Everything that reflected the moment. Your heart felt full. This was so right.

“I love you,” he said again as you parted. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you giggled.

“Because I love you, I’m not going to let Edith have this,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m going to restore your nights to you and go to the Dean’s office myself.”

Panic shot through you.

“No!” you cried. “They’ll fire you!”

“So what?” he returned. “I’ll tell them it was me, and you shouldn’t be punished.”

“If you’re going to lie, it might as well be a flat out denial,” you pointed out. “Let’s face it, I came on to you. I think we should let her go to the Dean’s office and then deny when there’s questions.”

“It is her word against ours,” he said.

“Oh, fuck,” you sighed. 

“What?”

“I forgot about Dan,” you said. “He heard us too. She’s got another witness.”

“Shit,” he muttered.

A beat passed as you both pondered.

“Y/N, please let me do the honorable thing,” he said. “Let me take the fall for this so you don’t have to lose.”

You bottom lip quivered. “But then you’ll leave…”

“It won’t be forever,” he said. “I’ll stay in New York until you’re done and then we’ll figure it out. Together.”

“I can’t let you,” you told him. “I can’t let you take this alone.”

“Please,” he said again. “Let me do this for you.”

A tear slid down your cheek. Any more ups and downs and you were sure your head would literally be spinning.

“We don’t have to decide tonight,” you said. “I’m so tired. Can’t we just lay down and forget about all of it? We love each other, we should be celebrating.”

He smiled gently.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll order some champagne and then we’ll just relax. It’s been a long day.”

“You’re the best,”  you told him.

He did order champagne and some dinner from room service. Together, you ate, took a bath, and then settled into bed and watched some trashy reality TV show. For a couple hours, all thoughts of Edith, the show, and anything else were null and void. You were in love with Gwilym, and he loved you right back. Despite everything going on, you were completely and totally happy.

On Thursday, when you arrived early, Edith and Gwilym were already there. He was speaking calmly to her but she looked furious. Her eyes flashed toward you when you walked through the door. She stormed toward you.

“Just because you’re fucking the professor, you think you can get whatever you want,” she spat. Literally. She was so close to you, you felt drops of saliva on your face. “Well, I’ll get rid of you right now!”

“Oh, shut up,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “I got the part of Esther before Gwilym was even here.”

She stamped her foot and then whipped around to face Gwilym again.

“I’m going to the Dean’s office right now!” she shouted. “You’ll both be out of here!”

“Go then!” you yelled back.

She swept out of the auditorium, trying to slam the door behind her, but it was too slow and it clicked shut softly. When she was well away, you jogged over to Gwilym.

“What do you want to do?” you asked frantically.

He stared at the spot where Edith disappeared.

“I want to keep teaching,” he admitted. “I want to stay with you.”

“So, we lie?” you wondered.

He nodded and looked at you. “We lie.”

You sat in anxiety for the remainder of the ten minutes until the rest of the class started showing up. Gwilym started to go on with class as usual, starting with attendance, when suddenly, Edith burst back into the auditorium. You would have rolled your eyes at her dramatics if it weren’t for the three people following her: Dr. Curtis, the head of the department; Dr. Dragel, the Dean of Students; and Sheri Peacock, the Chancellor.

Gwilym glanced at you before turning to his old teacher.

“Dr. Curtis,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of our guests?”

“It’s very serious, Gwilym,” Dr. Curtis replied. “Miss Bernard here has made an...an  accusation.”

“What sort of accusation?” Gwilym asked.

God, he was good. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought him genuinely confused.

“About you and Y/N,” Edith said. “You’re sleeping together!”

The whole class turned eyes on you and Sloan gasped loudly next to you. Andrew was staring daggers into your left side. Gwilym blinked and his mouth dropped. You wanted to disappear into your chair. You didn't think she’d do this in front of the whole class.

“I - are you joking?!” he cried. “That’s ridiculous!”

“It is not a joke, Mr. Lee,” said Dr. Dragel. He was a stern man who was not very popular with the student body because of his strictness. “This sort of accusation is no laughing matter. She claims she heard the act taking place in Dr. Bennett’s office.”

The whole class was whispering now, a wave of shock going through them. Sloan grabbed your arm and leaned into your ear.

“Is it true?” she hissed.

You gave a curt nod, barely moving at all, and only after ensuring that the three upper faculty members had their back to you. Sloan glared fiercely at you.

“We should discuss this in private,” Dr. Curtis said. “There are dressing rooms backstage where we won’t cause so much commotion.”

He scanned the crowd and found you.

“Y/N, come with us, please,” he said.

You stood up, feeling every person’s eyes on you as you shimmied down the row and into the aisle. The murmurs of everyone were driving you crazy. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but you guessed the general idea. They were discussing favoritism and scandal. You clearly heard the word “slut” from someone a row in front of you.

Putting your head down, you followed the faculty members and Edith to the dressing room. The same one where Gwil had delivered the horrible news to you earlier that week. Chancellor Peacock and Dr. Dragel looked between you and Gwilym as Dr. Curtis closed the door.

“Well, Miss Y/L/N,” said Chancellor Peacock. “Is it true? Are you and Mr. Lee in a relationship?”

“No!” you insisted. “Edith’s been jealous of me all semester, she’s making this up!”

“Don’t lie, I heard you!” Edith interjected.

“Miss Bernard, please,” said Dr. Dragel. “We’ve heard your side of the story, now we need to hear theirs.”

“I don’t know what she heard - if she heard anything at all,” you said. “But I don’t go to office hours ever. I don’t need to. This class has only one grade and it’s the show.”

“Why would Miss Bernard accuse you of something like this?” wondered Chancellor Peacock.

“Edith’s ambitious and jealous,” you said. “She really wanted my part. Not to mention, she’s been hitting on Gwilym all semester. Everyone in class will tell you that. I guess it was because she was upset I got more attention from him than she did.”

“Mr. Lee, anything to say?” Dr. Dragel asked, turning to Gwilym.

“Y/N is right, Edith has made several advances, all of which I’ve turned down,” he said. “I don’t want to say she’s a liar, but I can’t speak to what she heard that day.”

“Were you...watching pornography or something?” Dr. Dragel pressed.

“What? God, no!” Gwilym answered. “That office doesn’t even belong to me. I wouldn’t dream of doing something like that.”

Chancellor Peacock looked at Edith. “Is it true you made advances toward Gwilym?”

Edith’s face went pink. “Well - I - yes, I did,” she admitted. “But I stopped after a while because he was so clearly into Y/N.”

“Was it clear?” Dr. Curtis spoke up. “Y/N is the star of the show, it’s natural for the director to spend extra time with her. In all my rehearsals with you, I’ve never noticed anything other than professionalism from both of you. Edith on the other hand, I did see being flirtatious.”

“And you didn’t say anything?” Dr. Dragel snapped.

“Well, I expected the girls to like him,” Dr. Curtis said. “Look at him! It didn’t seem very serious, so I let it go.”

“Let me get this straight,” Chancellor Peacock said. “Edith has been flirting with Gwilym consistently over the semester. She wanted Y/N’s role from the start. Y/N got more attention from Gwilym. Now, just two weeks before the show opens, she’s come to us with a claim of an inappropriate relationship between Y/N and Gwilym that no one else can corroborate. Is that the situation here?”

“Yes,” you and Gwilym said in unison then exchanged a playful smile.

“Well, then,” Dr. Dragel said. “I think it’s perfectly clear what’s going on.”

“Hold on, I have another witness!” Edith said desperately. “Daniel was with me when I heard them. He heard it too.”

Your stomach dropped. Dr. Curtis left the room to fetch Daniel and get his statement on things. Your heart pounded. Would Daniel lie? Would he defend what Edith said? He told you he didn’t agree with her, but he was already on academic probation. If he lied now, and was found out, he could be suspended from the school.

You looked at Gwilym, willing him to look back at you, only he didn’t. He couldn’t really. It would be too obvious now. Your hand itched to clasp his for comfort. If this was the moment you went down together, you needed his support. Only, you couldn’t. Everything hinged on what Daniel might say. When the door opened, it startled you.

“Okay, Mr. Snow,” said Dr. Dragel. “Here’s what we’ve heard.”

He went over everything again. What Edith said, what you and Gwilym said, and all the information. Daniel listened, not looking at anyone, his focus solely on Dr. Dragel.

“So,” Dr. Dragel wrapped up. “Did you hear them...uh...well - did you hear them -”

“Bangin’?” Daniel finished.

Dr. Dragel flushed. You fought back a brutal urge to throttle your ex boyfriend.

Chancellor Peacock interjected. “Did you hear them having intercourse in the office?”

“Nope,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

Edith’s mouth dropped. Yours almost did too, but you couldn’t look shocked. You looked relieved instead, which was also something you were feeling.

“We went to his office so Edith could ask to play Esther for one night,” Daniel went on. “Gwilym said no. That was that.”

Gwilym sighed with relief. You did the same.

“Well, I think this makes things perfectly clear,” said Dr. Curtis, glaring at Edith. “You, young lady, will be -”

Guilt washed over you. Edith wasn’t lying, and as angry as you were with her, she didn’t deserve to be punished.

“Dr. Curtis,” you said, interrupting. “Please don’t punish Edith. I know her actions were drastic, but jealousy is a complicated emotion. I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

“Miss Y/L/N, this is a serious thing she accused a member of our faculty of,” Dr. Dragel said. “And quite frankly, any disciplinary action is not up to you.”

“I agree with Y/N,” Gwilym added. “It was likely a misunderstanding. Something she thought she heard, but didn’t. Besides, it’s not like I’m a permanent member of faculty.”

“Permanent or otherwise,” Dr. Dragel went on. “To falsely accuse someone of taking advantage of a student makes cases like these all the harder for real victims of such offenses. It isn’t right.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, seeing the anguish on Edith’s face, but Chancellor Peacock stepped forward.

“Dr. Dragel, Dr. Curtis, and I will deal with Edith now,” she said. “The rest of you may go.”

“But -”

“Y/N, we must go,” Gwilym cut across you.

He led you and Daniel back out, and all three of you went to the next dressing room on the other side of the stage. You popped in and closed the door.

“Thank you!” you cried, throwing yourself into Daniel’s arms. “Thank you so much!”

“No problem,” he returned. “You can owe me one.”

“I owe you a thousand,” you said, pulling back and looking at him.

“Why stand up for Edith, though?” he asked.

“Because she wasn’t actually lying,” you replied. “I felt kinda bad.”

Daniel laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Really, Daniel, thank you,” Gwilym added, extending his hand.

Daniel shook it. “Really, it’s nothing. The situation is all kinds of fucked, but I thought you guys deserved a chance.”

He looked at you and remembered how you’d exclaimed your love for Gwilym. He would never tell you so, but that was what convinced him to lie for you.

“It means a great deal,” Gwilym said. “Now, I’ve got to go tell the class what happened so they don’t get carried away.”

“Oh, yeah, pretty sure Mary and Leon already started a rumor that Y/N is pregnant,” Daniel said.

Gwilym sighed. “Oh, God. I might be too late.”

You chuckled as Gwilym kissed you swiftly on the cheek and went out. You looked at Daniel.

“Seriously, Dan, if there’s anything I can do for you,” you said. “Let me know.”

He looked at the floor and toed the ground with his boot. “Well...there is one thing.”

“Anything!” you reminded him.

“D’you…” he trailed off. “Ah, nevermind, it’s stupid.”

You took his arm before he could leave.

“Dan, just tell me,” you said.

He sighed. “Do you know if Andrew is into guys at all?”

You blinked, absolutely stunned.

“A-are you into guys?” you questioned.

“Yeah…” he said. “Well, mostly the one guy. But he’s so hung up on you and I dunno how he feels about...y’know…”

You smiled. “To answer your question, yes, Andrew is also into guys. And I think he’s mad enough at me now to be over me.”

Daniel chuckled. “Alright. Thanks, Y/N.”

“If you’re gonna go for Andrew, you better not cheat on him,” you warned.

“I won’t,” he said with a laugh. “Promise.”

You went out together to the auditorium.

“...so please forget what you heard,” Gwilym was finishing up. “It was all a misunderstanding.”

“So, you and Y/N aren’t sleeping together?” asked Leon.

“No, we’re not,” Gwilym said.

Your eyes found Andrew and Sloan. Both of them were glowering at you. You knew they were mad, and you were pretty sure you understood why. You just hoped they could understand too.

[filmisastory]

So It Goes

Summary: Through the late drunken night at another Shelby’s party, your friend Charlotte challenges you (Rose) with a game to kiss another fella for the night. Though, with a kiss to a foreign man comes with consequences at the bare of Tommy’s hands.

PART I

The base rattled the chandelier and the overdramatic decor glistened throughout the room. As your eyes scanned over the sea of people who are carelessly and mindlessly chatting, - whilst grinding their bodies to the sound of the beat.

It was as if it came out of a film scene, the noise heightened the surroundings. The loud soundtrack set in the background allured the room in a frenzy mood amongst people’s skin. The women’s jewelled dresses and the men’s well-fitted 3 suit piece have paced the evening of a luxurious party - in a way it was intimate despite the number of people.

As the alcohol has for hours set into their bloodstream - it has equal to the amount of smoke and snow that are littered on the dark-brown hardwood floor and wood-stained tables. You found herself laying against the decorative panel wall, swaying your body to the sound that continues to send a vibration to your bones, - not paying attention to your companion’s voice. “Ow”, your subtle voice yelped. The back of a hand slapped to the side of your ribs, almost knocking the hue-silver coloured glass drink out of your hand.

“Are you paying attention to me?”, her feminine British accent raised with a touch of annoyance.

“Yes”, your London accent followed with a hiss under your breath, adjusting the almost spilled wine in within the grasp of your fresh-coated fingernails.

“Really? What did I just say?”, as her physique rose from the panel wall; her right hand on her hip and her left holding a lit cigarette. A touch of attitude lingered over her lips, while her brown eyes narrowed and her nose flared with displeasure.

She comments, “Rose”, she sighs nonchalantly, “He keeps staring at you”, her eyes set on yours.

As Charlotte’s physique fades away from view, your sapphire eyes lay upon the man who has kept his eyes on you throughout the late evening.

“Are you,” she continues smoking the last end of her cigarette, “Still stringing him along? Poor fellow”, she notes. Your voice chuckled at her comment. Charlotte’s physique continues to lay against the wall, as she undoubtedly tries to rise an answer out of you.

“Charlotte, there are many women who throw themselves at him, and he can have them all. If anything, men always desire what they cannot have Charlotte, and he will not have me”, your voice states with a shred of dignity that you seem to have left.

Undoubtedly, in this driven, well-known town, you are one of the few who have not succumbed to the liking of Thomas Shelby.

“Well, in return he will not let any man have you, tsk”, she says as if it was common knowledge amongst the town.

In some ways, it was.

The thought of being a man’s property sent a spike of aggravation through your veins. It did not help that the sound of the beat rattled against your body only enforcing the inner rage that continues to enlarge at the moment.

You wanted to deny Charlotte’s claim, but that would be useless you thought.

In a lot of ways, it would be.

Considering for the past few months the lack of men courting you is an understatement.

Your hands around the cold glass tightened slightly as your sight is set upon Tommy Shelby - chit-chatting with a brunette woman at his side. Though this act did not bother you slightly, it was more of the fact that he was able to whore around, while you were knowingly restricted by his commands that he sets around his town.

It was almost as if you were placed in a gold cage - it’s golden bars seemed beautiful and shiny, but as you covered your eyes from the light, again once more it was a jail cell - held hostage by the hands of Tommy.

Though, with his bare hands, he tries to paint your world - a world filled with sunshine, shiny specs of glitter that fills the void of endless parties, expensive linens from the far lands, one too many horses, and paintings that hopes to keep yourself entertained within this dreary town. And yet, with all these specs of glitter that held freely within your hands - you were still encaged and withheld by the liking of a Shelby.

A Shelby that continues to shower yourself with gifts only for you to decline with the leftover hatred that has lingered on your tongue.

Charlotte continues to pest her conversation with utter nothingness, as your mind relentlessly remembers the amount of “no”s that you have said to him, you thought.

Your eyes escaped Tommy’s appearance, “It’s utterly ridiculous, don’t you think Rose?”, Charlotte asks. You nodded to her comment without knowing what she was alluding to, as your right hand continues to clasp onto the wine, praying the night would end fairly quickly.

Perhaps a meteoroid should interrupt the evening and send this forsaken house in a blazing - once and for all, you thought.

Charlotte’s sigh escaped from her mouth, all too well knowing that you were not paying attention to her rant. It was only then, your mouth sink to the rear end of the cup drinking the wine. “He went down on me”, you uttered, the wine trickling your throat. As if it was a secret you held onto.

As a matter of fact, it was. A harsh cough was heard with a sound of her hand pounding her chest trying to clear the air.

“Wait - what?”, She whispers harshly. The shock was displayed upon Charlotte’s features. “He-”, your voice interrupted, “No, no”, Charlotte’s left hand holding a cigarette waved aggressively in the air, “I heard you”, she paused, “Wh - how-”, she tries to convey her words.

“I was drunk”, you sipped on your drink - again, “Well, not drunk enough to not remember”, Charlotte sassed, earning your glare at her comment. “We were just caught up in the moment”, Charlotte’s eyebrow raised at your comment, demanding further information.

You sighed, “I was angry at him, so I yelled, screamed, to then only found myself on his desk legs wide open and his face down below”, rushing your words, again taking longer from the dainty glass that held enough alcohol to seep your inner anxieties. Charlotte’s laugh roared your inner ears, “Shut up”, you say annoyingly.

“I thought you hate him”, she notes, holding onto the laughter she has left, “Hate is a strong word, perhaps despise, but not hate”, you resort, “As I said, we were caught up in the moment”. Charlotte hums to your comment, as she sucks the last bud of her cigarette before putting it down, “So how many times?” She asks innocently. There was a noticeable pause, as Charlotte’s eyes narrowed staring at your gaze, “How many times”, she repeats stubbornly.

Your throat involuntarily gulps, “Like five or six, I think”, a whisper left your red lips, avoiding her stares.

Charlotte’s mouth slanted open with shock, “So much for caught up in the moment”, she jokes, whilst taking a sip of her wine.

“Six - this last week”, You remembered coherently. Immediately, your hand rose to cover your embarrassed and flushed face, whilst adjusting the side-brunette bangs that have grown. The music barely covered the choking sounds that have escaped Charlotte’s dark-lavender lips.

She continues to choke over her wine, as your lips sent into a slight smirk remembering Tommy’s mouth.

“Oh, for christ’s sake, this past week - six times”, Charlotte says, trying to control her breathing, “Did-did you ever gave him a-”, her question was immediately interrupted, “No”, you harshly comment, “I would never, and have never. I always leave the room before he even voices a word to me”, you pause, “He never even ask or mentions about sex”.

Charlotte’s body continues to lean against the wall, “Oh,”, “Damn, I want a guy like that”, she chuckles. “A man who gives me oral, yet I don’t have to do shit for him”, she sighs along with another echoing laughter.

“So”, Charlotte’s left hand immediately land on the wall, as she held her own body away towards to the side, facing your physique, “Have you and Thomas kissed?”, she questions.

“No”, she sips the wine again. “No kissing, no sex, he gives you anything you want, yet you don’t want it nor ask for it, except oral sex, pfft”, she laughs. Your hand immediately slapped Charlotte’s forearm, “I do not”, she says, “So, it’s not consensual?”, Charlotte smirks lingered, as your lips smacked in annoyance knowing she was right. “Oh, wait you were caught up in the moment..”, Charlotte says, as she winks provoking your tongue.

In the end, you only rolled your eyes to diffuse her naughty comments.

“You’ve been breaking hearts and toying with older guys, yet you don’t want Tommy?”, Charlotte questioned, almost pleased and surprised at your resentments.

“Ah, they are just playthings for me to use”, you say, as your hand plays with the stem of the wine glass.

“Or you’re just scared”, Charlotte states. Your eyes involuntarily rolled at her comment. Perhaps, if responding would reassure within the deep caverns that you held a certain emotion - not entirely sure what kind of feeling - but a feeling that is too delicate.

“I think, Tommy, knows”, you state, while your eyes glance upon his long frame with his buttoned-up dark grey vest, and his light-blue eyes capturing the woman’s attention.

“Knows that he is a play-thing”, Charlotte states. “Yes”, you comment.

“Yet, he’s not illiterate, dumb, and he still chases your beating heart - how cute”, Charlotte voice echoes with a laced of annoyance, “Maybe”, she pause, grabbing a wine glass from a waiter in passing, “He thinks he can tame you”, she chuckles, “Like, a horse, you know. Perhaps, he can ride you, maybe that will tame you”, Charlotte’s sultry comment with her eyebrow raised flirtatiously sent you into a row of laughter, “Oh, my - how am I accompanied by you, how are you my friend, really”, you joke.

“What are you going to do with him?”, Charlotte’s head nods in his direction, both of your eyes were set upon him until Tommy’s blue ones looked up in your direction, “Oh shit”, Charlotte muttered, looking away, you followed.

Both of your awkward chuckles filled your ears, as you continued to ignore the feeling of Tommy’s stare.

“Don’t kill the messenger”, Charlotte pauses as she took a sip of her wine, “Though, apparently I heard from a little birdie that Tommy has not keen liking to any other women since you set foot into town”, Charlotte remarks, with her eyes in awe.

You slightly narrowed your eyes, as your features proceed to forgo the information at your disposal. Your sapphire eyes immediately look upon Tommy, as he continues to chat within his accompanied people. Admiring from afar, his structured jaw, high cheekbone pairing with his narrowed piercing blue eyes that seemed too god-like, or evil - you couldn’t decide.

A devil disguised as an angel. A beautiful angel.

[captain-emmajones]

Prompt: Emma teaching Hook how to drive a car or him trying to teach her how to sail

I Stood in Line for Love 

I went with Killian teaching Emma how to sail, hope you will like this anon <3 

Summary:  Post 3x16. Neal has just died, and Emma is mourning. Killian offers to take her sailing, doesn't except her to say yes. On the ship, he tries to teach her how to sail, and their mutual pining almost kills them.

Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Fluff - 2000 words of mutual pining - Ao3 

Lyrics and titles are from Gale Song by The Lumineers <3 

“What am I, if not yours? What do I do with my hands when they are just hands?” Olivia Gatwood.

The words tickled his mouth. He had been stealing her glances for the last twenty minutes – more or less since she had been sitting in front of him, in one of Granny’s booth. She hadn’t said a word, had just landed in front of him with her cup of hot cocoa and a quick “’Morning, Hook.”

The elephant in the room was quite obvious. They had buried Neal just a week ago. There was a lump in his throat because he could only guess the extent of her pain and he couldn’t help her.

She was stubbornly not looking at him, hands wrapped around her mug of hot cocoa, so near and so far away at the time. Unreachable. Her undereye area was dangerously purple and her skin pale as snow. She looked exhausted.

And still she wouldn’t reach for him. She liked better to isolate herself in her grief, and how could he blame her? She had just lost her first love.

There was a time when I stood in line For love, for love, for love But I let you go, I let you go…

He remembered clearly what it had felt like to lose Milah. Agony was still a heartbeat away, but three hundred years of practice had muffled the destructive thoughts.

To make her look up, he tried a small cough, but she was stubborn. She simply wouldn’t.

It had felt like the end of the world, losing his Milah.

Until he met her.

(It bloody wrecked him to know he was not the second chance she was hoping for. Even more to know that if he might have been, it didn’t matter. She would never jump into love again.)

“You know, Swan,” he began, suddenly feeling bolder, and her eyes might have blinked to gaze at him, but she wasn’t really there, “the boy really enjoyed sailing.” A pause, he didn’t want to scare her off. Then again, she was already avoiding him so there wasn’t much for him to lose, “Perhaps, it would be relaxing for you too.”

There, he had dropped the bomb.

His heart stopped beating at his own words. He held his breath, petrified, considered her face with a lot of caution. Watched as a myriad of emotions seemed to wash over her, although she did try her best to conceal them.

Seconds flew away and his heart seemed to shatter along with them.

Clearly, this had been a mistake. Bloody hell, couldn’t you hold your tongue for a just a little longer, Killian—

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

It took him a good three seconds to realize she had been talking to him, and he even glanced behind him just to make sure.

It was then a challenge for him to hold back the very frank smile that tickled his lips. In truth, he failed miserably. “Oh! Well, I am your most devoted servant whenever you feel like it, Swan.”

His heart beamed when a very timid, very small smile curved her lips. It was a brief flicker of light, but the mask of sadness was quick to reconquer her face.

She suddenly stood up. She seemed upset, and he blamed himself. He desperately wanted to say something, anything, to ease the tension on her face.

He clenched his jaw, hand fisted on the table. “See you around, Hook,” she mumbled, and ran away.

He stared at the mug of hot coca in front him. She had barely touched it.

He shook his shoulders, as if to regain some composure, as if she hadn’t just stepped on his heart. He silenced his own pain with a sip of rum.

He simply couldn’t reach her. And it was killing him.

.

Knock, knock,… Who the bloody hell was knocking on his door on a Sunday at 9am? Couldn’t a pirate sleep in for just one bloody day of the week?

He surely did not expect to open his door to face a visibly embarrassed Emma Swan. She was wrapped in a big, blue coat and she looked endearing – not that he’d tell her.

“Oh, I woke you up,” she sounded almost sorry, and she took a step back, a very red hue painted over her cheeks, “I thought we could go sailing this morning but clearly you’re not—”

Instinctively, he quickly grabbed her shoulder and her eyes burned his skin. “No no, Swan!” She looked concern, mouth slightly open, and he lowered his tone to reassure her: “Give me five minutes, and I’ll be ready.”

When he closed the door behind him after a simple nod, he had to pinch himself. She came. To see him. His heart smiled. She came.

.

She was unable to understand what had gone through her mind. She had seriously thought it a very good idea to come knocking at Captain Hook’s door on a Sunday morning at 9am and somehow expect him to know full well she would come, and to be prepared, and not to stare at her with utter shock when he opened his door, and—

“Breath, Emma, breath” she mumbled to herself, alone in the corridor.

She was going back and forth between his room and the one she shared with Henry, her thoughts racing, this was definitely an enormous mistake, the bag of fresh pastries in her hand seeming suddenly absolutely ridiculous.

What was wrong with her? If anything, this looked like a goddamn date! She blinked in terror. He would never let her live this down.

She swallowed, inhaled deeply and pinched the tender skin of the palm of her hand.

Come on, Emma. You’re not sixteen anymore and you can spend the day with your f-friend,…

She was cut short in her anxious thoughts by Hook. He had just stepped out of his room, wearing his big, black coat.

(Nothing like the black boxers he was wearing when he had opened the door. How dare he.)

“Ready, Swan?” he attacked right away with a bright smile, and she buried her feet in the carpeted floor not to run.

She forced herself to faintly smile back.

“What took you forever?”

She cursed herself. Why did she always sound so angry when she was talking to him?

.

They made their way to the docks almost in complete silence, eating their pastries. He had probably looked completely baffled when she had handed him the buttery pastry, but then she had shoved it into his palm and he hadn’t dared to say anything besides this is most lovely, thank you Swan.

This winter morning was a real blessing for Hook. He loved the cold, salty sea air that filled his lungs with a very childish kind of joy.

He had tried to get her to talk, but his Swan was clearly reconsidering her decision to spend her morning with him and he was quite desperate to prove her wrong.

It really warmed his heart to think she would like to spend time with him. To be fair, it was your offer,…

She hadn’t glanced at him in the eye once. Instead, she was walking very steadily, hands in her pockets.

“Our vessel for the day,” he exclaimed in a smile once they had reached the ship. It was the one he had ‘borrowed’ earlier this week with the lad.  

If she was surprised to not see the Jolly Roger, she did not let it appear on her face. Instead, she nodded and offered him a small smile.

She looked adorable, with her red beanie and the same hue over her cheeks. He wasn’t bold enough to compliment her. She might have stabbed him.

Instinctively, his hand reached for her shoulder as she climbed aboard the ship. Before he could touch her, he felt her tense her muscles. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he backed away.

It hurt, in his chest.

.

Hook was a good teacher. He had a way with words. She noticed for the first time, as she was standing next to him on decks of the ship, that he had a very gentle, soothing voice.

He was guiding her hand on the ship’s wheel but did not linger there. He was holding back, she could tell, was trying to make her as comfortable as he possibly could aboard this ship.

She wondered where the Jolly Roger was, but did not dare to ask.

She understood quite quickly how to navigate the ocean, with a lot of his help of course.

The sea was indeed very calming. It distracted her from the torments of her heart, and the images of Neal’s death that were just under her eyelids. Those were exhausting her.

You could have done more. You could have saved him.

Lost in her thoughts, she made a mistake, and he had to reach for her hand to correct the course of the boat. It absolutely did not please something deep within her.

And when she made that same mistake thirty seconds later, it really had nothing to do with the sweet heat that warmed up her chest when he was near her. It was a freezing winter morning, and she was only trying to stay warm.

She had already noticed how long and thick were his eyelashes, but there was something strangely intimate when he bended towards her to show her the direction on a map, and all she could do was stare at the serious expression on his face.

She swallowed, felt her cheeks get warmer.

“See, Swan, if we follow West we’ll be able to go back to port in no time—”

He was clearly passionate about sailing. Damn, did passion look good on him.

She made another mistake that changed their path. He had a small chuckle as she watched him from the corner of her eye, biting the interior of her mouth not to smile.

“Nope, we’re going the other way, Swan,” and his hand was over hers again.

It couldn’t be wrong if it felt this right, could it?

It wasn’t on purpose either that, after feeling him right behind her, a breath away, she caved in and tentatively rested her head against his shoulder, just a little bit, just for a few seconds… She allowed herself to close her eyes, savoring this moment of rest, and intimacy.

If he noticed, he said nothing. Instead, his hand came to squeeze her elbow.

She could hear the unsaid words. It’s going to be okay. You will be alright. Henry will forgive you for lying to him.

And suddenly, it was far too much. Her eyes snapped open. She felt like drowning, and tears came to burn her eyes.

She abruptly took a step back. “I’m done with this,” she stammered, and she saw the utmost confusion in his eyes. He felt responsible, and she wanted to tell him it had nothing to do with him. She was the one who was broken beyond any repair. “You’re the captain after all, you can take the wheel,” she added, and her tone was gentler.

She spent the rest of their little trip as far as she possibly could.

It was horrendous to hear both of their hearts shatter on the ground and to be the reason of it.  

.

It was barely midday when they reached port.

She was quick to get out of the ship, was ready to run to her room, but something hold her back.

He didn’t deserve this. He deserved better.

She resolutely buried her feet in the wooden planks and waited for him to get down at his turn.

Counted backwards in her mind to silent her anxiety.

She saw relief flash in his eyes when he discovered she was still there.

“Thank you, Hook”, she whispered once he had reached her level.

She was ready to flee and never look back.

But then he was gazing at her with a lot of caution and care, and it was hard to ignore the panicked heartbeats in her chest.

“You are most welcome, Swan.” Who gave him the right to sound this gentle?

She nodded, smiled, hand fisted in her pockets. She hoped he couldn’t tell how much she was shaking.

“I’ll see you around, then,” she quickly muttered, licked her lips to hide her unease.

He gave her a nod, smiled. “Always, Swan.”

Her heart skipped a beat. He was dangerous. She had to run, to protect herself.

She risked a last look at him. “I hope so.” The words came out of her mouth without her consent, and she saw his expression change in an instant.

The frown of his eyebrows disappeared into a gentle wave of affection. His lips moved then, but no sound came out.

She took a step back, her eyes still in his. She was terrified.

When she gathered enough strength to walk away from him, she found her legs quite rigid and heavy.

.

He watched her walk away with a small smile.

She wanted him around, and the thought warmed his heart. She wanted him around even if she couldn’t bear to.

Perhaps the time would come. It didn’t matter how long it took her. He was in this for the long haul, after all.

[maerose-late-at-night]

Cupid!Callum AU

There’s things about being a Cupid that most people don’t understand. How it’s more than just shooting a few strategically aimed arrows, pulling at the tightly wound string and letting the love-tipped objects land where they’re supposed to.

Sure, they get instructions from above. Names written down in nicely curled letters, indicating their targets, the people destined to fall in love with each other. But that’s about it - other than name and location of their whereabouts, the cupids themselves are left with nothing. Some of his co-workers tend to be on the lazy side, which annoys him to no end. They figure out the next possible meeting place, arrange a certain happenstance and just… shoot.

It doesn’t bear thinking how times that lack of care can end badly. Callum’s seen the result of it at times, seen the heartbreak in its wake. People being struck that ain’t supposed to, or arrows bouncing off the side. Unrequited love. Horrid affairs that break up a family, yet leave everyone sad, alone and dying just a little on the inside. It makes him physically sick to his stomach.

It’s one of the reasons he actually takes great pride in his work. Callum’s the sort of Cupid who’s not just in love with the idea of love, but who finds himself actually falling in love along with the intended recipients. He loves every little thing about it, about them,… about their stories. Wants to set them up just right. So taking great preparation, he spends his time observing them for a long time before planning their Grand Meeting. Or their Grand Moment, in case they’ve met before. He thinks it’s amazing, how some people can be blind to what’s in front of them, years and years and decades on end… and then there’s that one Moment, where they look at each other, seeing something they hadn’t before. Callum’s usually there to witness it.

And yeah, sometimes his bosses can nag him about taking too long with it, but he’s a perfectionist.

(“It’s not actually that hard,” Gabriel had told him once, annoyance pulling at the corners of his mouth, making it even tighter than usual. “We are very aware you used to have top marks in your archery classes, Halfway, I don’t see why you’re…tithering on like this.” Aziraphale, on the other hand, had sent him a kind look at that, soft and understanding. “There’s a reason you can’t rush perfection, Gabriel. Even you can’t deny this cupid brings about some of the best matches we’ve seen in centuries”. He’d winked at Callum after, before picking up his perfectly brewed cup of tea and nibbling on a biscuit. “These jammy dodgers are absolutely delightful, aren’t they?”.)

-

The first time Callum sees Ben Mitchell, he’s on his latest assignment, round the East End of London. At first glance, Albert Square seems much like any other place he’s visited so far — there’s the usual pub stood at one corner, and market stalls weaving in and out of sight. People mulling about, spending their days and shopping for things, taking shelter from the harsh weather. Not for the first time, Callum wishes he could control it - people always seem so much happier soaking up the rays of sunshine as opposed to feeling drops of rain against their skin.  Callum can’t feel either, so he don’t mind it either way. But as a general rule, he supposes when the people are happy, that’s when he is too.

He follows one of his intended targets into the safety of the pub, smiling as she tries to take cover under her leopard printed jacket, holding it up like it’ll make a difference against the downpour. Heading inside, she shakes her head a little to clear it, pushing the wet strands of hair away from her skin. She’s a pretty girl, he supposes, though he never really looks at them that way. Folding back his wings to fit through the door after her, he’s once again happy about being invisible. Being in a room like this, on a crowded night, makes him anxious, sometimes.

Scanning the place to find the best possible vantage point, he settles on an empty chair at one end of the bar. From here, he can lean against the wooden counter, turning his face towards the gathering of girls - and get to see what makes her tick. It’s only the beginning of their girls’ night out … and he might be here a while.

But then Callum catches a glimpse of a dark grey-checkered coat, hands curled tightly around a glass, and a man’s face that make him stop in his tracks. He looks weary and angry and hurt; the cut on his lip a painful reminder of something unpleasant. For some unknown reason, Callum finds himself wanting to reach out and touch. Soothe. Make it better if he can.

It’s nothing compared to when the stranger turns to him, soft blue eyes shooting daggers connecting to his own. “Right. How about you stop starin’ and let me finish my drink in peace, yeah?”

Callum looks around dazedly, trying to pinpoint where the man’s attention is at. It can’t be him, obviously. But there seems to be no one else; and he just keeps looking straight at Callum, his eyebrow now raised in a challenge. It makes a little crease appear right above his nose. Callum doesn’t know why, but this seems important to him. Something to remember.

“I… er -” Callum stumbles out. “Sorry, are you actually -”

“… talking to you.” The man utters, slowly, like he thinks Callum might be a complete idiot. His fingers tighten even more, poised for a fight. “We going to have a problem?”

“Oi,” the landlord says, pointing a stern finger in the man’s direction. “No fighting in my bar, Ben Mitchell. You leave the nice punter alone or you and I’ll be the ones having an issue.” He turns to Callum at that, sending him a polite smile. “Don’t you worry about him, his bark’s worse than his bite. What can I get ya?”

He doesn’t understand any of this. Really, he doesn’t. 8 years he’s been at this job and not once, not once, has any person ever been able to catch sight of him. There was this old lady, who asked him to pass the salt, but she was blind as anything, so he figures that didn’t count anyway.

Being compromised like this, he should pack up and call it a day — observing the girl will look weird if people actually see him doing it — but somehow, he doesn’t want to leave this place yet.  There’s a little hum around his chest area, like there’s something warm calling to him, and it makes him want to stay.

“I’ll just have a coke,” he says. “Thanks.”

It takes him half a second to realize he has no actual money to pay for it - his grateful smile turning watery and brittle. But then, the second the thought forms in his mind, he feels something land in his pocket. Callum pulls it out to find a well-stocked wallet, small origami flower tucked between the folds. One of the petals says “read me”, so Callum gently opens it to find a message in the handwriting he knows so well. The one that always spells out his names beautifully, artfully, with care. Come see me when you’re done, please, Callum.

He stows away his worry ‘bout repercussions for another time, ears perking up when conversation around him starts again.

“Stop sulking, will ya?” The landlord says, speaking over the rhythmic background sounds of the towel swirling through newly cleaned glass. Swish squeak. Swish squeak. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you deserved that.”

The man - Ben - huffs at him. “Oh, cheers Mick. Nice of you to immediately  assume my guilt.”

Callum dares another glance at him. He wants to look closer, but he’s afraid to move.

“Yeah, well…” Mick says. “Let’s face it, we all know what you’re like, eh?”

Ben remains silent at the reproach, but the quiet is broken soon enough.

“What are you like?”

The words fly out of Callum’s mouth before he’s even consciously spoken them. Both heads twist around to look at him once more. Ben’s still wearing that heavy set frown, but Mick is looking quite amused, actually.

Ben rumbles at him. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business, mate.”

It isn’t. Callum knows it isn’t. His instructions are clear: find the girl; set her up with her intended; leave them to their happy ever after. But he.. he wants to find out why Ben’s nice-looking shoulders seem to be carrying around the weight of the world. He wants to hold Ben's gaze and squeeze his fingers. He feels his own twitch at the thought.

Callum’s being ridiculous. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Mick beats him to the punch, answering his question.

“Let’s just say that…trouble has a way of finding Ben Mitchell.” He grins. “Or the other way ‘round, possibly.” Seeing Ben’s about to interfere with some snide comment, he continues, “Anyway, what about you er -”

“Callum.”

“…Callum.” He nods. “You just passing through?”

“Er -” His eyes seek out Ben’s, but he seems stubbornly focussed on anything else. Don’t matter anyway. “Not sure yet.” He needs to come back for his charges, anyway… but there’s no telling whether this particular glitch will reoccur when he does.

“Well,” Mick says, “Don’t let this one scare you off, ey.” He puts a hand on top of Callum’s and it’s solid but it’s - cold. “You are welcome in my pub anytime.” He winks, going on to serve some of the other punters.

Callum returns to his drink, sneaking sideway glances at Ben every once in a while. He doesn’t seem to notice - he looks folded back in on himself; lonely. Callum sighs quietly, careful so Ben Mitchell won’t hear. He’d probably kick his arse if he even knew half of what Callum was thinking.  

Standing up slowly, he throws some money near his empty glass and walks over. His belly’s full of nervous jitters; but he doesn’t know if he’ll get another chance to do this, so… so he lets his hand reach for Ben, placing it against his arm that seems mostly unbruised from whatever dangerous encounter he’s had.

“Look,” he says. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean anything by it.” He bites his lip, unsure, not missing the way Ben seems to track that particular movement with interest. “Are you okay?”

Ben blinks at him, slowly. The way his eyes have glossed over a little makes Callum think they’re hiding something; maybe it’s because of the alcohol, or just some hidden emotion he don’t want to share with the rest of the world.

Ben shrugs. “I’ll be alright.”

“Okay.” Callum’s not sure he’s satisfied with the answer, but accepts it for what it is. A brush-off. A goodbye.

He should move. The weird thing is, though, he mostly wants to move closer. Horrifyingly, he doesn’t want to just heal Ben’s busted lip, he wants to kiss it better. His hand is still on Ben’s arm and bridging the gap wouldn’t take much. He knows what to do, he’s seen a lot of his matches go at it. Some tenderly, others with a raging hunger that doesn’t seem to settle no matter how many times their lips slide across each other’s.

Who knows, Callum may have even kissed someone before, in another life.

He’s brought back to the present by Ben’s amused chuckle. “Callum.” By the sounds of it, it’s not the first time he’s called.  Ben glances down pointedly, laughing at the way Callum’s cheeks flush with color.

“Oh, right, sorry.” Callum mumbles. “I’ll just - ” He withdraws his hand and makes to exit the bar. As he walks out, he feels heavy raindrops fall. Turning his face up to the sky, he basks in the feeling.

-

When he gets back, he immediately makes his way to Aziraphale’s office, as requested. It’s one of his favorite places to be, honestly. Most of the angels have decorated their rooms sparingly (Gabriel’s is stark white and clean as a whistle), but not Aziraphale. Oh no. Aziraphale’s room is filled with dark brown shelves full of ancient tomes and paperback novels, a potted plant in one corner. Callum very much suspects he spends a lot of time walking around it, taking in the smells and talking to himself for lack of more interested partner. It breathes warmth and cosiness. Speaks of a good soul.

“Well, Callum,” he starts, a smile so wide it seems to want to extend beyond his physical form. “That was quite an adventure.” Without even asking, he pours them Callum’s favorite tea, pushing the flowered cup nearer to where he sits.

“You know,” he continues, eyes shining with happiness. “I always knew it was your heart that made you special.”

[darklesmylove]

wicked games ch. 2 | jurdan

check it out on ao3 as well!

Cardan's P.O.V

Cardan could not have been more drunk, and he was dimly aware of that fact. His pupils were blown wide, laughter bubbling from his lips as he staggered into his room, leaning heavily against Locke and Nicasia.

"Cardan, walk straight."

He dimly registered the command, though he paid it no mind. In fact, he was entirely too occupied with thinking of Jude to do much of anything else. A heavy stumble landed him straight into a face full of the soft sheets of his bed. He let out an exhale of satisfaction, clutching the fabric into his chest as though it were the curve of her mortal body. "Jude," he murmured, a gentle hum of delight.

A haughty scoff made his heavy eyelids flutter open to see Nicasia glaring at him while Locke looked on in relative disinterest. "Why are you still obsessing over that stupid mortal?" she seethed, folding her arms tightly over her chest, "She killed your brother and is in exile for fuck's sake, get over her already!" Anger sparked in his chest, burning hotter with the addition of the alcohol running through his veins. "Get out, you're the stupid one," he snapped, his normally sharp tongue unable to come up with a better reply what with the wine weighing it down with sweet, cloying liquor. She visibly bristled, her piercing eyes glittering with something akin to hatred before she promptly swept out of his rooms in a twirl of sapphire blue silk.

Locke remained, his arms loosely folded over his chest as he regarded the High King in a contemptuous manner that most would consider to be borderline treason. "What is your fascination with her?" Locke finally questioned, the inquiry laced with a suspicious amount of curiosity. Cardan swiped his tongue over his lower lip, lapping up the last bit of gold staining it. A soft moan of content escaped his slightly parted mouth, his eyes fluttering closed as the room tilted around him. He hugged the soft press of sheets even closer. "Cardan?" Locke pressed, his steps nearing the side of the bed. In a haze of drunken stupor and delight, he let the words slip.

"I'm in love with her."

Locke's startled exhale was almost imperceptible, yet still surprising considering he didn't often get shocked.

He didn't say another word, merely walking out and leaving the High King alone in his chamber to continue to drunkenly whisper into the sheets so lovingly it was as if the fabric was actually Jude herself, the mortal women he had long ago realized he was hopelessly, irretrievably in love with.

***

Jude's P.O.V

"Jude I really think you need to start considering getting a job," Vivi spoke with a touch of concern, her words slightly distorted due to the mouthful of cereal she was chewing. I didn't bother to look up from my spot on the couch, watching the game show flashing on the television set with what one looking on would probably describe as a concerningly dazed look on my lips. "Hello?" Vivi repeated insistently, a tinge of irritation edging the word. I gradually shifted my attention, looking over at my older sister with the interest of someone pulled away from their last meal. "What, Vivi," I sighed, the ache in my chest thrumming back into existence at the sight of her cat eyes.

Any reminder of Faerie was almost excruciating, taking my breath away as if someone had slammed a fist straight into my gut.

"I really think you should get a job, it'll help you," Vivi reiterated with a slight pitying tilt of her head. I clenched my jaw, folding my arms over my chest with a clear air of defiance. "Help me what?"

"If you really want me to say then I will. You need help to get over what Cardan did to you. Come on Jude, you know I'm right."

Anger grew thick in my mouth. "Don't fucking say his name to me," I hissed in return, my fingers viciously digging into the leather cushions of the worn, weathered couch. Every emotion I had felt as I was dragged away by guards in front of a wickedly pleased audience whilst staring into his coal black eyes came flooding back in a staggering wave. The thought of his eyes sent a pang of infuriating longing throughout my body.

I thought I might have loved those eyes once.

Now I wanted nothing more than to pin him to the ground and gouge those eyes out for revenge.

"I'm perfectly content to live out the rest of my days on this couch," I clenched my teeth, returning my gaze to the television. With that, I ignored every subsequent word out of Vivi's mouth, stubbornly narrowing my eyes at the screen in front of me. I didn't move for what felt like an eternity, even after Vivi was long gone I didn't shift a single muscle until a full hour passed after the front door had closed.

Then the tears came.

Tears of anger, betrayal, heartbreak, it was all a tangled mess of emotions at this point that not even I myself could discern. I craved his touch, his voice, his snarky remarks and whispered vulnerabilities and drunken ramblings. I hated that I craved it, so much so that it was dizzying. The tears continued to spill from my eyes and stream down my cheeks as I threw my body off the couch, making for the kitchen with furious, wild steps.

"I'm going to destroy him," I sobbed to no one in particular in something like consolation, snatching a knife from its designated drawer and clenching the grooved handle tightly in my calloused palm. My feet moved into a battle stance as naturally as breathing, jerking the knife in repeated patterns of sword maneuvers just as I had done time and time again back in Faerie.

Except now, standing on the scuffed linoleum floor and wielding nothing but a dull steak knife, I was imagining the crystal clear image of the High King's face as I stabbed the air with increasing ferocity.

I would get my revenge, one way or another, it was only a matter of time.

***

Cardan's P.O.V

Cardan was in the depths of a council meeting when someone whispered the words in his ear, a rumor that had been skittering through the palace walls with increasing frequency.

His slender fingers tightened around the armrests of his throne, his heart stuttering, almost skipping a beat entirely.

Immediately, he knew who had to be behind it.

"Excuse me," he stiffly spoke as he stood up with his newfound air of authority that easily silenced the room, interrupting whoever had been in the middle of speaking.

Quite frankly he didn't care about whoever he had cut off, he was seeing too much red to even discern the individual anyways.

The room fell silent as they watched him stalk out, hands clenched and tail flicking back and forth in agitation.

A rare event when the High King lost his temper, making it that much more terrifying when it happened.

It didn't take long for him to find who he was looking for, one of the few people he had thought he could call a friend.

"Locke!" he snarled, making him turn, tawny eyes widening a split second before Cardan slammed him against the cold stone wall, pinning him there with a painfully placed elbow against his throat. The High King looked at him with the heat of murder, coal black eyes blazing with fire, his dazzlingly white teeth bared. "You dare speak of her," he spat, the overwhelming rush of anger drowning out any other rational thought.

The shock quickly dissipated from Locke's features, an exaggeratedly innocent look replacing it. "What is the matter my good friend? I was merely speculating on the reasoning behind her exile." Locke's surely satisfied tone was almost enough to destroy the last scrap of restraint Cardan had left. "Yes, rumoring that your High King impregnanted his former seneschal, what a harmless speculation," Cardan seethed, his sharp jawline even deadlier with clenched tension. Locke shrugged as much as he was able to under Cardan's suffocating grip, tilting his head slightly in provocation, "I must admit it was a ridiculous speculation considering you hate her, right? My High King?" A mocking agreeability stained his silky words, making Cardan jerk backwards in a movement dangerously close to a flinch.

An affirmation desperately tried to roll off his tongue, but as much as he tried, he couldn't get the word out. Instead, he settled for a curt nod.

There was a moment of stillness, the two Faerie men staring at each other in something like a silent challenge. Finally, Cardan stepped away from him, his eyes as black as blotches of spilled ink against parchment. "Keep your gossiping to a minimum in the future," he ordered in a dangerously soft tone, pausing for another long moment before turning on his heels and striding back down the hallway, chest aching with the revelation that maybe the person he had just walked away from was not anything close to his friend.

***

Cardan's P.O.V

He had set his room on fire again.

This time he was alone, he had tipped a precariously balanced candle over and watched in intoxicated fascination as his curtains quickly became swallowed by hot, flickering flames. He felt no fear as he watched them burn, the heat washing over his skin a welcome caress.

He felt nothing.

And yet, despite the numb, hollow feeling slowly carving out his chest, when the Bomb rushed in to find his room destroyed and up in flames, he still had managed to dissolve into sobs, his face pressed against the soft comfort of his pillow. A pillow that he had saved and held close, the one that Jude had slept on the night he had asked her to be his wife.

"Cardan, wh-what is going on?" the Bomb panicked, immediately rushing to the corner to stomp out the flames with the thick rubber sole of her boot. He didn't answer, he couldn't answer, not with the realization that he had sent away the only person that had ever cared for him. The only person that might have even loved him someday.

The Bomb put out the last of the flames with an accompanied scowl of something between anger and worry. "Jude is not here to babysit anymore, Cardan, seriously, what the hell was this, you could have gotten seriously hurt!" she snapped, instantly regretting her harsh language when he flinched in response. He still couldn't trust himself to speak, instead reaching for the liquor bottle at his side and pressing the cool rim to his lips. The burn was a welcome distraction, he tilted his head back, making his golden crown tip slightly askew. "Nothing could hurt as bad as this," he spoke in something dangerously close to a whimper. His eyes closed, long dark lashes and smudged black charcoal only accentuating the glistening trails of dried tears on his pale cheeks.

The Bomb found herself, quite simply, speechless.

"I miss her," Cardan continued softly, his throat constricting painfully around the words, "I miss her so much it hurts, and as we speak she's in exile most certainly coming up with the best way to string me up by my stupid guts. And the worst part of it all is that I'd let her do it. I'd let her do whatever she wanted to me."

Another long, lingering drink. It tasted as fresh as chilled water on his tongue, a sure sign that he now was completely and utterly wasted out of his mind.

His tail curled against his leg, twitching back and forth with dull agitation.

"Cardan, I'm sorry to say but you need to let go of her," the Bomb spoke gently, picking her words as cautiously as she could and carefully avoiding mention of Jude's name, "She's exiled, so unless you plan on lifting that decree you can't be with her. And you know as well as I that she probably wouldn't want to be with you regardless."

The words stung.

He absently twisted one of the heavy silver rings stacked on his long, elegant fingers, eyes glazing with thoughts far, far away from the room he was currently in. "Do you think she thinks about me?" he slurred slightly, the words thick and heavy on his tongue.

The Bomb visibly hesitated, uncertainty flashing in her eyes. "Maybe. I don't know."

Cardan let a bitter laugh spill from his slightly parted lips, a fresh tear unceremoniously working its way down his cheek.

Another drink.

"I really hope I don't remember this tomorrow," he suddenly determined a mere second before his eyes fluttered closed, body going limp as, promptly, he passed out.

tags: @highqueenofelfhame @daddycardan @barrowmare @lazyperfectionistteen @brittpetersen @greenbriaars @thequeenofeveything @sanktaleks @sleepingfancies @feysandmaraudersdramatic @thomasscresswell 

[ohgodsalazarwhy]

Summertime Romance

R76 Summer Event Day 3

Don’t know if I’ll have time to contribute more fics to this event but maybe!! I guess if anyone has any summer time requests they can send them in and maybe I’ll find time to fill those.

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

S.E.P. had never given them time off before, so when the announcement came that they would get a two week break from training and shots, Jack didn’t quite know what to do with himself.  It wasn’t like they could leave the base, not when the program was built on such strict secrecy, but a break was a break.

“This is the most bored I’ve ever been.”

Jack lay upside down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it might hold the answer to his boredom.  Amazing how little there was to do on a secret military base dedicated to training super soldiers.  Sure, he could work out but that felt like training.  There was no streamed in media so all they had were the same holovids they’d watched a thousand times.  It was probably 10,000 degrees outside (maybe a small exaggeration), and their single break room was packed with sweaty soldiers jostling over a worn out pair of pool tables.

So Jack was here.  In his rooms.  Staring up at the ceiling with his legs flopped over the couch and his back arched uncomfortably.  He twisted his neck as he heard the handle turn, Reyes sauntering in like the entire room was his and not something he shared with another man.  If he found Jack’s position odd he didn’t say anything, choosing to sit on the couch and turn on the TV, playing one of his ridiculous soap operas.

“Are you just going to watch these all break?” Jack grumbled, already dreading two weeks of the same crap he’d seen a thousand times.

“You have a better idea, Sunshine?” Reyes asked without taking his eyes off the holovid.  He was, as always, the coolest thing in the room.  He was leaning against the back of the couch, one arm thrown over it and thighs spread lazily.  From his position Jack could just see the bare inside of Reyes’ thick thighs, his shorts had ridden up when he’d sat down.  Jack quickly glanced away, hoping Reyes would think he was bright red because it was a little warm in their rooms.  For being a high tech military base, it had shitty temperature control.

“Don’t call me Sunshine,” Jack muttered, realizing he’d been silent for way too long.

“What are you going to do about it, Sunshine?” Reyes taunted, finally taking his eyes off the TV to smirk down at Jack, “Huh, Boyscout?”

Jack said nothing, but only because his throat and closed up with some weird combination of rage and arousal.  A combination only Gabriel Reyes could make him feel so quickly.  As a matter of fact, Reyes had been bringing it out since the day they’d met five months ago, when he’d taken one look at Jack and burst into laughter.  As Jack recalled, he’d said: Who is this? My First War Ken Doll?

Reyes snorted, eyes going back to the screen, “Didn’t think so, pussy bitch.”

“Race you,” Jack said suddenly, sitting up on his elbows to glare at Reyes.

“Excuse me?” Reyes said a bit coldly, eyes darting down as if to pin Jack to the floor.  “Did I hear that right?  You want to challenge me to a race?  Knowing I’ll kick your ass?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jack slid his legs off the couch to stand up, looking down at Reyes, “I’ve had my share of shots, and you don’t train with my group anymore.  I’ll kick your ass, Reyes.”

“Oh, it’s on, Boyscout,”  Reyes stood up and got in Jack’s face with a snarl, their noses brushing and breath mingling.  It was only through iron self control that Jack didn’t close the distance and kiss him.  That, and the thought that Reyes might punch his head clean off.  Suddenly the heat didn’t matter nearly as much as showing Reyes just how far Jack had come since joining the program.  He’d always been faster than he’d been stronger, and he outstripped every recruit in his training group by miles.  So he was sure he could outrun Reyes, even if the man was a few months ahead in his shots.

They stalked outside and Jack was immediately hit by the heat of the day, the sun beating down on him mercilessly as he stripped out of his shirt.  He was going to burn, he just knew it.  Gabriel pulled off his shirt and started to stretch, Jack stared a little, watching the muscles in his back move under his skin as he limbered up for the race.

“One lap,” Reyes said, “around the perimeter.  Too fucking hot for any long distance shit, and besides, why waste time when we both know I’m going to cream you?”

I wish, Jack thought to himself idly as his eyes followed a trail of hair into Reyes’ shorts.

“Eyes up here, Sunshine,” Reyes snapped.

Jack coughed and glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck which was already slick with sweat, “Winner gets the others cake at mainline?”

Reyes was silent for a moment, Jack wanted to see his face but he was a little afraid to meet his eye after being caught staring so blatantly.  “Oh no,” Reyes was grinning when Jack glanced at him, “Loser has to do whatever the winner says.”

“Whatever?” Jack muttered, it got very cold and then very hot again all at once.

Reyes’ fingers curled under his chin, urging Jack’s head up so their eyes could meet, “Whatever.  So if you want something, farmboy, you’d better work for it.”

Jack glared, clenching his teeth together stubbornly, “Hope you like the taste of cock, Reyes, because you’re going to be sucking mine.”

Reyes looked delighted at that, pulling back and playfully punching Jack in the gut, “We’ll see about that.”

Jack coughed and bent over, taking a step back before Reyes could hit him again.  Even if it was playful it still hurt.  Now Jack really had something to play for, and he knew if Reyes win he wouldn’t enjoy whatever the guy made him do.  Probably clean the bathroom for the next two months.  They’d been taunting and dancing around each other for five months, if Jack could end this dance with a race then he’d do it.

They took their places at the corner of the perimeter, Jack crouching and getting ready to run for it.  He’d been in field and track in high school, the fastest man the school had ever seen.  It wasn’t just about speed and endurance, it was about technique.  Technique he didn’t think Reyes had.  While Reyes had said one lap around the perimeter wasn’t “long distance shit” it was still a four mile run, different from a normal sprint.

Reyes smirked at him, “Ready, set... GO!”

Reyes darted forward at full speed, but Jack only went fast enough to remain on his heels.  They could run far faster than the average man, for far longer, but Jack didn’t want to full tilt race Reyes in 100 degree heat for 4 miles. 

“What, was this race just an excuse to stare at my ass?” Reyes yelled as he ran just ahead of him.

Jack didn’t reply, he’d rather conserve his breath.  He was going to win this.  For the first three miles he dogged Reyes’ heels but didn’t try to pass him, watching the sweat drip down his back and yes, watching the bounce of his ass.  It was only an added bonus of remaining behind.  It wasn’t until the final stretch that Jack really started to run.  As he blew past Reyes he caught a glance at his look of surprise and grinned, legs pumping faster as he ran for their start area.  Reyes was dogging his heels now, and they were sprinting full tilt for the finish line.

Jack pulled ahead by a few feet right before twisting and hitting the fence with a laugh, “Not so fast now, are you-” Reyes slammed into him and they hit the dry grass, Jack struggling to get Reyes’ big, sweaty body off of him, “You fucking asshole!” Jack snarled as Reyes pinned him to the ground.  “You’re such a sore l-mmph!”

Reyes’ lips crashed over his, smothering his snarling instantly.  Jack was still for only a second, then the shock disappeared and he was grabbing Reyes, kissing him back just as harshly.  Their teeth clicked, their tongues pushed between their lips.  Reyes was a biter, Jack wasn’t surprised to find out.  He turned his head to gasp for breath and Reyes only started to kiss and suck down his sweaty neck.

It went so fast, Jack felt dizzy with want as Reyes kissed down his body and pushed down his shorts to pull out his cock.  In one swallow Jack was down his throat, Reyes’ nose pressed up against his skin.

“Oh fuck!” Jack moaned, reaching down to tangle his hands in Reyes’ messy, damp hair.

Reyes sucked him with wet, sloppy sounds, slurping loudly as he bobbed his head up and down the shaft.  Jack was painfully hard, thighs trembling as he tried to thrust up into Reyes’ mouth only to have his hand push down on Jack’s hips, pinning him down.  Jack may be faster, but Reyes had always been physically stronger.

It was over so fast it was embarrassing, all it took was Reyes swallowed his cock down on more time and Jack was crying out and spilling down his throat.  “S-Sorry, fuck, sorry I-” Jack babbled, but he was cut off as Reyes came up and kissed him.  It started hard then slowed down, went a little soft.

“There,” Reyes murmured, “you got your prize.”

Jack kissed him again, groaning as Reyes bit down lightly on his bottom lip, “I h-hate to say this but... I didn’t ask for that.”

“What?” Reyes sat back on his elbow, glaring down at him, “before the race started-”

“That was just shit-talking, did I actually say that was what I wanted you to do, Reyes?”

Reyes opened his mouth, shut it, scowled.  Jack grinned and laughed when Reyes thumped him on the chest and sat up, “You’re a bastard and I’m the only one who knows it.  What do you want?”

Jack sat up on his elbows, eyes trailing down Reyes’ chest to where his cock was tenting his shorts, “How about we got back to our rooms and you fuck me, Reyes.”

Reyes’ eyes lit up and smirked, hand splaying over Jack’s chest to shove him flat against the grass again, “And here I thought this was supposed to be me doing something for you.”

[somuchbetterthanthat]

title: in the lost myth of true love, pairing: timmartin (bc i am trash and a half and love to challenge ^.^)

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tim says at last, letting his head fall against the hard wall behind him. “You really still believe in it all? After everything that bloody happened? True love?”

“I mean if monsters are real, I don’t see why true love seems such a reach to you,” Martin answers bitingly. He gathers his knees against his chest, staring hard at the ground. “I’ve got to believe in something good, otherwise I’m just going to break and I can’t - so yeah, laugh all you want,” he finishes stubbornly. “I do believe in it. And yes, before you ask, I do believe it can saves Jon, too.”

Tim stares at him; the resolute, brave, defiant shape of his mouth, the way the light catches his eyes, shiny and hardened by everything that’s happened and yet still, still full of stupid, ridiculous hope - he feels his own heart miss a stupid beat, and it hurts much more than it has any right to be. (I can’t believe in it, he thinks, and doesn’t say. I can’t, because otherwise, it means you were meant for Jon all along and no one else, and that’s bloody unfair.)

[So, in my head, this would be a fic that’s sort of a fairytale perhaps? but still set in modern life with the Fears just - Martin sets on a (modern) quest to save Jon, who’s fallen for the Eye and is Full!Monster!Archivist, after being told? learning? something? that true love can save someone from monsterhood. 

Tim sort of unwillingly-but-willingly follows, because he’d follow Martin anywhere, at this point, though he loathes to admit it. The whole fic would be an exploration of what it means to love, what even is “true love”, and that, maybe, the Beautiful Tragic Epic Love Stories are tragic for a reason; that there’s another kind of love, the love that’s surviving, again and again, together through endless life-threatening situations, holding each other at night, getting to know the ugly and most beautiful parts of yourself and the other, that’s just as important, that can be just as beautiful, without the sad ending.

And maybe yes, Martin loves Jon, and Jon loves Martin; and Martin saves Jon because he loves him; or rather, he saves the world, by reminding to Jon what it even means to love in the first place, even if that means Jon sacrifices himself without a second thought. And Tim might feel like second-choice, in all this, but they’ve spent a whole fic learning that there are no second-choices in love. There is only chance, and they’re both lucky to be able to hold each other’s hand.] 

[tarithenurse]

On my mind, in my soul - 5

Prompt: Got three things to go by on this. “Waiting Game” by Banks (used passages as block quotes), a weapon (not firearm), and a bathrobe. Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Morning after, reference to lemons and even some small citrus fruits growing here and there. Swearing, ofc. Uhm...might have forgotten something because my brain is broken. A/N: It’s the Loki we know, but he’s made himself a home on Earth, curating an impressive collection of valuables from across the universe – all for himself and the fame he finds despite the New York incident. Check out masterlist! Plsplspls reblog if you liked <3

Bright light of day

It’s the bed that wakes you. Stretching lazily, the hazy semi-sleep caresses you gently with the softness of silken sheets and pillows, you suddenly stop mid-yawn at the realization that this bed isn’t yours. The smooth sheets are a far cry from the coarse linen you should be tangled in. Peeping out from under the eyelashes, you take in the lavish decoration of the master bedroom that looks so different now the soft morning light is filtering through a slit between the curtains. And even so, your roaming eyes barely register what they see, instead noting what’s no there. Who’s not there. Pushing the duvet aside, it’s a surprise how gently the air greets your naked form, the cold bite from the night gone. It wasn’t the night.

Without Loki around, there’s no one to ask where your clothes have gone to, and you spend a good five minutes searching before giving up. Better make the most of it, a snarky voice urges you as you push the door open to a bathroom that could be heaven on earth.

The way you make me feel all sexy but it's causing me shame

…

Tiptoeing through the house, you let your nose guide you with the promise of breakfast and coffee. There are no fluctuations in the temperature, yet the soft bathrobe is pulled tight around your form as if it could lend some sort of protection, shield you from judgement in case someone’s around and guesses what has happened.

You’d expected some maid or similar to be busy in the kitchen, not Loki casually stirring the contents of a frying pan while nose-deep in a newspaper. The sight immobilizes you as the caffeine-lacking brain tries to catch up with the image of a domestic god.

“There’s a fresh bowl of fruits waiting for you,” he offers without looking up, “and fresh coffee.”

The words hang in the air for a beat longer than necessary before you react, face warm with the realization that even someone as different as Loki would have a daily routine. A pattern of habits and basic needs. And right now, you’re intruding on that.

“Uhm…thank you.”

Looking further than the perfectly dressed man, you spot a bar-like table extending the granite into an L-shape lined at the bottom by swivelling bar seats, in front one of which there’s a neat arrangement of bowl, glass, cup, cutlery…everything possibly needed for a breakfast. You make sure to tug the bathrobe around your legs, not wanting to accidentally reveal your nudity even though Loki already must be aware. Clothes don’t grow legs and leave on their own.

“I’ve had your clothes send to the dry cleaner.” The crinkle of the thin paper warns that his reading material has been discarded. “Also took the liberty of getting you something more fitting to wear for your trip home.”

You’ve already wrapped your fingers around the mug of steaming, liquid energy. “Where’s it?”

“Not here yet.”

This time the voice is much closer, making you look up into the calculative eyes, almost missing the plate full of pancakes and the bottle of real maple syrup. Next moment he’s striding away to refill his own coffee cup, dumping you into a silence that you’re stubbornly set on not breaking as if it’s some sort of competition. Like a staring game, but here the urge’s to say something.

So you eat, savouring the exotic fruits that seep with sweet tastiness contrasting the roasted bitterness of the hot drink. And while you enjoy the tantalizing meal, Loki simply stands there at the other end of the kitchen, watching in silence. Only a flicker of a smile ghosting his face when you bite into a pancake, sending a sticky drop of syrup astray on your lips.

“Why aren’t you eatin’?” You point nonchalantly at him with a piece of mango on the tip of the fork. Silver fork.

“I already have.” Innocent words unless the darkened gaze is taken into account.

Don't tell me listen to your song because it isn't the same

…

He lets you finish, even clears away the mess without allowing you to help. What does he want from me? You’re about to ask when the sound of a door opening and closing can be heard followed by steps that only are silent because of training. You listen as the steps fade upstairs, then return to the very same door you entered the kitchen through…but no one opens.

“Master, the clothes have been laid out on your bed as requested.” It’s hard to judge the age of the woman speaking. “Is there anything else?”

“No, Matilde, that’s all for now,” Loki answers smoothly, “you may be excused for the day.”

Neither you nor the god moves until it’s evident that the maid has left. Then you slide off the tall seat, fully intend on going to get dressed because that must’ve been the clothes they were talking about, and if not…well almost anything’s better than wearing Loki’s own bathrobe much longer.

“Thank you for breakfast,” you manage to say before turning away from his intense gaze.

“[Y/N]…there’s something we must discuss…” Like cold water would, his words sends a ripple of goosebumps down your back. “The profit could be considerable for you.”

You don’t want to be further indebted to him, already painfully aware of how much of your life rests in his hands, but the entire reason that you ended up in this house and staying until morning is because he wanted it that way. He’s used to getting what he wants. Turning back with a sigh, you grab the cup and hold it out to him because you’ll be damned if you’re not having all the free coffee you can get if he’s going to talk you into some ridiculous scheme. Not that you’re interested, of course…at least that what you keep reminding yourself as you settle against the hard countertop, feet crossed at the ankles and nose inches from the warm brew.

“I’ve been challenged to obtain an artefact beyond any of the miserable trinkets from your world,” Loki smirks, “in fact…it’s so rare there’s only one in the entirety of the cosmos…but as luck will have it...” the smile broadens, “I know where to find it.”

“Just cut to the chase!”

He does, though not without a huff of annoyance, and starts out with the convoluted ancestral background of a being called Luɣ. Not unlike the Asgardians, this being and its kin (Thuäthan Dae) would roam through space to seek adventure or expand their empire, and they were so good at it that rumours of their riches spread and fostered alliances which ultimately led to the Thuäthan Dae’s downfall. During the following eons, the survivors scattered and got assimilated into other races, but some of the legends still exist…including that of a nifty spear capable of reacting to verbal commands of the owner.

At this point in life, you’ve come to accept that perhaps there’s more to old mythological tales than people once did believe, all things considered. Glancing skeptically at Loki’s hands, you wonder if there’s more he hasn’t told you yet about himself which would be relevant to know before getting intrigued in an alien-made weapon.

Baby I'm thinking it over What if the way we started made it something cursed from the start

Large hands weave elegantly through the air as the god describes artefacts that already have been recovered…and…and…lost in memories of the acts of colour changing limbs, it’s as if you can feel the touch upon your skin, sending shivers through your already heating body, and shifting focus away does nothing to help you because the next you see are the narrow hips wrapped in subtle leather. Oh fuck. Yeah, the leather doesn’t hide the proportions of the man, and a new shiver races towards your cunt.

There’s only one thing for it and that’s to avert your eyes by pretending to drink from the already empty mug. Of course, Loki’s still talking, so you take your time trying to coax the very last drops across the ceramic surface and almost succeed before a golden shimmer leaves you emptyhanded.

“You’re not listening.” A cool finger under your chin forces [Y/E/C] and green eyes to meet. “Tell me…what were you thinking of?” No words escape your mouth despite several attempts that only results in Loki smirking. “It’s alright, my pet,” he purrs, head dipping so close the nose tips meet for a fraction of a second, “I can sense your…excitement.”

The only logical response is to protest, but you don’t really want to and even if you did then you couldn’t because his lips are on yours. Sweetly. Softly. The taste of minty toothpaste lingers under notes of coffee when he opens his mouth for you, waking up your senses after they’ve been doused in the sweetness from the breakfast. A perfect contrast coaxing a humming from your throat, and you can feel Loki’s crooked smile on your skin even before his hands runs down your waist, hips, grabbing under your thighs and lifting you effortlessly onto the stone tabletop.

It’s a simple nudge by the god’s hips that has you parting your legs for him to stand between, mouths and tongues still dancing and your fingers flexing against his chest because damn-it, you want what he can give you. The all-consuming rush rolling through your body from the best orgasms you’ve ever experienced. It’s addictive, and frighteningly so, especially because this man has more power over you than good is. I shouldn’t…shit! Deft hands are already pushing the front of the bathrobe aside and fondling your breast, tugging at a nipple with an expertise that makes your back arch and you know how wet your cunt already is.

“Stop.” Faster than you thought possible, you’ve caught Loki’s wrists tightly. “Stop…I can’t…”

It feels as though the temperature drops ten degrees, and you can’t bear to meet the god’s gaze. Shit, shit, shiiiiit. Fear’s lodged in your throat like bile, making you queasy and preventing you from breathing as freely as you want…but it’s okay because filling your lungs would cause your chest to move and you don’t want his attention there. Well…I do…sort of. It’s a messed-up situation that would have been plenty awkward on its own but with him –

“Why not, my pet?” At least he doesn’t try to continue, merely attempts to meet your eyes. “Don’t deny that you desire this.”

“Shut up!” Your exclamation catches you by surprise but it’s Loki’s slight jerk that scares you enough to cower, shielding yourself from whatever the Asgardian might do to hurt you.

Nothing happens. At least not really.

”I see,” he whispers almost sadly.

Each movement’s deliberately slow and obvious as he back away, only turning his back when he’s at the other end of the kitchen, allowing you a sort of privacy to slide off the granite and wrap the bathrobe around your shivering body.

“I’m…I’m sorry, Loki…”

The wide shoulders roll. “Don’t be. I brought this on myself.” His knuckles are white from the grip on the edge of the sink he’s leaning against. “Get dressed. I’ll have my driver ready to bring you home afterwards and you won’t see or hear from me again.”

…

He’s true to he word, the only sign of him being a flat parcel the driver hands you when you reach the place you ask to be dropped off (some random address not far from the subway). You don’t have to look what’s in the box to guess it and the knowledge digs painfully into some part of your heart no matter how hard you try to ignore it.

Cause lately I've been scared of even thinking 'bout where we are

[jisungjuice]

okay amalia you totally asked for this (and since no one else ships them i will take any opportunity i can get): 8th year - draco and theo are in a loving/stable relationship and harry Notices. and draco and theo notice that harry is Noticing. do with that what you will. :’)

every time i write them i ship these 3 even harder

“Oh great,” Harry groaned, looking over his shoulder. “Here they come again.”

Malfoy and Nott walked through the doors of the Great Hall together, holding hands and smiling at each other.

“Who?” Luna asked, trying to see over Harry’s head.

“Malfoy and Nott,” Harry replied bitterly and stuffed some oatmeal into his mouth.

Luna nodded before getting back to her breakfast. Neither Ginny, nor Ron or

Hermione made any comments.

“They’re the worst,” Harry said, resisting the urge to look back at the Slytherin table again.

Luna put down her fork. “What is it about them that bothers you?”

Harry definitely noticed how Ginny tried to keep Luna from talking by squeezing her knee under the table.

“They’re always all over each other! They don’t have a smidgen of respect for anyone else!”

Ron looked over his shoulder. “Mate, they’re not even sitting together.”

Harry looked too and in effect, Malfoy and Nott were almost on opposite ends of the table, talking to completely different people.

Hermione sighed behind the book she was reading and Ginny snickered. Harry gave them a dirty look. He knew he wasn’t crazy. Just like he wasn’t crazy back at sixth year when he knew Malfoy was up to something, but his friends were tired if hearing him bring that up, so he merely looked down at his cold food and tried to ignore his friends.

He didn’t know exactly when or how it happened but when they returned for their last year, Nott and Malfoy had gotten together and ever since then Harry had not been able to stop seeing them everywhere he went. He went to the library, they were there studying together. He walked around the grounds, they had picnics under the trees. He couldn’t even go to the bloody toilet without running into one of their snogging sessions.

Harry sighed. That was a really difficult day.

The worst part was that these things only happened when he was alone, and no one else seemed to believe the Slytherin couple were really that nauseating.

Thankfully, today was Saturday, which meant he didn’t need to see them in any lessons and could focus on Quidditch Practice. Gryffindor had the field booked all morning and he was counting on Malfoy being too distracted this year to be any threat to his team.

At least Nott seemed to be really good at distracting him.

Harry left to the field early to prepare the gear and finish wrapping up the tactics he wanted to share with the rest of the team. It was very sunny considering it was October and he felt surprisingly lucky, so it was a complete shock to him when he opened the door to the changing rooms and found Malfoy being pinned down to the wall by Nott.

Harry stood frozen, watching them. They didn’t seem to have noticed him because Nott’s face remained buried in Malfoy’s neck and even though Malfoy was facing Harry, his eyes were closed and his expression as serene as Harry had ever seen it. Harry tried to avoid it, he really did, but at a certain point he was forced to admit to himself that this was too much for him to handle, because Malfoy and Nott looked ridiculously good like this and he was sure he had never felt as attracted to someone as he did right then.

Of course, this time there were two someones.

Harry’s heart jumped to his throat when Malfoy suddenly opened his eyes and every spell was broken. He didn’t know whether to run away or draw his wand, but before he could do either, Malfoy gasped.

“Potter!”

Nott raised his head, his brow furrowing as he looked at Malfoy. “What?” But when Malfoy didn’t answer, he followed his gaze and Nott’s dark eyes widened when they landed on Harry.

The three of them stared at each other for a few confusing seconds, Nott still holding Malfoy against the wall.

And then Malfoy snapped.

“What the fuck, Potter?” he broke free from Nott, his face going an angry red. “Everywhere we go we need to see your stupid face staring? Are you following us?”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Me? You’re the ones who keep showing up no matter where I am! You don’t even play Quidditch today! What are you doing here?”

Malfoy opened his mouth to answer, but Nott beat him to it.

“Hoping to run into you.”

Harry didn’t know what shocked him more, what Nott had just said or the fact that Malfoy seemed as surprised as he was. His face was no longer red, but even paler than usual and he stared at Nott with disbelief and perhaps even some hurt. Harry would have immediately asked Nott what he meant if Malfoy’s expression didn’t make Harry feel like this was a private matter.

Nott walked closer to Malfoy with an apologetic look on his face. “I’m sorry. Perhaps this wasn’t the best course of action on my part but… I know you like him.”

Harry’s stomach dropped to the floor and the color returned to Malfoy’s face.

“Wh-what are you talking about?” Malfoy stuttered.

Nott smiled. “Let’s not act like fools, alright? I’ve known you forever and coincidentally, that’s how long you’ve been into Potter.”

Malfoy’s jaw dropped and he pointed a finger at Nott, ready to argue back, but Nott was quick and lowered Malfoy’s finger and held his hand. “And yes, I know that I’m the one who just a couple of weeks ago admitted to fancying him, but that doesn’t mean you don’t.”

Malfoy’s face softened and he and Nott shared a meaningful look.

Harry felt the way he usually did when under the invisibility cloak, because the way they talked and acted with each other was almost as if he wasn’t even there. The only thing that reminded him of his own presence was the fact that this whole thing started because he had walked in on them.

Finally, Nott turned to look at Harry, while Malfoy was stubbornly looking down at his own shoes.

“I lead Draco here because I knew you’d come. Just like the other times you’ve ‘accidentally’ found us. I guess I should say I’m sorry.”

Harry blinked at him, trying not to think about the fact that both he and Malfoy had basically just admitted to liking him. “You guess?”

Nott smiled and Harry felt his heart skip a beat. “I guess, but I don’t feel very sorry. Just your expression every time you have walked in on us made it all worth it. It just wasn’t the classiest choice I’ve made.”

Harry was extremely confused and it was starting to anger him. Who the hell did Nott think he was? And why was Malfoy so quiet? They thought they could just make a fool of him and then smile while throwing in a fake apology?

Unfortunately, he was thinking and feeling too many things to come up with an adequate response right then, so he merely turned around and started walking away.

“Potter, wait!”

And Harry stopped because this was the first time he had heard Malfoy say his name with anything other than anger.

Harry turned back. Malfoy and Nott were still holding hands, but Nott was no longer smirking and if anything he seemed slightly worried as they both looked at Harry, Malfoy seeming on the verge of saying something.

“What?” Harry asked, somewhat impatient, very confused, and perhaps a little bit hopeful.

Malfoy and Nott didn’t share a look, but Harry noticed how Nott squeezed Malfoy’s hand.

“Um,” Malfoy hesitated. “We’re going to Hogsmade. You should come.”

Nott smiled a pleasant and inviting smile, and Harry felt some of his anger ebb away. Malfoy’s face didn’t change, though. He remained as serious and challenging as always and for a second Harry thought he was daring him to accept.

“I’ve got Quidditch practice,” Harry said, remembering why he was there in the first place.

“Even better,” Nott smirked again and Harry’s chest tightened. Malfoy gave him a nasty look. “I mean… Can we stay and watch? We can go to Hogsmade after.”

This whole situation was so surreal that Harry almost considered the possibility that it was all a ruse to steal his Quidditch tactics or distract him during training, but there was no way they were that good actors.

“You can stay,” Harry heard himself say. “But no snogging on the stands.”

Malfoy did smirk this time. “Why? Can’t concentrate, Potter?”

This familiarity with Malfoy made Harry momentarily forget the strange situation they were in, and he took several steps towards him and Nott, who looked slightly alarmed at Harry’s serious demeanor.

“You want to talk lack of concentration?” Harry tried his best to shift his gave between Nott and Malfoy equally. “Distract me today during my practice and I’ll make sure you two never concentrate again for the rest of the school year.”

The look on their faces was so priceless that Harry was starting to see what Nott had meant.

He turned moved past them and headed for the captain’s office where he had his gear.

“What do you think he’d do?” he heard Nott ask.

Harry looked over his shoulder at them and gave them a pointed look before closing the door of the office behind him.

“I don’t know,” Malfoy’s voice was barely audible. “But I really feel like kissing you on the stands.”

Harry smiled to himself.

[sketchiedetails]

While I think Binary Domain is a fun action game with a great B-movie tone, I feel like its plot is trying to do way too much at once to make any of its core themes really stick.

Lemme just get this out of the way: Binary Domain is one of the funniest action games, both unintentionally and intentionally. The cutscenes have better comedic timing with their edits and performances than most Western games these days and that’s when the game is trying. There’s some jank in the game that comes across and adds another layer of bizarre humor to the overall package. If you played the game, then you know about Bo’s stare or even trying to rescue Bo at the end of the game.

It took me a while to warm up to the cast, but they’re all very likable with their exchanges and you really feel that they develop a sense of camaraderie by the endgame.

My problem with BD’s writing isn’t with the characters; it’s with the setting. I wanna say the central theme in Binary Domain is “loving someone shouldn’t change after learning they are different from you” but it comes way too late in the game to be properly expressed and the people who should exemplify that theme - Dan and Faye - don’t really have enough time to naturally develop that kind of relationship. They’re supposed to start out butting heads and that tension transitions into sexual tension and eventually love but it really only works if you keep Faye on your team from the very beginning of the game and never swap her out.

Dan and Faye’s love arc is part of my problem with the writing. Binary Domain’s setting very clearly treats robots as second-class citizens. They’re called “scrap heads” as a slur and it gets thrown around very liberally and later on people who sympathize with machines get called “scrap lovers.” It kept reminding me of Deus Ex: Mankind Divided when they tried to make “clank” a slur for augmented people. I find it weird that unanimously people are on board for treating robots so terribly. Everyone across the globe just universally agrees that robots need to be suppressed, and I guess Yoji Amada himself points this out and calls it “The Frankenstein Problem,“ where humans fear the things they create will surpass them. I get it’s a theme, but it feels like it’s half-committed. I don’t buy in a setting that everyone would completely agree on the same thing; there should have been other people in the setting to offer counterpoints to provide different takes at the issue.

On my initial run of BD, I assumed there was gonna be a point that the Hollow Children would prove that they were capable of being sentient and shouldn’t be suppressed, but no it never gets proven and the game actually kneecaps that possibility. Hollow Children are considered terrifying to people because they can pose as regular humans for decades and no one would know, even the Hollow Child wouldn’t know what they are until ... something happens? The game is trying to be like Blade Runner, but there’s no rules established to explain how people can discover if a person is a Hollow Child, and the true purpose for Hollow Children doesn’t get revealed until the very last chapter, and it doesn’t really justify their existence.

At the end of the game, Yoji Amada reveals that he isn’t really Yoji Amada: he’s a sentient AI that the original Amada created to prove to the rest of the world that it was possible and died by his creation out of fear that the IRTA would come - who better to describe The Frankenstein Problem then an actual Frankenstein’s monster? AI-Amada (AI-mada?) then proceeds to create Hollow Children because he needed to procreate like any other lifeform. His plan is to integrate his Hollow Children into the general populace and create hybrids which have both human DNA and ... Hollow Children DNA? (I’m not sure how it works biologically, but it’s interesting how this game cribs from Blade Runner and then somehow unintentionally predicts the main plot of Blade Runner 2049.)

So if Amada’s plan is to cause miscegenation between humans and Hollow Children, what is the point of creating male Hollow Children? It’s stated just before this reveal that female HC’s can conceive, but nothing about male HC’s virility. It’s shown that Amada can remotely hijack any Hollow Child anywhere in Japan, and that really doesn’t help the argument for Hollow Children since they pose a threat as potential sleeper agents.

The most important part of this reveal is that it turns out Faye is a hybrid - her father is human, and her mother is a Hollow Child. Amada captured Faye and by the time the Rust Crew reach them, she’d already been turned. Dan at this point had been stubbornly defending Faye against the rest of the Crew who automatically agree to put her down - it’s their job, y’know how it be - and a boss fight ensues with Faye leading a pack of ninja robots. The fight has moments where the player as Dan can issue voice commands saying they love Faye and don’t want to fight, but again the pacing here has sideswiped so fast and so frequently that none of this really feels earned.

There’s a recurring flashback Dan experiences throughout the game where he’s a child bashing in a robot’s face in his family’s kitchen. It’s implied that his alcoholic father beat Dan and his mother and the robot did nothing, so in a fit of impotent rage Dan retaliates on the defenseless machine. When Dan learns that Faye is a Hollow Child’s ... child, he returns to that flashback but it’s adult Dan kneeling over a battered Faye. It’s supposed to be symbolic of Dan overcoming his bigotry and accepting Faye to be as much of a person as he is; I read it as Dan being an idiot for most of his life and having an epiphany that the rest of the world should have had from the very beginning when they started focusing on robotics as their main source of infrastructure.

During my last run on Metal Gear Rising, I listened to as many of the Codec conversations as I could this time around. They offer some very detailed world building that the rest of the game itself couldn’t support at the cost of the game’s pacing. The conversations cover a wide range of topics concerning a world recovering after the fall of the Patriots. Cyborg soldiers took over as the main source of infantry in PMC’s, and the game dips into concepts about how the rules of engagement would work with cyborg soldiers, the logistics it would take to maintain a cyborg body, and the public perception of cybernetics in both a domestic and military context.

I’m not saying every game needs a codex section in their menus to explain the world and how it works (BD technically does have that via the info logs you can pick up in the game), but the setting should be internally consistent. MGR’s Codecs add flavor text to the world, but they also explain away the more gamey aspects of the setting, like why it’s important to the Doktor that Raiden collect as many left hands as he can or why some returning boss fights aren’t as imposing as their initial encounters.

Most of the time Hollow Children appear as a way to create a plot twist and shake up the story. Shindo’s right hand man was a Hollow Child and the rebel base gets attacked by a huge robot. The general at the beginning of the game who ranted about how the existence of Hollow Children was ridiculous turned out to be a Hollow Child. They exist in order to generate drama, much like how Dan and Faye’s relationship exists in order to challenge the notion that Hollow Children shouldn’t be allowed to live.

Binary Domain’s final boss turns out to be the Rust Crew’s commanding officer. I’m not sure if he states that the President approved it, but the US is going to take the Amada AI for their own purposes and kill the Rust Crew so the rest of the IRTA won’t know what happened. It’s interesting how all three games I’ve played to write these series of posts - Vanquish, Metal Gear Rising, and Binary Domain - all feature either final or penultimate bosses that are involved in some branch of the US government. Lt. Col. Burns and Major Philips are part of the Marines, and Armstrong is a US Senator. I hate to keep dumping on BD, but their plot twist just feels unnecessary and would be but it needs to happen in order for Dan and Faye to run off together and hint at potential sequels where Faye becomes a leader for Hollow Children resistance with Dan by her side.

As a piece of speculative sci-fi, I think Binary Domain has some faulty logic but I still enjoyed this game. The combat is slower and more plodding compared to the other two games I recently wrote about, but that’s the point of the gameplay. It’s a group of humans fighting machines who can be engineered to have an edge in fights where the humans have to rely on their wits and each other in order to win every battle. Also, Vanquish and MGR are Platinum titles, and every action game is gonna feel like a slog compared to a Platinum game.

I’ll have to amend my original thoughts about playing Binary Domain alongside Vanquish: you should definitely play those two back to back, but also add in Metal Gear Rising to that block. They’re all compelling action games with some interesting ideas about how war will look in the future.

[palms-upturned]

The Most Important Things are Sometimes the Stupidest

ao3 | ffnet

“What exactly do you wanna be, Toshi?”

Kondo asks a simple question. Hijikata spends ten years reflecting upon his answer.

“What exactly do you wanna be, Toshi?”

An oddly timed question, Hijikata thinks, grimacing as Kondo presses a damp cloth to the open wound on his cheek. The antiseptic stings like hell, but Hijikata simply grits his teeth. Outside the dojo’s open doors, the sun is beginning to set, dousing the two rowdy teens in a warm, orange glow. “The hell kind of question is that?” he mumbles. “And who said you could call me Toshi?”

“Well,” Kondo muses, keeping pressure on the cut with one hand and reaching for a roll of gauze with the other, “you’re always getting into one fight or another, and I don’t imagine you like getting the shit kicked out of you.”

“Oi, what are you trying to say? Why don’t you look in the mirror, you damn gorilla, you’re beat to hell too, you know.”

Hijikata shoots him a glare that would have sent a chill down anyone else’s spine, but Kondo simply bites back a smile. “I just mean you must be training for something, right? You’ve challenged half the dojos in Bushu, but you don’t belong to any dojo of your own. You pick fights for no reason, but then you fight as long as you can stand. You say you aren’t a member of this dojo...” Suddenly there’s no cloth stinging Hijikata’s cheek, and Kondo takes one of his hands in his own, examining Hijikata’s palm with warm, gentle fingers. “...and yet you’ve got blisters all over your hands from practice swings.” Hijikata’s breath catches in his throat and he jerks his hand away reflexively, as if burned. Kondo blinks, startled, and holds his own hands up apologetically. “I just wonder what you’re swingin’ that sword around for, is all.”

Hijikata nurses his hand, eyes dark and brows knitted, looking past Kondo at the rolling, reddened clouds. The question is nosy and overly familiar, par for the course with most of his conversations with this strange boy with the big, goofy smile and booming voice that fills the room like thunder. But Hijikata isn’t sitting in stubborn silence just because he has no intention of answering, he realizes; he has no answer to begin with.

What exactly do you wanna be, Toshi?

He thinks of his mother clutching his hand and desperately telling him to remember the name Hijikata, the family who would take care of him when she was gone, and yet strangely would not take care of her as she lay dying. He thinks of the callouses on his ten-year-old hands from hauling fish for not even half the wages of the grown men he worked with. He thinks of the looks of fear and contempt from the townspeople whenever he walks by, just like the way his half-siblings looked at him. The way they all spat the word demon like it was meant to maim. His brother, lying in the dirt clutching his bloodied eyes, unable to see the little demon who cut down his attackers.

His answer is almost inaudible. “Nothing really. I’m just your run-of-the-mill problem child.”

A smile spreads across Kondo’s face, somehow softening the bruise that almost seals his left eye shut. “Well, that’s good to hear. Problem children are sort of our specialty.”

Hijikata lets out a snort, rolling his eyes. But something heavy settles into his chest and grips him like a vice. He glances at the blisters on his hands, which have healed into a dull, familiar ache. The last rays of sunlight pouring into the dojo are warm and bright against his skin.

“What about you?” The words fall from his lips unbidden. “What is it you want to be?”

Kondo lets out a hearty laugh, and then suddenly the cloth is pressed against Hijikata’s cheek again and he lets out a yelp of protest. “I’d sure like to know,” he muses, wiping the last traces of dried blood from Hijikata’s cheek and pressing a gauze pad to the cut. “But whatever I do, I think… I’d like to be a ridiculous man until the very end.”

“The hell kind of answer is that?” Hijikata mumbles, touching the gauze gingerly. But his expression must have softened, because Kondo is biting back a smile again. Before Hijikata can muster a proper scowl, Kondo stands up with a grunt and stretches.

“All right, I think I’ve done everything I can.” His voice is a little too casual as he adds, “You’re free to do as you like.”

Hijikata doesn’t move.

Kondo bends down to pick up the roll of gauze from the floor, but Hijikata snatches it away. Kondo blinks. “Toshi?”

“Your face still looks like shit.”

Kondo raises an eyebrow. “Thanks, I was born with it.”

Hijikata finally scowls properly. “I’m talking about that bruise, idiot. It’s swelling like hell. And you’ve got a cut near your temple.” He unravels the gauze and folds it into a compress with deft fingers; Hijikata would not have made it this far without some skill in first aid. “I may be a problem child, but I’m no freeloader, Kondo-san.”

Kondo smiles again, warm and slow and beaming like a sunrise. “I guess you’ll just have to stick around until both of our heads heal up.”

“Fat chance of that,” Hijikata mumbles softly, and Kondo lets out a rumbling, gravelly laugh that rings in Hijikata’s ears for the rest of the evening.

One of the first things Hijikata learns upon arriving in Edo is that discipline is a balancing act; fear is useful, certainly. And Hijikata is good at fear. It doesn’t take long for the Demon Vice Chief to make a name for himself, with his severe glare and quick temper.

But fear isn’t enough to keep the men in line, he quickly learns. Fear without respect leads to resentment. Resentment leads to conflict. Conflict leads to Kondo and his stupidly big heart having to iron out all of the wrinkles Hijikata has left in his wake. And he does a good job of it, Hijikata thinks with both pride and guilt. Kondo is the factor that balances the equation – he is not feared, with his thunderous laugh and open arms and equally open heart. He is loved, and love in turn earns him respect. Together, the two of them manage to avoid discord within the ranks, but it’s fairly obvious which of them is the most successful. Fear can only take you so far.

(And it certainly doesn’t help that a certain fourteen year old brat is already giving him a run for his money regarding the scare factor, anyway.)

So when Kondo calls Hijikata into his office for a private discussion after what must have been Yamazaki’s tenth complaint about how maybe Hijikata might have taken that threat about testing his sword out on Yamazaki’s ballsack a little too far, Hijikata doesn’t try to pretend he doesn’t know exactly where their little talk is going. He enters the room wearing his darkest scowl and arms crossed defiantly over his chest, already on the defensive. But Kondo either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, because he simply lets out a weary sigh and gestures to the seat across from his desk. Hijikata takes it, still staring Kondo down, preparing himself for a lecture.

“I want you to write a list of formal regulations for the organization.”

Hijikata opens his mouth to retort that Kondo is too soft on the men, that someone needs to be the bad guy and keep them in line, and then he closes it. Then he opens it again, and no words come out. He closes it again and just stares at Kondo, his scowl deepening as he tries to cover for his confusion.

Kondo kindly ignores his moment of stupidity and scratches the back of his head, looking harried. “See, I’ve been trying to write it all morning, but I’m just no good with words. Not like you are.” He waves helplessly at the wastebin in the corner of the room, overflowing with crumpled paper. “And I feel like I’m too soft, you know? But I know I can trust you when it comes to discipline. So I thought, it’s gotta be Toshi, right?”

Hijikata stares dumbly for a moment. He blinks. He clears his throat. “I… guess that makes sense.”

“Great!” Kondo heaves a sigh of relief and motions to the desk, where a scroll and all of the necessary writing implements are still laid out. “I’ll leave it to you, then.”

Hijikata picks up the brush dutifully and nods. “Right. I understand.”

“Do you, Toshi?”

When Hijikata glances back up at Kondo, he finds that he is no longer looking at the amiable Kondo-san, and is now faced with Chief Kondo, arms crossed and frowning down at Hijikata from the end of his nose.

Ah, Hijikata thinks with an internal sigh. Here comes the lecture after all.

“Kondo-san,” he begins, already on the defensive, but Kondo holds up a hand to stop him.

“Toshi,” he says quietly, “do you know what I’m asking you to do?”

Hijikata matches Kondo’s game face with a frown of his own. “You’re asking me to formally take charge of discipline within the Shinsengumi,” he says flatly.

“And do you know what that entails?”

Hijikata chews his lip for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “It means... whatever creed I decide on, I have to make an example of myself by upholding it to the letter before I can expect the men to follow it as well.”

Kondo stares at Hijikata for a while, weighing his words. “Hmm.”

“Hmm? The hell does hmm mean?”

“It means hmm.”

Hijikata’s eye twitches. “Kondo-san, would you like to tell me what your point is instead of making me guess?”

Kondo lets out a long breath, shaking his head. “My point is that this isn’t just a list of rules I’m asking for, it’s a code of ideals to live and die by. I’m asking you to be the ultimate role model for the men. In every way, Toshi.”

Hijikata narrows his eyes. “...And?”

“And that means you need their respect. Real respect. You’re asking them to follow a creed born of your own heart and your idea of what it means to be a samurai. You can’t just be someone who enforces anymore, Toshi, you need to inspire.”

Hijikata’s expression darkens and he looks stubbornly out the window. “I’m not exactly the inspirational type, Kondo-san. That’s more your area.”

“Well, you inspire me.”

Hijikata isn’t sure he heard right. He looks up at Kondo, at a loss, but Kondo isn’t smiling his usual goofy, morale-boosting grin. His expression is honest and straightforward.

“I… what?”

“You inspire me,” Kondo repeats plainly. “You’re earnest and hardworking, and you dedicate yourself heart and soul to any task you take up. You’re not afraid of doing what’s right, even if it means playing the bad guy and being disliked. You’re hard on the men because you know they’re capable of more, and you bring the best out in them because of it. You’re a man of his word, and you carry yourself with honor and dignity. And despite your little demon act, you’re kind at heart.” He smiles now, a crooked little smirk, but his eyes are warm with pride. “You’re more than deserving of the respect of every man in this organization, Toshi. But if you really want to bring out everyone’s best selves, you’re going to have to put forth your own best self for everyone to see.”

Hijikata doesn’t answer, holding the brush a little too tightly in his hand.

My best self? A code to live by?

What exactly do you wanna be, Toshi?

Kondo stands to his feet with a sigh, patting him heavily on the shoulder as he walks by. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says gently. “I trust you, Toshi.” And with that, he leaves Hijikata alone with his thoughts and a blank scroll staring back at him from the desk.

His mind eventually begins to wander down the old paths of Bushu and the sight of multiple sets of footsteps alongside his own in the dirt, and he begins to write.

When he finally leaves the room that evening with forty five articles burning a hole in his pocket, he hears a cough from beside the door. Yamazaki nods his head when Hijikata turns, eyebrow raised, and clears his throat awkwardly. “The Chief asked me to see to it that you weren’t disturbed,” he explains.

“Of course he did,” Hijikata mutters, rolling his eyes. Kondo is Kondo, after all.

Hijikata’s shoulders deflate a little as he takes a good look at Yamazaki’s darting eyes and nervous fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. He’s uncomfortable, and understandably so, considering Hijikata threatened him with recreational castration just a few hours before.

His hair is starting to grow back in dark, wispy waves, Hijikata notices. It took Yamazaki a strangely long time to say goodbye to the ridiculous green mohawk. Despite being loath to go against Hijikata in any other matter, on the subject of his hair, he had remained strangely stubborn. It was undignified, Hijikata told him. Unbefitting of a samurai. It looked like the Grinch’s pubes. Still, Yamazaki had begged with his nose to the ground to be allowed to keep it. Kondo was a pushover as usual and allowed it; it’s important to allow the men to shape their own identities, he said. But something about that pissed Hijikata off.

When he told Yamazaki that no number of flashy haircuts can make up for a lack of presence or personality, Yamazaki stopped begging. The next day, he came into the mess hall with a shaved head and downcast eyes.

The memory suddenly makes Hijikata feel sick at his stomach, and he wishes Yamazaki would look at him now instead of staring at the floor.

“Are you finished with your work, Vice Chief?” Yamazaki asks, clearing his throat again to bring Hijikata back to the present.

“Oh – yeah, I’m done. You can take this to Kondo.” Yamazaki glances curiously at the scroll as Hijikata presses it into his hand, but doesn’t pry. “Yessir,” he says simply, turning to leave.

“Oi… Yamazaki.”

“Sir?”

Hijikata lets out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “...Good work on the recon mission at Ikedaya the other day. The intel you brought back was indispensable. It was a lot to ask of you, but you’re a quick thinker and blend in better than anyone, so… I knew you’d be up to the task.”

Yamazaki stares dumbstruck, as if Hijikata had suddenly sprouted antlers.

“T...Thank you, Vice Chief,” Yamazaki says uncertainly, narrowing his eyes like he’s waiting for a catch. It kind of makes Hijikata want to kill him.

But when the praise isn’t followed up by some biting remark or a demand to commit seppuku, a smile starts to play at the corners of Yamazaki’s mouth and he stands a little straighter, no longer staring at the floor. “I’ll take this scroll to the Chief immediately, sir!” he says brightly, snapping to a salute before turning on his heel and making his way to wherever Kondo has been waiting.

Hijikata lets out a hum from deep in his chest, leaning against the doorframe and watching the sunset.

Well, you inspire me.

Fear is easy. But maybe this whole respect thing is worth the effort.

Their first kiss is ten years overdue, shared in the dark of Hijikata’s quarters with Kondo’s fingers tangled in his hair a little too tightly. Hijikata lets out a long sigh, whether of contentment or resignation he isn’t sure, and gently tries to dislodge Kondo’s hand. “Kondo-san, I’m okay.”

Kondo laces his fingers in Hijikata’s own and doesn’t answer.

Itou’s death hit Kondo hard, Hijikata can tell. He doesn’t try to deny the heaviness in the pit of his own gut, either, the dull ache in his chest that comes from something other than his broken ribs. So when Kondo stood in his doorway with that face of his like a wounded child, Hijikata made room for him in his futon without a word. And in all honestly, Hijikata doesn’t mind the company.

“I’m sorry,” Kondo finally murmurs into Hijikata’s hair, his thumb rubbing small circles in the back of his hand. “I’m really sorry, Toshi.”

“For what?” Hijikata sighs. “I’m the one who started all of this – picking a fight with my commander, acting like some shitty brat. What kind of idiot buys a cursed sword, anyway?”

“I should have known something was wrong.”

“It’s not your job to babysit me.”

“I should have listened to you, then.”

“No,” Hijikata says quietly, “I was wrong from the start. I should have known you’d never turn on him.” He closes his eyes, listening for a moment to the steady thrum of Kondo’s heart. His big, stupid heart. “Problem children are kind of your specialty.”

Kondo is silent for a moment, his expression unreadable in the dark. “Maybe I am too soft,” he says, so quiet Hijikata almost doesn’t hear it. “I almost got you and Sougo killed. And Yamazaki, too. Even those Yorozuya idiots stuck their necks out for me… and in the end, I didn’t– I couldn’t even–” The words stick in his throat like too much peanut butter, and Hijikata’s heart plummets as he remembers it – the way those Yorozuya kids looked at them as they led Itou away, the blood that had already begun to pool at Itou’s feet before they even raised their blades, the tears in his eyes as he looked back at Hijikata before falling.

The tears dribbling down the end of Kondo’s nose when Hijikata stepped forward to play the part of executioner.

“Kondo-san…” Hijikata begins, but the rest of his words are too jumbled in his brain and seem to get caught in his throat, choking him. He wants to say that he’s the one who should be sorry, that shitty brats are supposed to look out for each other, not cut each other down. He wants to say that Kondo’s kindness is a rare and precious brand of strength, a point of pride to every man serving under him. He wants to grab Kondo by the face and say that what he wants to be is everything Kondo seems to see reflected in him, even if Hijikata himself struggles to see it. But all that comes out is, “Don’t ever change.”

Kondo is silent for an uneasy, stomach churning moment, until he lets out a watery chuckle, pressing his lips to the crown of Hijikata’s head. “Ever?”

“...Well, if you could stop getting the shit beat out of you by the Shimura girl, that would be nice. I’m running out of bullshit excuses for your injuries.”

“That’s fair.”

“Also please stop getting naked, it’s getting us in trouble with the PTA.”

“Point taken.”

“That incident with the konjac was really disgusting, too. If you’re still doing that I’m going to need you to cut that shit out.”

“Oi, Toshi, are you trying to cheer me up or make me cry?”

“Just keep on laughing.” Hijikata adjusts the bandage wrapped around Kondo’s head as an excuse to look anywhere but at his eyes. “And taking in strays, and being soft. Do what you think is right, and let us worry about the rest. We wouldn’t be following you if we didn’t trust your judgment… or your heart.”

Kondo doesn’t answer, other than to wrap an arm around Hijikata’s waist and hold him close. Hijikata listens to his breaths gradually become slower and more regular, and falls asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

When he wakes up the next morning, Kondo is gone, and the covers are expertly tucked around his shoulders. When he gets dressed and heads out to the courtyard to oversee the morning’s training, he sees Chief Kondo at the head of the formation, arms crossed over his chest and chin upturned, grinning ridiculously down from the end of his nose.

A smile tugs at the corners of Hijikata’s mouth.

Leaving Edo feels different from leaving Bushu. It shouldn’t be; Hijikata left many precious things behind in that little dojo in the countryside, things that changed and evolved, or faded and disappeared, in his absence. It’s left an ache that has settled comfortably in the pit of his stomach and stayed with him for years.

But when he thinks about the police taped building he’s called a home for over half a decade, or the rowdy streets of Kabukicho, or the way Gintoki’s laugh rang through the little diner like the clanging of a bell, a different kind of ache seems to seep into the very marrow of his bones. And it’s a different kind of resolve that straightens his back as he walks with the others to the ship awaiting them.

Katsura does not board with them – he is preparing safe transport for the Yorozuya to Akihabara, he tells them (which comes as a great relief, although Hijikata would never admit it). But he sees them off with an unexpectedly warm smile, his hand resting over the hole in his gut seemingly without thought. Hijikata finds himself returning it in kind, shaking Katsura’s hand with a firm, warm grip.

Shimaru of all people goes so far as to open his arms hesitantly for a hug, which Hijikata knows must feel to Shimaru like what walking through a haunted house feels like to himself. But Katsura indulges him, patting him gently on the back and murmuring what sounds like some kind of apology. Shimaru must have accepted because when they break apart, Hijikata sees his eyes crinkled in a smile.

Even Sougo asks Katsura to take care of the danna and his brats, and shares a glance with Katsura that Hijikata momentarily suspects he might have imagined – a look of gratitude.

When it’s Kondo’s turn to say goodbye, he and Katsura clasp one another’s wrists tightly, their eyes bright. Kondo claps him on the shoulder and says something Hijikata can’t hear, but when Katsura replies, he mouths something that looks like, “no, thank you.” Hijikata probably imagines it, but he thinks maybe a tear slips down Katsura’s cheek before he quickly turns and clears his throat to yell something to Elizabeth about going to fetch that stubborn fool Gintoki.

Kondo doesn’t cry, Hijikata notices, as the door to the ship’s hold closes with a roaring of pneumatics and both Katsura and the Edo skyline disappear from sight. He’s probably already had his fair share of tears out of sight, to be fair. But goodbyes always tend to make Kondo misty, and of everyone on board that ship, Hijikata knows he loves this town the most. Yet he simply smiles, warm and fond. Hijikata knows in this moment that they share the same resolve.

This isn’t a goodbye.

What exactly do you wanna be, Toshi?

“Kondo-san.”

Kondo tears his eyes from the porthole by his seat and looks across at Hijikata. The scar across his face has already started to heal, thanks to Yamazaki’s and Katsura’s medics’ quick ministrations. Hijikata fleetingly remembers sitting across from Kondo like this on the floor of the dojo, cleaning a cut on Kondo’s forehead while the sun set behind them. Today, the view outside their window is a sunrise.

“I think… I’ve become a ridiculous man.”

A toothy smile spreads across Kondo’s features. “Haven’t you always been?”

[maerose-late-at-night]

(I get) carried away (this fic on AO3)

Cupid!Callum AU

for @callumitchells for always being the sweetest,

& @totallyradioactive15 for giving this a first read and assuring me I wasn’t losing my mind.

There’s things about being a Cupid that most people don’t understand. How it’s more than just shooting a few strategically aimed arrows, pulling at the tightly wound string and letting the love-tipped objects land where they’re supposed to.

Sure, they get instructions from above. Names written down in nicely curled letters, indicating their targets, the people destined to fall in love with each other. But that’s about it - other than name and location of their whereabouts, the cupids themselves are left with nothing. Some of his co-workers tend to be on the lazy side, which annoys him to no end. They figure out the next possible meeting place, arrange a certain happenstance and just… shoot.

It doesn’t bear thinking how times that lack of care can end badly. Callum’s seen the result of it at times, seen the heartbreak in its wake. People being struck that ain’t supposed to, or arrows bouncing off the side. Unrequited love. Horrid affairs that break up a family, yet leave everyone sad, alone and dying just a little on the inside. It makes him physically sick to his stomach.

It’s one of the reasons he actually takes great pride in his work. Callum’s the sort of Cupid who’s not just in love with the idea of love, but who finds himself actually falling in love along with the intended recipients. He loves every little thing about it, about them,… about their stories. Wants to set them up just right. So taking great preparation, he spends his time observing them for a long time before planning their Grand Meeting. Or their Grand Moment, in case they’ve met before. He thinks it’s amazing, how some people can be blind to what’s in front of them, years and years and decades on end… and then there’s that one Moment, where they look at each other, seeing something they hadn’t before. Callum’s usually there to witness it.

And yeah, sometimes his bosses can nag him about taking too long with it, but he’s a perfectionist.

(“It’s not actually that hard,” Gabriel had told him once, annoyance pulling at the corners of his mouth, making it even tighter than usual. “We are very aware you used to have top marks in your archery classes, Halfway, I don’t see why you’re…tithering on like this.” Aziraphale, on the other hand, had sent him a kind look at that, soft and understanding. “There’s a reason you can’t rush perfection, Gabriel. Even you can’t deny this cupid brings about some of the best matches we’ve seen in centuries”. He’d winked at Callum after, before picking up his perfectly brewed cup of tea and nibbling on a biscuit. “These jammy dodgers are absolutely delightful, aren’t they?”.)

-

The first time Callum sees Ben Mitchell, he’s on his latest assignment, round the East End of London. At first glance, Albert Square seems much like any other place he’s visited so far — there’s the usual pub stood at one corner, and market stalls weaving in and out of sight. People mulling about, spending their days and shopping for things, taking shelter from the harsh weather. Not for the first time, Callum wishes he could control it - people always seem so much happier soaking up the rays of sunshine as opposed to feeling drops of rain against their skin.  Callum can’t feel either, so he don’t mind it either way. But as a general rule, he supposes when the people are happy, that’s when he is too.

He follows one of his intended targets into the safety of the pub, smiling as she tries to take cover under her leopard printed jacket, holding it up like it’ll make a difference against the downpour. Heading inside, she shakes her head a little to clear it, pushing the wet strands of hair away from her skin. She’s a pretty girl, he supposes, though he never really looks at them that way. Folding back his wings to fit through the door after her, he’s once again happy about being invisible. Being in a room like this, on a crowded night, makes him anxious, sometimes.

Scanning the place to find the best possible vantage point, he settles on an empty chair at one end of the bar. From here, he can lean against the wooden counter, turning his face towards the gathering of girls - and get to see what makes her tick. It’s only the beginning of their girls’ night out … and he might be here a while.

But then Callum catches a glimpse of a dark grey-checkered coat, hands curled tightly around a glass, and a man’s face that make him stop in his tracks. He looks weary and angry and hurt; the cut on his lip a painful reminder of something unpleasant. For some unknown reason, Callum finds himself wanting to reach out and touch. Soothe. Make it better if he can.

It’s nothing compared to when the stranger turns to him, soft blue eyes shooting daggers connecting to his own. “Right. How about you stop starin’ and let me finish my drink in peace, yeah?”

Callum looks around dazedly, trying to pinpoint where the man’s attention is at. It can’t be him, obviously. But there seems to be no one else; and he just keeps looking straight at Callum, his eyebrow now raised in a challenge. It makes a little crease appear right above his nose. Callum doesn’t know why, but this seems important to him. Something to remember.

“I… er -” Callum stumbles out. “Sorry, are you actually -”

“… talking to you.” The man utters, slowly, like he thinks Callum might be a complete idiot. His fingers tighten even more, poised for a fight. “We going to have a problem?”

“Oi,” the landlord says, pointing a stern finger in the man’s direction. “No fighting in my bar, Ben Mitchell. You leave the nice punter alone or you and I’ll be the ones having an issue.” He turns to Callum at that, sending him a polite smile. “Don’t you worry about him, his bark’s worse than his bite. What can I get ya?”

He doesn’t understand any of this. Really, he doesn’t. 8 years he’s been at this job and not once, not once, has any person ever been able to catch sight of him. There was this old lady, who asked him to pass the salt, but she was blind as anything, so he figures that didn’t count anyway.

Being compromised like this, he should pack up and call it a day — observing the girl will look weird if people actually see him doing it — but somehow, he doesn’t want to leave this place yet.  There’s a little hum around his chest area, like there’s something warm calling to him, and it makes him want to stay.

“I’ll just have a coke,” he says. “Thanks.”

It takes him half a second to realize he has no actual money to pay for it - his grateful smile turning watery and brittle. But then, the second the thought forms in his mind, he feels something land in his pocket. Callum pulls it out to find a well-stocked wallet, small origami flower tucked between the folds. One of the petals says “read me”, so Callum gently opens it to find a message in the handwriting he knows so well. The one that always spells out his names beautifully, artfully, with care. Come see me when you’re done, please, Callum.

He stows away his worry ‘bout repercussions for another time, ears perking up when conversation around him starts again.

“Stop sulking, will ya?” The landlord says, speaking over the rhythmic background sounds of the towel swirling through newly cleaned glass. Swish squeak. Swish squeak. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you deserved that.”

The man - Ben - huffs at him. “Oh, cheers Mick. Nice of you to immediately  assume my guilt.”

Callum dares another glance at him. He wants to look closer, but he’s afraid to move.

“Yeah, well…” Mick says. “Let’s face it, we all know what you’re like, eh?”

Ben remains silent at the reproach, but the quiet is broken soon enough.

“What are you like?”

The words fly out of Callum’s mouth before he’s even consciously spoken them. Both heads twist around to look at him once more. Ben’s still wearing that heavy set frown, but Mick is looking quite amused, actually.

Ben rumbles at him. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business, mate.”

It isn’t. Callum knows it isn’t. His instructions are clear: find the girl; set her up with her intended; leave them to their happy ever after. But he.. he wants to find out why Ben’s nice-looking shoulders seem to be carrying around the weight of the world. He wants to hold Ben's gaze and squeeze his fingers. He feels his own twitch at the thought.

Callum’s being ridiculous. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Mick beats him to the punch, answering his question.

“Let’s just say that…trouble has a way of finding Ben Mitchell.” He grins. “Or the other way ‘round, possibly.” Seeing Ben’s about to interfere with some snide comment, he continues, “Anyway, what about you er -”

“Callum.”

“…Callum.” He nods. “You just passing through?”

“Er -” His eyes seek out Ben’s, but he seems stubbornly focussed on anything else. Don’t matter anyway. “Not sure yet.” He needs to come back for his charges, anyway… but there’s no telling whether this particular glitch will reoccur when he does.

“Well,” Mick says, “Don’t let this one scare you off, ey.” He puts a hand on top of Callum’s and it’s solid but it’s - cold. “You are welcome in my pub anytime.” He winks, going on to serve some of the other punters.

Callum returns to his drink, sneaking sideway glances at Ben every once in a while. He doesn’t seem to notice - he looks folded back in on himself; lonely. Callum sighs quietly, careful so Ben Mitchell won’t hear. He’d probably kick his arse if he even knew half of what Callum was thinking.  

Standing up slowly, he throws some money near his empty glass and walks over. His belly’s full of nervous jitters; but he doesn’t know if he’ll get another chance to do this, so… so he lets his hand reach for Ben, placing it against his arm that seems mostly unbruised from whatever dangerous encounter he’s had.

“Look,” he says. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean anything by it.” He bites his lip, unsure, not missing the way Ben seems to track that particular movement with interest. “Are you okay?”

Ben blinks at him, slowly. The way his eyes have glossed over a little makes Callum think they’re hiding something; maybe it’s because of the alcohol, or just some hidden emotion he don’t want to share with the rest of the world.

Ben shrugs. “I’ll be alright.”

“Okay.” Callum’s not sure he’s satisfied with the answer, but accepts it for what it is. A brush-off. A goodbye.

He should move. The weird thing is, though, he mostly wants to move closer. Horrifyingly, he doesn’t want to just heal Ben’s busted lip, he wants to kiss it better. His hand is still on Ben’s arm and bridging the gap wouldn’t take much. He knows what to do, he’s seen a lot of his matches go at it. Some tenderly, others with a raging hunger that doesn’t seem to settle no matter how many times their lips slide across each other’s.

Who knows, Callum may have even kissed someone before, in another life.

He’s brought back to the present by Ben’s amused chuckle. “Callum.” By the sounds of it, it’s not the first time he’s called.  Ben glances down pointedly, laughing at the way Callum’s cheeks flush with color.

“Oh, right, sorry.” Callum mumbles. “I’ll just - ” He withdraws his hand and makes to exit the bar. As he walks out, he feels heavy raindrops fall. Turning his face up to the sky, he basks in the feeling.

-

When he gets back, he immediately makes his way to Aziraphale’s office, as requested. It’s one of his favorite places to be, honestly. Most of the angels have decorated their rooms sparingly (Gabriel’s is stark white and clean as a whistle), but not Aziraphale. Oh no. Aziraphale’s room is filled with dark brown shelves full of ancient tomes and paperback novels, a potted plant in one corner. Callum very much suspects he spends a lot of time walking around it, taking in the smells and talking to himself for lack of more interested partner. It breathes warmth and cosiness. Speaks of a good soul.

“Well, Callum,” he starts, a smile so wide it seems to want to extend beyond his physical form. “That was quite an adventure.” Without even asking, he pours them Callum’s favorite tea, pushing the flowered cup nearer to where he sits.

“You know,” he continues, eyes shining with happiness. “I always knew it was your heart that made you special.”

[maerose-late-at-night]

(I get) carried away (this fic on AO3)

Cupid!Callum AU 

for @callumitchells for always being the sweetest, 

& @totallyradioactive15 for giving this a first read and assuring me I wasn’t losing my mind.

There’s things about being a Cupid that most people don’t understand. How it’s more than just shooting a few strategically aimed arrows, pulling at the tightly wound string and letting the love-tipped objects land where they’re supposed to.

Sure, they get instructions from above. Names written down in nicely curled letters, indicating their targets, the people destined to fall in love with each other. But that’s about it - other than name and location of their whereabouts, the cupids themselves are left with nothing. Some of his co-workers tend to be on the lazy side, which annoys him to no end. They figure out the next possible meeting place, arrange a certain happenstance and just… shoot. 

It doesn’t bear thinking how times that lack of care can end badly. Callum’s seen the result of it at times, seen the heartbreak in its wake. People being struck that ain’t supposed to, or arrows bouncing off the side. Unrequited love. Horrid affairs that break up a family, yet leave everyone sad, alone and dying just a little on the inside. It makes him physically sick to his stomach.

It’s one of the reasons he actually takes great pride in his work. Callum’s the sort of Cupid who’s not just in love with the idea of love, but who finds himself actually falling in love along with the intended recipients. He loves every little thing about it, about them,… about their stories. Wants to set them up just right. So taking great preparation, he spends his time observing them for a long time before planning their Grand Meeting. Or their Grand Moment, in case they’ve met before. He thinks it’s amazing, how some people can be blind to what’s in front of them, years and years and decades on end… and then there’s that one Moment, where they look at each other, seeing something they hadn’t before. Callum’s usually there to witness it.

And yeah, sometimes his bosses can nag him about taking too long with it, but he’s a perfectionist. 

(“It’s not actually that hard,” Gabriel had told him once, annoyance pulling at the corners of his mouth, making it even tighter than usual. “We are very aware you used to have top marks in your archery classes, Halfway, I don’t see why you’re…tithering on like this.” Aziraphale, on the other hand, had sent him a kind look at that, soft and understanding. “There’s a reason you can’t rush perfection, Gabriel. Even you can’t deny this cupid brings about some of the best matches we’ve seen in centuries”. He’d winked at Callum after, before picking up his perfectly brewed cup of tea and nibbling on a biscuit. “These jammy dodgers are absolutely delightful, aren’t they?”.)

-

The first time Callum sees Ben Mitchell, he’s on his latest assignment, round the East End of London. At first glance, Albert Square seems much like any other place he’s visited so far — there’s the usual pub stood at one corner, and market stalls weaving in and out of sight. People mulling about, spending their days and shopping for things, taking shelter from the harsh weather. Not for the first time, Callum wishes he could control it - people always seem so much happier soaking up the rays of sunshine as opposed to feeling drops of rain against their skin.  Callum can’t feel either, so he don’t mind it either way. But as a general rule, he supposes when the people are happy, that’s when he is too. 

He follows one of his intended targets into the safety of the pub, smiling as she tries to take cover under her leopard printed jacket, holding it up like it’ll make a difference against the downpour. Heading inside, she shakes her head a little to clear it, pushing the wet strands of hair away from her skin. She’s a pretty girl, he supposes, though he never really looks at them that way. Folding back his wings to fit through the door after her, he’s once again happy about being invisible. Being in a room like this, on a crowded night, makes him anxious, sometimes. 

Scanning the place to find the best possible vantage point, he settles on an empty chair at one end of the bar. From here, he can lean against the wooden counter, turning his face towards the gathering of girls - and get to see what makes her tick. It’s only the beginning of their girls’ night out … and he might be here a while.

But then Callum catches a glimpse of a dark grey-checkered coat, hands curled tightly around a glass, and a man’s face that make him stop in his tracks. He looks weary and angry and hurt; the cut on his lip a painful reminder of something unpleasant. For some unknown reason, Callum finds himself wanting to reach out and touch. Soothe. Make it better if he can.

It’s nothing compared to when the stranger turns to him, soft blue eyes shooting daggers connecting to his own. “Right. How about you stop starin’ and let me finish my drink in peace, yeah?” 

Callum looks around dazedly, trying to pinpoint where the man’s attention is at. It can’t be him, obviously. But there seems to be no one else; and he just keeps looking straight at Callum, his eyebrow now raised in a challenge. It makes a little crease appear right above his nose. Callum doesn’t know why, but this seems important to him. Something to remember. 

“I… er -” Callum stumbles out. “Sorry, are you actually -”

“… talking to you.” The man utters, slowly, like he thinks Callum might be a complete idiot. His fingers tighten even more, poised for a fight. “We going to have a problem?”

“Oi,” the landlord says, pointing a stern finger in the man’s direction. “No fighting in my bar, Ben Mitchell. You leave the nice punter alone or you and I’ll be the ones having an issue.” He turns to Callum at that, sending him a polite smile. “Don’t you worry about him, his bark’s worse than his bite. What can I get ya?”

He doesn’t understand any of this. Really, he doesn’t. 8 years he’s been at this job and not once, not once, has any person ever been able to catch sight of him. There was this old lady, who asked him to pass the salt, but she was blind as anything, so he figures that didn’t count anyway. 

Being compromised like this, he should pack up and call it a day — observing the girl will look weird if people actually see him doing it — but somehow, he doesn’t want to leave this place yet.  There’s a little hum around his chest area, like there’s something warm calling to him, and it makes him want to stay. 

“I’ll just have a coke,” he says. “Thanks.” 

It takes him half a second to realize he has no actual money to pay for it - his grateful smile turning watery and brittle. But then, the second the thought forms in his mind, he feels something land in his pocket. Callum pulls it out to find a well-stocked wallet, small origami flower tucked between the folds. One of the petals says “read me”, so Callum gently opens it to find a message in the handwriting he knows so well. The one that always spells out his names beautifully, artfully, with care. Come see me when you’re done, please, Callum.

He stows away his worry ‘bout repercussions for another time, ears perking up when conversation around him starts again.

“Stop sulking, will ya?” The landlord says, speaking over the rhythmic background sounds of the towel swirling through newly cleaned glass. Swish squeak. Swish squeak. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you deserved that.” 

The man - Ben - huffs at him. “Oh, cheers Mick. Nice of you to immediately  assume my guilt.”

Callum dares another glance at him. He wants to look closer, but he’s afraid to move. 

“Yeah, well…” Mick says. “Let’s face it, we all know what you’re like, eh?”

Ben remains silent at the reproach, but the quiet is broken soon enough.

“What are you like?” 

The words fly out of Callum’s mouth before he’s even consciously spoken them. Both heads twist around to look at him once more. Ben’s still wearing that heavy set frown, but Mick is looking quite amused, actually. 

Ben rumbles at him. “Don’t see how that’s any of your business, mate.”

It isn’t. Callum knows it isn’t. His instructions are clear: find the girl; set her up with her intended; leave them to their happy ever after. But he.. he wants to find out why Ben’s nice-looking shoulders seem to be carrying around the weight of the world. He wants to hold Ben's gaze and squeeze his fingers. He feels his own twitch at the thought.

Callum’s being ridiculous. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Mick beats him to the punch, answering his question.

“Let’s just say that…trouble has a way of finding Ben Mitchell.” He grins. “Or the other way ‘round, possibly.” Seeing Ben’s about to interfere with some snide comment, he continues, “Anyway, what about you er -”

“Callum.” 

“…Callum.” He nods. “You just passing through?”

“Er -” His eyes seek out Ben’s, but he seems stubbornly focussed on anything else. Don’t matter anyway. “Not sure yet.” He needs to come back for his charges, anyway… but there’s no telling whether this particular glitch will reoccur when he does.

“Well,” Mick says, “Don’t let this one scare you off, ey.” He puts a hand on top of Callum’s and it’s solid but it’s - cold. “You are welcome in my pub anytime.” He winks, going on to serve some of the other punters.

Callum returns to his drink, sneaking sideway glances at Ben every once in a while. He doesn’t seem to notice - he looks folded back in on himself; lonely. Callum sighs quietly, careful so Ben Mitchell won’t hear. He’d probably kick his arse if he even knew half of what Callum was thinking.  

Standing up slowly, he throws some money near his empty glass and walks over. His belly’s full of nervous jitters; but he doesn’t know if he’ll get another chance to do this, so… so he lets his hand reach for Ben, placing it against his arm that seems mostly unbruised from whatever dangerous encounter he’s had. 

“Look,” he says. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean anything by it.” He bites his lip, unsure, not missing the way Ben seems to track that particular movement with interest. “Are you okay?”

Ben blinks at him, slowly. The way his eyes have glossed over a little makes Callum think they’re hiding something; maybe it’s because of the alcohol, or just some hidden emotion he don’t want to share with the rest of the world. 

Ben shrugs. “I’ll be alright.”

“Okay.” Callum’s not sure he’s satisfied with the answer, but accepts it for what it is. A brush-off. A goodbye. 

He should move. The weird thing is, though, he mostly wants to move closer. Horrifyingly, he doesn’t want to just heal Ben’s busted lip, he wants to kiss it better. His hand is still on Ben’s arm and bridging the gap wouldn’t take much. He knows what to do, he’s seen a lot of his matches go at it. Some tenderly, others with a raging hunger that doesn’t seem to settle no matter how many times their lips slide across each other’s. 

Who knows, Callum may have even kissed someone before, in another life. 

He’s brought back to the present by Ben’s amused chuckle. “Callum.” By the sounds of it, it’s not the first time he’s called.  Ben glances down pointedly, laughing at the way Callum’s cheeks flush with color. 

“Oh, right, sorry.” Callum mumbles. “I’ll just - ” He withdraws his hand and makes to exit the bar. As he walks out, he feels heavy raindrops fall. Turning his face up to the sky, he basks in the feeling.

-

When he gets back, he immediately makes his way to Aziraphale’s office, as requested. It’s one of his favorite places to be, honestly. Most of the angels have decorated their rooms sparingly (Gabriel’s is stark white and clean as a whistle), but not Aziraphale. Oh no. Aziraphale’s room is filled with dark brown shelves full of ancient tomes and paperback novels, a potted plant in one corner. Callum very much suspects he spends a lot of time walking around it, taking in the smells and talking to himself for lack of more interested partner. It breathes warmth and cosiness. Speaks of a good soul.

“Well, Callum,” he starts, a smile so wide it seems to want to extend beyond his physical form. “That was quite an adventure.” Without even asking, he pours them Callum’s favorite tea, pushing the flowered cup nearer to where he sits.

“You know,” he continues, eyes shining with happiness. “I always knew it was your heart that made you special.”