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80s4life · 3 years

Text

God Help Me*

Word Count: 2,306

Status: Not Requested!

Fandom: Orange Is The New Black

A/N: Just watched some more of oitnb and felt that Joe was an underrated character. So, here's something dirty for the dirty dog!

Relationship: Joe Caputo x Female Reader

Summary: (Based loosely on S3:E7 (”Tongue-Tied”) where the new recruits for security are supposed to be getting the 40 hours of training, but denied by the new employers. Specifically, when Bayley makes his mistake with the pepper spray incident, Caputo is outraged, in the need of a break. Luckily, you know how to ease his tension.

Warnings: language, age-gap pairing, against laws, forbidden, smut, retardation name calling (once, not me though, a line from the show!)

Taglist: @intersellars-the-networks-of-eve @snapessecretdiary

Masterlist Orange Is The New Black Masterlist

{gif is not mine, credits to @thompsonconnors}

"What the fuck was that?" Joe Caputo asks, confused and struggling to keep up with the messes every corner he turns. "You assess the situation and you respond with the appropriate level of force! And you never, ever, ever discharge your weapon unless it's absolutely necessary!" he continues, not done just yet. "And if you do, and that weapon happens to be pepper spray, you better damn well make sure you're upwind!"

Bayley, the new recruit, alongside Donaldson, a long-term member of this prison, look down, ashamed of themselves. Blinking their eyes every so often, the pain in their eyes searing with the combination of the regret in how they got in this position in the first place and the stinging pepper spray.

Motioning towards Bayley, Caputo continues with his mantra, "You are a trigger-happy knucklehead who just got out of diapers," now turning his attention to Donaldson, "But you, how could you let this happen?" he finishes, exasperated.

Donaldson, finding some courage, fires back, "Sir, with all due respect, I'm not a nanny." He may have screwed up, but he is not putting his life on the line for an idiot.

"No! You are an officer with 20 plus years' experience, and your job was to impart some wisdom on fucking Baby Huey over here!" Caputo spits, motioning towards Bayley once more.

"Well, this is what happens when you put untrained officers in gen pop," Donaldson says once more, although very quickly and almost fearfully. As if he were a child talking back to his parents.

"You don't think I know that? I fucking know that!" Caputo says once more, placing a hand over his head, letting out a tired sigh as he walks back behind his desk. "Bayley, I should be firing your ass," he motion towards the young man with two pointed fingers.

"I know," is all he manages meekly.

"But, it's your first day, so I'm gonna chalk this up to mental retardation. If you so much as look at an inmate wrong in the next week, you're out of here!" Caputo motions with a "whoosh." Now looking Bayley up and down in disbelief, he catches the small paper taped to his chest as well, "Take that stupid fucking name tag off."

As the men nod once more, he finishes with, "Now go! Get your asses down to medical and get an eyewash. And read the stupid fucking manuals!" he grunts, shaking the book in question and slamming it on his desk as the officers leave.

Throwing himself into his chair, he almost considers kicking and flailing around like a child in order to let off steam, but he is quickly denied the chance as you knock and burst through his office within a second.

“Sir.”

“What is it now?” he asks quietly, a hand holding his head up by his chin, fingers covering his now closed eyes.

“Well- uhm- well...” you continue, quite nervous as you don’t know where his hostility had come from, you being unsure whether it was your doing or not. It was uncharted waters you weren’t sure on stepping into or not.

“What. Is. It!?” he yells now, eyes wide open, hands clutching the ends of his armrests. Making you yelp and jump a bit, taking a few steps back into the doorway.

Seeing this reaction, he sighs once more, taking in your wide eyes and slightly tense posture, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. It’s been a long day, okay?”

“I-I understand sir.”

“How many times have I told you to call me Joe, or Caputo if that’s what floats your boat?” he says, an attempt to coax you out of your startled state.

“I’m sorry s- Caputo. I only wanted to tell you that I bought ya’ something. A little gift, I guess.” you say, a blush tinting your cheeks.

“What? You didn’t have to get me anything!” He smiles now, relieving you, and bringing a smile to your own features at his now somewhat upbeat mood.

“Well, ya’ know...I remember you telling me about a band of yours, right?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he smirks, looking back at fond memories and the new ones with his new band.

“Well, since your style of music was rock, and I just so happened to be in the area of a new music store, I found some goodies there!” Pulling a seat in front of his desk, you grab the wrapped presents from the waistband of your belt, having hidden it behind your back in attempt to completely surprise him.

He smiles at your childish antics, lightly taking the wrapped good from your small, delicate hands. Unwrapping the smallest one, he finds a box underneath the covers. Opening it, his smile grows bigger as his eyes meet a black guitar pick, a skull etched into it and painted white.

His eyes meet yours for a second, a fondness there, looking back down once more as he admires it. “I love it,” he says after a second.

“That’s not all!” you say, excited now as he already likes one of the things you’ve picked out for him, pulling out a medium-sized present next. You take this sudden change of attitude as a sign, wanting to hopefully ease the stresses the guards and staff have been taking, especially Joe.

Taking it from your hands once more, your hands make contact, the blush on your face intensifying a little more. Unwrapping the present, he finds a black bandanna, his band name printed onto it, matching the guitar pick. He giggles at this, tying it around his head for your view.

You laugh as well as you go to hand him the biggest and last of the presents, his eyes lighting up once he finds what it is. “Nu-uh! You didn’t! This must’ve cost a fortune!” he almost yells now, a genuine leather guitar strap in his grip as he jumps up from his seat.

“No, actually they gave me a little discount on it. It took a lot of searching to get the one you’ve been specifically looking for, but the guy said I was cute- anyway! I just thought you needed these since work has been beating your ass,” you say, smirking lightly.

“You didn’t need to do this,” he says, settling back into his seat as he grasps your hands lightly, still star-struck as he looks at the strap still in his hand.

The gesture was innocent, but as time goes on, you blush a deep red, him still not letting go of your hands. Noticing this, he goes to pull away, clearing his throat, standing, and straightening out his suit. There, you notice a slight tent in his pants, igniting a flame in your belly.

“Well, thank you Miss Y/L/N, these were very nice...”

“Anytime...” you say slyly, dragging on your words as you stand as well, not bothering to fix your pants as it sticks tightly to your ass and thighs.

He looks down, gulping as he takes in your curves he usually tries to ignore, clearing his throat once more as his eyes meet yours. Only now did he realize the close proximity between the two of you, you intending to lean in and fix his tie. As you do so, he grabs your hand, pulling it away, “Don’t tempt me. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Oh, I’m pretty damn sure I do,” you say as you pull him down to your height by the tie, pulling at the base of his neck, kissing him now.

Breaking apart for a moment, you make your way around the desk, perching yourself atop it as you pull him between your legs, kissing him once more. Tongues fighting for dominance, you tease him, sucking on it, and nibbling on his lips. He growls, the tent now very evident in his pants, the tightness an annoying constriction.

He pulls away once more, going to lock his office door, having placed a ‘On a lunch break’ sign above his name. Making his way back over to you, his lips attach to yours once more, moving to remove your weaponry belt. You do the same, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt, moving to leave kisses, bites and hickeys.

Continuing your attack, you move your hand to his belt, working quickly as he unbuttons your shirt, exposing your constricted, perky breasts. He grunts once more, adding to your eagerness as you finally get his belt out of the loops. Now both full of impatience, you unleash his cock, him doing the same for your breasts and pants. Completely removing everything from your being, leaving your half-unbuttoned shirt.

Not wasting time, he starts to work your clit, moisturizing ever bit of you as he collects it and moves his finger in all the most special parts, lubricating your core with ease. You grip his cock, teasing it as you run your finger along the slit at the top, precum already oozing. Looking him in the eyes, you notice his golden browns now a dark chocolate eyes, admiration sparkling them as he looks back at you.

You moan as he enters a finger into your core, soon adding another as you loosen yourself for him. Finally, when he deems you ready, he reaches into one of the desk drawers, pulling out a condom. Motioning to him, he hands it over, letting you take over and do the honors. He simply places both arms on either side of your form, caging you in his embrace, smirking down at you.

Finally, once the condom was rolled onto his member, he goes to line himself up to your entrance, tip placed right at the beginning, not crossing the threshold just yet. “Are you sure?” is all he asks, wanting consent.

Knowing that this is wrong, you contemplate your options. You have already thought of the many ways he could take you, having been attracted to the older man for many years. Looking him in the eyes, you nod, “I’ve wanted this for too fucking long.”

With this new reassurance, he thrusts deeply, not giving you a chance to adjust just yet, pushing in and not stopping until he’s bottomed out. Taking a breath, you relish in the familiar sting of being stretched out, leaning back on your elbows for a minute. When you’re finally ready, you grab onto his shoulders, nodding once again.

He starts slow, not wanting to hurt you, but, as you bite his pulse point, he jumps, taking the hint. Pounding into you mercilessly now, you moan and scream loudly, meeting his thrusts with the same momentum and speed, wanting this just as much as he does.

Instead, wanting to hold onto this feeling for as long as you can manage, you busy yourself with admiring and teasing the man before you. Specifically when he switches positions slightly, hitting your g-spot, your hands find their way into the tiny tufts of hair remaining on his balding scalp. Tugging lightly, he groans, pounding harder.

“Fuck!” you choke out, “I’m gonna cum! Joe! I’m gonna cum!”

“Just hold on a bit more, I’m almost there!”

Using his hands, he moves one to your clit, rubbing hard circles, intensifying the pleasure. You moan, the pleasure almost too much for you, settling for leaning your head on his chest. The chest hair tickles your nose, making you giggle between whimpers, kissing him there every so often.

With all your strength, you try to maintain your composure, the knot in your stomach begging for release. But, as you feel his dick twitch, the veins touching every inch of your walls deliciously, you couldn’t hold on any longer, milking his cock. With the sudden tightness and feeling of warmth bursting against him, he continues to thrust just a few seconds more, riding you through your orgasm as he meets his.

As he slowly comes down from his high, he sighs peacefully, placing his head underneath yours and in the crevice of your neck. You kiss the top of his head as you take his weight, leaning back on your hands, one wrapped around his neck. After a moment, as he now goes soft within your being, he pulls out, disposing the condom.

Smiling, the two of you joke and throw clothes at each other as you get changed again. “So what are we now, Joe?”

“Well, it’d be fucked up to say nothing after mind-blowing-sex, now wouldn’t it?”

“I guess...So does that mean we’re together?”

“Do you want to? I would’a thought a young girl like you would want someone who can keep up with ya’?”

“I mean yeah...but they aren’t you, Joe. I want you,” you say honestly.

“Shit...” he mutters, smiling now, “This is the best thing that’s happened to me all day.”

“Is that a ‘yeah’?”

“Hell yeah it is!” he says happily, “Now how about round 2?”

“You’re on Old Man,” you say giggling, hopping into his lap on his desk, kissing him once more.

However your giggling and kisses get cut short with a knock on the door. You sigh, getting off of him not and making sure your clothes are straightened out.

“I guess not...” you say defeated.

“Well...Not right now,” Joe answers, going to the door, giving a sly wink as he opens it.

Work is only temporary, you know this. You’ll get all the time you need with him tonight.

#joe caputo x reader #joe caputo imagine #joe caputo #oitnb #oitnb imagine #orange is the new black #orange is the new black imagine #alan aisenberg #bayley #nick sandow #nick sandow imagine #nick sandow x reader #donaldson

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trekscribbles · 3 years

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Cherry Juice

Fandom: Leverage Word Count: 1558 Pairings: Just Eliot and Parker friendship Cross-posted: AO3 and FF

Eliot had blood on his hands, and the fact that it surprised him... surprised him. The sight of it hit him like a punch to the face, the kind he hadn't been expecting—the kind that made him stumble when he needed to keep his feet. He sucked in a breath, feeling his muscles bunch in preparation, tucking his elbows against his body. Parker called it his Danger Mode, and he—

Parker.

Eliot took another breath, staring down at his hands. It wasn't blood, it was cherry juice. He was standing in his kitchen, making cherry chutney for a pork loin he was going to grill later. Parker sat across from him, perched on a stool with her elbows on his island, watching him like a cat studying a bird.

She was saying his name, her eyes all bright and curious. He gave her a wordless grunt and turned away, all but running to the sink, pushing up on the faucet handle with his wrist and scrubbing the red off his skin. It stained the creases where his fingers bent, running down underneath the nails and making his knuckles look bruised.

"Eliot?" Parker was next to him now, peering over his arms as if he was doing something interesting instead of trying to scour the skin off his hands.

He cleared his throat. "It's—the—the juice was sticking to the knife."

Parker's eyes followed the flow of pink draining from his hands. "It looks a little bit like..." Her eyes snapped up to his, and he looked away before he could tell himself not to. I hadn't noticed, he wanted to say, all gruff and confident and dismissive. It was just sticky. You don't want to use a sticky knife.

But he couldn't force the words out. He continued to wash until his skin burned under the steaming water, feeling the heat of Parker's gaze like a he was an ant under her magnifying glass. When his flesh was pink and raw and as clean as he could possibly get it, he turned off the water and reached for the towel hanging from the oven handle.

Parker beat him to it. "Is that what bothered you?" she asked, holding it out to him.

He took it roughly, ready to tell her to mind her own business, but he couldn't make himself say that when he couldn't even meet her eyes. So he nodded, and she nodded in response.

"It wasn't. It was just cherry juice."

"I know that, Parker."

"You wanted to fight something though."

He wanted to argue that too, but his still-tense muscles told him that denial was pointless. "It's a reflex," he murmured instead.

"Would you have fought the cherries?"

The question made him blink at her, and her face looked so sincere, like she'd just asked an actual question and was waiting for an actual reply. "No, Parker," he said, managing a little of his usual gruffness.

"Good. Then I'd have to tell Nate, and he'd have to tell Sophie, and you'd have to take a wellness quiz and—"

"A wellness quiz?"

"Yeah." She leaned away from him, plucking a pitted cherry from the bowl on the counter and popping it into her mouth. "You know, like How are you feeling today? and Why do you think there are monsters in your closet? and How did you find out the monsters had the key to the ice cream freezer?"

Eliot stared at her, trying to make sense of her words. "Did someone ask you those questions?"

She nodded. "You know, the questions they ask you when you're a kid. Wellness quizzes." Eliot shook his head, and Parker seemed to deflate a little. "Oh. Was that just me?"

"No one ever asked me anything like that," Eliot said. His hands were dry now, but he didn't want to put down the towel. "Did you get asked those questions a lot?"

"A few times," Parker said, and he got the impression that she was hedging.

Eliot sighed. The Question flashed through his mind again: How did he end up with these people, these damaged children with damaged pasts that wouldn't let them go? He used to be someone who wouldn't care about this kind of thing—about her wellness questions, about her childhood, about her. He used to be the kind of monster that would have hidden in her closet.

But he'd just tried to scrub the skin off his hands because of some cherry juice.

"Go ahead," he grunted, replacing the towel on the rack and picking up his knife again.

"What?"

"Go ahead and give me the quiz." He forced his fingers around a pitted cherry, focusing on relaxing his grip on the knife so it would glide through the fruit instead of chopping.

Parker tilted her head. "How are you feeling?"

"Hungry."

"And how did you sleep last night?"

"Fine."

"No nightmares?"

"No."

"No getting up in the middle of the night to check for monsters under your bed?"

Eliot looked up from the cherries. "Do you do that?"

"Not anymore. Hardison said you chased all the monsters away for me."

A mix of emotions drove his eyes down again—he was irritated that Hardison was making promises for him, and touched at the thought that his name was enough to banish Parker's fear. "Next question."

"Have you been spending more time alone lately than is normal for you?"

"Parker, you're in my kitchen right now. I told you I was busy and you came over anyway."

"I thought it was code."

"It was code for I'm busy, don't come over."

"Okay. Are you having problems with your teachers or parents?"

He expected the mention of his parents to bring the usual spike of guilt, but instead he only quirked up his eyebrows and scraped the halved cherries into their waiting bowl. "Teachers?"

She nodded seriously. "Or parents. Any arguments with Nate lately?"

"Nate's not my dad."

She rolled her eyes. "Obviously. You don't look anything alike."

"No, Parker, I haven't had any arguments with Nate or Sophie, and I got Hardison to write my term paper for me."

Though he said it as sarcastically as possible, Parker nodded in approval. "Are you taking unnecessary risks or getting hurt frequently?"

"All of my risks are calculated and necessary."

"You did get shot during our last job."

"It was a graze," Eliot argued, rolling his shoulder to prove that it had healed. "Next question."

He waited, but she was quiet for so long that he was able to cut three cherries in peace before looking up. When he did, her eyes were focused on the counter between his cutting board and the bowl. "Will you tell me the next time you go into Danger Mode when there's no danger?"

Eliot frowned, setting down his knife and wiping his fingers on the towel. He wanted to say no, because admitting something like tensing for a fight while he was cooking at home felt like an admission of weakness, but her face was closing off in anticipation of his denial and he hated being responsible for that reaction. So he picked up a cherry half and held it out to her, waiting to speak until her eyes crept up to his. "I will," he said slowly. "If you promise to never tell Hardison."

In a heartbeat, her expression lit up and she plucked the cherry out of his palm. "Deal."

"You shouldn't be this excited about keeping secrets from your boyfriend."

"I don't want to get out of practice," she said, shrugging. "Besides, I keep tons of secrets from you."

"Like what?"

"Like that time Hardison put a clip in your hair while you were sleeping and you didn't notice it and then he got scared that you'd find it so he made me sneak behind you and take it out."

"Parker!"

She winced. "Which he told me not to tell you. So now you have to keep my secret too."

Eliot threw another handful of cherries onto his cutting board, scowling, and his gaze caught on his stained fingers. His body didn't react to the sight this time—his heartbeat stayed even, his shoulders relaxed. He glanced up at Parker, busy stealing another piece of fruit from the bowl, and failed to contain the burst of warmth that spread through him. Maybe she'd been right after all. Maybe "don't come over" was a code, one he hadn't even realized he'd been giving her. One she'd read as effortlessly as she'd read his reaction to the cherry juice on his skin. Had she always been that good at reading him? Were Sophie's lessons finally starting to take hold, or was Parker just getting better at recognizing emotion in others now that she had accepted it in herself?

Or did it have more to do with him than her? Was he starting to let down his guard more than he'd realized?

"Ask me another question," Eliot said quietly.

Parker beamed at him. "Another wellness question?"

"No. Anything."

"What else goes into the chutney?"

Eliot smiled, thinking back to the dish he'd tasted on his last trip to India. "I don't have a recipe, but I think I tasted onion, curry, lemon juice..."

"You always taste lemon juice."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged. "It's a very distinctive taste."

#leverage #fanfic #eliot spencer #parker leverage #friendship #I was cutting cherries in half for my toddler and this happened #sorry #very little planning or editing went into this #not beta read

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maraudererasmut · 3 years

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Life Update and All That

Hey all!

It’s T here!

I know it’s been a very long while since I’ve been around, and I figured I’m finally at the point where I can pop by and give a bit of an update, in case anyone was curious.

I left Tumblr and Discord for a bit to get my bearings and re-evaluate things. I needed some time to myself to sort through my mental health, figure some stuff out, and get to the point where I was finally at a better place to be able to come back.

A few things have happened since I’ve left that are actually kind of neat!

I published a book and wrote another manuscript!

I’m not going to share too much information about my book here, because I still do want to keep my smut-writing-pseudonym separate from my professional life, but suffice it to say that I published a novella, which got me started on the strange journey that is publishing!

I’m currently in the process of querying my first full-length manuscript, with the intention of getting an agent and publishing it. Hopefully that will be able to go somewhere, but if not, at least I have learned a lot while on my journey!

I realized that I am trans!

To the shock and surprise of absolutely nobody, the person who wrote gay romance and focused on a storyline that predominantly featured a transmasc character is actually, in fact, gay and trans. Shocking, I know!

It took a bit of thinking and talking and self analyzing that mostly occured during the many, many hours of alone time provided by a global pandemic for me to realize that wanting to be a boy does, in fact, make you probably a boy. Who would have guessed.

Anyway, I’m going by he/they pronouns these days. And uh... I guess my descriptions of dysphoria in all of my fics were a bit closer to home than I was ever willing to admit. Funny how these things work.

I bought a house!

I finally did something that I never thought would be possible in my entire life: I actually purchased a house in my city, which is notoriously expensive. It’s the perfect home for me: a large backyard; my very own shop space, which will soon be filled with tools; a sunroom with tons of windows for writing; a roof that I can climb up to and sit on... It’s really such a great home, and I am so excited to start this new chapter of my life here.

One door closed and another opened!

When I first left, there was a job opportunity that was a bit up in the air that would’ve involved me uprooting my life. While it didn’t end up panning out, I was ended up stumbling upon a different job in my field. I almost forgot how much I love what I do, and I am so glad to be back into the thick of it!

I figured that I should probably also try to pre-emptively answer any questions that you may have while I’m here and typing this all out. So... here goes!

Will you be continuing *insert fanfiction*?

I’m honestly not sure. The best answer that I can give right now is: Maybe?

I definitely want to try to continue some of my storylines, tie up some loose ends, and actually put together those plots that I had swirling around my mind.

That being said, I also have other projects that are currently on the go that might take precidence. Most importantly, I have several original stories that I plan to eventually query (or even publish, if I can!).

If I find that I am inspired to go back and write more Wolfstar, rest assured, I absolutely WILL. These boys will always hold a special place in my heart, and I honestly don’t know if I will ever be truly rid of them, even if I tried.

Will you still be making art for the fandom?

Again, I’m not sure.

I’ve been doing a LOT of fanart, on a different account, just to keep up my skills while I was away. There are quite a few fandoms that I have been making art for, and I don’t know yet if I want to merge these two accounts.

That’s a decision for the future. :P

But you can always try to pop into my ask box and send a request, and if I can get to it, I will try my absolute best.

You and I have unfinished business!! Will you be getting to that?!

Ah, yes. I remember now. I left the fandom while I was in a very BAD place, and most things fell by the wayside while I worked on my mental health. I’m sorry.

If we do have any kind of unfinished business at all that you need to talk to me about, please do! I want to try to resolve things and make sure that everyone is satisfied with whatever solution we can come to. Feel free to reach out, and I will try my absolute best to respond and rectify.

Rest assured, if we have had any kind of negative interraction in the past, I have absolutely spent the past year and a half allowing that to eat away at me. I’ve been feeling guilt up the wazoo, a ball of anxiety so tight, you could probably play baseball with it.

I’m trying not to let these kinds of things bother me anymore. I’m trying to learn to let things go, and focus on the present and the future. I am truly sorry for things that I have done in the past, but I am finally at the point where I am ready to put my effort into making things better instead of dwelling on what was.

Will you be active on this blog now? Are you back for good?

I think you already know the answer to that question...

I don’t know.

I haven’t made any decisions yet about whether or not I’m here to lurk and like and reblog or if I’m going to be actually producing content again. I have no idea yet how active I will be here. That really depends on how I’m feeling, how I’m doing mentally, and what the reception to this post looks like.

So... Maybe?

DID YOU MISS ME WHEN YOU WERE GONE?

Yes. Yes, I did.

If you are actually asking me this question, chances are that I did miss you. Yes, you specifically. Yes, I thought about you a lot. Yes, I wished that I had the courage to go back and just say “HI, I MISSED YOU, PLEASE CAN WE BE FRIENDS AGAIN!”

I am not great at reaching out, though. I’m not great at handling my emotions period. Hopefully, if you’re wondering if I missed you, you’d be interested in reconnecting, knowing that I did, in fact, miss you a lot.

Are you okay now?

I will be.

Even when I’m not okay these days, I at least have the wherewithall to be able to say “while I might not be doing great right now, I know that I will be okay.”

And isn’t that what we all want? :P

Anyway, if you made it this far, thanks for reading. I hope this was interesting and/or informative.

And... I’m glad that I wrote this. It helped.

With love,

#maraudererasmut #writing my thoughts out #T Talks

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eldritchqueerture · 3 years

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Hello! This is a project for @summer-in-the-archives-event that I worked on with @horizonindigo! We came up with the idea together and based our individual works around the poem I wrote, included in the fic. You can find their absolutely amazing art here!!

I freaking loved working on this one and I got more and more excited as we progressed. I also surprised myself with the poem itself a bit, definitely didn’t expect it to end up quite as cool, if I may say so myself. It was incredibly fun to write.

Big shoutout to @sunflowers-and-frogs for beta reading, I love you bestie <3

I would like to thank all the mods that made this event possible! It’s my first time taking part in anything like this and it was really, really fun, so THANK YOU <3 Love you guys :3 Anyways, enough of my rambling kdfjgkjsdfg

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Kissing, Excessive Tea-Making, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Poetry, Love Confessions Warnings: self-esteem issues, typical Lonely content, discussions of free-will and determinism, graphic kiss

Summary: As Martin fights the remnants of the Lonely's influence on their ride to Daisy's safehouse in Scotland, he focuses on his feelings for Jon to keep him tethered to reality. He watches Jon be himself in the safety of the cottage, share these small intimacies of domesticity and the words come to him as a poem weaves itself into the pages of his notebook...

He feels the taste of salt in his mouth, as he looks out of the car window at the rapidly falling away landscape, covered in the darkness of the night. He feels Jon’s presence next to him, focused on driving but glancing every so often at him with concern. Martin feels like he should say something, somehow fill the silence that has befallen them, but no words ever find their way to his mouth. He stays quiet, watching the trees pass them by, trying to ignore the anxious churning in his stomach. He’s always been pretty good at filling awkward silences with chatter; at least before the Lonely. Now… he can’t help but feel bothered by Jon’s presence, even though he did all of this for him, even though this is what he’s wanted all this time; it’s like a splinter, prickling at his mind, almost causing him physical discomfort. He swallows and feels the salty taste on his tongue; he discards the thoughts and tries his best to breathe through the discomfort, instead focusing on the sensation of Jon’s warm hand on his.

Martin used to be the warm one; he’d always been generating heat and his mind goes back to the early days in the Archives when the basement was cold in the winter and both Tim and Sasha used to gravitate towards him with their respective cups of tea during breaks. Now his whole body is cold, the chill of the ocean breeze and fog having settled in his bones so deep he thinks he’ll never feel warm again. The thought isn’t sparking any emotions in him though. It’s just a thing that he’s learned to accept, just as the fact that he’ll always be alo—

“Do you want me to put on some music?” Jon asks with another one of his glances. Every time, he raises his eyebrows a bit, and tilts his head to the side; Martin expects the concern in his eyes, but he sees something else there as well. He’s been afraid to put a label to the expression for the fear he’s reading him wrong, but the bolder part of his mind tells him it’s fondness.

Jon’s hand is warm, and his thumb grazes the skin of his palm just a little, as if not sure he’s allowed to. Martin looks down at their hands and feels warmth spark in his stomach; he smiles.

“I’m sorry I’m—I’m not really good at the whole, uh… small talk thing,” Jon adds with a flush, turning his head back to the road. “I should probably be talking about something, though, to, uh… to keep you here. I suppose.” He visibly cringes at his words.

“It’s—It’s fine, Jon,” Martin chuckles, and Jon relaxes, fixing him with a quick smile of his own. “I’m just… you know.” He looks down at their hands again and has a brief feeling they belong to someone else. Not him. Never him. “I’m not quite… out of that. Yet.”

Another look of concern. Martin feels heat prickling at his cheeks and he’s a little bit glad, because at least it’s a feeling. He interlaces their fingers and looks out the front window.

They spend the ride in relative silence. Jon tries a couple more times to start small talk and fails; they stop at a gas station at one point and Martin takes out his notebook when Jon disappears inside the station to pay for gas. He flicks through it and his eyes stop at an unfinished draft; he started writing it shortly before Peter took him down to the Panopticon, but he’d only managed to get a few first lines down. Despite still feeling the cold in his bones and his mind being clouded by the remains of the fog, words come to him, and he starts scribbling. He continues to do so even when Jon comes back with tea and an assortment of snacks, blushing just a little bit when Jon shoots a curious look at the notebook. He doesn’t ask and Martin is thankful for it. He’s not the sort to show his drafts to anyone, especially to the subject he’s writing about.

It’s 1am when they arrive at the cottage; they’re both exhausted and they quickly take their bags inside and lock the door. The cottage is small and practical, just Daisy’s style; it’s also quite dusty from months of abandonment. Martin yawns as he opens one of the bags to get the essentials. They should leave unpacking and cleaning for the next day.

He hears Jon’s footsteps on the wooden floor coming back from the initial run of the house and he turns to tell him that, but the somewhat sheepish look on his face stops him in his tracks. Has he ever seen Jon look sheepish before?

“So, uh, obviously this was Daisy’s safehouse when she was, well… Avoiding people,” he says, not meeting Martin’s eyes.

“I hope ‘avoiding people’ doesn’t mean killing them in this context,” Martin snorts, not sure if he’s entirely joking. The humour is lost on Jon, however, as he looks at him confused for a moment before he processes Martin’s words.

“Oh, no, no, I-I don’t believe she, uh… She just slept here.” Jon shifts awkwardly. “And that means there’s uh, there’s only one bed.”

Martin’s eyes widen and his lips form a little “Oh”.

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable with sharing, I can just take the couch, you need some proper rest and I’m used to running on low sleep” —Jon averts his gaze as he speaks. He grabs his bag and walks over to the couch, and Martin wants to stop him talking and just say that they should share the bed, but his voice seems to have left him at this crucial moment. He just stares as Jon places the bag on the couch and looks back at him, aware of the silence. “Martin?”

Martin swallows, a familiar cold freezing his toes. He feels the damp sand underneath his bare feet and a chill runs down his spine. He blinks and tightens his grip on the bag he’s been holding. This is real, he is real, Jon is real.

“You need good rest too,” he finally manages to say, and he’s surprised by how clear and normal his voice sounds; it makes Jon relax a bit. “We should share the bed, if-if you are comfortable with that.”

A small smile appears on Jon’s lips and a warm feeling fills Martin’s stomach again; he knows the smile is for him.

“Okay,” he says softly and picks the bag up.

They manage to keep the awkwardness of it to the minimum; they’re both very tired and at one point it just doesn’t matter anymore. Jon hands Martin a separate blanket and he pushes the disappointment down into a void inside him where he keeps feelings to come back to when he’s alone. It would be foolish of him to hope for cuddling since they haven’t talked about anything yet.

He expects to fall asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow, but he finds himself awake in the darkness after goodnights are said (Jon’s voice sounds so soft and tender Martin has forgotten all about his earlier disappointment). He’s laying on his back, eyes closed, and he feels Jon’s presence on his right. His breathing is steady, not yet slow enough to indicate sleep, but calm and relaxed. Martin peeks out through half-lidded eyes – he hasn’t gotten used to the darkness as much yet, but he can see Jon laying on his side, facing him, his eyes closed and his hair loosely framing his face. One of his hands rests close to his head on the pillow. Martin blinks, fully opening his eyes now and smiling softly. As his vision clears, Martin notices Jon frowning ever so slightly, and he wonders if the faint lines between his eyebrows smoothen when he’s asleep.

“Is watching people sleep a usual activity for you?” Jon whispers with amusement as he opens his eyes and Martin gasps with surprise and looks away, feeling heat prickle at his cheeks.

“Wha—uh, no! No, of course no—Sorry, I—” He rambles, and he thinks he might just die from embarrassment when he hears Jon laugh quietly.

“It’s fine, Martin.” He shakes his head with a sigh. “Really. I-- Sorry, I thought a joke would, um… lighten the mood somewhat.”

Martin risks a look at him and wonders if the red on his cheeks is visible through the darkness. Jon looks at him with that expression again, something Martin would very much want to classify as fondness if it didn’t feel so impossible. But now that he thinks about it… Would it really be thatfar-fetched? Jon had gone into the Lonely just to get him out. Would he have done that for anyone else? Martin rolls his eyes at himself in his mind, of course he would. He did go into the Buried, and it was for Daisy, a person who has threatened him multiple times, kidnapped and almost killed him. If Jon was ready to lay down his life for her, out of all of them, it shouldn’t be surprising he would do the same for his assistant; it says nothing about his feelings on the matter.

Martin’s memories of the Lonely are hazy. He remembers the cold, the dampness, and the loneliness. He remembers his thoughts, the lonely ones, and how they felt both alien and familiar at the same time. He remembers the comfort, the feeling of fitting in, but also the pain and the fear, just before they were numbed by the cold and the fog that made him forget. And then suddenly, Jon was in front of him, looking at him with desperation on his face, tears in his eyes glowing with a green light. Was it Jon calling for him, or just the Beholding?

“What are you thinking about?” comes Jon’s voice and Martin realizes he’s been staring into the air for a while. He blinks and looks back at Jon.

“Uh…” He searches for words before he gives up on trying to come up with an excuse. His voice is quiet when he speaks. “Why did you do it?”

Jon blinks at him a couple times and rises to lean on his elbow, to better look at Martin.

“What do you mean?”

“The Lonely,” Martin says, not meeting his eyes. Jon is wearing a blue t-shirt with a logo of a band Martin doesn’t recognize; the shirt is loose and it uncovers one of Jon's shoulders which would probably be distracting if Martin’s mind wasn't chilled by the remnants of the fog. “Why did you come for me?”

Even without looking at him, Martin sees Jon’s forehead ripple. A while passes as Jon searches his face and the thought that he shouldn’t have asked starts creeping up to Martin’s head. Shouldn’t have brought any attention to the subject, he should just be glad, he should—

“I care about you, Martin,” Jon says in a very gentle and quiet voice, like he’s afraid anything louder would take away the meaning of his words. Martin looks up at Jon and the hint of that intense blush from before makes it back to his face. “You’re… You matter to me. You will always matter to me.”

Martin can’t stop a small smile appearing on his face and Jon mirrors it.

“Thank you,” Martin whispers, feeling a warmth settle in his chest, finally driving the cold away.

“Anytime.” Jon lays his head back down and settles back with the right hand near his face. “Sleep well, Martin.”

Martin closes his eyes contentedly and he curls up on his right side, facing Jon, as if trying to keep this warm feeling from escaping his chest too soon.

“You too, Jon.”

---

Martin wakes up alone in an unfamiliar bed, the smell of foreign covers filling his nostrils and for a second he panics. He opens his eyes and the memories come back to him; their late arrival at the safehouse and laying down to sleep next to Jon.

He sits up, looking at the space Jon had occupied. It’s vacant now, just the curled up covers he left behind, but it manages to bring a blush to Martin’s cheeks, nonetheless. It feels so… intimate to know that they slept next to each other. It makes him feel warm and cosy.

Martin gets up and goes to the bathroom before he finds Jon in the kitchen. He’s humming quietly as he finishes cleaning the table and he looks up when Martin enters.

“Good morning, Martin.” He smiles and Martin’s afraid he’s going to melt. He takes a quick look around and notices that their sparse kitchen supplies are mostly unpacked, and the kettle is already on the stove.

“How long have you been awake?” He asks; some of the shock must have made it to his voice because Jon looks amused.

“Two hours or so. I’ve always been a morning person.” He shrugs and finishes cleaning the table. “Tea?”

A smile lights up Martin’s face and he gets swept up by the familiarity of the activity, while Jon busies himself with fixing up some breakfast. As both of them work in the kitchen, Martin notices the casual brushes of their skin and touches of the shoulders. He doesn’t know if he’s doing it consciously or if it just happens naturally, but he knows that Jon’s open demeanour is drawing him closer than before. He wonders if he’s been like this ever since he woke up from the coma, and there was just no one to appreciate it.

The morning is relaxed, the casual conversation flowing a lot smoother than the day before, and after breakfast they set out to clean the whole cottage and go down to the village to buy some actual supplies. The village is small, but the local shop provides all the essentials they need; for a moment Martin forgets about everything outside of that village and shopping for groceries with Jon, as if this is their life now, in the Scottish Highlands, living together in a cottage. They talk about cooking dinner, and the cows they passed on the way, and Martin thinks he could get used to that.

The bubble bursts when they finish up and Jon decides to call Basira. She picks up after a while and updates them on the absence of both Jonah Magnus and Daisy. Basira says she’ll send some statements up to them when the Institute stops being an active crime scene, and a shadow passes over Jon’s face. Wrapped up in a conversation about their taste in dinner dishes, it was almost too easy for Martin to forget food isn’t the only sustenance Jon needs. He finds it easier to forget things ever since the Lonely. They walk back to their cottage in silence, Martin grabbing Jon’s hand as soon as he lets go of the phone.

When they get back, Jon declares he’s going to take care of unpacking and cooking, and even though Martin knows Jon to be stupidly stubborn, he’s surprised by the strictness with which Jon insists he sit back and relax. Martin doesn’t really complain; he’s spent his entire life caring for others and, to be honest, it does feel rather good to be on the receiving end for once. He watches Jon from the couch for a while, before he takes out his notebook and looks over the poem he wrote in the car.

Wisps of mist conceal my eyes

A lone indulgence to lose one's face

And soothing a part inside that cries

With chilling sadness and numbing grace

The steadfast rhythm of waves ashore

As ocean breeze leaves a taste of salt

The words forgotten, erase what I swore

Until I hear your voice once more

I wondered many times what it might be

That we finally took to calling "us"

What would be left if we broke free

Of dread and horror's eternal grasp

The Eye looms aloft, ever-present dread

Watching all, eternal lids apart

You made your choice unaware you were led

By strings of web, against your heart

Jon starts humming under his nose in the kitchen as he cuts something on the board; the water in the kettle boils slowly and fills the air with a quiet whistle. Martin smiles while shooting a subtle glance at Jon; he seems to notice his gaze and falls quiet, but a smile lights up his face when he sees the fondness on Martin’s face. For all this talk about Jon “losing himself” in the role of the Archivist, this seems as human as you can get. Martin never favoured the approach the other archival staff took to the knowledge of the significance of Jon’s position, and he often wondered how they could look at him and see a monster. Of course he made bad decisions, but so did everyone. They’ve seen or read about so many avatars giving into the powers that fed them and yes, maybe Martin is biased, but Jon was nothing like them. They’ve all been caught in this huge web of statements that turned real; the more they struggled to break free the more tangled up they became, and it wasn’t Jon’s fault that he ended up in the centre of it. He knows Jon tried to make right choices every step of the way. Can you really blame a human being for failing to completely resist something that’s beyond mortality and human reality? One way or another they ended up here, together, and yes, maybe the Eye and the Lonely are still looming as very tangible threats, and Jonah Magnus is nowhere near being stopped, but at least they’re together now. Martin remembers thinking the Unknowing was the endgame, the last chapter of this horror for them, and he remembers the hopelessness of their story getting a bad ending that essentially pushed him into the Lonely; now he feels a different kind of an end approaching – he dares to be hopeful. Maybe everything works out in the end? Maybe, if they were safe and happy, it wouldn’t actually be the end of the world.

Martin looks down at his notebook and starts writing, sticking the tip of his tongue out in concentration.

What is a monster? Where is the line

That would separate us from the world

All I know is our paths align

And we together can battle the cold

You cut through the curtains of mist and See

The green glow fades when our eyes meet

My lips form a soft and quiet plea

To be loved has never felt so sweet

To be loved is a new feeling for me

I only know how to love from one side

But with you I hope we can once be free

Maybe ignore the whims of the tide

Although I know we're not nearly through

I taste and savour your voice, your breath

If only for a moment, we can start anew

And I will follow you even to death

As he stares at the last word of the finished poem, his hand with the pen hovering over it, he registers that his eyes have watered a bit. He blinks the tears away quickly as Jon sits down on the couch next to him, looking at him with a gentle worry. Martin looks up at the two mugs of tea he’d placed on the table.

“Did you make tea?” He asks with mock bewilderment, and Jon scoffs at him.

“I know how to make tea, Martin.” He nudges him with amusement, that gentle worry not quite gone from his eyes. “What are you writing about?”

Martin falls quiet, pressing the notebook to his chest in a knee-jerk reaction.

“Thought you didn’t like poetry,” he huffs out a laugh that’s only a little bit self-conscious. Jon shrugs, reaching out for his mug and taking a sip.

“I don’t understand it. And yes, I have been known to dislike it at times, but… Maybe I could be swayed to give it another shot.” Jon rolls his eyes fondly and looks at Martin out of the corner of his eye, a look that says ‘for you’. Martin grins, heat pricking at his cheeks once again.

“You see, i-it’s all about emotion.” He places the notebook gently on his lap face down and reaches for his own mug. “You w-want to put all of your emotions into words in a-an artistic way, that has a rhythm and, uh, and feels alive. And you want your, uh, your readers to feel that, that emotion through your words.”

Jon listens attentively and his eyes aren’t leaving Martin’s face; at one point Martin gets distracted by it and forgets where his explanation was going. Jon’s gaze has always been intense, in different ways throughout the time they’ve known each other. At first it was judgemental, the gaze of his boss, full of unmet expectations; then it was piercing, watchful and suspicious; as time passed, it seemed to gain more and more weight of the Beholding, something Tim always complained about. After Martin had joined Peter Lukas, the rare glances he got from Jon were full of yearning that Martin didn’t understand at the time; didn’t want to understand. Now, it’s that gentle fondness, interweaved with something intangibly sad and Martin feels an urge to hug him, to bring him close to his chest and never let go; to bury his face in Jon’s hair and protect him.

They move to place their mugs at the table at the same time and snort, amusement quickly turning into a fit of laughter. Jon throws his head back a little with it and Martin wonders if he has ever seen him laugh so openly before. He didn’t think it was possible for him to fall in love with the man even more, but once again, his heart proves him wrong. He stares at him with a lovestruck expression and thinks they should really talk about it. Martin doesn’t know where to start though and Jon seems to be thinking in a similar direction because his expression shifts into gentle seriousness.

“Martin, I…” He starts and bites his lip. “I need to apologize.”

Martin straightens a little; it’s not exactly what he expects.

“I—The way I used to treat you…” Pain and guilt flash through Jon’s face as he looks away for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It was not okay. None of it was okay. And I’m—I’m really sorry for that. It doesn’t—I know it doesn’t change anything that happened, but I” —he sighs. “I really am sorry. I hope I can, somehow, uh… somehow make it up to you.”

Martin reaches for Jon’s hand, and he looks down in surprise; Martin sees his eyes start glistening.

“I’m sorry for everything that happened to you.” He continues in a whisper and his eyes are locked on their touching hands. “I’m so sorry about the Lonely. I’m sorry that you’re trapped in all of this with me, and I would understand if you decided to leave—”

“Jon.” Martin squeezes his hand and Jon’s eyes shoot up to look at him.

“I’m sorry, that’s not an apology,” he sighs again. “I just… I’m sorry, Martin. About everything.” His other hand grips Martin’s. “I’m glad you are still here. I’m—I’m so glad, you d-don’t even know,” he laughs.

“I think I do.” Martin smiles gently. “Thank you for saying that. I’ve—I've forgiven you for a lot of it a long time ago. A-And the rest just isn’t your fault.”

Jon frowns.

“The Lonely was always there,” Martin shrugs. “Peter Lukas was just… a catalyst, I think. But now I have you.” His finger grazes the outside of Jon’s palm and his heart flutters in his chest when he sees that small smile appear on Jon’s face. “And you can’t be blamed for Elia—Jonah’s games. We’re all just… a bunch of people who didn’t know what was going on until it was too late.”

Jon’s eyes fall as he nods slightly.

“He’s still up to something,” he says quietly.

“Figures,” Martin laughs bitterly. “But we’re here now. And frankly, I don’t really want to think about him when we’re finally…” The word ‘together’ gets stuck in his throat, as if it would breach this fine line of ambiguity they’ve drawn between themselves. Jon seems to fill it in and his eyes land back on Martin.

He’s never wanted to kiss him more than he does right now. Jon's eyes are wide and glistening with something that looks suspiciously like hope, and his fingers gently graze the outside of Martin's palm. Warmth spreads in his chest and his eyes flutter a little, not breaking the eye contact. He wants to pull Jon close to his chest, to run his fingers through his hair and feel his breath on his own skin. To really feel like he's there, next to him, with him.

Before he can follow through with any of that, something sizzles in the kitchen, loud in the silence, startling them both.

“Food!” Jon chuckles slightly before he jumps to his feet and rushes to the kitchen, while Martin snorts and follows him. Jon stirs the pan with curry and sighs with relief when he sees it's not burned. He turns down the heat anyway and checks on the rice.

“Jon, this smells amazing,” Martin says, peeking into the pan with cheese and spinach. “I didn't know you could cook.”

“Well, contrary to the popular belief I was a functional human being. For a while,” Jon snorts and leans against the counter to look back at Martin. “It's Palak Paneer, my grandma taught me when I was a child.”

“It looks fantastic,” Martin grins, and Jon rolls his eyes in mock exasperation.

Even though the moment's lost, the remains of the feeling can be felt between them as they prepare the plates and take the food to the table. They easily fall back into usual chatter and, as soon as they’re finished, Martin jumps to wash the dishes. Jon relents after extensive affirmations from Martin that he's alright and he can definitely take care of a couple dishes in the sink, and he drops onto the couch with a content sigh instead.

Martin finishes up with the dishes and dries his hands on a towel.

“Do you want some tea?” He asks and hangs the towel back on the rack. When there's no response, he turns to the couch. “Jon?”

Something sinks in his stomach when he sees that the object that consumes Jon’s attention is the poem he’s finished; he scratches his neck, as his cheeks take on a pink tinge. “Oh…”

He walks up to the couch, unsure, trying to gauge Jon's reaction. His face seems tense, he squeezes the notebook in his hand so hard his knuckles go white, and his eyes are focused at one point on the page.

“Um... Jon?” Martin asks weakly, his heart drumming in his chest so loud he's sure both of them can hear it.

Jon jumps to his feet, startled, and looks up at him with eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights. Martin instinctively raises his hands in a placating gesture, as Jon registers his presence, looks down on the notebook in his hands, and quickly puts it on the table as if it stung him.

“Martin, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look, it was just there and—”

“Hey, Jon, it’s alright!” It’s maybe a little not alright, since the poem is nothing short of a love confession and a wish Martin had no right to assume would ever be true, so Jon reading it is less than ideal. Martin rushes to gently place a hand on Jon’s shoulder but when he recoils from the touch, Martin withdraws his hand, cursing everything about himself.

“No, I, uh…” Jon runs his hand through his hair, eyes darting between Martin, his hand, and the notebook frantically. “I shouldn’t have— uh, it’s—it’s your private business, what you write about, so—”

Martin is sure he’s tomato red on the face by this point and hopes against hope that the afternoon light filtering through the curtains obscures it just a little. Jon, on the other hand, doesn’t have the embarrassed blush that usually darkens his cheeks; instead he breathes fast, his hands shaking ever so slightly. Martin sees him hunch just a little, making himself smaller.

“Um, yeah, I, uh—” He starts fidgeting with his fingers. Did the idea of—of love frighten Jon so much? He was stupid to leave it out in the open and now Jon knows, and it’s not how he feels, so he hates him… “I’m sorry.”

Jon’s eyes snap to him, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“For what?”

Martin huffs out something like a pained laugh.

“Th-That’s not exactly how- how I wanted to tell you.” He wrings out his hands and shoots Jon a pleading look. What’s done is done and the only thing he can hope for is for Jon to let him down easy and never speak of this again.

“Tell me?” Jon looks down at the notebook again and there’s the worry again, stark on his face. He breathes out, slowly, and looks at the floor. “I don’t—I don’t even want to think this is a possibility…”

Martin doesn’t need to imagine what it would be like to be stabbed, if he wanted to - he’s pretty sure the acute pain of his heart shattering in his chest is close enough. His mind tries to catch up to the emotions, slow them down just a bit, because something seems off, and isn’t this a weird way to reject someone you must have known had a crush on you? But his throat tightens with the swell of pain and shame and Martin blinks away the tears welling up in his eyes.

Jon sighs and plops down on the couch, hiding his face in his hands and pushing his glasses up to his forehead.

“We d-don’t have to talk about it, if—if you don’t want to,” Martin says quietly. He sits down next to Jon, careful not to touch him in any way, and puts his hands between his knees.

Jon lets out a bitter laugh.

“Isn’t that what they—the Web would want? Just… mindlessly follow, go with the flow until something… irreversibly bad happens?”

Martin turns to Jon with a frown.

“Wh—What?”

Jon looks at him with something glistening in his eyes and Martin can see the lines of pain and misery written on his face like they belong there.

“The web,” he says faintly. “Strings of fate. I—” He lets out a breath. “Was I just being manipulated this whole time? Was I ever really—Did I ever have a choice?”

“Jon... what are you talking about?”

“You—You said I was...” He reaches for the notebook and points at a verse with his finger. “’Made your choice unaware you were led by strings of web against your heart.’ How—W-Why did you say this?”

Martin stares into Jon's green eyes with concern, yet parts of his heart start to weave themselves back together. However confused and worried Jon seems to be, none of it is directed at Martin; he looks at him with desperation, almost pleading, and he realizes they’ve been having two different conversations at the same time.

“Oh-Oh, God, Jon, I-I didn't mean—I just, it's a-a metaphor, just that, you know,” he takes a breath. “It does remind me of a web, the-the way we got caught up in Elias' plans.” He looks down, his cheeks burning as he remembers why Jon would get caught at this specific phrase. “I'm sorry for, uh, using that, it was just the first thing that came to my mind and—”

Jon exhales next to him and Martin risks a look up. The uneasiness isn't gone from his face but he relaxes just a little bit, enough to stabilize his breathing.

“I'm sorry for this… this whole thing, Martin.” He gestures at nothing in particular and it's his turn to look at the floor, as if it's all of a sudden the most interesting thing he's ever seen. He starts fidgeting with the notebook. “I'm just—What if it’s true?” His voice goes higher at the question and he closes his eyes. Martin squeezes his arm. “What if I am just... Just a puppet? An inhuman, helpless puppet in the hands of—Of some spider pulling the strings?”

A tear rolls down Jon's cheek and Martin grabs one of his hands. It’s small and still shakes a little; he tries to put all the protectiveness he feels into this small gesture. Jon doesn’t recoil this time, instead taking a moment to watch Martin’s hand clasp around his.

“Jon,” Martin starts softly. “You're still you. You're not some—Some spider puppet that can't make choices.”

“But what if—”

“You've made a choice to go into the Lonely for me.” Martin bumps their knees together lightly and Jon looks up at him. “I don't suspect any webs would need me alive to push you into it. It was You.”

Jon looks him in the eyes and Martin barely stops himself from reaching up to his face to wipe away his tears.

“Or it just makes us think that we have a choice but are ultimately helpless against fate and everything we do is determined by intricately crafted circumstances,” Jon whispers. “Maybe free will is a lie.”

Martin blinks.

“Jon...”

“Maybe I was never able to stop it. Any of it.” Jon’s voice grows more horrified and even though his eyes are directed at Martin's face, he seems to be looking somewhere past him. “Maybe nothing we try to do really matters.”

“Jon.” Martin’s voice gains a bit of force, even though he feels all but sure. “What do you see?”

Jon frowns. “What?”

“Look at me and tell me what you see?” The force is gone; the sentence sounds more like a feeble suggestion than a request, but Jon's eyes refocus on Martin's in a frown of confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“We're here now,” Martin says quietly. “And yeah, maybe our decisions are all predetermined or whatever. I still think it matters that we try. I think our experience matters. And you're not a-a monster without free will, Jon. You care about people, and you’ve sacrificed a lot for other people. You've made your own choices and, no matter if they were good or bad, they were still yours. And I think that matters.”

Jon blinks at him for a moment, then his shoulders slump with a sigh and he interlaces their fingers. Martin doesn’t miss it and he feels warmth in his chest.

“I've always been afraid of—of my will not being my own anymore,” he confesses quietly. “Of, uh... of not knowing the difference.”

“I get it,” Martin nods. “If it’s any consolation, I see a lot of Jon in you still.” Jon looks up at him with surprise and Martin gives him a half smile. “I see a very changed Jon but it's still Jon.” He strokes Jon's palm as his heart picks up the pace. “The same Jon I've first fallen in love with.”

Jon exhales softly, his face caught in a soft surprise, and Martin smiles around the dull ache in his chest.

“You don't have to say anything. I'm sure you've known for a while, but I just... I wanted to say it.”

With every second that passes in silence, however, Martin's cheeks grow hotter, and he concludes that this might have been a mistake.

“I-I'm sorry. M-Maybe I shouldn't have said that, I… I don't want things to get weird or anything, so, uh, we can, we can just forget—”

“Martin.” Jon says his name in a soft and kind of inquisitive way that makes his heart bounce around and transforms the ache in his chest into swirling butterflies again. Martin looks up and Jon’s head is tilted to the side, his face still wet with tears, but he notices something hopeful glitter in his eyes. “I love you too.”

Martin frowns, suddenly wondering if he isn't dreaming. Is Jon really saying what he thinks he is? Did he hear correctly? Maybe he misheard—

“I have for a while,” Jon's voice is still quiet and soft. “I didn't want to say anything because I thought it was too early after the Lonely and you might not feel this way anymore, but...”

Martin swallows, acutely aware of how loud his heartbeat is. He squeezes Jon’s hand and smiles slightly.

“I... I didn't know,” he whispers, not trusting his voice to cooperate.

“As soon as I woke up from the coma, I wanted to tell you,” Jon says. “I thought I was too late; that it took me too long to stop denying the feelings I had because I didn’t know how to deal with them, and I'd missed my chance.” He laughs bitterly.

“So that’s what it was about,” Martin whispers, as Jon's actions towards him throughout his time as Peter Lukas’ assistant start falling into place. Jon looks at him with a frown, so he adds, “The ‘let's gouge out our eyes and escape'.”

Jon scrunches up his nose and clears his throat.

“Yes, well. Yeah.”

Martin chuckles quietly.

“I don't think I would have lasted in the Lonely if I understood then. But then again. It didn't really matter in the end. It didn't help.”

“But it was your choice,” Jon echoes Martin's words from before and their eyes meet again.

“Yeah. It was my choice.”

They stare into each other's eyes for a moment, losing track of time, before Jon smiles slightly and looks back at the notebook.

“I really am sorry for not asking your permission, though,” he says. “I got so caught up in the metaphor I didn’t even finish it.”

Martin blinks, the warmth from his chest spreading to his cheeks again.

“D-Do you want to?”

Jon smiles softly, this new smile that Martin has only seen in the past couple of days, always directed at him.

“If you’d let me.”

Martin needs to look away, unable to handle the affection in Jon’s eyes. He mumbles an ‘okay’ with a smile that’s not entirely under his control and gets up.

“But I am making that tea whether you want it or not, waiting for someone to finish reading something is a torture.”

He hears Jon laugh as he heads back to the kitchen.

When he comes back with two steaming mugs, Jon is waiting for him with a smile and his nervousness dissipates with his next words.

“I like it,” Jon says. “Apart from the, uh, web metaphor, obviously. It's hopeful.”

“Y-You do?”

Martin swallows; the pleasant tingling in his stomach is back. He places their mugs on the table and reaches out to join their hands again. Jon intertwines their fingers immediately and caresses the outside of Martin’s palm with his thumb.

Jon looks down at the verses again and smiles softly, almost sheepishly, a familiar blush darkening his cheeks.

“I—I don't know if there would be anything for us outside of. You know. The fears and all that,” he grimaces. “At least, for me. But, uh…” He looks at Martin again with a hopeful expression that makes Martin melt a little, and he gently caresses Martin's cheek with his free hand. “I really like the thought of it.”

Martin's brain might be short-circuiting at this moment and all of his thoughts take form of fuzzy static.

“Me too,” he says, suddenly breathless. Jon's hand rests cupping his cheek and, are they a bit closer than they were a second ago? Jon's gaze slides down Martin's face to his lips and he feels he might faint right there and then. He doesn't, instead gathering up his courage to take a breath.

“Can I kiss you?” Jon asks first and Martin feels his lips form a grin.

“Please,” he breathes out; the next second their lips meet, soft but urgent, desperate and sick of waiting. Martin's hand dives into Jon's soft hair, fingers scraping the delicate skin of his head and earning him a low sound from Jon's throat. They pull each other closer and find a rhythm to lose themselves in for just a moment; the sensation of Jon's tongue swirling in his mouth, of his slender fingers on his cheek and his neck, the pressure of his body against his chest; all of it making Martin dizzy with happiness.

Martin pulls away when his lungs painfully remind him breathing is still a necessity and he opens his eyes to look at Jon – His soft lips, his nose, his pockmark scars, and his eyes, green yet with no trace of Beholding in them. He takes him in whole, with all of his flaws and all of his virtues, and he feels seen in return, seen by the man he loves and who loves him. The weight of it all hits Martin like a crashing wave and he pulls Jon in for a tight embrace.

“I love you,” he whispers against his shoulder, and he feels Jon's arms tightening around his torso.

“I love you too, Martin.”

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #summer in the archives event #niki.writes #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin

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elysianslove · 4 years

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Hello! I know this may not be your thing but I decided to give it a shot, if not no biggy!

I was wondering if you would be interested in writing Gojo and/or Sakuna with an asexual lover? (One that doesnt feel sexual attraction but doesnt mind kissing and cuddling etc and loves physical affection but nothing beyond that?) And like, how a relationship with that kind of person would come to be?

Because Sakuna and Gojo both give off *he totally fucks* vibes.

So how they ended up with an asexual lover would be interesting, maybe the MC rejects their advances because fear of being hated for being Ase? Because they know that the other person definitely fucks.

How would their relationship work? How would the guy react/comfort the MC.

(Maybe it ends with a epilogue with no sex(as in penetration and blowjobs to be exact but mc later in a relationship would be willing to do things like handjobs and other hands on/Using toys to pleasure their partner because they cant in that way) but lots of passionate makeout sessions/kissing/sucking and worshiping the mc's body? Especially the collar bone)

If you arent into it that's cool! I totally get it!

This is pretty self indulgent after all ahahaha it's hard being an asexual in fandoms lmao.

hi my love!! okay to start off, i’m really honored you sent in this request to me. idk just the fact that you’re trusting me with it is really sweet hehe. i’m fairly knowledgable about sexuality but i don’t like to write about things i’m not 100% sure about because i don’t wanna risk doing anything wrong or accidentally offending you! but!! thank you for going into detail with the request, and i hope this is what you were looking for, and that i didn’t do any mistakes <3

i wrote headcanons so i can go into detail and write for both!!

some nsfw under the cut, my loves! <3

ryomen sukuna

i’d say, to begin with, it would take a small while for sukuna to even be accepting of his own feelings towards you. nothing having to do with your sexuality, just you in general, specifically that you’re human and so different from him. i don’t think sex ever crosses his mind, at least at the start, because he’s too busy being really angry over the way he can’t seem to control his reactions to every little thing you do. so he himself won’t actively work at starting a relationship with you.

but he will realize, over time, that you’re not doing anything either, even though he’s been noticing that you’re not pushing him or his advances away. like any act of protectiveness that involves him physically touching you intimately, you don’t reject, and you’re always ready to retort at any quip he had. he could tell that these feelings he had for you were mutual, he was just so confused as to why you weren’t doing anything about it.

sukuna’s a thousand year old cursed spirit. he does not know shit about sexuality. i think the way he’d look at it is fuck who you want and fuck who you like. i feel like nicki minaj’s said that before, has she? he doesn’t like thinking too much about it, you know?

his confession would probably be a kiss because words? he doesn’t know them. when he feels you return the kiss he’s, deep down, elated, really, and this is simply because of his naturally sexual personality, he starts hinting at more, until you stop him. he’s really confused because you just kissed him back? you’ve been kissing him for so long why do you want to stop now? he can see the fear steadily growing in your eyes and he’s even more confused now he’s just. humans are so weird.

when you cautiously tell him, “i don’t want to go further than this. is that okay?” you look like you’re waiting for the world to erupt in your face. he just frowns and shrugs like, “yeah but that’s not the point. do you not want me?”

it takes about an hour and a half for sukuna to properly process what you’re saying. at first he’s so thrown off by it, not by you! he just can’t process the fact that someone doesn’t feel any sexual attraction towards someone or doesn’t crave sex at all. it’s not that he’s rude about it, it’s just a really foreign concept to him, you know? when you add that it’s just sex, and you’re okay with a lot of other things, the gears in his brain finally start working again and he just goes.

*shrugs* ok.

literally lmao. like i said earlier, sukuna doesn’t give a shit like whatever do what you want.

because of the rush of emotions he’s feeling towards you, and the fact that this in itself, a relationship, and a relationship with a human too, he doesn’t really focus on the fact that he might want more from you. he’s easily satisfied with a lengthy make out session, and he admits it to you every time he sees you get a little anxious or unsure of yourself.

however, his needs do grow with your relationship. it’s kind of clumsy, your transition into a proper long term relationship, especially with sukuna, but you two make it work.

you agree to try different ways to pleasure him, even if he kinda rushes through them because he’s generally just excited to have your hands on him. at first he’s content with anything you’re offering, but it makes him feel kinda useless when you won’t let him touch you and you have to remind him that your needs are different than his and that you’re sated differently.

i see sukuna as a curious and experimental guy, so he would definitely let you use toys on him. nothing too extreme, because he still needs that sense of control, but you do use some toys like a fleshlight or a vibrator to rile him up. he likes using your hand too, because it’s always so soft against him and it feels a hundred times better than any toy. he learns not to overstep any boundaries though, and not to do anything that might make you uncomfortable even if it takes him a little longer. like i said, the whole idea is just different to him, so it takes him a while to understand, and he’s still learning as he goes!

he loves your make out sessions, especially after you establish your boundaries and your limits and what you’re willing to do for him. he absolutely adores leaving your skin a sky of blue, pink and purple it sends chills down his spine marking you like that. he’s always touching you all over, and just loves to grab and knead at your skin.

in the proper long term, he doesn’t mind it at all tbh. the two of you develop a system, and he’s okay with it. the same way you would never cross his boundaries and force him to do anything he doesn’t want, he’d do for you too! it really never truly mattered, and it truly never will.

gojō satoru

different from sukuna, i think gojō would definitely be knowledgable about things like this. idk he just seems like the kind of guy that’s innately so aware of everything around him, and can read people exceptionally well.

he probably picked up on the fact that you weren’t comfortable with sex, or just didn’t experince sexual attraction, on his own, but never really brought it up because it was never his place. but the same way he picks up on that, he picks up on your obvious crush on him. he pays both details no specific attention until he starts to realize his own feelings for you, and begins on his subtle advances.

he tried to make his advances as sfw as possible, you know? just in case his suspicions were confirmed to be true. he was just extra flirty, sometimes touchy but never in an inappropriate way. very subtilely like always having your shoulders or knees touching or dusting of your jacket or feeding you a piece of his food. cute little things like that.

he gets super worried when he notices you start to distance yourself from him, because he can’t imagine what he might’ve did to push you away. he overthinks a little, worried that he overstepped his boundaries or made you uncomfortable in any way, but he isn’t afraid to approach you about it, to make sure he doesn’t repeat his mistakes, especially with someone like you, who he’s slowly growing more and more infatuated by.

when you admit to him you’re asexual, he realizes he was right, but then he’s like, “and? did i do something?” and now it’s your turn to be confused because here you were worried about rejection but here he was worried about you?

this specific incident is what makes you let loose and finally just freely admit your feelings for him. he’s ecstatic about it, seriously! all that’s on his mind is that he gets to go on a date with someone he really likes. sex is the last thing on his mind, and yeah, you’ll eventually have to talk about it, but not for now. it’s for later, when things get a little more serious.

they do get serious, to both your delights, but the dreaded moment is approaching you. gojō definitely sits you down and says, “we’re only having this talk so i know never to do anything outside of your limits. everything about this relationship is 50/50, and i want to know ways to make you feel good, too.”

please sir your hand in marriage.

i definitely believe gojō’s a kinky guy, and is more than willing to try out literally any sex toy you pull at him. genuinely, he’ll try anything you wanna try. if you ever offer a handjob, he’ll ask a million times over if you’re sure. usually, he likes to just do it himself, but have you there next to him. he won’t touch you, but your hands will be in his hair, and you’ll be kissing his neck, or just murmuring how much you love him in his ear, just spurring him on. he knows the last thing on your mind is anything sexual, but there’s just something about being under your watchful, almost bored gaze as he fucks himself.

anyways before i get too into it lmfao, he loves kissing you. loves loves loves it. not even full blown make out sessions, just gentle, serene kissing. he can kiss you for hours.

he is also incredible at body worship and praise. paints your pretty collarbone pink and purple, whispers about how you’re perfect for him, describes all your features to you like poetry. he’s an incredible lover, really. nothing can make him fall out of love with you, absolutely nothing.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen headcanon #sukuna #jjk sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna headcanons #saturo gojo x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo headcanons #saturo gojo headcanons #gojou x reader

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marlborodean · 3 years

Text

here’s my analysis of a 14-yr-old supernatural episode

so remember that episode where sam fucked a werewolf? because he related to her unwilling monstrosity? well that episode is actually just about dean starting to come to grips with his childhood and his sexuality.

if you ship w/ncest do not interact. this post is not anti-sam either btw.

content warning: discussions of childhood trauma, internalized homophobia, guns, killing.

does include some images with Image Descriptions following them.

[ID: An over-the-shoulder close-up shot from the episode, focused on Madison, the werewolf, as she cries. Dean is standing behind her. They are both looking at Sam, whose shoulder is on the edge of the frame. End ID.]

Brief episode recap just in case u don’t remember. This ep is 2x17 “Heart.” Sam and Dean are hunting a werewolf. They discover that the woman they interviewed, Madison, is a werewolf (not THEE werewolf, but one of them). Sam develops a lil crush on her <3 I wrote the majority of this after watching it for the first time in almost SIX years, so i was just vibing the whole time UNTIL the last shot changed it all for me. So let me explain!

Three important points that i will refer back to:

1. The episode begins with Dean being excited to hunt a werewolf because "what about a human by day, a freak animal killing machine by moonlight don't you understand? I mean, werewolves are badass. We haven't seen one since we were kids."

2. Then the episode centers on Sam and his relationship with the werewolf woman and his own monstrosity: "[Dean: Sam, she's a monster and you're feeling sorry for her?] Maybe I understand her."

3. BUT THEN the last shot of the episode is of Dean crying as music plays (see below for the specific lyrics) and then Dean jumps at the sound of the gunshot. That's it! That's the end of the episode!

[ID: For all three screencaps, Dean is looking torturously sad. Each one is zoomed a little bit closer to his face than the last. In the last image, Dean sheds a single man tear. The captioned lyrics for the first one say "Relax, child, you were there." The second says "but only didn't realize" and the third says "and you were scared." End ID]

Even though the story is supposed to be about Sam and his monstrosity, and partly about his relationship w/romance since this is the first person he’s slept with since Jess died (at least with what is shown on screen)...the Dean Sandwich tells us otherwise. We're supposed to be taking away something about DEAN here. Like, that's the whole purpose behind the last shot focusing solely on Dean instead of Sam who is AT THAT MOMENT, KILLING THE GIRL HE HAS FEELINGS FOR. It's literally a heartbreaking, devastating, super traumatic thing for Sam to be going through, but instead we're watching Dean as a single tear slides down his face lmao. It's because this episode is about DEAN, and furthering his story.

Let’s not queer this just yet. The death of the werewolf is about/representing his loss of innocence. It's a violent disconnect from his childhood. Point # 1 shows that he is fascinated by werewolves because since he was a kid he thought they were badass, not to mention all the werewolf films he references throughout. Then, through the music lyrics over that last scene, they mirror that theme of childhood. They’ve done this before, having the diegetic music directly reference what the characters are going through. No different here: Dean is the child they’re referring to.

I have to reiterate that that's the last thing we hear before the gunshot cuts the music short and then the cut to black. "You were scared" is the last thing we hear before the gunshot, as Dean cries. ALSO I have to reiterate that Dean was looking forward to killing a werewolf and shooting it himself. So it's super fascinating that, not only is Sam the one that kills the werewolf, WE DON’T EVEN SEE IT HAPPEN.

[ID: A medium-close shot of Dean as he looks at Sam, who takes up the right half of the frame. The caption says, “Sammy, I got this one. I’ll do it.” End ID.]

Am i gonna have to say this now? The werewolf is a metaphor, okay? It's a metaphor for his innocence, which is long-dead, forever doomed. I mean, a lot of kids love werewolves because they ARE badass! It's a classic monster that anyone could easily obsess over, and with Dean's childhood it must've seemed even cooler, knowing they're real and having the power to kill this "mythical" beast. So the way he's looking forward to killing one is the way a child imagines themselves as a hero.

But what happens instead is a tragic mercy killing. It's flipping his fantasy completely on its head, and it makes Dean realize that.....his fantasies are just fantasies. They aren't real, never would be. There's nothing heroic about killing this werewolf. It's tragic as hell. When he offers to kill her himself, it's just to relieve Sam's burden, but he's reluctant still. Because, as he keeps saying, he doesn't want to be a hunter! He doesn't want this life! He's tired of killing! And that's also what he's mourning as he cries and startles at the gunshot. His fantasies will never be real and his childhood could never have been normal and he never got a chance to be a kid because being a hunter was thrust on him at such a young age. And now it feels inescapable.

[ID: A gif of the slow zoom on Dean’s face as the single tears slips down his cheek. He jumps at the gunshot, then blinks and his lip wobbles. End ID.]

So now we can queer it :-) Of course all monster stories can be easily queered, but werewolves are popularly queered. The first example that comes to mind is An American Werewolf in London (1981) isn’t an overtly queer film (though it is Jewish!) but it’s definitely read that way by a lot of people!! Anyway the film was directed by John Landis which JUST SO HAPPENS to be the pseudonym Dean goes by in this episode. hmm. (Also, interestingly, the BTVS ep where the first gay character comes out references this film too)

[ID: Sam and Dean are standing close to each other. Sam is in the foreground, not in focus. Dean, behind him, says, “Landis. And Detective Dante.” End ID.]

There’s this essay about the queer werewolf that you can read here (and they also talk about fandom in it! very fascinating), where they say in the intro: “the werewolf seems an obvious choice as a queer monster with its identity-disrupting hybridity, as well as its atavistic, and, thus, disallowable sexuality.” A lot like Kristeva’s theory of the abject body! which is popular in queer theory.

This episode is then queering Sam—his attraction to the werewolf makes him abject—but it also queers Dean thru the way his attitude towards the werewolf transforms (get it?) throughout the ep. His desire and eagerness to kill the werewolves is obviously ingrained in him from John’s parenting. Consider what he said in 2x03 “Bloodlust”: “And the way he raised us, to hate those things—and man, I hate them, I do.” In conjunction with the monsters in the show being seen as queer allegories (the gorgon, as an example of an explicit comparison), Dean’s excitement to kill the werewolf can be read as internalized homophobia and repressing any of his own feelings.

Remember, though, right before that line in “Bloodlust,” he also said, “What if we killed things that didn’t deserve killing?” He’s really beginning to question whether all monsters are bad, and what it means to kill them. Is he also questioning what he believes of queer people? What John believed of queer people? The loss of innocence and queering both slot together through that final shot, imo: he’s crying because he realizes his fantasies aren’t real, but he’s also mourning the fact that he never could have had the chance to grow up without John’s control, and now it’s forever tainted his worldview. What else could he have been without that? (The answer is evident in 4x17 “It’s a Terrible Life.”)

Dean was taught to hate queer people but he doesn't want to. He wants to get out of the life but it feels inescapable. He wants to kill a werewolf and then when he has the chance, he doesn't want to. He actually cries as it's killed. It scares him, having to confront that what he thought he knew was wrong, but he knows all the same that he’ll never have the chance to have grown up without that.

#is anyone up? anyone wanna read this? i finished this instead of doing homework #sorry the end is bad LMAO i'm notoriously bad at writing conclusions #also i want to say that the monster allegories in SPN more often have to do with race and not homophobia. but this episode sticks out to me #as representing queerness instead of race. especially because they set it up as compared to Sam's story which is SO queer.#spn #what do i tag this #ej.pdf #supernatural #bi dean #my professors would give me a bad grade on this #portfolio

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scabopolis · 3 years

Text

Author Self-Interview

I’ve had this saved for 5-ever to do and am trying to get in the writing headspace again, so thought I’d try on my ‘am I an author? sure...why not...let’s go with that’ trousers.

Fandoms: I’ve written the most fics for Veronica Mars (Logan/Veronica will always have my heart), and then Dan/Blair for my ‘we could have had it all’ fandom space. Also, have written for Amy/Jonah from Superstore (not posted on AO3), Nick/Jess from New Girl and probably my most precious - one Will/Angie fic from the gone and never forgotten show Single Parents. Oh! And Emma/Killian from OUaT. I’ve done CS Secret Santa two years in a row and it was a very good time.

Most popular multi-chapter fic: If we’re going by kudos then my most popular fic in any fandom is my first Dan/Blair Wrapped in Ribbons; a fic I will always love but sometimes dream of fixing.

Favorite story you’ve written so far: I Know That Face is the first fic ever wrote and it brought @scandalpantsstuff into my life (not to mention every single Veronica Mars fandom friend I’ve made), so for that reason it will always hold a special place. In terms of writing, though? Probably charts and graphs (should finally make it clear) which is one of my Nick/Jess fics. It is the one I get the most positive comments for related to strong characterization and I could see each moment in my head as I wrote it. There’s about a million things in it I want to fix, but it was a big ‘win’ for me writing wise.

Fic you were nervous to post: Probably both of my CS fics b/c that’s such a huge fandom, and I’ve seen some pretty vicious reader comments. BUT! The beauty of a large fandom (I’ve discovered) is that your work isn’t really discovered unless you’re a known quantity. Each of my CS fics have around 100 kudos, and the people I gifted them to seemed to like them, and that is all I need for satisfaction.

How do you choose your titles: I go through phases. Right now I’m in a real “random throw away quip becomes a phrase I use in the fic multiple times and BOOM now it’s the title” headspace. But 7 out of 10 times it’s gonna be lyrics of some sort. Always proud of the titles that are somehow neither! (e.g. the gift of gab, the gift of you)

Do you outline: Yes. Though, not in a hugely structured way. My outlines are a mishmash of bullet points, snippets of dialogue (usually there is a specific moment of line of dialogue that becomes my entire impetus to write something) and then statements like “I don’t know, and then figure out what they’re going to do???!!!” because I find some things as I go.

Next to Complete: That would be the still without a title VM Sleepover Fic for Jennie aka @thelillykane. (Jennie. Don’t laugh at me. I’m working on it!)

Do you accept prompts: Not at this time. I have an inbox full of them mocking me. Most of them are @cubbiegirl and she’ll get her fics WHEN I AM GOOD AND READY TO GIVE THEM.

Upcoming story you’re most excited to write about: I’ve started an outline for a Dan/Blair fic that goes AU after 5x15. Basically in this AU they make out at the Valentine’s party but never date. It takes place 6-7 years after that, and they’ve remained friends who kind of just make everyone miserable with their JUST BANG ALREADY energy.

Anyway, they get into a dumb fight where Dan tells Blair she’s an elitist who wouldn’t last a month in Brooklyn w/o her maid and her freshly pressed dresses and she calls him a hypocrite who enjoys all the trappings of wealth but acts like he’s so above it and, actually, he wouldn’t survive her social schedule for a month. Which leads to them making a bet which requires Blair to move in with him in Brooklyn for a month, and for Dan to be her date at all her social events for a month. Serena and Nate watch the whole thing and are like “uh...Dan...you just dared Blair to live with you for a month.” “And...uh...Blair...did you just make Dan agree to date you for a month?” It shall be very silly and very tropey. But...that’s kinda my brand, so I’m good with it.

Stories you’re most excited to read: @scandalpantsstuff. My ticket is booked. I am going to see you in 50 days. Are we drinking that bottle of wine? (Yes. This is a Haunted call out post.) Anything @best-laid-plaids teases. I NEED TO READ the final two chapters of @lorelailorelai‘s Dan/Blair fic. I’ve procrastinated because the first one about made me lose my mind in the best possible way and I know I will want to leave a long, sprawling review.

No pressure tags: @cheshirecatstrut, @mysilverylining, @thelillykane, @shireness-says, @hollyethecurious, @thisonesatellite, @theawkwardterrier, @lavellenchanted.

#meeeee!#never stories

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laceymorganwrites · 3 years

Text

The light behind your eyes

Word count: 2,665

Pairing: Nacht x reader

Warnings: MAJOR MANGA SPOILERS; READ AT UR OWN RISK, swearing, mentioned violence and death, this is sad, man....

A/N: I swear I wanted this to be fluffy....and yes, title´s a MCR song

Taglist (friendly reminder to send me an ask or dm if you want to be added, that goes for any of my fandoms^^): @nintendousimp @adrasteiaxandromedaa @serowotonin

Nacht never thought he´d envy his brother. Not in the least. They were both so irritatingly different and he thought he hated him for that.

But there was so much more to hate than just that.

Morgen got along with everyone, he was the perfect son, the perfect knight, the perfect husband.

All Nacht could ever do was watch.

Watch him make you laugh, watch him take your hand, watch him take you away.

He wasn´t jealous, he didn´t have time for a relationship anyway.

Still, he couldn´t help himself.

Falling in love with you was the easiest and most dangerous thing he ever did, it hit him like the biggest amount of mana he ever felt and there was nothing he could do to make it stop.

No matter how hard he tried.

And he did.

He couldn´t love you, it wasn´t right… it wasn´t fair.

So he tried to distract himself, to think of anything else but you, his delinquent nature only helped a little bit with that.

He loved you from afar since that was all he could do. Nacht never made any moves on you, why would he?

You were with his brother and he made you happier than he ever could. It was good this way, it was supposed to be like this.

After all Morgen was the shining star of the family, of the capital. He was the pride of the gray deer.

He was strong, always had a smile on his face, he helped people and enchanted them with his warmth and kindness.

Nacht wasn´t anything like that.

No, he was the complete opposite, he was a disaster. Like a storm that wrecked chaos all throughout the capital, leaving people whispering about him.

Him and Yami were the two people the townsfolk feared the most, they always were up to something and it never was good.

They were good friends and Yami did well in distracting Nacht from his heartbreak he never was ready to admit.

Nacht first met you when him and Yami were thinking about more fun ways to use their magic. This time they were quite interested in stealing and running away from the magic knights.

Your food stand was just another one of their victims, but instead of scolding them like everyone else you just laughed with them.

You weren´t mad at him for sneaking past you like that, for using his magic to steal some items, no, instead you complimented him for it, saying how clever it was.

Nacht didn´t know what to say, for the first time in his life he was speechless.

Even Yami teased him about it, but he didn´t care. There were no witty remarks or lame attacks from him. He was so lost in your presence, he just wanted to consume all of it. You made him feel things that were so new and exciting to him, he never wanted to leave you.

“Oh, (Y/N), Morgen wants to talk to you. He´s waiting at your usual spot” Yami informed you and you nodded.

With those words everything came crashing down for him.

So that was why.

It made sense that if you knew his brother you´d also recognize him. That was why you weren´t mad.

And your name sounded so familiar, Morgen talked a lot about you, someone from his squad he admired.

It seemed like he got everything he wanted then.

It left Nacht feeling utterly dumb and empty.

Your usual spot… so it was true.

Nacht had only speculated that you two were together but now he knew it was true.

And what a dashing couple you were, perfect really. He had no right to interfere or even think about you that way. He never had and yet he did.

Morgen was everything he wasn´t. He was the one everyone loved, the one who got everything Nacht ever wanted.

Of course you wouldn´t care about him, especially not in that way. You just were nice to him because you knew his brother.

If you didn´t you´d just pretend as if he wasn´t there and then talk behind his back about what an abomination he was.

Like everyone else did.

Little did he know that you weren´t anything like that.

You knew Morgen from the magic knight exam and immediately made friends.

Morgen was a nice guy but he had his own issues as well. He never got along with his family, which is why he took the exam: to make them proud.

To show them that he could be someone like that. Someone to admire.

He just wanted to be like Nacht.

You were the one he confined in when it came to those things, he told you how he envied the nobles in your ranks who complained about getting married. He´d give anything for something like that to be considered a problem.

He talked a lot about his brother, making you incredibly curious. You wanted to meet him some day.

And so he invited you over for dinner with his family.

Though that wasn´t the first time you saw him.

No, in fact you saw Nacht every day. He was always on the market where you had your stand, with his friend causing all sorts of chaos.

He was quite something and you couldn´t help but smile every time you saw him.

He never really noticed you until that day though, or so you thought.

You were excited to be able to talk to him and sad that it only lasted a little while.

Because of your meeting with Nacht you were in high spirits when you talked to Morgen that day.

You two always trained together and would walk to the headquarters together.

It was nice having a friend like this, it seemed like it would last forever.

You told him that you met his brother and he was happy about that. Tonight would be the dinner as well so you would properly get to know each other.

When you arrived you could already tell that his parents didn´t like Morgen very much. Sure, they tried, but it was all pretend.

They were nice to you.

And you were so happy to be able to talk to Nacht, though he seemed distant.

Therefore you decided to start the conversation with him, asking him about his magic, that seemed to be the perfect topic.

His eyes glistened in excitement as he talked about his training, of course he left out any details but just being able to talk about this to someone who cared that wasn´t his parents, it was amazing.

You understood him, told him he was strong and admired him.

It was everything he ever wanted and so he asked about your magic, about your family and life.

The whole night went by so quickly, you felt like you talked about everything but at the same time you just wanted to talk so much more.

You noticed the way his eyes sparked with excitement and how gentle he would look at you at times, though maybe that was just your imagination.

You really hoped that wasn´t the case though, you wanted him to look at you that way all the time.

The same way you looked at him, full of adoration.

Morgen felt conflicted, of course he was happy that you got along with his brother but at the same time he hated how jealousy clouded his mind.

He was scared that Nacht would take you away from him, scared of all those things his parents were hiding from him.

It hurt him so much, he told you, about the secrets everyone was keeping from him, making him feel so frail, small and weak.

Sometimes his mind wandered too much, as it did now.

All he ever did was bother you with his problems and concerns, you were kind enough to show him everything when he was recruited to the squad and yet he used you like that.

He felt awful.

You deserved better, the best actually. And that was his brother.

Morgen never had any romantic feelings towards you, he just felt so guilty for stealing your time and wanting you all to himself, he didn´t want anyone else confining in you, he wanted it to be your secret, something only you two shared.

He just wanted to feel special and wanted even if it was only for a moment.

If only he had never invited you for dinner…

No, that wasn´t fair and he knew it. Of course he wanted to invite you, he knew that Nacht loved you even if he wasn´t ready to admit that for some reason he didn´t know.

All he wanted was you and his brother to be happy, and yes, be happy himself.

He wanted a happy family, to be accepted the way he was, he didn´t want to cause any more trouble than he already had.

His relationship to his brother wasn´t how it used to be and he hated how he seemed to be the cause for it.

Couldn´t he ever do something right?

The training and the missions without you were the only times he was able to have a clear mind, without any worries.

That´s why he engaged in them so much, to distract himself from his thoughts. Why did he even have them? He loved both of you and didn´t want to come in between your romantic love.

Maybe he just wanted you two to be together so that you finally gained the happiness you both denied each other.

He always found that stupid, why would one deny happiness to oneself? But then again, he did the very same thing.

But for him it was because he was raised that way, he wasn´t anything special, at least not to his family. So he tried to make up for being a failure for his family with being useful to the kingdom.

And it worked, so long as he had something to distract himself from.

Everyone needed a distraction.

Nacht needed a distraction from his feelings, not only for you but also for his brother. He couldn´t bear even thinking about hating him. Hatred was also what he felt for his parents, though that realization came too late for him.

At first he felt so loved when they showed him the chamber, told him he was the pride of the family. Finally he felt accepted, something he had longed for all his life.

However they weren´t accepting him, they were praising his magic and wanted him to continue the cursed family legacy, something so dark and forbidden it made even the trees shudder.

Knowing that both of their sons didn´t matter to them made Nacht angry, what did they ever do to be unloved? What else were they supposed to do to get the attention they never got as children?

Maybe they were more similar than Nacht had thought in the beginning.

It brought a sad smile to his face, however he was determined.

Determined to fix things, he knew what he wanted: you by his side and his brother not to hate him.

However his plan backfired and he let himself be taken over by his emotions, by his rage and frustration.

When he went to the secret chamber with his parents like every day, he lost control, the forbidden magic was too much for him and he really thought that this would be his end.

“Nacht! Take my hand, we need to get out of here!” Morgen called out for him, he just got back from a mission when he heard the explosion.

“No...it´s too late for me, just let me die” Nacht replied, desperation in his eyes.

“Are you crazy? You´re coming with us” you appeared behind his brother, out of breath from running with him. Yami was there too.

What was everyone doing here? Everyone he cared about. His dear brother, friend and… love.

Nacht had given up, on everything, but you three reaching your hands out for him, to save him? The mere thought that there was still salvation for him made him cry.

He took his brother´s hand and let himself be pulled from the rubble.

You three let the house burn and sat down on your usual spot, the hill where you had a good view of the capital.

The sun was already setting, it looked beautiful and more peaceful than it actually was.

Nacht still had the blood of his parents in his face, after noticing you took a piece of cloth and quietly wiped it off.

“Why did you save me? I´m a murderer… and a psychopath” he quietly said, chuckling darkly at the realization.

“You´re pretty weird but I wouldn´t go as far as calling you a psychopath” Yami thought out loud.

“What you did wasn´t wrong, Nacht” Morgen placed his hand on his brother´s shoulder.

“Not wrong? I murdered our parents in cold blood!” he exclaimed, staring at them in disbelief.

How could you all forgive him just like that?

“I didn´t even felt anything during it! Not a single thing, not regret, not sadness or anger. And I still don´t. I don´t regret it, I don´t feel anything. That´s not normal!” he cried out.

“I guess that makes us all psychopaths then” you stated, no judgment in your voice.

Nacht turned his head to face you, a puzzled look on his face.

“Your parents were shitty people, nobody is going to miss them. And we´re not going to judge you for something that was out of your control. We´re just glad that you´re still here with us, you suffered so much… and we didn´t realize it sooner” you said, your tone so warm… so familiar. He couldn´t help but feel calm whenever you spoke.

“To be fair I also just realized… I used to love them, I thought they loved me too. But that wasn´t true. They only used me” he said sadly, letting his head hang low, his hair falling in his face.

You exchanged some looks with the others and they stood up.

“Nacht, you´re going to join us in the gray deer, you´re too talented to just waste away. We won´t let that happen. We´ll keep looking out for each other. Always” Morgen announced and Yami also patted Nacht´s shoulder before they both left for the headquarters.

“Who´d even want a guy like me? You make it sound so easy… as if I can just join…” he shook his head, sighing.

“You still have a place in this world. The world needs you. You´ll fit in perfectly, we´re going to work as a team, we´re going to be unstoppable. Trust me, you´re going to like it there. And you´ll also see that we´re not as perfect as you think we are and that it´s okay that way, more than okay” you told him to which he finally looked up again.

You looked so beautiful, the sunlight only highlighted your magnificence, he couldn´t believe he was alone with you in such a setting, if only the circumstances were different.

He sighed, if he didn´t do it now, he´d never… he didn´t have much else to lose anyway.

“Can I do something stupid?” he quietly asked, averting his eyes yet again, his hands fiddling.

“Not if I do it first” you grinned and hugged him tightly.

“I´m not going to let you die or get hurt. I´ll always protect you. Because… I… want a guy like you, not anyone else, just you. I´m in love with you” you said quietly, but loud enough for him to hear.

You felt his body tremble against you as he started laughing, hugging you back even more.

“I… I think I´m dreaming!” he laughed and pulled away, smiling at you widely, his eyes full of adoration. Just like yours.

You took his hand into yours and he rested his head on your shoulder as you both watched the last rays of sunshine disappear.

144 notes · View notes

kingreywrites · 3 years

Text

words cannot say (what I want them to say)

Prompt: "You weren’t there...why weren’t you there? I needed you! I needed you! And you weren't there!" for @thefoghaslifted and anon

Fandom: Tangled

Word Count: 7670

Summary: "He's alive," she announces, yet there's no hope in her tone. "He… He won't be for long."

This picture is wrong, wrong, wrong, and Eugene wants to scream. Adira doesn't stutter. Adira doesn't talk in a soft, compassionate tone. Adira, the woman who chased down a myth for twenty-five years, does not lose her faith so easily.

And yet.

(Eugene receives a letter telling him his father is dying. He goes to the Dark Kingdom, and tries to find the right words.)

Note: this is a Death Fic so uhm yeah, Edmund does die here. Also this takes place five years post canon! I kinda mention it in the fic but just in case it isn’t too clear... Anyway it’s kinda sad, kinda weird, kinda long, but I hope someone enjoys this anyway gdhdhhd

Read on ao3

Eugene's first clue is one of his father's ravens, not Hamuel, flying towards him with a message attached to its claw. It should have been a relief - Hamuel is... bad, at this whole messenger thing, and despite begging Edmund to send a bird that wouldn't get lost in the boot of a random nesdernian merchant along the way, his father had never relented, giving his full trust to his companion of decades. So it should have been a good sign; a sign that the letter made its way to him in the quickest, smartest way possible. A sign that nothing got lost, and that maybe, Edmund was listening to him.

Yet, a pit of worry forms in Eugene's stomach at the sight. What kind of message couldn't allow for the delay Hamuel would necessarily cause?

His second clue is the small, neat writing that greets him on the letter. Adira's handwriting. She writes to them, sometimes, in the empty space of his father's letters; when Rapunzel asks her something in one of Eugene's own letters to his dad, or when Adira wants to make a remark on one of their adventures, always neat-picking their fights even from miles and miles away. She writes to them, so he knows her handwriting, knows that she never sent him her own letter unprompted before, knows that she wouldn't if she didn't have something to say.

Adira knows how to get to the point. The short message feels like a punch in the gut, and Eugene leans on the railing of the balcony without meaning to, hands trembling around the paper he keeps reading again and again.

"Eugene?" Rapunzel calls. He doesn't know how long he has been there. His eyes blur, looking at the letter again.

Eugene (not Fishskin, and it had been his last clue, because Adira always called him Fishskin, no matter the years and the distance, no matter if he complained or bragged about it, and the fact that she didn't here told him the worst thing about it all. She was trying to be gentle.)

You must come to the Dark Kingdom at once. King Edmund was wounded in an accident, and his condition is serious. Doctors fear he might not pull through.

Bring someone with you, and don't die on the road. (Gentle, too gentle, and if her words hadn't been enough, he would have known here that she did not think his dad would pull through either.)

"Eugene?" Rapunzel asks again, closer, but he doesn't turn to her.

We'll be waiting for you.

- Adira

A dark spot appears on the last sentence, staining it. He rubs at his eyes, heart beating sharply in his chest, and hands over the letter to Rapunzel without protests, his hands too weak to hold onto it anyway. He sees her face pale, sees the cold determination in her gaze, and he knows she'll agree before he even opens his mouth, but he asks anyway.

"Can we go visit my dad?"

She hugs him fiercely when he turns towards her, and he melts into it, still trembling. They begin packing right after.

------

Lance goes with them, steering the hot air balloon effortlessly. Eugene had tried to protest, words stuck in his throat as he had looked at Kiera and Catalina helping Rapunzel pack, but Lance hadn't budged.

("The girls will be okay," his best friend had said, voice achingly soft, like everyone who knew about what was happening. "You need me." Eugene had wanted to say no, but he couldn't, so Lance had come.)

Quirin is chatting on the other side of the balloon with Rapunzel. Eugene feels bad that he hadn't even thought of warning him when he decided to go to the Dark Kingdom, but Rapunzel had sent for him, and he was already coming to the castle, having received a letter similar to Eugene's own. Varian's father is a tall and silent man. The complete opposite of his son, Eugene had thought when he first met him, until the day Rapunzel and Quirin had a four hour long vivid discussion about apples and how to cook them, and Eugene had seen in the older man's excitement the echoes of Varian's own when he talked alchemy. Today, he learns that father and son get worried the same, all wringing hands and tired smiles that don't reach their eyes. It's a knowledge Eugene could have done without.

Doctors fear he might not pull through. It's almost as if Eugene can see the words dance in front of his eyes, for how much he had read them over and over again. The environment passes him quickly, cold wind blowing through his hair, and Eugene can't seem to focus on any of it.

There's a forest under them. Eugene is pretty sure they went through it the first time they were on the road, making their way to the Dark Kingdom with difficulty. He wonders, somewhat distantly, if there's a chance he'll spot Cass down there, riding through the woods on Fidella's back, her cape floating behind her. The idea is nonsensical - she's all the way over to the west side of the continent, and he knows it, knows she couldn't be there.

(His last irrational fear, before leaving, is that Rapunzel will miss Cassandra's next letter. It always arrives at the end of the month, and even if they tried, they wouldn't be able to warn her in time that they were travelling, and she won't get Rapunzel’s answer when she expects it, and she'll worry, and-

"Eugene," Rapunzel had said, her forehead against his. It was night. The Princess and the Captain of the Guard couldn't leave the castle in a day, no matter how eager they were. "It's okay. There will be more letters."

Maybe there won't ever be more time with his dad.)

Eugene keeps watching the forest down there, until it's out of sight.

------

That night, Rapunzel huddles close to him, seeking warmth as they fly through the colder air, and Eugene doesn't have it in his heart to ask for space anymore. He had done so earlier because- because he couldn't talk about it, not yet, not when he didn't even know, not when Edmund could- could already be dead as he hoped he wasn't, could survive as he grieved him. Eugene had asked for space, because he wouldn't be able to refuse if Rapunzel asked, and he didn't want to talk.

When he wraps his arms around her, it's with the cold resignation that now was a good setting for a breakdown anyway. Maybe in the dark, she wouldn't see his tears.

"I love you," she murmurs against his skin.

"I love you too," he answers easily, bracing himself.

She falls silent. Hums a soft tune under her breath - a song he taught her way back then, when everything was still so new and she didn't even know any other song than the incantation and the ones she had tried writing in her spare time. It's a song from his childhood, silly and simple, and he chokes up for the umpteenth time today, his nerves frayed. Rapunzel holds him tighter.

It takes a while, but Eugene falls asleep.

------

He hears the surprised and worried exclamations of his name as he jumps down from the balloon, but Eugene doesn't turn back. They were close to the ground anyway, and he can't wait any longer. Adira is there. A somber expression on her face. Eugene can't breathe as he walks towards her.

"Is he-"

"He's alive," she announces, yet there's no hope in her tone. "He… He won't be for long."

And yet.

There are a million questions at the tip of his tongue - what happened why didn't you protect him why does he have to die what's wrong with him why my dad why now why why why - but there's only one that's important.

"Where is he?"

A word from her, and he's off. He remembers very well how to find the throneroom, and his father's bedroom so close to it.

He's not surprised to find Hector sitting next to the door, his two bearcats growling at Eugene. Eugene is too tired to argue - he knows that Hector's loyalty is as strong as he is stubborn, and he knows the knight loathes to leave his dad's side when Edmund is in trouble. If Hector hears everything he says in this room, then so be it.

To his shock, Hector gets up. His eyes, always so wide and angry, are cast down.

"I'll give you two privacy," he says, his voice so alien Eugene barely recognises it. Even in the years they had known each other on somewhat friendly terms, Hector had always been loud, full of righteous anger over the smallest things. The man in front of him looks… defeated. He pets the head of one of his bearcats, still looking at Eugene. "If something happens, tell them to come fetch me."

Just like that, he leaves. The bearcats lay down on each side of the door. Eugene, hands trembling anew, finally turns the handle.

Edmund is in bed, pale skin flushed red. The air is heavy, reeks of medication, and his dad - his dad, so tall he easily towers over him, a mountain of a man who can easily defeat the strongest warriors - his dad looks small, under the covers.

Eugene is still stuck at the door, unable to move. In all this time since he got the letters, he hasn't thought once of what he would say, what he would do once he finally saw Edmund. He half-thought it would be too late, and he should be relieved that it's not but- he won't be for long, Adira had warned, and Eugene is helpless to do anything, he doesn't understand anything, Edmund was fine before and now-

There's a low sound in the room, of his dad struggling to breathe, and it's like a bolt of lightning went through Eugene, spurring him into motion. There's a chair on the left side of his father, and he sits down here heavily, eyes never leaving Edmund's face.

"Dad…" he whispers. "Dad, I…"

There are tears in his eyes again, and Eugene hates his own helplessness. His father is in pain, his father is dying, and he's just sitting here, unable to do anything, to fix anything. His hand seeks Edmund's, and Eugene gasps at how cold it feels, heart dropping in his throat when he raises the cover and sees purple fingers with greying fingertips.

High fever. Failing lungs. Cold extremities, likely due to low blood pressure. The terrible certainty in Adira and Hector's expressions that his father was going to die. Eugene is no doctor, but he has lived on the streets for a decade, and he knew the signs to look out for, knew what illnesses he should avoid at all costs, and treat immediately if he ever fell victim to them.

Sepsis.

His tears fall. Eugene, selfish as always, manages to say only one thing: "Please don't die."

Edmund doesn't answer.

------

After a while, Hector comes back to stand guard in front of the room. Eugene would thank him for the privacy, but he hasn't been able to say anything since that one whispered plea, the weight in his throat too overwhelming.

After a while, Rapunzel appears at his side. He doesn't notice, really - just, at one point, he raises his head and she's here, like she always is. She looks sad, too. He holds her hand. (He still can't take Edmund's without feeling sick. He can't give his own father comfort, because he's too scared of the cold and stiff fingers. What a son he makes.)

After a while, Lance is here too. His best friend of years, who has enough presence to make an empty theatre feel lively by being in it, is quiet as a mouse. Eugene wants to joke about that, before the mere idea catches up to him and his stomach twists terribly. How fucked up do you have to be to joke in front of your dying dad, he thinks. He can't avoid this, can't lighten the situation, but being a coward is ingrained in his bones at that point, and the fact that he could have- in front of-

"Hey Eugene," Lance says. His hand, big and warm, gently touches Eugene's, which is gripping his own hair tightly. He doesn't remember doing that. "Do you… Want tea?"

Eugene startles, not expecting this question. It takes him a moment before it registers, a moment before he tries to answer, only opens his mouth wordlessly, and closes it. Silently, he finally nods, heart speeding up for reasons he can't understand.

"Okay," Lance smiles. "Do you want to come make it with me?"

Eugene should say no. He should stay with his dad, who is at death's door and could die at any moment, his internal organs fighting a losing battle. Eugene should say no, he should talk and speak to his dad, speak to Rapunzel who he knows is worried, he should… He should be a good son, and say goodbye to his father, one last time.

His head is spinning. He opens his mouth, closes it without a sound, and nods again. He's not a good son.

Lance's hand on his shoulder guides him more than his feet do. The kitchen isn't far, and Lance busies himself with its sparse content, searching for a cup silently. Quickly enough, he's making tea, water boiling noisily in the kettle, breaking the oppressive silence of the castle. Eugene stands around, more and more aware that you don't need two people to make tea.

It feels like no time at all before Lance is pressing a warm cup in Eugene's hands, telling him to wait for it to steep. Lance keeps moving, making another cup. Eugene wants to ask who it's for, but can't bring himself to.

"Rapunzel and Qurin wanted tea too, remember?" Lance answers, at the question he can apparently read in Eugene's eyes. Eugene doesn't, in fact, remember; he's not even sure Quirin was in the room. "Adira said coffee, though. And Hector said he didn't want anything, but he strikes me as a coffee guy. I'll make myself tea, that way if I'm wrong, I can always switch them."

Just like that, Lance starts talking about anything and everything, and Eugene relaxes a fraction. He listens, and sips his tea slowly, the warmth soothing in throat. He thinks Lance put some honey in it. It's really good.

It feels like he's at home, and everything is okay, for a moment. Lance had become a cook after adopting the girls - he wasn't very good at listening to orders, so he had simply opened his own restaurant near the castle, soon becoming the most popular one in town. Of course, it helped that the princess herself visited it often, but Lance was genuinely amazing at what he did, and that's what kept the curious around.

For two guys who, fifteen years ago, thought their best chance at a future was to make a deal with the Baron, they were doing pretty good for themselves.

Eugene finishes his cup right as Lance finishes his preparations.

"Thanks," he croaks out shakily, earning a blinding smile from his best friend.

"You want another?"

Eugene hesitates, before nodding, making Lance chuckle. There's still boiled water in the kettle, so it won't take long.

"You know," Lance says, a certain carefulness in his voice, "it still happens to Catalina, sometimes. It's not like when she was a kid, but when she gets too anxious, her voice just… leaves her." Eugene feels himself flush, lowering his eyes. "Tea helps her. It doesn't give her her voice back if she's not ready, but it helps with her throat, when she feels like it's bothering her. I just thought…"

"It helped me too. Thank you," Eugene repeats. He wants to say that he's not like Catalina; that he's a grown man, who shouldn't have clammed up just because he felt bad, who should have been here for his father and everyone else, who should be there, right now, instead of drinking tea, but he bites his lips and holds it back. If he throws himself a pity party on top of it all, it'll take even longer.

"Eugene." Lance is in front of him, hands on his shoulder. Eugene can't do anything but look up, and sees in his best friend's eyes so much love and compassion that he wants to hide from it. "I know you. I don't know, exactly, what self-perceived failures you are torturing yourself with right now, but I know you're being too hard on yourself anyway. Your dad wouldn't want that."

Eugene breathes in sharply, tears burning in his eyes. He wants to get angry, or joke, or do anything to get out of this conversation, but he can't- he can't avoid this. The situation feels unreal, like he's going to wake up if he just concentrates enough, and he can't- he can't-

Lance pulls him to his chest and holds him tight. Eugene blinks, and suddenly he's crying, Lance the only thing holding him on his feet.

He shakes and he wonders how the shy kid he remembers became- Lance. Reliable, sensitive, funny Lance, who is a dad now and who can hold you together when you're falling apart.

Eugene remembers their first meeting, Lance crying in his new bed, freshly orphaned after the death of his parents. He remembers how quiet he had been for a while, and how he had stuck to him like a shadow after Eugene comforted him that first time, seemingly thinking him to be some sort of hero. Eugene, of course, had revelled in the attention, playing up his courage and his strengths, telling stories of his future adventures and of all the money he was going to have.

"How do you do that?" Lance had asked one day, after one of his stories. "You know, how do you… how do you not care about… your parents, and how they left? How do you stop caring?"

It had hurt, at the time. Lance's desperation (still grieving his family, still hurt, wanting to forget the pain without being able to) had flown right over his head, and all Eugene had heard was that his friend thought he didn't care, about anything. It was wrong, but that's what he had wanted, right?

So he had said: "Adventurers don't have the time to care about their family - they have the whole world to discover, after all."

It was a Flynnigan Rider quote. One of Flynnigan's enemies, sure, but Eugene thought it wasn't so stupid. He had wished he could be like that, like Flynnigan who didn't even have a family to care about, and could just do whatever he wanted.

But the truth he couldn't admit to Lance at the time was, Eugene cared. He cared and he cared and he cared, torturing himself with how much he did, crying himself to sleep with a practiced silence at the idea that no one in the world loved him. His own parents abandoned him as a baby, and he wondered what he could have done to them, wondered how he could be better if they came back. Eugene cared and he hated that he cared, hiding behind fantasies and made up names, desperate to escape his identity and his life and his skin.

And when it hadn't been enough, he had tried to carve the kindness straight out of his heart, hurting everyone in the process.

Even that hadn't been enough. Rapunzel had seen through him easily, finding him a worth no one would have even thought to look for. Gothel stabbed him, and all she managed to do was kill Flynn, because Eugene, who cried and loved and cared - Eugene had been there, like he hadn't allowed himself to be in a while.

Maybe, if he was still Flynn, the thought of his dad dying wouldn't make him miserable. Maybe, if he was still Flynn, he wouldn't be crying on Lance's shirt, wanting for everything to stop.

But if he was still Flynn, Lance wouldn't be there anyway. He would have lost his best friend after one betrayal too many, and never seen him again. He wouldn't love Rapunzel. He wouldn't love his friends, his family, his father. Probably wouldn't even know who Edmund was, or where he came from. He would be all alone.

He doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want the people he loves to leave.

He doesn't want his dad to die.

"Please don't leave me," he asks between his tears, voice quiet enough that he hopes Lance hasn't heard, but Lance holds him tighter and promises he won't.

Eugene cries harder.

------

It's early in the morning. Eugene barely slept, kept awake by the idea of Edmund dying while he was resting. When the sun starts to poke through the sky, dim and feeble light reaching him, Eugene decides it's morning enough, and slips away to his father's room, careful not to wake Rapunzel. Hector is sleeping in front of the door, his bearcats piling up on him, but he opens an eye when Eugene arrives, and nods in his direction.

Edmund is still there, still alive. Quirin is here too.

"Couldn't sleep?" Eugene asks softly. It feels wrong to talk over someone unconscious, but… it feels wrong, too, to not acknowledge Quirin at all.

"I'm a farmer," Quirin says, "I wake up early more often than not." He doesn't return the question, but Eugene knows how awful he looks after a bad night, so Quirin is probably just trying to do the polite thing.

Eugene still has the chair closest to Edmund's hand. He also still can't take it, heart beating faster at the thought. His father's hand should be warm, agile as it handles a weapon, it should... it's his only hand left. It won't matter if he dies, but it's his only hand left, and Eugene feels ridiculous but he can't- he should ask Quirin to hold it, take his place since he couldn't give his father this one thing.

Edmund's breathing is louder today. He's struggling more. Eugene feels nauseous, unable to do anything, wishing he could have just slept and slept and slept so nothing would be happening.

"I met Edmund when I was ten," Quirin says out of the blue. Eugene raises his head, but Quirin isn't really looking at him. "I set him on fire, actually."

That gets a surprised snort out of Eugene, and a smile from Quirin, tired but genuine.

"Don't tell Varian, but I liked to experiment with all sorts of things at the time. It was supposed to be a self-destructive message, and, well, it was destructive alright."

"Why did you even give him a self-destructive message the day you met him?" Eugene asks.

"I was a friend of your mom," Quirin grins, a little self-conscious. "She was tired of Edmund being too shy to ask her on a date, so she asked me to deliver a message to ask him on a date. If he hadn't caught on fire, of course, I think they'd have both enjoyed it a lot."

Eugene smiles, and as the story progresses, he learns that Quirin gets embarrassed the same way Varian does, too. That's a knowledge he appreciates a lot more.

------

"It's all because he wanted to change," Adira says, cryptic as always.

The others left to have dinner. Eugene couldn't. Edmund's breathing is louder today, his fever higher, and he doesn't respond to pain stimuli. Eugene doesn't want to think about any of that, so he turns towards Adira, desperate for conversation.

"What do you mean?"

Her eyes are stuck looking at her king, pain and grief and anger in her expression. Adira doesn't usually allow herself to be read so easily, but she has been on edge the entire time. It takes some time, but Eugene understands that she's just as afraid as he is.

"The accident. Him getting wounded. It's all..." Adira swallows. Her eyes harden. "It's all because he wanted to move on. I wanted to move on."

Eugene doesn't really understand what she's getting at. He's heard bits and pieces of what happened, mind so scrambled he had trouble making sense of it, but it was simple enough. They were doing renovations. Edmund got hurt - a stupid accident, as all accidents were, and then it only got... worse. An infection that didn't want to heal, and when they really started to worry, it was too late. Eugene wants to rage at the unfairness of it all, and maybe he will, later, but it simply makes him tired.

Edmund shouldn't have to die like that after surviving decades of terrible loneliness.

"It was an accident," he ends up saying, because he can see the tightness of Adira's jaw.

She doesn't say anything to that. Long minutes pass, only rhythmed by Edmund's uneven breathing.

"I've always hated traditions. Especially stupid ones. The first thing I did, after being accepted in the Brotherhood, was to ask for its name to be changed, because I am a woman." A sigh. Eugene doesn't dare interrupt. "I was asked to behave myself properly, and took to eating food as noisily as possible, daring anyone to come fight me if they were brave enough. Of course, no one did." She pauses. Looks at his dad again. "When Edmund decided to destroy the moonstone himself, I protested, but I didn't think it was such a bad idea. For a long time, I wondered if I could have saved his arm, could have saved our kingdom, if I actually tried to stop him. If I had listened to traditions more closely, because not all of them were built on false beliefs."

Suddenly, Eugene gets it. The emotion in her voice, the lines around her eyes - a feeling so foreign in Adira that he hadn't been able to recognise it before. Guilt. And he knows that, for all that she's talking about the past, it's very much the present that is troubling her.

"Maybe that's true," he shrugs, quiet. "But then again, you tend to be right most of the time. And my life is what it is because of what happened back then, so I'm pretty grateful it all went down like it did."

That makes her chuckle, because what he says is definitely true. Adira's confidence is not unearned. But there's still something hanging in the air, and he waits to see if she's going to confide in him. He feels like he knows Adira as much as he doesn't - she's as straightforward as she's cryptic, and he thinks they're friends, in a way, but he's not one to push when someone has secrets they want to keep, and Adira isn't one for sharing. The silence between them is an understanding, and he's not sure how to navigate anything else.

"This castle," she starts, hesitant and slow, "was built over the spreading black rocks. It's strong, but it won't hold forever, now that its core has disappeared. We weren't doing renovations as much as we were emptying it, because King Edmund decided it was time to move on from the past, and start to live somewhere livable. It was a tough choice for him, and I... heavily encouraged it."

Bitterly, Eugene realises that after surviving so long in the claws of his past, his dad would still be taken by it. This castle, as much his home as it was his prison, won't let him escape it. Eugene wants to cry at that, wants to shake Edmund and ask him to get up and not let himself die for something so stupid, wants to shake Adira and tell her it was a good thing and it's not her fault it turned out so badly. Mostly, he wants to bury his head in his hands, scream and forget it all, because he knows his father only felt ready to leave behind his ancestors because Eugene always insisted that they did not define who they were.

He thinks he should say something meaningful in answer. Something like, I forgive you Adira, but then again she does know that, and doesn't really need his forgiveness, because she didn't do anything wrong. She's not seeking that; she's frustrated, just as he is, and needs... companionship. Someone who understands.

He's not good at coming up with life-changing advice anyway.

"Stupid castle," he declares, voice unsteady.

"Stupid castle," Adira echoes.

That's enough, for now.

------

Eugene is alone with Edmund again. It's been four long days since he got here, and he knows… He knows it won't be much longer. Doctors, when they come, try to make the king comfortable - they don't try to save him.

Eugene is looking at the form of his dad's hand under the cover again. Edmund wouldn't even feel it if he touched it, but Eugene still can't shake off the guilt and the shame choking him. He shouldn't be disgusted by his dying father. He's not doing any of this right - he's not fighting to heal him, he's not loudly grieving, he's not holding onto hope, he's not talking to him, he's… He's not a character from one of his books. Standing vigil at someone's deathbed wasn't just a couple of lines in his backstory, and every single minute of it hurt in a way he shouldn't allow.

This isn't about him, and yet it's difficult to think like it's anything but. Edmund hasn't regained consciousness once. The fever and the infection are doing damage they can't even see, and the doctors suggested his mind might already be… gone.

"I don't want you to die," Eugene whispers, words like knives in his throat. "I don't want you to leave. We've only had five years together, and it's… It's too short, I want more."

I want, I want, I want - he's selfish, he knows it, and he can't bring himself to regret it, not when that's the only thing which makes sense. His dad is still young. They already lost so much time together, already had twenty-five years to catch up on, and it's over? One accident, and he's gone, Eugene an orphan all over again?

"You've still got too much to make up for to leave me like that," Eugene bits out, a familiar and safe anger drowning away the hopelessness.

It's easy, to blame someone who can't respond, to get angry at his dad instead of crying over him. Eugene had spent years being angry at everything, and mustering this resentment all over again takes no effort at all. He clenches his fists on his knees, tremors coursing through them, and the feeling grows like a storm, until he wants to hit something.

"You- You've been so busy, rebuilding this stupid country, and we've barely seen each other these last years! We kept saying later, later, we'll have time later, and look where that got us!"

Edmund sleeps. His closed eyes, his heavy breathing, it all becomes too much for Eugene, igniting a fire he doesn't control. He slaps his hands on his knees, hard, frustration making him shot up from his chair and pace, but it doesn't seem enough because- Edmund is dying, his stupid dad is dying because of a stupid accident and it's so terribly mundane, it makes Eugene want to bash his head on the wall. He grips his hair, tries to breathe -deep, even breaths that his father can't manage-, tries to keep his tears at bay even though his eyes burn.

"All my life, you weren't there for me!" he explodes again, "You weren’t there… Why weren’t you there? I needed you! I needed you! And you weren't there! You weren't-" His voice breaks this time, and he cuts himself off, immediately feeling ashamed for his outburst. He sits down again, like a puppet with its strings cut, and his hands shake even more than before.

He doesn't feel better. Edmund doesn't look better.

"I'm sorry," Eugene whispers. "I'm sorry, I- I…" I'm a terrible son, he can't say. I'm not doing this right, I'm not being fair to you, I'm terrified and I don't know what to do. I want to wake up tomorrow, and still have a dad, still have a chance to get to know you better, because five years isn't enough and I don't want to lose you. I'll miss you so much.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles finally, mind buzzing with all he wants to say, all he's not sure how to say. "I forgave you for all of that long ago, I- I shouldn't have screamed." Not that it matters - but it does, at the same time.

Since he first received Adira's letter, Eugene had wondered about having the right words. It should be meaningful, right? His last words to his dying father, they had to be important, they had to be something that would help Edmund, didn't they? Except Edmund is unconscious. Maybe already gone. And these words, these words he tortured himself over, maybe they weren't for Edmund's sake as much as they were for his. It made him feel worse, for some reason. Selfish, again.

Eugene presses the palm of his hand against his eyes, slowly feeling how his tears slip through anyway. He wishes Rapunzel was here, even if he's the one who asked for some time. She would know what to say. She would… she would help, because kindness and advice and everything, it came easier to her. Eugene is still… still learning, he thinks, still not caring enough in comparison. He's never caring enough. He's rude, and yells at dying people because he can't keep his emotions in check, and doesn't hold their hands because he's scared, and- and-

He's not good at this. He doesn't want to be.

"I never thought I'd have a dad," he chokes out. "Even now, I'm not sure I know how to be a son, after so long of not being one. But… But I'm glad we could learn together, these last few years. I'm glad you are my father." Despite the weirdness, and the awkwardness, and Dabney - Eugene doesn't say that, but it makes him chuckle tiredly.

Maybe it would hurt less, if Edmund had died before Eugene could meet him. It certainly felt different learning about his mom; painful, too, but not anything like the claw he could feel bury itself in his heart. It's so soon, too soon to lose his father again, because five years is nothing in the grand scheme of things and Eugene had always wanted more out of life, but… If he could do it all over again, he'd want things to be exactly the same. He'll never regret meeting Edmund.

"I love you, dad," Eugene says, crying as he looks at Edmund. It's just the truth, not some grand declaration, but it's enough all the same.

Oh so slowly, Eugene rests his hand on top of Edmund's own, the cover between them. He thinks, maybe, that Edmund is breathing easier.

------

In the next hour, the last king of the Dark Kingdom dies.

------

"Want a drink?" Hector grunts from where he's laying, vaguely shaking a bottle in the air.

It's not really a surprise to find him here. Eugene sits down next to him, and doesn't bother with a response, instead taking the bottle from the knight's grasp and drinking a little out of it. It's definitely not the best stuff but Eugene has drunk worse in his life, so he doesn't comment on it. He's not looking to get drunk anyway.

He doesn't really know what he's looking for. Air, mostly. Rapunzel doesn't want him packing, she thinks he should rest, but staying too long with his own thoughts as company quickly gets heavy. Eugene sighs, and lays down completely, looking at the stars shining above them - there are a lot more than what you can see from Corona. Maybe because there's less people, and less light to hide them away.

"I'm not gonna comfort you if you start crying," Hector interrupts gruffly, sounding sick at the mere idea. Eugene laughs, because there's perhaps no funnier scenario than him seeking out Hector for a hug. At best he'd get trampled by his rhino.

"Staying inside sucked," is all he answers, and Hector hums. He seems to understand that.

They stay like this for a long time. Just silence, sometimes broken by Hector drinking a little bit more. Eugene would worry, if he didn't already know that everyone in the Brotherhood has a stomach made of steel, and that Hector will need a lot more to really get drunk.

It's not much, but it's nice. At least Hector doesn't pity him. Eugene is grateful for the comfort he receives, but sometimes the attention feels like it hurts more than it helps, and he's definitely getting overwhelmed right now.

"Any plan on taking his succession?" Hector asks after a while. It's not a surprise either that he breaks the silence first - when he first met him properly, Eugene thought he was the surly and silent type, but Hector did like conversation. He was unpleasant most of the time, sure, but if he was thinking something, he tended to say it directly. (He wouldn't say it, but Eugene also thinks Hector is a bit lonely.)

"Nah. Not really my kingdom to manage, and I'm too pretty to be king," Eugene responds. He told his dad years ago that he would never be his successor, and though Edmund had a difficult time wrapping his head around it, he had accepted it.

"Probably would have quit if you did," Hector says pensively. Eugene feels ready to protest because it's one thing for him to not want it, and another to have someone hate the idea so much, but he stops himself in time to hear Hector murmur: "I couldn't call anyone else my king."

Ah. Loyalty, the one thing in Hector Eugene understands easily. He can't really imagine having his one purpose in life being ripped away from him, can't imagine how it feels to keep going after that.

Then again, Hector has more experience with this kind of situation than most. It's a sad fact in its own right.

"Guess you guys will finally have to change the name," Eugene muses quietly, knowing it's better to change the subject. They're not the right people to have a heart to heart. "Dark Kingdom wasn't super inspired to begin with. Though, I hope you don't go for something equally stupid, like Dark whatever-the-new-regime-is."

He expects a barb about his own ancestors being responsible for that, but Hector falls silent. He's thinking, Eugene gets after a while, and he doesn't like the weird gleam in the other man's eyes.

"Edmundland," Hector whispers, nearly reverently. Eugene can't contain an audible gag.

"You are not naming it that."

------

Two weeks have gone by since Edmund's funeral, and it still doesn't feel real. Back home in Corona, it's easy to forget - Eugene doesn't see his father often, and his routine has barely changed, so it's easy to think, for a moment, that Edmund is alive and happy in the Dark Kingdom.

The wave of his grief recedes, before crashing back violently. When Eugene remembers, it hurts all over again, like he's back at his father's side hearing his breathing quiet, until there's nothing left.

He keeps going. He cries, too, and then gets up and keeps going. Rapunzel and him left for a week and a half, and there's plenty of work to catch up on, even if everyone is determined to ask him if he doesn't want to rest instead. In truth, he doesn't really know - keeping busy helps, but there are moments when he wishes he could simply curl up in his bed for a century, and never talk to anyone again. His mood is unstable, but he tries not to take it on anyone, as hard as it can be.

He already yelled at Lance to leave him the fuck alone once, and despite his best friend assuring him that he understood, Eugene wants to go apologise again.

So today, when he woke up on edge and then nearly threatened to kill Pete for stumbling, Eugene was quick to decide that it was better if he took that rest, finally. That's why he's on his bed right now, leaning back with his feet still on the ground, tracing Rapunzel's mural with his eyes and trying hard to not think about anything. But then his eyes stray to the right, to the painting he knows represents him and his father hugging, and Eugene doesn't know whether to cry or to yell. He takes a pillow, puts it over his head, and does both.

He doesn't feel better. He feels ridiculous.

Grieving feels like it should be more. He shouldn't wake up in the morning like he usually does, he shouldn't take his coffee the same way, he shouldn't hide behind a pillow and he shouldn't avoid his work and he shouldn't… He should do something more, and he cannot name what that might be.

What he knows, though, is that he misses Edmund, and doesn't feel like he's ever going to be able to breathe like he did before.

So he stays in his bed, pillow pressed against his head. He doesn't move when he hears the door open. Doesn't move when he feels Rapunzel sit next to him, before laying down just like he is. He's crying again, and he hates it.

"I don't know what to do," he admits then, voice muffled and broken. Rapunzel touches his arm gently. "I feel so bad, and I don't- I don't feel like it's gonna get better."

"It will," she says, so certain that Eugene can't do anything but believe her. "It won't be like before, but it'll hurt less, one day."

He closes his eyes tightly, until they hurt. Crying gave him a headache, but it's practically a constant these days. He thinks about Rapunzel's words, and knows intimately what she's referencing - remembers more than well how she grieved Gothel, full of hurt and pain and anger at the fact she even did. He hadn't really understood at the time either. But Gothel had raised her for eighteen years; Rapunzel had loved her for all of them, and still loved this mother she knew never existed. So she had mourned her, she had hated her, and Eugene had tried his best to be there for her.

It's not the same, with his dad. Of course it wasn't, because for all of their history, Edmund had still loved him, more than Gothel had ever cared for Rapunzel. It's different, but Rapunzel understands, in a way, what it means to lose a parent. She understands his grief. He sees it in her eyes when he finally discards the pillow, and meets her gaze. His face is a mess, yet she smiles sadly and kisses his tears away, pulling a worn out smile out of him.

"Thanks Sunshine," he whispers, "I really hope so."

"I'll be there, no matter what," she assures, even if he never doubted it. "I… I also have a gift, for you," Rapunzel says, more unsure of herself this time.

He straightens up as she does, intrigued, and wanting to let her do what she thinks will help. He thinks she needs it just as much as he does, because she lost someone too - no one wants to say it, but Eugene knows he's not the only one grieving.

He doesn't know what to expect from the piece of paper she holds towards him. Slowly, she hands it to him, careful and worried, and he wants to reassure her immediately that it's okay but.

But.

There, under his fingers, is a painting. He sees himself, smiling, soft and beautiful in the way only Rapunzel paints him. On his left, his mother stands, a happier expression than the one on the only painting left of her on her face, her hand on Eugene's shoulder, looking so alive and present that tears spring up to his eyes. And then, on his right…

He realises, while he looks at his father's peaceful expression, that it's the first time in weeks he has thought of his dad as he was in life, instead of the dying man he had been at the end. His skin is pale, but healthily so, no traces of fever on his cheeks. His smile is wide like it often was when Eugene told a bad joke, and his eyes are aware and full of joy. He's touching Eugene's shoulder too, in the painting, and on his bed Eugene can almost feel it - that weight on him, neither stiff nor cold.

"I thought… I thought you'd like having a picture with all three of you," Rapunzel says, and he doesn't have to watch to know she's playing absently with her hair, nervous.

Eugene is careful not to crumble the picture like his heart is, putting it down as he desperately reaches for Rapunzel - and she's here, immediately, even if he's crying again and making a mess and holding her so tight he's afraid to hurt her.

"I love it," he says again and again, mixed with thank you and I love you and I'm sorry. She holds him and whispers that she loves him too, again and again.

Weeks will turn into months will turn into years. The picture will stay on his bedside table, always.

(Things do change, and because they change, they heal.)

#tangled #tangled the series #Eugene Fitzherbert #King Edmund #Rapunzel #Lance Strongbow #Adira #Quirin #Hector

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