#but he forgot to take off his glasses and now thomas has just been holding them bcs the nightstand is on varian's side

[whoviandoodler]

[Image description: a digital drawing of Thomas and Varian from Transatlantic in sepia tones. Thomas is sitting on a sofa smoking, one leg bent and resting on the couch. In his right hand he has an open book and in his left he's holding Varian's glasses. He seems to have just looked up from his book at a new arrival. Varian is lying on the couch, his head on Thomas's thigh, and sleeping while covered by a cardigan. End description.]

that awkward moment when you boyfriend said he'd just lie down for a second and totally wouldn't fall asleep (he has so much work to do, he can't take naps), but now he's been sleeping for an hour and your leg is cramping so badly but you don't have the heart to wake him because he's been exhausted for weeks

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Bad Habits Are Hard to Break When I'm With You.

Thomas Shelby x reader

Author's note: what is my obsession with Tommy having a mistress? 😭

Masterlists

Summary: Thomas can't seem to stay away from his wife's new friend, and even if he could, neither of them would want him to.

Warnings: SMUT/NSFW, angst, infidelity

She’s like a bad habit- the worst of them. He could drink himself to oblivion, smoke until his lungs turn to marsh and drown his system with opium and she'd still be the worst habit- the worst addiction- he has. Thomas doesn’t recognize himself when he’s around her; it's like she enters a room and he’s entranced.

Under the control of a siren song or some enchantment.

She ruins him, makes a mess of him. Because Thomas thinks that even when she isn’t around, he’s completely and utterly in ruins at the thought of her. Her. Y/n. A recent friend of Lizzie’s, the object of his wildest and most lewd fantasies. He never even had time to be perplexed by the odd pair they made before being totally consumed by the very thought of her; Y/n, her expensive education and even more expensive London apartment and Lizzie, who he knows is only still married to him out of convenience. At this point, he can’t even remember where or how Lizzie met her, just that she was in his drawing room one day, sipping gin and wearing lips so red that he swore they’d been painted with the juices of fresh, spring berries.

Since then, he’s kissed those lips. Tasted their sweetness, been intoxicated by their saccharine flavor.

And his wife hasn’t suspected a damn thing- at least, he thinks she hasn’t. If she has, Thomas hasn’t noticed, and that may be because his interests have been lying elsewhere.

And now he’s sitting so close to her that he swears that her perfume floods his senses with every inhale. Thomas knows that he can just reach over and lay his hand on her thigh, but what kind of husband does that right in front of his wife? The worst kind. Thomas knows that he’s probably amongst the worst of the worst, the type that would reach over and splay his hand under Y/n’s skirt while they dined with Lizzie but Y/n is as good of a friend as she can be given the circumstances and would give him an earful if he did something like that.

So he’ll keep his hands above table and try to contain himself for as long as necessary.

Dinner seems to drag on, though. There’s an eternity between the moment the first drink is laid before them to the moment Francis announces that dessert will be served shortly. Thomas swears that he’s gone gray by the time the meal is over, and by then, the tension is enough to stifle him.

“Oh, Tommy,” Lizzie knocks off the ash from her cigarette, “I forgot to mention, Y/n is staying over tonight. The drive back to her place is so long, and her driver asked for the rest of the night off.”

“I hope it's no imposition,” Y/n interjects after a long sip of her wine, and the sparkle in her eyes when she says it is telling of something more. Of course, Thomas already knows she’ll be staying over, she’d already detailed her and Lizzie’s arrangement to him when they saw each other the day before, at a hotel in the city, where four walls had cocooned them for a few precious hours. “My driver is taking his wife to dinner for her birthday, but if its any trouble, I can try to make other arrangements.”

“No trouble,” Thomas shrugs, holding her gaze, “Anything for a….friend of my wife.”

At that, Lizzie scoffs a chuckle, “Well that’s a first,” she jokes brashly, polishing off her wine before reaching over to pour herself another glass.

Y/n chuckles too, and the sound is so melodious that he thinks he’s never heard something sweeter, “I must be special then,” she teases.

In response, Thomas huffs, and its only because he can’t say anything that won’t give them away. But in truth, Y/n is special; she’s the first woman to ever make his knees feel like they’re buckling every time with just a look, he has to pocket balled fists when he’s around her just so the tension coursing through his body has somewhere to go and he hangs on to every word she says.

She’s the only reason he’s still at that table; he and Lizzie rarely have dinner together, much less drinks afterwards. But Thomas can’t stand to let Y/n out of his sights. He wants to see the way her lips stain those minty, imported cigarettes that she enjoys and be privy to those moments when she casually runs her fingers along her collarbone.

It's possible that she’s worse than an addiction - Y/n is an obsession, and he is nothing but a fiend.

The rest of their quiet evening passes with her and Lizzie dominating the conversation, with Thomas only enduring the whole thing so he can be in Y/n’s orbit. Afterward, they separate; Lizzie decides to show Y/n to her room, and he steals away to his office under the guise of having to work. Though, while there are a series of documents that require his attention, it's impossible for Thomas to focus while she’s in the room over his head. Probably peeling off that stunning silk dress, exposing ample breasts and perfect curves while the smooth fabric skims down thighs that he’s tasted the inside of and legs that have locked around his hips more times than he can count. And because of that, the excuse of having to work is just that, an excuse. A way to bide time until he’s certain that Lizzie is their room, hopefully deep in a wine induced slumber.

When the house finally goes still, Thomas deserts his suit coat and heads upstairs, passing his own bedroom and pausing in front of the guest room where the yellow glow of a lamp seeps out from under the door. Without knocking, he turns the knob and pushes the door open slowly, hoping to quiet the pesky creek that accompanies the motion.

Thomas finds Y/n on a chair near the window, which she has opened. The tall lamp is positioned over her shoulder, and in her hands, she clutches a novel with a name he doesn’t recognize past the title being obviously in French. “What’re you readin’ eh?”

Marking her page, she sets the book down in her lap, freeing the view of her chest, clad in a rayon nightie that doesn’t do much to hide the fact that she isn’t wearing a bra. “A book. It's French.” Y/n hums.

“I can tell,” He huffs, and Y/n laughs softly.

Deserting the chair, she stands and proceeds to cross the floor. Her steps are practically inaudible on the lacquered floors, possibly because she isn’t wearing shoes. “Its……romantic, in its own way,” when she reaches him, Y/n looms her arms around his neck and Thomas instinctively takes firm hold of her hips, the warmth of her skin permeating the thin fabric. “You wouldn't get it.”

“Callin’ me stupid?” Thomas arches a brow.

Y/n giggles, a sound so thrilling that Thomas struggles to not come apart right there. “Oh, I would never,” the tips of her fingers caress his nape so gently that they feel like butterfly wings beating against his skin. “It's about the devil. And a man.”

Thomas searches her eyes, “And what does the devil do to the man, eh?”

“Falls in love with him. Follows him around disguised as a woman and tries to seduce him,” Y/n offers simply, and Thomas pauses, “It reminds me of us,” she adds in a more hushed tone.

He squints a little, trying to understand what she could possibly be trying to say, “Why? Am I the man or the devil?”

At that, she laughs a little louder, “Well you're hardly a virgin boy,” leaning into him a bit more, Y/n continues, inching her lips closer and lowering her tone, breath fanning his neck, “Perhaps we're both the devil.”

“Oui,” he offers humorously, Burmie accent muddling his pronunciation.

Licking her lips, she stands on her toes to bring them closer to his, and at this point, her breasts are pressed firmly to his chest, “Mon cher Belzébuth, je t'adore,” (my dear Beelzebub, I adore you). Y/n’s accent is the perfect product of a well-educated and widely traveled woman, and he can practically taste her words as they send the most pleasurable tingle up the center of his back.

“Maybe I should read that book,” Thomas suggests.

Y/n’s hand starts creeping downwards, first grazing his shoulder, then his chest, passing over his stomach before finally settling on the bulge in his trousers. There must be a spark when her fingers curl against him because that would be the only reason for the hitch of his breath. “Perhaps you should do something else,” she gives him a purposeful squeeze, and Thomas mirrors the motion by tightening his grip on her hips.

“Yeah?” He rasps, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Yes,” Y/n hisses. His lips come down on hers, and she readily relinquishes control. Her mouth is, just as he remembers, soft and warm. Y/n’s lips are sweet from the wine and he can taste the mint from her last cigarette. When he curls his fingers around the back of her thighs, hoisting her up into his arms, she gasps.

“You never said if I was special,” her breathy words punctuate their hungry kisses.

“Really?” He breathes, walking forward until her back hits the nearest wall, eliciting a soft ‘omph’. “Well sweetheart, let me show you.”

Caressing his nape, Y/n bucks her hips, “Please.”

Securing her against the wall, Thomas shoves the hem of her nightie up Y/n’s thighs, feeling the contrast of her warm, silky skin under his rough, calloused fingers. “All night,” he rasps between fervent, open-mouthed kisses, “You’ve been a fuckin’ distraction,” he squeezes her hips so tightly that his fingers might leave bruises, “What are you doin’ to me woman? Eh?” He groans when she bites his lower lips, “You’re a fuckin’ drug.”

If there's anything worse than opium, it's probably her.

Y/n giggles softly, “Am I now? Drugs are intoxicating.”

In his arms, he carries Y/n over to the bed, unceremoniously dropping her onto the perfectly made sheets. Clamoring onto the mattress, Thomas quickly positions himself between her spread legs and undoes his shirt, casting it off to the side before leaning over her, so their faces are a mere inch apart. “So are you,” he smirks, sealing his words off with a searing kiss.

“Thomas,” Y/n croons when his lips travel to the column of her neck, hips bucking towards his in an unspoken plea. His response is a low hum as he nibbles on her skin. “Please,” she begs again, and he revels in her insistence; he’s had women long for him, but its different with Y/n. With Y/n, everything else fades to black, and they’re the only two people in the world. With Y/n, his reciprocated desire for her will always doubled;

No person has ever longed for another the way he yearns for Y/n.

“Patience,” he teases, hands taking their time as they appreciate the topography of her curves. By now, he can probably draw a map of her from memory; Thomas has a million pictures of her stowed in his mind and his fingers know the shape of her even when she isn’t in the room. There isn’t another body- or anything else- that he’s committed so well.

He can single out her laugh in a sea of chatter. Smell her perfume the minute she walks into a room filled with fragrant flowers.

Y/n’s glossy, burgundy nails dig into his back, leaving crescent shaped marks in their wake, while her bare heels press into his thighs. When Thomas’ lips reach her chest, he sucks purplish bruises into the swell of her breasts causing goosebumps to litter her otherwise silky skin.

His own desire strains against the rough fabric of his trousers, making them so tight that its hard to ignore. But Thomas’s determination to prolong his time with her triumphs all else; it's always been so peculiar to him, how half the pleasure of being with her came from just being with her. In her orbit, knowing she’s in the same room with him, touching him - choosing him when millions of other men would probably fall at her feet at a moment’s notice.

“Thomas,” she croons when he pushes her night dress up so his kisses can travel to the plane of her stomach. His fingers maintain a white knuckled grip on the fabric, and its probably the only thing keeping him sane enough to completely debauch her.

“Mmm?” he hums, mouth lingering right above her public bone, “Tell me what you want, darling.”

“You,” Y/n heaves, hips lifting off the bed, only for Thomas to force them down with a bruising grip. Her fingers, lithe and warm, thread through his hair, “I just want you.”

After peppering a series of feather-light kisses to the inside of her thighs, he works his way up her body again, eventually peeling the fabric over her head. “What?” She breathes when Thomas pauses, one elbow sunken into the mattress, holding him up over her while he cups her cheek with his free hand. He marvels at the softness of her skin beneath his touch, the way it feels like she's been conjured up by some combination of Japanese silk and gypsy magic. With every exhale, he can feel the tops of her bare breasts touching his chest, and Thomas can taste the wine from earlier on her breath.

She's real, she tangible, she's there.

And yet, most times, he can't believe that she's in his life.

“I'd do anythin’ for you, you know that?” He'd kill for her - he'd live for her.

His words make Y/n smile a little, that little twist of her full lips that makes his heart tick a little quicker. “What a politician you are,” reaching up, Y/n's thumb gently caresses the scar near his eye.

There's a little voice in his head that aches to argue; he would never use that hollow, politician's charm on her. He can't. Her eyes make it difficult to lie to her. But he's too concerned with….other endeavors to try to change her mind. Instead of arguing, Thomas catches her lips in a heady kiss, while Y/n clumsily reaches between them to undo his trousers, before using the front of her feet to shove them, along with his pants, down his legs

Unable to hold himself back for any longer, Thomas lines himself up with her entrance and pushes in. There's a moment of euphoria; a low groan that probably filters out of the room and a lewd moan that makes no effort to hide what they're doing.

Simply put, she feels like the closest to heaven he’ll ever get, and Thomas is perfectly fine with that.

If her body is the pearly gates, if her lips are Eden's fruit. If her fingers tracing patterns on his skin is grace from a god that has otherwise forgotten him, Thomas will take it with pleasure. In fact, he'll pray for it. To it.

“Fuck,” Thomas grunts, stirring a rough, albeit controlled, rhythm. With one arm curled around his back and the other hand clinging to his shoulder, Y/n presses her face to the side of Thomas’, alternating between kissing his jaw and drawing in audible, hitched breaths. The little noises that he’s able to extract never fails to inch him closer to release.

Simultaneously, the feel of him filling her up so well that it almost burns is exhilarating. Y/n can feel every vein running along his shaft, and each stroke ensures that Thomas hits the perfect spot. The friction he creates with each thrust makes her toes curl tightly and her hips reach for his, eager to match his pace.

Dragging her nails along his back, they tickle his nape before settling on the top of his head, so she can thread her fingers through his hair. “Thomas…..” she pants, breathless, “I'm-”

He doesn't let her finish, instead snatching her lips in a searing kiss. Her skin is hot, and Y/n’s legs, still wound around his hips, start tightening. Her vision goes white and her mind is reduced to a muddled mess when it happens;

Complete and unparalleled bliss.

No one can make her feel what Thomas does, wield her body the way he does.

Their mouths are still locked when she moans softly and he feels her walls clench around him.

Thomas’ strained grunt is accompanied by the rhythmic roll of his hips lapsing into harsh, jerked movements. Sliding his free hand down her side, he takes a bruising hold of her waist. He can feel her body quaking while his goes rigid. His ragged breaths tumble into her mouth between messy kisses and noses pressed together. As Thomas pours himself into her, every sound she makes is amplified, panting that matches the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the pitch in her inhale at the moment her back curves gracefully, and the slow rustle of sheets as she gives them a grounding tug.

Spent, Thomas gingerly detaches himself from Y/n and rolls onto his back, but not without his arm curled around her shoulders. She settles in the space between his arm and chest and stretches her arm out to drape it across his mid. He raises his hand to lazily thread his stocky fingers through her hair, and her eyes slip shut at the comforting sensation.

Oh, the things she’d give to fall asleep like that every night.

They stay tangled up like that for a while, but still not for nearly as long as either of them would prefer. The clock, in some odd corner of Thomas’ vast abode eventually reminds them of the late hour at the stroke of midnight, its familiar sound traveling to even the home’s most private quarters. With a sigh, Y/n shifts and presses her forehead to his side, “You should go,” she whispers.

Thomas’ response isn’t much, a rough hum of acknowledgement and his fingers trailing from her hair to stroke the center of her back. The pads of his fingers aren’t anything akin to the men that she usually surrounds herself with, they’re harsh and worn from having clawed their way out of Small Heath – and fighting to stay out.

“Go to sleep,” he eventually rasps, and she feels his lips on the top of her head for a moment. Y/n wants to protest; she likes to be awake when he leaves, if only so she can savor every last second of his presence. Soak him up, sear the image of him into her mind lest it be the last time she lays her eyes on him.

Because what they share is so fragile and so marred by recklessness and immorality that its a wonder its lasted so long.

Perhaps they're lucky. Or just too selfish to habour even a thread of guilt.

Thomas, on the other hand, usually prefers to slip away when Y/n is asleep. It's easier, he thinks, not having her arms tight around him when he reluctantly deserts her embrace, not having to look at her as he inches the door shut. He can maintain apathy when her hold is limp and her hair has fallen over her face; he can pretend she’s just another tryst and not the woman who has completely beguiled him. The one he’d swear himself to at a moment’s notice.

“Go,” Y/n urges after a stretch of steady, comfortable silence, “before she goes looking for you.”

Instead of making a move to get out of the bed, Thomas tightens his embrace, “I don’t care,” he returns in the same hushed tone, “let her look.” Let her do whatever she wants, its not like their marriage can get any worse than it already is.

“I care,” Y/n sits up, pulling the sheets over her chest. Freeing one of her hands, she touches the side of his face, and Thomas leans into her palm, “Lizzie is my friend. She’s a good friend.”

Licking his lips, Thomas sits up against the headboard, “if I told you to choose, would you?”

Y/n searches his eyes, trying to determine how serious he’s being. “In a heartbeat,” she promises earnestly, tipping her chin slightly before leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips. She pulls away before Thomas can deepen it, but his fingers return to her hair, keeping her face close to his. “But you don’t want that.”

“You always know what I want, eh,” Thomas scoffs sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “I should go,” he determines, fingers curling in her hair slightly. When they kiss again, Y/n drops the blanket, pressing one hand to the center of his chest while her other lingers on his face. His arm goes around her back against, hand splayed on the center in a bid to keep her close. The kiss is deep and quickly devolves to a messy affair. His tongue slips past her teeth, exploring her mouth, and she's melting into him.

Neither of them are sure who pulls away first, but the moment is taunt with painful reluctance. His hand leaves her hair so Thomas can ghost his thumb over her plump, lower lip. “I should go,” he determines again, and Y/n shuffles away so he can get out of bed. Slumping against the tufted headboard, she watches as he gets dressed, pulling on articles of clothing as he finds them, before finally collecting his shoes in his hand. He doesn’t say anything as he leaves. In fact, Thomas doesn’t even look at her; he thinks if he does before he gets to the door, he simply won’t leave.

“Goodnight, Tom,” Y/n offers softly as he eases the door open, careful to not let it creak.

When he’s safely in the corridor, he peers at her through the four inch crack, “‘Night, Y/n.” He swears her eyes tun glassy as she holds his gaze, but he can’t be sure that isn’t just his hope that she wants him to stay as much as he wants to.

The door is finally shut with the most subtle of clicks, and Thomas spends the next handful of seconds staring up the hall, checking that the door to the master bedroom doesn’t open. It's really for Y/n, because he’s been on the receiving end of Lizzie’s threats long enough for them to roll off his back. Satisfied that he's in the clear, Thomas offers the door to the guest room one final, backwards glance before setting off on quiet steps, practically forcing himself to press forward.

There's a hollowness residing within him that yawns wider every time he leaves her, like a grave that gets deeper or a valley that stretches open. It's almost as if Y/n fills and overfills that gaping emptiness within him, and then, when she’s gone again, Thomas is worse off than before.

He needs her more than he did before.

Gripping shoes a little tighter, he summons the same resolve that kept him alive in the tunnels, and trudges to his room. The walk towards his room is long, and he swears he may need blinders, the type riders put on horses, to stop him from looking back. He just wants to see if she’s poking her head out of the room, the way she watches from the window when he leaves her flat. While he doesn’t think he can bear her eyes tonight, Thomas doesn’t want to miss the chance to look into them one more time, either.

When Thomas finally gets to the master bedroom, just as he opens the door, he gives in. He looks – but she isn’t there. Instead, he catches a glimpse of the door being pulled shut, the soft click echoing off soaring walls.

She’s gone, and now he must wait. For the next fix. The next hit. The next time she’s willing to lend him her time.

[bleak-midwinter-snow]

Red Lips

Notes: Oh my God, this story has been sitting in my computer for over two years. I've never finished editing it and then completely forgot about its existence. Until now! After two years, Prue Morris is back!

For the context it’s better to read Bad Fortune first.

Warnings: abusive mother and mentions of physical abuse

Word count: 2.1K

—–

She hated how the whole situation made her feel. Prue knew very well her mother won’t change. She tried everything but there was always something wrong. So, she decided it’ll be best she just lives her life as she wants. Even though arguments still hurt, especially today.

But now there wasn’t much time for contemplation. Tommy’s been invited to a party with some influential people and since Prue’s a “Shelby’s girl” now, she’s coming too. Tommy was picking her up in two hours and she was just entering her place with two bags of things she brought from her mother’s house. It should be just enough time to make the puffiness of her eyes and swelling go away.

She didn’t cry in front of her mother when she called her a disgrace and disrespectful, she kept her face. But the night had already fallen at 5 pm in the dark winter and no one noticed tears rolling down her cheeks as she was leaving her childhood home and making her way back to her flat. She hated that it still bothered her. She knew it’ll never change but the pain of a parent demanding respect without seeing their offspring as a person on their own, it still hurt.

No time for that now. The dress she got ready for the evening hung on the bedroom door, shoes clean, coat by the main entrance. Prue hoped the evening, no matter how boring according to Tommy’s words, will keep her mind off things.

And just as the clock stroke 7, she heard the car outside. Eyes still puffy, she didn’t want Tommy to see. No need for the conversation to start there. Hopefully the winter air would calm her skin until they arrived. She quickly grabbed her coat and purse and ran down the stairs before he could come up to her. The air was chilly and she found Tommy standing by the car, door opened. She smiled.

* * *

“I promise this boring evening won’t be long,” he whispered to her when they entered the venue and had their coats taken by butlers. “We’re here to test the waters, nothing more.” “No enemies I should know about?” Prue took a glass of champagne off the waiter’s tray as they entered the main hall. The room was full of fancy dressed people, drinking and having their small talks. She could see the fake polite smiles plastered all over their faces.

“Some. But you’re safe as long as you stay with me.” Tommy’s eyes roamed the room as he pulled Prue closer to his side.

“And you? I hope you don’t plan to ruin the evening by getting shot,” Prue teased him as she sipped the champagne but with the other hand, she instinctively clenched her purse with a hidden gun. The last thing she wanted was to be taken by surprise. Tommy shook his head.

“No, no conflicts tonight. We have a brief conversation and we’re on our way.”

Prue was sceptical about the brief conversation because she knew how long could the business take with Thomas, especially-

“Prue, what is this?” his voice took her out of her thoughts, as he was looking right at her. For a second, she was confused but then noticed the red lipstick stain on her champagne glass. She realized what he was talking about. She looked away but Tommy took her chin to his hand and turned her back to him firmly. He was staring at her bloody lip she tried to hide under the lipstick, which was now on the champagne glass.

He quickly looked around before pulling her to the side, entering an empty balcony. Then he took her by the chin again.

“Who did this.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was low and deep and despite his rather calm expression, she saw his jaw clenched as anger was slowly creeping on him.

“Don’t worry, none of your enemies had guts to put a finger on me yet,” she said, pushing away his hand holding her chin a little rougher than he’d wanted.

“Let’s just say my mother doesn’t agree with my life choices and she lets it be known.”

Tommy blinked slowly as he does when information strikes him like a train and his expression changed ever so slightly – his jaw was no longer clenched, his face read pure disbelief. He took her face into his hands and pulled her into his chest for a hug. “It was because of me, wasn’t it,” he said, holding her tight.

“It was everything and nothing, Tom. As it always is with us for quite some time now.”

“When did this happen?”

“Today. I went to pick up some stuff from home. So, we were faced one on one again.”

“Prue, this is unacceptable behaviour.”

“It’s not like I live there anymore. I officially took all my stuff. I don’t need to go back if I don’t want to.”

He finally let her go as Prue started shivering. It was winter after all and standing on the balcony with no coats was not the best idea.

“Let’s go inside,” said Prue but Tommy was already removing his suit jacket and putting it over her shoulders. “Tommy- “

“Tell me.”

“Here? Now? Cannot it wait?”

He said nothing. He was looking at her with the same expression.

“There’s not much to be said. It is how it is. It’s my mother, same old. End of story.”

It was one of those situations that may not make her upset on their own but by the association with everything her mother ever told her, even though she tried very hard to fight it, made her upset. And Tommy’s unchanging expression, waiting for her to spill it all out, right here, on a balcony on a freezing night, when there are people inside she will have to go to and talk to like nothing happened, she didn’t think she’s that strong.

“Well, goddammit, Tommy, I cannot cry now, I’ll ruin my makeup, we have business to attend!” She blinked quickly to stop the burning and tossed his jacket back to him.

“We can talk later. Now let’s get this over with. Cover that gun unless you want to trump my mother’s insults with your funeral as a reason for me to cry.” Without a second of hesitation, she opened the balcony door.

“I’m going to fix my lipstick now.” And off she was.

Tommy put his jacket back on and with a sigh he followed her inside.

* * *

The evening was a blur of bright chandelier lights and cigarette smoke, mixed with champagne and talk with a couple of men. Prue listened to what they were talking about but if someone asked her what the topic or main points of the conversation were, she wouldn’t be able to answer.

Tommy held her close, one of his hands always either holding her elbow or shoulder when talking to potential business partners. She hoped to be distracted by the evening but now all she did was dreading the conversation that will inevitably come. There was nothing to say, as she stated before and now she just hoped Tommy would understand.

She was pleasantly surprised when after around two hours they were on their way to the car, silent. It wasn’t until Tommy started the engine up, he spoke.

“So, now the business is done, let’s talk.”

“As I said, Tommy, there’s not much to talk about. Nothing new.”

“It’s worth talking about if it made you upset.”

“It didn’t make me upset.”

For a second, he turned his gaze from the road with a lifted eyebrow. Prue’s lips formed a thin line and she was sure he can see her clenched jaw in the dim glow of headlights reflecting off the road.

Silence fell between them. For a while, Prue watched the landscape passing behind the window. The sky was dark grey and it started snowing.

“Fine, it made me upset. But there's nothing I can do about it. She won’t be different.”

“But she’s still your mother,” finished Tommy. Prue looked at him with a hint of anger seeping through the cracks but she knew, from the tone of his voice, he was not scolding her.

“And the closest ones especially know how and where to strike.”

She could feel her eyes burning but remained silent. Only when they approached a familiar crossroad and Tommy took a different turn, she got confused.

“I think you missed the turn.”

“Maybe.” One-word answer. What?

“Tommy, where are we going?”

He gave her a brief look and she’d swear she saw a small smile on his lips.

“I guess I’m stealing you from your mother as foretold by prophecy,” the pompous way he said that made Prue sigh deeply.

“Please, just take me home. You can steal me any other day.”

“I think today’s a perfect day, actually.”

“Tom.”

“Hm?”

“Where are we going.”

“We’re almost there.”

They drove for a few more minutes until they reached a small hilltop. Tommy exited the car and walked over to the other side to open doors for her.

“If I were your enemy, I would’ve sworn I’m going to die here.”

“Good thing you’re not an enemy”, he gave her a small smile as she took his hand exiting the car.

It was freezing cold and snowing but she realized why Tommy took her here. They were overlooking the entire Birmingham.

“I thought we could enjoy the city without the smoke and mud a little,” Tommy said, as if he was reading her mind’s questions. It was silent and calm. Prue haven’t even realized how the loud evening and her mother’s risen voice affected her. For the first time today, she felt like she could just stop and enjoy the moment.

“It’s so peaceful,” she said, watching the smoke rise from factory chimneys in the distance. “Do you come here often?”

“Sometimes. When I need to think.”

Prue inhaled cold winter air and it made her shiver down to her spine. The snow was falling slowly and she felt the entire world had stopped. She looked at Tommy, overlooking the skyline and couldn’t help but to step closer and gently wrap her arms around him, burying her face in his coat. He pulled her closer, wrapping his hands around her in turn. They stood there in an embrace for a while, until they slowly started swaying and Tommy took her hand to his.

“Are we dancing?” Prue mumbled still into his coat, eyes closed.

“We’re dancing,” Tommy’s voice reverberated in his ribcage as she slowly detached herself from his chest and faced him with a smile.

“Did you take me here to dance, Mr. Shelby?” she teased him with a smile as they continued to sway in the freshly fallen snow, puffs of warm breath escaping their mouths.

“That’s what we're doing," he smiled.

“We could’ve danced in my living room, I’d even put some music on.”

“It’s not as peaceful as here.”

He was right. At the beginning of the day, she wouldn’t have thought she’ll end up dancing in the middle of nowhere overlooking Birmingham. Tommy gave her a little spin and she ended up in his arms again.

“Maybe you should steal me more often,” Prue teased, holding his hand.

“What if I stole you and never returned you?” Tommy looked into her eyes, suddenly serious. His eyes were full of uncertainty. She gave him a gentle look.

“I’d be okay with that.”

And just like that, the uncertainty melted away.

“Well, I guess that’s settled then.”

Before Prue could’ve asked any more questions, Tommy let go of her hand and reached into his pocket. At first, she thought he took out a lighter but only when the item in his hands opened, she became speechless.

“Prue Morris, are you willing to be stolen by a Gypsy for the rest of your life?”

A ring glistened in the box, reflecting the headlights of the car. She could feel her eyes burning again.

“Will you marry me?”

Only when he repeated the question she realized how long she left him hanging with an obvious answer.

“Yes, yes I will,” she managed to say without her voice breaking. With a gentle touch, Tommy removed her glove and put the ring on her finger. Her hands were shaking. She was shaking. He noticed.

“Regretting the choice already?”

“Shut up, Thomas,” her voice finally broke and tears started rolling down her cheeks. She brought her hands to his face as he pulled her close.

The kiss was long and tender. His soft lips brushing against hers, feeling the heat radiating from his cheeks despite the freezing weather. Coats covered in snowflakes on both of them, as they stood on a hilltop, lost in one another.

When they finally parted, he brushed the tears off her cheeks.

“I love you, Prue.”

“I love you too, Tommy.”

[peonyblossom]

4. empty wine bottles?

Wine Drunk

Book: Open Heart (sometime in Book 2, before the senator attack)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x f!MC (Sadie Oakley)

Words: 806

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Swearing (fits into PG-13 guidelines)

Summary: When Sadie goes over to Ethan's place to help work on a case after-hours, they both get a little too wine drunk to be productive.

A/N: SO sorry it took me so long to get to this anon !!! I got sick and then I had finals but I am alive and well and finally posting your fic hehe. ALSO since you didn't specify a ship, I figured I'd do my most popular first, but I also have a plan for a Thomas Hunt x f!MC (Jackie Hunt) fic that I should be posting in a couple days and will link here when it's ready!  EDIT: Here is the link to the Thomas x f!MC fic💕

A/N 2: This request is from this prompt list. Feel free to send me requests from this list or any other ones I reblog!

A/N 3: Participating in @choicesmonthlychallenge May Day 16 "You're so drunk" (appears in bold).

AO3 link here

Taglist: @rookiemartin

“Okay, we aren’t getting much of anywhere right now, so I’m going to send you all home. Take a break for the night and come back tomorrow morning ready to try again.” Ethan told the team, late at night. They had gotten a new case early that morning and had already exhausted all of the most obvious tests and possibilities. June and Baz cleared out quickly, but Sadie hung around.

“What are the chances of you taking a break tonight?” She asked Ethan.

“This patient needs answers.” Ethan packed up his stuff, including all of the information they had on the patient in question.

“And you need sleep,” Sadie argued. Ethan didn’t respond, only continued gathering his things. Sadie sighed, “At least let me help.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Ethan looked Sadie in the eyes.

“Seriously? Come on, you aren’t going to figure this out by yourself.” Ethan glared at Sadie so she continued, “Oh, sorry, I forgot that men have the worst egos. I’m still right, though!”

“I’m serious, Sadie.” 

“So am I! You aren’t going to diagnose this patient in one night, all by yourself. Please, let me help you.” 

Ethan sighed. “Fine. But this has to stay professional.”

“No, of course. This is solely for the patient.” Sadie tried to hide her smile, looking away from Ethan as she gathered her things.

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

Hours later, they were still on the couch in Ethan’s apartment, which was now littered with pages from the patient file and two empty wine bottles. They had been drinking while bouncing ideas off of each other, paying little attention to just how much wine they consumed. Somehow, they were still trying to diagnose the patient, despite their brains not being anywhere near the doctor quality they were capable of. 

“No, what if it’s– what if it’s… fuck, what is it? It’s the, um, it’s the… no, wait… no, I think we said that one already. And we ruled it out ‘cause of the thingy… the, the rash thingy!” Sadie babbled, holding her half-empty wine glass. 

Ethan looked at her fondly before laughing as he said, “You’re so drunk.”

“No! No, ‘cause we drank the same amount, so if I’m drunk, you’re also drunk!” Sadie placed her glass on the coffee table. 

“Not as drunk as you are.” Ethan smirked.

“That’s sexist.”

“How…” Ethan cut himself off with his laughter. “How is that sexist?”

“‘Cause you’re saying you can handle alcohol better than me ‘cause– and that’s, um, that’s ‘cause you’re a man.” Sadie gestured her now free hands around as though to help prove her point somehow. 

Ethan held Sadie’s hands in his own and looked her in the eye. “I promise you, that’s not why. It’s just that I’m better… than most people.”

Sadie smiled before dissolving into giggles. “Yeah.” She continued giggling. “Yeah, you are.” 

The two stared into each other’s eyes, still holding hands, before leaning forward and kissing each other. It didn’t take long for them to disconnect their lips.

“We shouldn’t–” Ethan started.

“Yeah, we’re, um, we’re both drunk.” Sadie removed her hands from Ethan’s grasp. “I should probably go–”

“You could stay–”

“Are you sure?” Sadie met Ethan’s eyes again.

“Yeah, that should be–”

“We can share the bed though, right?” 

“Yeah, that’d be– that’d be fine.”

“Just ‘cause we’re both drunk, and we wanna be, like, the best we can be tomorrow.”

“Right, just, like, get a good night’s sleep,” Ethan confirmed.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

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

The next morning, Sadie woke up in Ethan’s bed, her head pounding. She heard Ethan in the kitchen doing god-knows-what way too early in the morning. 

“He really can handle his alcohol better than me,” Sadie mumbled to herself as she slowly got out of bed.

She made her way to the kitchen, rubbing her eyes in response to the bright lights in the room, despite the fact that it was still dark outside. In the kitchen, Ethan is making them both breakfast and a cup of hot coffee is already waiting for Sadie on the counter. 

“I always forget you can cook,” Sadie mused, sitting down at the counter and grabbing her coffee.

Ethan turned around startled at her presence. “Look, about last night–”

“No, it’s– it doesn’t matter. What happened last night… happened last night, okay? It’s in the past.”

“Are you sure?” Ethan looked at Sadie quizzically.

“Yes. We were drunk. I do stupid things when I drink. It’s fine,” Sadie reassured him, causing him to smile. 

Ethan turned back to the stove and plated the food, placing one plate in front of Sadie. “I only made you breakfast because I’m a good host.”

Sadie laughed. “Your ego really is the worst! But thank you.”

She bit her lip, staring down at the food, not noticing how fondly Ethan was looking at her.

[boycow69]

can i just talk for a minute about this stupid fucking crackship that has me by my SPINAL CORD bc i cant talk to my irls about this cuz they wouldnt get it.

so. the ship is ectoplasm/snipe and like i found it in a chatfic and it somehow??? wormed its way??? into my brain??? and settled down??? (bitch dont even pay rent ://) i literally have not been able to think about anything but Them for literal DAYS now. i don’t have the motivation to write anything about them but mildly coherent rants (like this one) and rn im just trying to get my thoughts in order.

and like if you think about it its actually really fucking sweet? as a ship? like snipe from what we’ve been shown is literally just Southern Charm + Cowboy and ectoplasm is the Actually Very Dangerous Math Nerd and idk about you but cowboy and math nerd is just a wholesome dynamic period and i hc snipe as being older anyway (like 39 MAYBE 38) so like the ship is basically middle-aged men in love? which is literally just my favorite already so. yeah. but also they just seem like domestic people, like they’d bring each other lunch at work if he forgot it at home, they’d go on walks together with snipe’s their dog named after some country singer (my favorite is thomas rhett so in my head the dogs name is rhett but my favorite song is ‘somethin bout a truck’ by kip moore so i like to think they have two goldens one is named moore and the other rhett). but like ecto would give snipe straws so he can drink through the mask in public and snipe would remind ecto to put his glasses on when he forgets or remind him that they’re on his head (cmon, we’ve all done it).

AND. AND. AND. YOU MIGHT ASK, BOYCOW69, HOW DO THEY KISS? ECTOPLASM DOESN’T HAVE LIPS AND THE ANSWER IS THEY BONK. like when a cat pushes its head against your hand ecto will just,,, take snipes face in his hands,,,,, and they jus,, they jus bonk. they put their faces together and just fucking enjoy the moment and FUCK man does the thought RUIN me. like they just HOLD each other and push their faces together because they LOVE EACH OTHER and im SOFT AND GAY AND CANT HANDLE IT.

and you bet your ASS ive got headcanons on their relationship and how long they’ve been together and how they got together in the first place and imma bout to fucking tell you. snipe and ecto are about four years apart, meaning they would’ve just barely missed each other in school unless ecto’s birthday was after the school year ended, which is how i hc it. they met in highschool and became friends instantly despite ecto being a third year and snipe being a first year (no, they arent dating that happens after snipe graduates and turns 18). something about the chaotic cowboy just struck a chord in ectos strict math nerdness and similarly to aizawa and mic they became fast friends (though more willingly on both ends. none of that tsundere shit hes just kinda like iida). they stay friends even after ecto graduates and they slowly start developing feelings over those few years until snipe turns 18 and shows up on ectos apartment door step with beer and a boombox (he’s already drunk, he needed the confidence) and playing ‘save a horse ride a cowboy’ and ecto, to this day, doesn’t understand why he said yes to a date in that moment but he also knew then that by agreeing to that date he was agreeing to so much more (a life with the guy, keep ya minds out the gutter). he agrees to the date (snipe refuses to move until he says yes or no) and pulls him into his apartment to turn off the damn music before he gets noise complaints and help his cowboy sober up so he can tell him yes properly.

snipe ends up telling him later (YEARS later) that he meant to play a different song but forgot when he got drunk and his plastered brain thought that one was better (he was gonna play ‘die a happy man’ by thomas rhett instead (shut up im a country fan and he’s literally a cowboy okay)). and, in turns of when he said yes to a date, ecto proposed on the spot. this led to a happy about 13 year marriage (in my brain they were dating from snipe-18, ecto-21 to snipe-25, ecto-28 when ecto proposed and they get married about a year later (26/28) and they both apply to work at UA two years after that (28/30), then to start of canon events where they are 39/41).

and thats probably about it for my rant but like GOD i love them and the BONK AND THE LOVE AND THE DOMESTIC SHIT AND I LOVE LOVE LOVE PEOPLE JUST BEING IN LOVE THANKS FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK

[eliemo]

Waiting Arms

Summary: Janus and Remus had never hurt him, but that didn't mean they hadn't known. It didn't mean they wouldn't still try.Virgil can't handle the fear of going back to how things used to be. 

TWs: Panic attacks, mention of past abuse 

Masterpost

Taglist: @self-taught-mess @itawalrus @mygenderisidiot @a-very-gay-raccoon @dawnfire7 @cr4zyart @ray-does-stuff @whydoifeeltheneedtoorganizestuff @bunny222 (If i missed someone or you wanna be added just let me know!) 

Virgil pushed himself off the floor, arms struggling to support his weight as he managed to make it to his knees, unable to stop trembling as the pain in his ribs and face grew to an unbearable throb.

He bit back rising tears, grabbing the couch for support to pull himself to his feet. He deserved this, he knew that. He’d really messed up this time.

But that was ok. He’d had worse (much worse). He could handle this. All he needed to do was get back to his room, hide out for a few hours to let the everyone’s temper simmer down, and then cover his face with enough concealer to hide any marks left on his skin.

No need to let everyone see what he’d deserved. It would only serve as an invitation to let them do it again.

The room tilted a bit when he finally stood up, but it righted itself quickly as Virgil blinked, hissing against the flare of pain where he’d been struck just below his eye.

He just needed to make it up the stairs, lock the door of his room and then--

“Anxiety?”

Virgil froze, halfway to the stairs, forcing himself to straighten up as Deceit appeared in the kitchen doorway, watching curiously through mismatched eyes.

“You look well,” he drawled, and moved to point a finger to his own face, mirroring the mark on Virgil’s. “What happened there?”

Virgil scrambled for an acceptable answer, coming up short as the panic quickly returned. He was...acquainted with Deceit but he didn’t know how best to traverse the other side when he was angry. He’d somehow been lucky enough to avoid setting him off.

“I uhm, I was just--”

There was suddenly a hand on the back of his neck, digging into his black hoodie, cold and controlling even through the cloth, and Virgil quickly snapped his mouth shut, knowing who was behind him without needing to look.

“It was just a simple accident,” the voice behind him said, dripping with false gentility. “I was grabbing Anxiety an ice pack- we all know how clumsy he can be.”

Deceit frowned, eyes flickering between the two sides. At the time, Virgil hadn’t recognized what it was, but for just a second something dangerously close to hope had flickered in his chest. Because Deceit looked unconvinced.

But it was gone as quickly as it came, dying back down into cold helplessness as the snake just sighed, shook his head and sank back down to his room.

Before Virgil could even move, the ice pack was being swung forward like a weapon, finding purchase against his already bruised cheek, hard enough to send him stumbling back against the staircase with a cry of pain.

“You’re welcome,” the side snapped, uncaring as ever. “I did you a favor- making sure he doesn’t know how much of a fuck up you are. He hasn’t had to hurt you yet, has he?”

Virgil shook his head, doubting the other wanted a verbal response from him right now. He stayed tense, braced for another blow, clutching the stair railing like a lifeline.

But it was true. Deceit was one of the only sides that had never been given a reason to punish him, and Virgil was more than happy to keep it that way.

The light sides hated him, he knew that, but he was careful not to stick around long enough to let them take out their anger, much as he deserved it. He had enough of that already.

Remus hadn’t gotten around to punishing him either, but the other half of creativity was terrifying for a whole list of other reasons. Virgil knew better than to risk pissing him off.

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” the other side said, tossing the unused ice pack in the trash. “Can you make it to your room?”

Virgil quickly nodded, knowing full well the question wasn’t asked out of sympathy or concern. The last time he hadn’t been able to walk on his own he’d practically been dragged by his hair up the stairs and down the hall, cruel hands only tugging harder when he struggled.

The other side apparently took his word for it, thankfully turning away without another remark, sinking out and leaving Anxiety alone again.

Virgil blinked, leaning back against the headboard of his bed, mulling over the memory for what had to be the third time that evening.

That had to have been...what, years ago? Too long ago to know for sure.

That was just...how things had been back then. Virgil was pushed around, beaten and berated, constantly punished for things that (he now knew) should never have been a big deal.

But he’d assumed it was normal. Normal for Anxiety to be hated and hurt, normal to be terrified of any mistake, no matter how small. Because his presence was tolerated, not wanted. Because he was a villain.

He’d believed it. All of it. And so naturally, he’d just as easily believed Janus and Remus were just as likely to punish him.

Everyone wanted to hurt Virgil. The light sides, the dark sides, and the sides Thomas would never see. That was what Anxiety was there for.

If a side hadn’t hurt Virgil, it was only because they hadn’t been given a reason yet. They would eventually.

But now...looking back on it, maybe it wasn’t so simple. They’d lied about why they’d hurt him, he knew that now, so maybe they’d lied about Janus and Remus too.

They’d told him Patton, Roman, and Logan would hurt him just as happily as anyone else, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.

So maybe lying to Janus every time he’d been caught with a black eye or bloody nose hadn’t been to spare Virgil from another beating. Maybe it was just to cover up their own lies and abuse.

Maybe Janus and Remus hadn’t joined in the abuse because they hadn’t known. And if they’d known it would have stopped.

God, Virgil hoped they hadn’t known.

He didn’t know what he’d do if they had, and they’d just watched and let it happen. He didn’t know what the others would do.

It was the reason he hadn’t asked yet, too terrified to hear the answer, even as Janus revealed his name and gradually began to fit into their lives, and Remus inevitably began hanging around more.

Because...because what if they had? What if they were just as willing to hurt him as the others had been? What if things went right back to how they used to be?

He knew...he knew the others would never let that happen. Accepting Janus was a shaky process, and they were getting there, but Virgil knew that if Janus attempted to strike him…

Well, it wouldn’t be pretty. He knew how protective his family was when it came to sending him back to that awful mindset.

But if Janus and Remus were aware, if they were living under the assumption that Virgil was there to be a punching bag…

All his progress would be undone. He’d go right back to how things had been, always terrified and overly cautious, any little slip up enough to send him into a mindless, blinding panic.

He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t live like that again. Not after being safe for so long.

So when Logan asked if Virgil had plans to tell Janus and Remus, he’d quickly shut the idea down and disappeared into his room before the logical side could offer any convincing argument.

Not knowing was better. He could just assume everything was fine and continue on like normal. If he never asked, never clarified, he couldn’t be given the answer he was dreading.

Of course, nothing could ever be so simple for him, could it?

It was mid afternoon, all of them dispersing to wind down after their usual routine of yelling at each other in Thomas���s living room until their host somehow came to a conclusion, and Virgil had wandered into the kitchen for something to drink.

Janus was already there, leaned back in the dining room chair with what looked like a glass of wine, and for just a second Virgil hesitated.

He and Janus had been...working on their rocky relationship. Slowly. They were getting there, Virgil just...wasn’t sure how he felt about being alone with him.

Because if there was no one around to stop him, and Virgil ended up doing something wrong and Janus had been perfectly aware of the abuse then there was nothing stopping him from--

“Virgil,” Janus greeted, easy and welcoming. “There definitely aren’t any leftovers from last night in the fridge.”

Virgil relaxed, allowing an easy smile to slip onto his face. Nobody had any reason to be upset with him. It was fine.

And he had to admit, aside from the lingering fear that refused to give him a moment of peace, having Janus and Remus around was...not as bad as he initially thought it would be.

He put the leftovers in the microwave and carefully got out one of the plastic cups to fill up with water while he waited.

Janus had made a smug remark about using plastic cups the first time he’d joined them for dinner.

The energy in the room had suddenly dipped, Logan and Patton exchanging nervous glances while Roman squeezed Virgil’s hand so tight he thought it might bruise.

Janus must have picked up on the importance of the plastic, because the dishes were used without further complaint ever being brought up again.

Virgil was yanked from his thoughts when Remus suddenly made his appearance in the kitchen, his Morning Star slamming down on the counter just inches from the anxious side, a hand coming down to rest on the back of his neck.

It was a textbook example of what would trigger Virgil into a panic attack, but of course Remus wouldn’t know that. No one had told him because Virgil had specifically asked them not to- not yet anyway- and he was suddenly understanding why Logan had been so hesitant to honor his wishes.

He lurched back so fast, twisting out of Remus’s hold, that he briefly forgot there was a drink in his hand, the water sloshing over the edge and seeping into the rug below his feet.

“Very mature,” Janus said, draining the rest of his glass. “Do you two mind not making a mess? I’m trying to unwind.”

Janus wasn’t angry. Amused, if anything. Virgil could have easily locked onto his tone and recognized that if he’d been just a bit more put together.

But Remus was grinning, blocking the exit, and wielding a weapon (he was usually wielding a weapon, there was no reason Virgil should be this frightened), and it was quickly growing impossible to latch onto rational thought.

“It’s not my fault Emo’s so clumsy,” Remus said, twirling his Morning Star until it rested over his shoulder, and Virgil desperately willed himself to just calm down. “I was just saying hi!”

He’d made a mess and he was trapped. He was outnumbered too...it would be so easy for Janus and Remus to grab him and--

But they wouldn’t. Not where the others could see. But...but the others weren’t here. Not right now. Where were they?

“Patton’s not gonna be happy about that spill,” Remus said, with a tone that Virgil would know was simple teasing under any other circumstance. “Don’t you think we should teach the emo a lesson, Jan?”

He was joking, he was joking. Remus was so clearly joking- they did stupid shit like this all the time. This was when Virgil would promptly tell Remus to go fuck himself, the Duke would make a sexual innuendo and stick around just long enough to steal some of his food.

That was how it was. Because despite everything, Virgil and Remus got along. When Virgil wasn’t struggling to convince himself he wasn’t about to be beaten to death.

He swallowed, his throat having suddenly gone cold and dry. “He...they- they won’t let you, Remus.”

“Aw, what’s wrong, Virgey? Scared of me?”

Yes. Terrified. But he couldn’t say that- he wasn’t supposed to be afraid. He’d made a mess, he’d ruined things, he was expected to understand and take the pain.

But it wasn’t like that anymore. He was supposed to be safe.

Virgil kept his hands behind him to hide the way they’d started shaking, curling them around the kitchen counter, and he cautiously glanced at Janus in one last desperate cry for help.

He just raised an amused eyebrow at Remus, not bothering to hide his smirk. “I believe Logan is napping. Just try not to wake him up, whatever you do.”

And just like that, it was back. The helplessness, the fear, the feeling of being trapped and cornered like some kind of cowardly animal people took sadistic joy in kicking around for fun.

Virgil was darting forward before he really even thought about it, too frantic to consider sinking out, eyes only on the exit to the rest of the mindscape where he could get help--

But Remus was faster of course, having been stood just inches away from the anxious side to begin with, dropping his weapon in favor of grabbing Virgil around the waist and abruptly hoisting him off the floor.

“Remus!” It came out much more strangled than he would have liked, but that was the least of his worries. “Let me- let me go.”

“Aw come on, we’re just having fun!”

Virgil wanted to fight- he wanted to kick and scream and do whatever he could to get out of the Duke’s grasp. He needed to get free, he needed to run and find one of the others. They would help him. They’d promised.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move, frozen in the confining hold, eyes wide and breathing erratic. He couldn’t fight back because if he struggled…

Whenever he struggled it was worse. He wasn’t supposed to fight back. He deserved whatever came next.

But he had people who would help him now. But those people weren’t here-

“Remus.” That was Janus’s voice, muffled by Virgil’s own racing heart, and he thought he saw the other side stand from his chair. “Remus let him go.”

“Aw, but I’m--”

“Remus, put him down now!”

The yelling made it worse- overwhelming and loud and angry-

Remus let go without warning, which meant Virgil was on the ground before he could even blink, on his back and defenseless.

Remus was looking down at him, head tilted like a confused puppy, playful grin gradually dropping into something more confused.

“You alright, Emo?”

Virgil was already scrambling backwards, desperate and uncoordinated, only stopping when he found himself pressed up against the bottom of the kitchen counter.

Remus and Janus were both standing now, watching with a mix of perplexion and rare concern. Janus took a step forward, and Virgil’s hands moved to protect his face.

“Virgil—“

“You can’t.” He knew begging wouldn’t get him anywhere, as close as he was to falling into an endless string of pleas. But maybe he could get them to understand that they couldn’t do this anymore.

“Y-you- you can’t, you can’t they won’t- Thomas won’t he said- he said—“

“I don’t understand, Virgil.” Janus was lowering himself to one knee, no longer looming above him, and Remus was hurriedly backing up like Virgil was a bomb rigged to explode. “Can you explain to me what’s wrong?”

Virgil couldn’t breathe. Janus was too close and the exit was still blocked and he couldn’t take a single breath.

“Please don’t,” he found himself begging, pathetic and useless as ever. “You can’t hurt me, you can’t . Not anymore not- T-Thomas won’t—“

“Wait what?” Remus called from the doorway. “Hurt you? Shit, Virge I wasn't gonna—“

“Virgil, you need to breathe,” Janus said. “One deep breath, you’re alright.”

He shook his head, hating himself for the way he’d so quickly been reduced to a trembling, terrified mess, hating the way both dark sides could so clearly see it.

“Can’t,” he managed through frantic wheezes. “I can’t, I- please please don’t, I don’t want to be hurt again please.”

His words were met by a brief string of silence, heavy and unsure, Janus’s gloved hands hovering helplessly in the air.

“Virgil.” Janus’s voice made Virgil freeze, something steady but so clearly struggling not to be angry. “Have they hurt you before?”

“I…” he was struggling to answer, to wrap his head around what was being asked. “I don’t—”

“Virgil,” Janus said again, hand still outstretched but not touching, brown and gold eyes intense enough to be staring into his soul. “The others. Did they hurt you?”

Virgil swallowed, unable to stop shaking, arms still held out to protect his face, all his attention focused solely on the anger Janus was obviously trying not to show.

He couldn’t lie. Janus would obviously know if he was telling the truth or not- that's who he was. Virgil couldn’t risk making him even more upset.

“They- they did,” he forced out, his own voice small and unsteady. “I’m s-sorry I thought you--”

“Guys?” There was movement somewhere behind Janus, a glimpse of white and gold. “What’re you- oh shit, Virgil!”

Virgil stopped at the new presence at the doorway, the relief that flooded at the sight of Roman dizzying, even as he choked and struggled to breathe on the kitchen floor.

Roman started forward, eyes shining with that gentle worry Virgil had long ago learned to recognize through the haze of panic.

But Remus was suddenly in front of his brother, Morning Star back in his hand, effectively blocking his path. Roman stopped, concern shifting to surprise- then quickly to cold fury.

“Remus,” he practically growled. “Get out of my way.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Remus, he’s having a panic attack!” Roman’s eyes briefly met Virgil’s, before his view was blocked again. “He doesn’t know what’s happening! This isn’t funny!”

“No, it’s not,” Janus said, standing from his crouch. “So you better tell us what the hell you did to him.”

“I- what?”

“He thinks we’re going to hurt him,” Remus snapped. “Why the fuck does he think that, Roman?”

Everyone was angry (why was everyone so loud?), all of them looming above him, standing over him to keep him down, all of them close enough to grab or hurt him if he made one wrong move.

What was Roman doing? Why wasn’t Roman helping him? He could barely make out the Prince from where he was...was he just letting this happen?

“Virgil?” Janus was talking to him again, glancing between Roman and the trembling lump on the floor. “You’re hyperventilating, V, you need to--”

“Of course he’s hyperventilating!” Roman said, and Virgil jumped at the sudden volume. He sounded angry. Had..had he managed to make Roman upset too? “You idiots won't let me help him!”

Remus held his ground, weapon still raised, and Roman looked like he was seconds away from drawing his sword against his brother.

“I’m not letting you near him until you tell us exactly why he’s so convinced someone’s about to beat him!”

“I will, just--”

“He said you hurt him! He fucking said that, Roman!”

“It’s- shit, Remus it’s not like that--”

Janus was suddenly crouched in front of Virgil again, blocking his view of the fight, his voice close enough to muffle the yelling.

“I need you to breathe,” he said, voice taking on a gentle tone Virgil hadn’t heard in a long time. “You’ll be alright, but I need you to breathe with me.”

Virgil shook his head, pressing further back against the counter, nails digging into the rug beneath him. He couldn’t breathe- wouldn’t force himself to calm down when he knew the second he did it would only be met with pain and punishment, right when he’d started to think he was safe.

He wasn’t safe. He was never safe, they would always hurt him because he deserved-

Janus reached for his hand, already starting a vaguely familiar breathing exercise, but Virgil yanked his arm back, hardly registering the flare of pain that came from slamming into the counter, the fear suffocating.

“Don’t!” He snapped, too shaky and quiet to be intimidating in the slightest. But Janus froze nonetheless, the human side of his face falling. “Don’t- don’t touch me, you can’t do this anymore!”

“Virgil--” 

It was too loud, everyone was too loud and angry and he’d managed to upset everyone again. He didn’t know where Patton or Logan were (had he upset them too? Had he done something wrong? Maybe they’d finally decided to let things go back to how they were), and he could barely hear anything Janus was trying to say.

And then, fueled only by panicked instinct rather than rational thought, Virgil forced himself to sink out, the storm of sound from the kitchen fading just like that.

He was still on the ground, fingers now digging into plush carpet, everything finally still and quiet.

But he still couldn’t breathe, still drowning under the knowledge that everything had gone back to the way it was. Everyone was angry, everyone wanted him to hurt—

“Virgil?”

He jumped, scrambling to his feet despite knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he hadn’t gone back to his own room, not wanting to be alone. He was never safe when he was alone.

“Virge? Buddy, what’s wrong?”

Virgil realized he’d left the mindscape as soon as he saw Thomas toss his phone aside and get up from the couch- and he wanted to sob at the utter relief that came with seeing his kind and worried gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, more on instinct than anything else, but he had popped in without any warning, wheezing and crying and probably freaking Thomas out. “I just...c-can I stay? Please, I can’t- I can’t go back, I don’t--”

“Hey hey hey, you’re ok,” Thomas said, stopping just a few paces from Virgil. “Of course you can stay, bud. You can stay with me as long as you want.”

Thomas smiled, small and hopeful as he opened his arms in a wordless invitation, and Virgil didn’t hesitate before flinging himself forward and sobbing into Thomas’s chest, his legs threatening to give out when arms moved to wrap around him, protective and secure.

“There you go,” Thomas said, rocking them both gently, his steady heartbeat beating in Virgil’s ear. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, you’re ok. What’s going on, Virge?”

He clutched the material of Thomas’s shirt, willing himself to breathe normally, his gasps still coming in too short and too fast, wincing at the sound of his own awful wheezes.

“I-I c-can't- I can’t do it again,” he sobbed, vaguely aware he was probably ruining Thomas’s shirt, but the host didn’t seem to mind. “They...it stopped and now i-it’s gonna happen again and I can’t--”

“Alright, slow down,” Thomas soothed, making no move to let go. “Focus on my breathing, ok? Try and copy me.”

“I-I...I can’t--”

“Yes you can. I’m right here, you’re safe, I promise you’ll be ok. But you need to breathe, Virgil. Please, you’re scaring me.”

That was enough to get through to Virgil, a bit of reason amidst the panic. Thomas was already scared, and Virgil was only going to amplify that. And if he hurt Thomas ...oh god, if Thomas was affected by this it would only give everyone another excuse to be angry--

“Sorry,” he forced out around his obnoxious crying. God why couldn’t he just be quiet? “S-sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry Thomas, I can try to--”

“Don’t apologize,” Thomas said, holding him tighter. “I’m not angry, bud, I’m worried. Just try to breathe with me, ok?”

Virgil squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, willing his racing thoughts to quiet just long enough for him to listen, to focus on Thomas’s slow and steady breaths, on the rise and fall of his chest.

The panic didn’t fade, the feeling that at any moment someone would appear to drag him back blaring like an alarm, but after a few moments the ache in his chest began to ebb, and Virgil felt himself come back just a bit.

“There you go,” Thomas praised, even as Virgil’s breathing continued to be broken up by sobs, still shaky and small and much too fast. “You’re doing so well. You’ll be ok.”

Virgil shook his head, shuddering when Thomas reached up to cup the back oh his head. “They- they’re gonna do it again and I can’t, I--”

“Virgil--”

“Please.” He couldn’t pull away, couldn’t look up and risk seeing pity or annoyance, the dismissal of Virgil’s fear that would leave him helpless and alone all over again, like nothing had ever changed. “Please don’t let them do it again, Thomas please. You said- you- you said...just please don’t change your mind, Thomas, please.”

His words were met with silence, the living room still and quiet for just a moment before Thomas loosened his grip.

“Let’s...why don’t we get you over to the couch? I don’t think you’re thinking very clearly.”

Virgil couldn’t move, ice cold dread clawing at his throat. “Please...please, Thomas, please.”

“Hey.” Thomas was suddenly in front of him, hands on Virgil’s shoulders practically keeping him upright, and the anxious side warily met his gaze. “I promise, I won't let anything bad happen to you, Virgil. I don’t know what you think is happening right now, but we said no one would ever hurt you again, right?”

“I...but they- what if they--?”

“We can talk about it when you’re calm,” Thomas said. “You’re exhausting yourself. But I can promise you, things will never go back to the way they were. Ever. We love you Virge, and that’ll never change. Do you understand?”

Virgil blinked, breath caught in his throat, struggling to latch onto the words he so desperately wanted to believe, fighting to just listen and relax.

“It’s ok if you don’t right now,” Thomas added when Virgil didn’t respond, and nothing about his tone hinted that he was annoyed or upset. “I know you’re not completely here right now. But you protect us, right? So just...believe me when I say we’re gonna do the same for you.”

And then Virgil was suddenly being led forward, the unfortunately familiar exhaustion eating away at the lingering panic, everything feeling oddly distant and dull.

He allowed Thomas to lower him onto his back against the couch cushions, fighting back another hiccuping sob when something soft gently wiped away his tears.

Thomas was talking to him again, soothing but worried, and by the time Virgil thought he heard other voices join in, his eyes had already slipped closed.

When Virgil woke up again, it only took a few terrifying moments to realize he was on Thomas’s couch, the events of the afternoon flooding back, along with the shame and embarrassment. Just like always.

Damn. He’d really fooled himself into believing he was getting better, huh? It’d had been weeks since he’d panicked that badly...he’d actually started to think he was over that.

But then again, this had been...different. Janus and Remus hadn’t known. They could very well be under the impression that hurting Virgil was expected. Encouraged, even.

God, he should have asked. He should have set the record straight as soon as Janus was accepted. Now they might be upset or angry, and they could be planning to--

There were footsteps from the kitchen, making their way towards the couch. They stopped as soon as Virgil’s breath hitched, his fingers curling into the blanket that had been carefully placed over him.

“Kiddo?”

He instantly relaxed at Patton’s voice, just over a whisper, and he let out a shaky breath as the steps continued.

“Hey,” Patton said, setting down a mug on the coffee table and kneeling beside the couch. “How’re you feeling?”

Virgil shrugged and struggled to sit up, wincing when pain shot down his arm, gratefully accepting the help Patton quickly offered. “I’m fine. Just...just tired.”

“I’ll bet,” Patton said, when Virgil was situated. “I heard you had quite a scare today.”

Virgil’s cheeks suddenly felt hot, well aware of how pathetic everyone probably thought he was. “It was dumb.”

“You and I both know it wasn’t,” Patton said and then paused, suddenly averting his gaze. “I heard what happened. And...we had to tell Janus and Remus. About why you reacted that way.”

Virgil’s stomach churned, and he really hoped he wasn’t about to throw up. He’d already embarrassed himself enough for one day.

“Ok,” he said, voice back to that small, shaking whisper. “What did they say?”

Patton took his hand and squeezed, brown eyes big and pleading behind his glasses. “They feel horrible, Virgil. They really do.”

His words loosened some of the panic in Virgil’s gut, but...but it didn’t get rid of it completely. “Ok.”

“They didn’t know,” Patton added, like he could read Virgil’s mind. “We had to explain it to them. They were in the same boat we were.”

“That’s...that’s good. I guess.” He hesitated, blinking down and Patton’s fingers intertwined with his own. “I...I guess I was worried things were going to go back. To...you know. How they were.”

“I know, honey,” he said, and suddenly Patton was pulling him into a hug, the angle a bit awkward but warm and safe all the same, and Virgil melted into the embrace. “But it won’t. Not ever. Even if Remus and Janus wanted to- which they don’t- we wouldn’t let them.”

Patton pulled back before Virgil could say anything, reaching forward to cup the anxious side’s face, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“We wouldn’t,” he said again. “We wouldn’t let them, Virge. You know that, right?”

And it took every ounce of willpower Virgil had left not to burst into tears once again. Because he did. And he remembered Thomas saying something similar.

“Yeah,” he choked out, chest loosening when Patton smiled. “I do, Pat. I know.”

Patton’s smile only grew, and he leaned forward to give Virgil a quick kiss on the forehead, and for just a second everything in the world felt right. Peaceful.

“I sent Thomas to bed a little while ago,” he explained, and it was only then that Virgil realized how dark the living room was. “He wanted to see you, but…”

“He needs the rest,” Virgil said, knowing he’d probably done a number on Thomas’s anxiety. Great. “I didn’t mean to stress him out, I just...I wasn’t thinking.”

“He’s not angry,” Patton assured. “None of us are. You panicked, and you went to someone you felt safe with. I’m proud of you.”

Virgil had honestly expected to be reprimanded for the impulsive decision. Gently reprimanded, of course, because it was Patton, but told off all the same. His job was to keep Thomas safe and vigilant, not freak him out because of his own stupid panic attack.

But he did feel safe with Thomas. Going to him had been nothing but instinct and desperation, and he’d helped. More than anyone else probably could have in that moment.

He’d needed the reassurance, and Patton knew that. Thomas probably did too. He understood them better than he let on.

“The others are still awake,” Patton continued when it became clear Virgil didn’t have an answer. “They’re...really worried about you, if you’re willing to see them. It can wait until morning if you’re--”

“No.” Logically, he knew nobody was mad at him. He just...knew he wouldn’t get much rest until he saw it for himself. “No, I- I can see them now. It’s ok.”

Patton smiled, clearly relieved, and sank out with promises to be back in just a few seconds. Virgil leaned back, breathing in the silence and pushing the blanket away as he leaned back against the cushions.

True to his word, Patton was back in seconds, Roman and Logan rising up right behind him. Neither of them looked...great.

He had no idea what time it was, but it was clear they’d all been up for a while, waiting to talk to him. Logan’s tie was askew, his shirt wrinkled, and Virgil vaguely remembered the logical side agreeing to take a short nap that afternoon. He hoped he hadn’t woken him up.

Roman looked far worse, his sash gone, jacket undone and his hair (usually kept in perfect condition) an unkempt mess, like he’d been constantly running his fingers through it.

Virgil didn’t think he’d ever seen the prince look so disheveled. He didn’t like knowing he was the reason behind it.

Janus and Remus didn’t appear with them, and didn’t seem to be making any plans to. Virgil tried not to think too hard about that.

Roman was already rushing forward before anyone could say anything, dropping to his knees in front of the couch. It was his usual dramatic grandeur, but there was real fear and regret behind the act.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, quieter than Virgil expected, and the anxious side quickly took the prince’s hands in his. “I should have- I tried to get to you but we- there was a stupid misunderstanding and I--”

“I know, Roman.” There had been a moment of confused terror back in the kitchen, his panicked brain unable to understand why Roman wasn’t helping. “I think- Remus thought you were...you know…”

“Janus and Remus believed that we were the ones who had been hurting you,” Logan said, and his voice sounded...strained. Hurt. “From their perspectives, keeping Roman away from you was the best course of action.”

Virgil swallowed, suddenly realizing how much fear and confusion he must have caused everyone. “I- I’m so sorry, I think I told them...god, I didn’t mean to.”

Roman pulled himself up on the couch and Virgil scooted over to give him room as the prince pulled him close, and he fell against his chest.

“It’s quite alright,” Logan said, shoulders relaxing when Patton squeezed his hand. “It’s been straightened out. And of course, no one blames you for poor communication during a panic attack.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” Patton jumped in. “It was just...a scary miscommunication. We all just wanted to help you, kiddo.”

Virgil had no intention of pulling away from Roman, but he held out a hand for Logan to take and pulled the logical side onto the couch, Patton following behind.

The angle wasn’t ideal, but they organized themselves into some kind of sloppy group hug, and to Virgil it was beyond perfect. For a moment he closed his eyes and listened to their breathing, their familiar presence on all sides.

He was safe. He was, and he always would be. What happened for all those years was...it was wrong. He knew that now. And it wasn’t going to happen again.

There was no reason for his chest to still feel so tight.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, wrapped up safely in each other’s silence, but a flash of movement from the doorway made Virgil pull back, the others reluctantly following.

Janus stood in the light from the kitchen, looking like he’d just been about to sink back out, straightening abruptly when he realized all eyes had turned to him.

“I apologize,” he said quickly, and Virgil didn’t think he’d ever heard him sound so uneasy. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can come back later.”

“You’re fine,” Virgil said without even really considering it. “You can come in.”

Janus hesitated, looking to the others for some kind of unspoken permission before making his way into the living room, all his movements eerily out of character.

He smiled, still a few steps away from the couch, the gesture not quite meeting his eyes. “You seem to be feeling better.”

Virgil wasn’t sure if that was a lie or not, but he shrugged all the same. “Yeah, I’m uh...I’m fine, I guess.”

He felt that familiar, overwhelming need to apologize again, but he bit his tongue and pushed it away. Patton seemed to notice, sending him a small, proud smile.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Janus said. “Alone, if you’re up for it.”

The twist in his chest was back, tightening worse than before, but Virgil resolutely ignored it, digging his hands into the blanket and forcing himself to breathe.

“You don’t have to, of course,” Janus said quickly, raising his gloved hands. “It’s been a long day. It can wait.”

“I’m ok,” Virgil said, pushing past the rising anxiety, the doubt and old fears piling up. He owed Janus a chance. “We can talk. It’s fine.”

Logan and Patton exchanged glances, and Roman was watching him skeptically, all of them oddly silent.

“It’s ok,” he promised. “Seriously, guys. I’m fine, all of you need to go to bed. It’s late.”

Patton sighed, flashing Janus a sympathetic smile before standing up from the couch, the others slowly following suit.

“Both of you get some sleep when you’re done,” he said, before turning back to Virgil. “My door is open all night if you need me, honey. Don’t be afraid to come get me.”

Virgil nodded, bid them all a quiet goodnight as they sank out, leaving him and Janus alone in the dimly lit living room.

It took a moment, neither of them knowing quite what to say, but Virgil scooted aside and Janus sat on the other end of the couch, gloved hands folded neatly in his lap, staring straight ahead at nothing.

For a traitorous second, Virgil expected to be hit. They were alone now, if Janus had been lying, now was the perfect time to punish him.

Janus took a breath, speaking so softly for a moment Virgil almost thought it wasn’t directed at him. “You used to be incredibly accident prone.”

He blinked, risking a glance up at the other side, only able to see the scaled side of his face from where he sat.

“You fell quite a lot,” he continued, and Virgil wondered if he was being insulted. “You always seemed to have...cuts or bruises somewhere. I remember I once caught you with a particularly nasty bruise below your eye. I don’t remember who it was- it was so long ago- but they said it was an accident. They brought you an ice pack.”

Virgil swallowed, clasping his hands together, knowing exactly what Janus was referring to, despite the situation being identical to so many in the past.

Janus finally turned to look at him, eyes filled with so much pain and regret, Virgil momentarily forgot how to breathe. “Those weren’t accidents, were they?”

It wasn’t a question. Janus knew the answer. But Virgil shook his head regardless, stubbornly swallowing against the lump forming in his throat, the familiar stinging behind his eyes.

“Oh Virgil,” Janus whispered, faint and broken. “Virgil, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Virgil shrugged, blinking up at the ceiling to keep the tears at bay before answering. “I thought you knew. They said...they told me you would just do it too. I thought...I thought everyone knew.”

Janus didn’t respond at first, still watching Virgil with someone unreadable in his eyes. And then, slowly, he began peeling off one of his gloves.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Janus said. “I need you to believe me.”

“You...you don’t have to do that.” Virgil’s voice broke, and he quickly wiped away a stray tear. “I trust you.”

Janus just shook his head, removed his glove and set it aside, then carefully held up his now bare right hand.

“Virgil,” he said. “Look at me.”

Virgil obeyed, taking a shaky breath before glancing up to meet Janus’s eyes, forcing himself not to look away as he spoke.

“Virgil,” he started, leaning in closer, voice low and almost desperate. “I didn’t know. I swear, Remus and I didn’t know. If we did- if we thought for a second that something like that was happening- we would have stopped it. Immediately.”

And Virgil...somewhere behind the panic Virgil had known that. He hadn’t thought Janus had lied to the others, and he had certainly been more than eager to protect him when he’d thought Roman was a threat.

But hearing him say it, the raw emotion he so rarely heard in the snake’s voice, the way he looked so desperate for Virgil to listen and believe his promise…

He was curling in on himself before he could even try to stop, a tiny hiccuping sob breaking free from his chest, fresh tears now freely streaming down his face.

Janus put a hand on his back, another moving to cup the back of his head, slowly moving him forward until Virgil rested against his chest, gripping Janus’s sleeves.

It wasn’t quite a hug, they weren’t ready for that just yet. But they’d get there. And right now, this...this was exactly what Virgil needed.

“I’m sorry,” Janus said again, and Virgil could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard a genuine, heartfelt apology come from him. “I’m sorry, Virgil. I wish I’d put a stop to it a long time ago.”

Virgil shrugged, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to avoid crying all over Janus’s clothes, desperately fighting back another sob.

“I thought about telling you,” he managed, small and muffled. “So many times. You were- you were nice. You tolerated me, you...you were the only one.”

Janus’s grip tightened, just for a moment. “I...hadn’t realized.”

Virgil laughed at that, the sound humorless and dry. “They said you knew. They said...they- they said you’d hurt me too once I pissed you off. I was...shit, Janus I was so scared. I was always so fucking scared.”

He heard Janus’s breath catch, felt him suddenly go very still and silent.

“I thought you knew,” Virgil said again. “And then I- I learned that it wasn’t...normal. When you and Remus started showing up I was so...I thought you would make me go back. I thought it was going to happen again.”

“I know.” Janus took a breath, pulling away slightly to look Virgil in the eyes. “But it won’t.”

Virgil nodded, covering his hands with his sleeves and wiping at his soaked face. “I don’t...I still don’t get it. I don’t understand why they hated me so much.”

“I don’t either.” Janus squeezed Virgil’s hand before reaching over to grab his glove. “I really don’t. But you’re safe now, and if they ever come anywhere near you again--”

“You’ll kill them, I know.” Virgil managed a smile, small but genuine all the same, pulling his hoodie tight around himself. “Get in line.”

Janus matched his smile, both visibly relaxing, and Virgil realized the tight feeling in his chest had almost disappeared. It wasn’t gone entirely, not yet, but it was better. They would be ok.

“Remus wants to...give you some space I think,” Janus said, and Virgil tried not to think too hard about what that meant. “Are you ok to be alone tonight? I can always stay.”

“I’m fine. Really, I’m just...probably gonna head to bed.” Virgil knew full well he wasn’t going to try and get any more sleep, not unless he wanted a full night of reliving traumatic memories through vivid nightmares, but Janus didn’t need to know that.

The snake hummed, slipping his yellow glove back on and standing up from the couch. Virgil hesitated, not wanting to risk falling on his face in front of anyone right now.

“Well, I hope you get some rest,” Janus said, gradually starting to sound like himself again, but still genuine and warm. “I...hope you feel like you can come to me if you need anything. Just as long as you don’t wake me up before nine.”

Virgil laughed as the other side sank out, chest loosening even more. He shut his eyes for a moment, silently counting out his own breathing, before pushing himself to his feet and sinking back out into the mindscape.

He rose up in the common area with the intent of grabbing a snack and heading back to his room for the foreseeable future, but he quickly realized he wasn’t alone when there was movement and a flash of green on the couch.

“Shit!” Remus shouted, then instantly looked like he regretted it when Virgil jumped. “Fuck- I mean, shit, sorry Virge, I’m leaving, I was just--”

“It’s fine,” Virgil said quickly, hating...whatever side of Remus this was. He wasn’t supposed to be so careful and on edge. Ever. It went against everything he represented. “Seriously, it’s...it’s chill. I’m just grabbing some food.”

He didn’t move and neither did Remus, both of them standing on opposite ends of the mindscape living room, neither quite willing to meet the other’s gaze.

Remus spoke first, loud and sudden, but Virgil didn’t flinch. “I’m so fucking sorry, Virgil.”  

Virgil took a steadying breath, eyes on Remus’s shoes. He’d been expecting the apology, and it helped (it was much more welcome than the ridicule or contempt he was always half expecting), but there was only so much emotional turmoil he could go through in one night.

“It’s ok,” he said. “You didn’t know.”

“That’s why I’m sorry.”

They fell silent again, and Virgil wondered if he should just give up and walk away as Remus plopped back down onto the couch.

“How long?” the Duke asked suddenly, just as Virgil was actually starting to walk forward. “How long did they...you know. Do that?”

He stopped, temporarily frozen at the question, forcefully pushing down memories fighting to come back to the surface. Later. He could think about it later.

“Dunno,” he muttered, and it wasn’t a lie. “I can’t, uh...really remember when they didn’t.”

Remus stood abruptly, face twisted in dark rage and disgust, and Virgil instinctively took a step back.

“I’ll kill them,” he snarled. “I’ll kill them right now, I swear to god. They’re dead. Everyone who ever fucking touched you, Virgil. I’m killing them.”

“No you’re not,” Virgil sighed. It was a nice thought, though. “You have no idea what that’ll do to Thomas.”

“Then I’ll go beat the shit out of them!” He spun around to face the anxious side, and Virgil couldn’t help his nervous smile at the Duke’s eagerness. “Give them a taste of their own medicine, you know? Make them regret everything they ever did!”

“Please don’t.” He hadn’t meant for it to come out so soft, but Remus quickly fell silent. “I just...I don’t want to risk it. I want them to just leave me alone.”

“They’re never getting to you again,” Remus assured. “Ever. I’ll rip them to shreds if they even look at you! I’ll--”

“I know. I know, Remus I just...want them to forget about me.”

He’d never be able to forget about them, he knew that. He still woke up screaming at least once a month with their words echoing in his ears, cowering and expecting a blow from a faded memory.

But he’d clearly meant so little to them. He’d been nothing. A walking punching bag. He was out of their reach now, safe and protected, so if there was nothing to remind them that he even existed…

They’d forget about him. They’d never think of him again. And Virgil could rest a little easier at the thought.

And Remus, despite no doubt having many graphic plans to extract his revenge, seemed to understand, and he smiled. Not the toothy, playful grin they’d all gotten used to after a lewd joke, but a real, reassuring smile.

Virgil briefly wondered how many people got to see that smile. He felt strangely honored.

“No problem, Emo,” he said. “Just don’t expect me not to think about bashing their skulls in.”

Virgil smiled, ducked his head, and disappeared into the kitchen. He reemerged a few moments later with a bowl of popcorn and plans to hide out in his room watching Youtube until he inevitably passed out.

“It’s almost three,” Remus called as he passed, like either of them had healthy sleep schedules. “You planning on sleeping anytime soon?”

“Probably not. I think I’m just gonna watch stupid conspiracy videos or something until I’m too paranoid to sleep.”

“Have fun with that, Virgey.”

Virgil adjusted his hold on the popcorn bowl, and made it all the way to the bottom of the stairs before stopping, hesitating just a moment before turning around.

“Do you want to like...join me?”

There was genuine surprise on Remus’s face before something much more familiar took over, the Duke waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Join you?”

“Jesus, ew.” Virgil was almost positive Remus could see his poorly concealed smile, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Come on, I just meant like...we haven’t really hung out together. And I don’t...really want to be alone.”

The Duke’s expression softened, and he stood up from the couch to make his way over to the stairs, snagging a handful of popcorn as Virgil started up the steps.

“Lead the way, Emo!” he sing-songed, probably loud enough to wake everyone in the mindscape, humming under his breath as he followed, and Virgil wondered if he would regret this by the morning.

Somehow, he really doubted it.

It wasn’t until his laptop was set up, Remus sprawled out at the end of his bed babbling away, that Virgil realized the tight feeling in his chest had finally faded completely.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Unfurl and Fly

Prompt: Hello! I've been meaning to request this for so long but, you'd never posted any Sanders Sides fanfics till recently so I finally get to ask! = D

This is simply a request, but could you possibly to a Hurt/Comfort and Angsty o ed! Virgil fanfiction? Where he hides his wings for whichever reason you want- And it's *painful*, and eventually his wings get to damaged from constantly being hidden and self-groomed and other stuff of the sort and the others find out either accidentally cuz Virgil is in Too Much Pain, or Virgil reaches out- Just, take creative liberties with it! (Platonic LAMP all around- Or you can decide if it's romantic! Idc, whichever you prefer-) = D You can decide whether the others have wings or not, or if it's only the 'dark sides', or no one except Virgil, etc etc. I just have craved this for So Long in your writing specifically!

Whether you decide you would like to do this idea of not, that's fine! ^^ Just thought I'd suggest it! Thank you very much! = D - moonscar

Thanks for the request, babe!

Read on Ao3 The sequel: Soar

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, found family babes let’s go

Warnings: self-hatred, some implied self-harm, self-destructive behavior, poor Virgil is not having a good time, y’all. Sympathetic Janus, sympathetic Remus

Word Count: 7,932

Out of all of the Sides to have wings, why the fuck did it have to be Virgil?

 Come on, it’s not like it even fits with Anxiety, being able to fly? Having these big fucking things sticking out of his back? No thank you, that’s more literally anyone else’s thing! Roman would love it, he’s sure, soaring to great heights and all that. Patton’s the closest one of them to actually being an angel. Logan could use them to fly away from the bullshit.

 But nope. Virgil’s the one stuck with them. Isn’t that just fantastic.

Virgil grunts and pulls his hoodie on tighter, zipping it up over the sports bra. He growls and reaches back to tug the wings into place under the layers of fabric, hunching his back so the others don’t notice that there’s conspicuously more mass on his back than there’s supposed to be. Thank god he’s already known for baggy clothes.

 He has to walk carefully. Too much jostling and the wings’ll pop loose. He leans on the stairs as much as he can before making his way to the back of the couch. He looks around. No one else is here.

 Which would make sense, seeing as it’s three am.

 Virgil winces when something twinges in his shoulder blade. His ears strain to pick up the sounds of anyone moving; no floorboards creak, no doors open or close, no sinks or anything else. Shit. Fuck, it’s happening when he’s breathing now too.

  Shit.

 Wincing, Virgil unzips his hoodie and slowly, slowly starts to lift his shirt up, sliding his hands under the material to try and—

 A door opens upstairs and in a flash, Virgil’s hoodie is fully zipped up and his hands are back in his pockets.

 Patton walks downstairs, rubbing his eyes. He blinks lazily and turns to go to the kitchen.

 “Patton?”

 Virgil winces when Patton startles horribly, whirling around until his eyes land on Virgil, perched on the back of the couch.

 “You scared me, kiddo,” he pants, leaning against the counter before forcing a smile onto his face, “what’re you doing up?”

 Virgil shrugs, trying to hide his flinch when one of his wings snag against something. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

 “Aw, I’m sorry to hear that.” Patton tilts his head. “Anything I can do to help?”

 Patton…Patton might be nice.

 Patton would help, right? He—he’d care enough to help. Wouldn’t he? Patton had tried, so hard, when Virgil was first…around, just to make him comfortable, help him fit in, make him feel at…at home.

 But—but Patton is the kind of person who would do anything to help someone and Virgil…Virgil doesn’t want that either.

 Patton would see his wings—his ugly, dirty, huge wings—and look at Virgil with so much pity that he would be forced to help out. And the thought of hands in his wings was bad enough. The thought of unwilling hands in his wings was even worse.

 Not Patton.

 Virgil smiles, tightlipped in the dark. “No thanks, padre. ’S just the job.”

 It’s a little sad how quickly Patton nods. “I trust you, kiddo, if you say you can do it I believe you.”

 A sigh of relief lessens the ache in his shoulder blades for just a moment, then Virgil narrows his eyes. “What’re you doing up right now?”

 “Needed a drink!” And sure enough, Patton goes into the kitchen and grabs a glass. “You want one?”

 “…no, no I’m good.”

 “Suit yourself.” Once the glass is full, Patton yawns, his jaw cracking, before he walks over to ruffle Virgil’s hair. “You gonna try and sleep a little?”

 “Maybe.”

 “G’night, kiddo.”

 “Night.”

 Once Patton vanishes back up the stairs, Virgil holds completely still until he hears the door click. As soon as it does, he slumps, burying his head in his hands, ignoring the bolt of white-hot pain that shoots through him. That was too fucking close.

What was he thinking? He can’t be here, not now, not while they hurt so much.

 He sinks back to his room, biting his lip to stifle the noise when his wings slip under the bra. Now he won’t be able to get it off without hurting them—fuck why is this is fucking life?

 He has to go slow, agonizing second by agonizing second, until the bra lies crumpled at the foot of his bed and he’s panting, sweat beading on his forehead and two new gashes in his lip. He takes one shuddering breath, then two, then—

 “Come on, you assholes,” he mutters, “just…fucking cooperate for me.”

 His wings creak and groan as he unfurls them, stretching them out until his throat protests with the effort of holding back a scream. He bound them wrong this time. One of the tendons is twisted, slipped over the bone on his right wing and every flex threatens to rip it entirely. His eyes, screwed tight from the effort, blink away tears, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

 He forgot to cover it again.

 Virgil winces when he sees the state of his wings. The primaries aren’t lying flat, the secondaries are all bent out of shape, he can see the loose feathers stuck in the rest of the mess, and his oil gland must be clogged again. He can hear everything rasping together, the creaking, and everything. He—he has to try again.

 Slowly, he sits down in front of the mirror, crossing his legs and sitting up as much as he can. He holds his wings out and winces at the sharp yank. Flexing his fingers, he reaches out with his hand and starts combing through his feathers. He can’t get the right angle no matter how much he twists his wrists and trying to hold the wing in place doesn’t work either. But he’s able to pull a few of the loose feathers out. It doesn’t matter that he plucks out several of the remaining healthy ones as well.

 Alright. Step one done.

 Virgil braces himself and twists, reaching out quickly for his wing before his back pulls away from him. He grabs it with two outstretched hands and can’t stop the cry of pain when another sizzling bolt races down his spine. He can barely hold onto it for three seconds before he has to let go. A roll of nausea makes him retch, hunched over himself, tears springing anew to his eyes.

  Pathetic.

  Can’t even clean yourself properly.

  Worthless.

  Useless.

  Dirty.

 The room rings with shuddering breaths as his chest heaves, the pain still zinging through his wings. He can’t. He can’t do it. He can’t clean them properly, not now, maybe not ever. He fucking bound them wrong, like an idiot and now he has to sleep on his stomach and if someone walks in they’ll see them and he won’t be able to bind them properly if they don’t heal and—

 The fucking worst thing about his wings is they always try and make things better. They twitch whenever he’s near someone he likes or bristle when he feels upset. And when he’s alone, all by himself, about to have a panic attack, they always try and hug him.

 So Virgil cries there, on the floor, surrounded by his ugly, dirty, painful wings.

 He sleeps on the floor that night too, a few pillows here and there to keep him from pressing his face directly into the ground, wings as outstretched as he can until he can ignore the pain long enough to fall into a fitful, uneasy rest. When he wakes, the joints are still tender and he curses, knowing if he tries to bind them again it’ll just get worse. That means a day of staying in his room, which by itself wouldn’t be awful except that the others would know.

 When Virgil was alone, he could have his wing day all by himself and no one would care. He could stay shut up in his room without fear that someone would come and knock on the door, wondering where he was, if he was okay, did he need anything? He’d tried, he’d tried so hard to convince himself that alone was better, alone was safe, alone protected him.

 But the others were magnets, always pulling him closer, closer, closer until he was bound within them. How was he supposed to pull away from that warmth, that care, when every time he was close to it his wings reached out? He had to start binding them when he first appeared to Thomas, yes, but it wasn’t until recently that he had to start binding them. Because they would reach for the others. All the time.

 He couldn’t have that.

 So he tied them up.

 And it was worth it. It was worth being able to stand next to Roman, to see that smile up close. It was worth being able to stand next to Logan, to hear him talk and explain everything he could ever want to know. It was worth being able to stand next to Patton, to feel warm and safe.

 The pain was worth it, even if it didn’t always feel like it.

 The others couldn’t know about his wings. If they did, they might—they would—

 Only dark sides had animal traits. If they knew Virgil had wings—

 Virgil shakes his head and groans into the pillow. He can’t go back. Not after what he’s done. He can’t—he won’t—there isn’t—

 He barely remembers being small. He remembers being scared, being afraid, fumbling in the dark, but he almost never remembers being small. Small enough where he didn’t know yet to be afraid to ask someone for help, when hands in his wings weren’t tied up with problems or intimacy or care or obligation. Small enough where he could cuddle into the lap of someone who loved him and not have to worry.

 He remembers getting older and being scared, huddling in the dark with the others.

 He remembers rubbing his hand over shedding scales. He remembers helping rub away the twitches in newly formed tentacles. He remembers hands, hands in his wings.

 Those memories are locked away, behind bars Virgil won’t let himself bring down.

 A knock on the door startles him out of his thoughts.

 “Yeah?”

  Fuck, does his throat sound like that?

 “Virgil?” Logan. “Are you alright?”

 “What the fuck is an alright,” Virgil mutters, pushing himself up off the ground and wincing, before raising his voice, “I’m fine, Logan.”

 “You didn’t come down for breakfast—“ shit— “and we were concerned.”

 “Didn’t feel like coming down,” Virgil tries, aiming for nonchalance and failing miserably, “but I’m all good here.”

 “Are you certain?”

 Logan…Logan would help.

 Logan would understand things from a logical perspective. He would be the most business-like about it, just doing what needed to be done and leaving. He might find it…interesting? He would get it over with.

 He would…get it over with.

 A human figure having wings is illogical. Virgil doesn’t want to be stared at like some sort of…object. And…and…Virgil wants to be cared for, not treated like a chore. The desire burns a shameful hole in his gut, the craving for soft words and gentle touches accompanied by flaming cheeks and a roll of disgust. He doesn’t think he’d be able to hold back the tears at being treated so…coldly, even if it would be better for him.

 Not Logan.

 “I’m sure,” Virgil grits out, “thanks, though.”

 “Of course. Will we see you for dinner?”

 Swallows before his tongue chokes him. “Dunno.”

 “Very well.”

 He hears Logan walk away and cringes. That was awful. But he’s made a commitment now, so he has to get ready for dinner. Four hours should be enough.

 Sitting up is a slow process and every few moments he has to stop when his vision grows spotty. He flexes his wings, watches the shape twist back for a few seconds before he has to relax it again. The ache has dulled slightly and maybe he can try again.

 Raising his arms straight above his head, muscles straining, shaking, Virgil bites his lip and holds for one, two, three seconds until he cries out and lets them drop. Nope. No way. If he can’t even do that, he’s not gonna be able to pull the sports bra over his head, much less get his wings tucked into position. He winces and looks around for the belt.

 He hates using the belt but it is easier on his shoulders. Instead of tucking the whole folded-up mess into the sports bra, he folds his wings up as small as they’ll go and wraps a belt around them, straining behind him and valiantly ignoring how much it hurts until he’s sure he’s got it around the joints. He lets go with a gasp, rolling his shoulders experimentally. It still aches, yes, but much less, and as he turns to the side, if he just wears a big enough shirt, with his hoodie on, no one will notice.

 That means he can use the rest of the time to get used to it.

 By the time he walks down to dinner, the others are waiting, Roman’s face lighting up in a huge smile as he sees Virgil round the top of the stairs.

 “There’s our little Stormcloud!” He waves Virgil over to the chair next to him. “Haven’t seen your gloomy face all day, I’ve missed it!”

 Virgil snorts. “You’ve just missed seeing another version of you, Princey.”

 “Can you blame me, Hot Topic?” Roman winks. “We’re gorgeous.”

 “The fact that we all share a face should not be surprising to you,” Logan remarks as he closes his book.

 “Aw, you think I’m hot.”

 “Pasta!” Patton places the pot on the table and Virgil winces when the sound makes his wings twitch. He doesn’t catch Roman’s concerned look. “Who wants what?”

 “Just olive oil for me.”

 “You got it, Logan.”

 “I’ve got mine,” Roman announces, sweeping half of the condiments on the table toward him and combining them in…a way.

 “…jeez,” Virgil mutters.

 Patton rolls his eyes fondly as Logan and Roman start idly bickering about the appropriate condiments for pasta. A steaming bowl slides to a stop in front of him and without pausing, Roman passes Virgil the jar of sauce.

 Virgil watches the jar slide to a stop in front of him, blinking up at Roman who just gives him a quick wink and goes right back to bickering with Logan. Patton giggles as Logan pinches the bridge of his nose, obviously trying to hide his smile as Princey grins. It’s a game now, to see which one of them will break character first. Princey’s the actor, but Logan’s got an incredible deadpan face. And when he’s in a playful mood the two of them can go at it for hours. Virgil and Patton just sit back to watch the show.

 As it turns out, both of them break character at the same time tonight, Logan stumbling over a word, and Princey accidentally slurring Logan’s name as he tries to come up with a comeback. Logan immediately tries to hide his smile behind his hand only to snort when Princey screws his face up in protest.

 “How did I manage to do that,” he cries, “I said—what the hell did I say?”

 Patton’s laughing too hard to answer and Virgil just shakes his head helplessly.

 Logan snorts. Tries to stifle it again. Then his giggles start to slip out. “D-damn it.”

 Roman gives up trying to stop his own cackles and throws his head back, letting it ring out. “We were doing so well, too!”

 “We were indeed,” Logan says through a smile, “perhaps we should try again.”

 “No, no, no, I won’t be able to get any words out before I’m reminded of whatever the heck my tongue did.”

 “What word were you trying to say?”

 “I don’t even remember.”

 Dinner gets finished and Logan stands to help Patton clean up. Roman leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. Virgil watches him, his eye first caught by the movement, lingering when he sees the rush of relief on Roman’s face.

 Is…is that what stretching is supposed to feel like?

 “Stormcloud?”

 Virgil blinks. Oh. Oh, fuck, he’s staring. Roman stares down at him, his head tilted.

 “You’ve been quiet today, Stormcloud,” Roman says, too low for Logan or Patton to hear, “everything Gucci?”

 Nope. Princey’s not allowed to do that. Definitely not. He’s not allowed to sound that caring because Virgil will talk to him.

 “Everything’s fine.”

 Roman raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

 “Shut up,” Virgil grumbles, shoving Roman halfheartedly as he chuckles.

 He goes to pull his hand back but Roman catches it, making him wince when his wings jar. This time he doesn’t miss Roman’s look of concern.

 “Virgil,” Roman calls, “are you hurt?”

 Yes. “Nah. Just slept weird.” On the ground, in pain.

 “You don’t want me to sic Patton on you, do you?”

 Virgil shudders, ignoring the twinge in his wings again. “No. Nope. I’m good.”

 Roman chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to the back of Virgil’s hand. “Alright. You just come and tell me when you need something, hmm?”

 Roman…maybe Roman?

 Roman, who is desire and passion and so, so warm to the touch. Roman, who has tried so, so hard to make Virgil his friend, to care for him. Roman, who looks at Virgil with soft expressions and sly winks and is just so there.

 …Roman, who treated him like a villain. Roman, who Virgil knows struggles to keep his own head above water most of the time. Roman, who can put on a mask to rival any actor’s, who can hide everything so well they might never know what’s really going on.

 Not Roman.

 “…yeah, sure, Princey.”

 “Marvelous!”

 And despite everything, despite the pain in his wings and the belt digging into the soft points of his feathers, Virgil smiles, just a little.

 If this is what he has to deal with to be a part of this, then he’ll do it.

 Then Deceit shows up and Virgil panics.

 Not because of what this means, not because of how it’s going to affect Thomas, but because Deceit knows.

 Deceit knows that Virgil has wings. Deceit knows that Virgil is a dark side. Deceit knows that Virgil hasn’t told the others.

 He’s safe—at least he thinks he’s safe—because if Deceit tells them about his wings, he’d have to tell the others he sheds too. And Deceit won’t ever volunteer information about himself like that. Virgil has one moment of panic on the witness stand, thinking Deceit’s about to split his defenses wide open, but no, no, he’s wings stay tucked up, ugly and rumpled, Virgil’s very own dirty little secret.

 Luckily—or unluckily—there are too many other things to focus on for Deceit to let slip that particular little secret. Virgil is too worried about Thomas and Patton and Roman and Logan and everything to worry any more about his wings. He runs on adrenaline and worries for days, weeks, months until it’s all he can think about, over and over, coffee being drained as quickly as Logan can brew it.

 He plucks out his own feathers in the dark and washes the blood off the carpet. He strains to move his arms, his shoulders, anything, just to get a little more range of motion. He wipes the crusted salt from the corner of his eyes and grits his teeth.

 Then Remus shows up and does what Remus does best: wreak absolute chaos.

 Roman is knocked out, Logan gets a shuriken in the forehead, and Virgil tells Thomas he used to be a dark side.

 The second he sinks into his room after that he tears at himself, his hoodie thrown to the corner of the room as his wings groan and buckle and writhe as Virgil paces.

  Why did he do that why did he do that now he knows now they know now it’s going to be so much worse they’re going to hate me again I’m going to be alone alone is safe alone protects me but alone is cold and lonely and alone hurts it hurts I hurt make it stop please—

 He’s panicking, he knows he’s panicking, he knows he should go, go find someone, have Logan help him, talk to Roman, get a hug from Patton, but his wings are out, he can’t put them away and they hurt, they hurt so much, everything hurts so much, he just wants it to stop.

 Virgil collapses onto the floor, ignoring the sickening crunch as one of his wings buckles under his weight. It just…it just hurts.

 Thomas doesn’t say anything.

 Patton doesn’t say anything.

 Logan doesn’t say anything.

 Roman doesn’t say anything.

 Remus doesn’t say anything.

 Janus doesn’t say anything.

 And somehow…somehow that’s worse.

 It doesn’t get easier, it just gets repetitive.

 He doesn’t try to get the spots he can’t reach anymore. He knows he can’t get the oil glands cleaned. He washes them as best he can but he knows he can’t dry them properly. He wears the sports bra. He wears the belt.

 He endures.

 Then he fucks up.

 Janus has been watching him. In fairness, Janus watches everybody, but he’s been keeping a particularly close eye on Virgil. If Virgil didn’t know any better, he’d think Janus was suspicious of him, that he’d do something to ruin Janus’s seat at the table, or hurt the others, or try and turn them against each other. It would make sense, given their…history.

 But Virgil knows Janus better than that.

 He knows that look and that’s why he shies away from it.

 He lashes out and he hates himself for it. He scorns Janus’s attention and has to hold back a gag. He slams his door shut and claps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying.

 He can’t let himself stop now. If he stops he’ll fall apart. He’s been numb for so long he wants to stay numb, can’t start feeling it again or—or—

 He can’t. He just can’t. The dark sides may be accepted now but that says nothing about Virgil.

 Which is why it is so, so stupid that Janus chooses to stand next to Logan when the next session comes. Because he’s right there, so close, where Virgil can practically feel his presence prickling along his left side and he’s so glad he bit the bullet and wore the sports bra today because his wings are straining to reach for him.

 But then Remus pops up next to Roman and Virgil visibly flinches.

 He’s able to pass it off as surprise but the knowing look Janus gives him tells him Janus can see right through him.

 He shouldn’t be feeling this way. He shouldn’t. He left the dark side ages ago, he shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—

 He shouldn’t be aching for them. For all of them. His wings shouldn’t be bristling and yearning and his back shouldn’t feel like it’s splitting in two right now.

 His mind shouldn’t be filled with thoughts of the soft touches they would give him as the helped groom his wings, the gentle jabs and playful barbs tossed back and forth as they supported each other.

 He shouldn’t feel so cold.

 The debate is already going, Logan and Patton tossing things back and forth, Roman and Remus doing the same. Janus adds a comment here and there, Thomas frantically trying to keep track of all of them. It’s far too easy for Virgil to withdraw, sink into his head, focus on keeping his wings in, make them stop, ignore the ache.

 Someone shouts right next to his ear and without thinking, Virgil reaches out and grabs Janus’s cloak.

 He freezes.

  Fuck fuck fuck he fucked up he fucked up—

 Why the fuck had he done that? Was it just because he was scared? He’s Anxiety, he’s always scared, why had this made him do something he hadn’t done since he was tiny?

 He’s not some frightened child anymore, tugging on his parent’s clothes to beg for scraps of comfort. Is this what he fucking wants, to be coddled, told pretty lies about how everything was fine?

 Too late, he realizes he’s still holding on and tries to let go quickly enough that no one will notice.

 It only partially works.

 The others are too busy scolding Remus—who just looks very pleased with himself—to notice. Except for Janus.

 Of fucking course Janus notices.

 Virgil shoves his traitorous hands into his pockets. He hunches his back, not caring that it makes his wings strain against the fabric of his hoodie. The only one who could see them right now is Janus and Virgil’s already dug his grave there, hasn’t he?

 He just wants this to be over so he can go and Janus will stop looking at him.

 The video ends and he can’t be the first one to sink out of the common area, that will draw attention, he can’t draw any more attention, but the longer he stays then someone will ask him something and he doesn’t want to—

 Oh.

 He blinks. Is…is the room empty? Oh. He can sink out now.

 …or he could stay here.

The others tend to go cool off in their rooms after heated videos, just until they can all come out and make nice again. Virgil…Virgil has the common room to himself.

 “Virgil?”

  Fuck.

 “…hey, Janus.”

 “Hello,” Janus says softly, and no, no, no, don’t do that.

 Janus is being kind and it’s so hard for Virgil to just stand here and not let his wings rip out of the hoodie. He didn’t sink out, he stayed, of course he fucking stayed, Virgil tugged on his cape like a little kid—

 Virgil curses under his breath, collapsing to sit on the steps. He ignores Janus’s soft noise of concern and balls his hands up, beating out an erratic rhythm on his legs. His back hurts. His shoulders hurt. His wings hurt. Now his legs hurt. Now his hands hurt.

 Something grabs his hands and pulls them over his head. The searing pain tears a cry out of his throat.

 “Shh, shh—“ Janus, it’s Janus— “none of that now, sweetie.”

 “Let me go.” It’s meant to come out as a snarl but instead, here Virgil is, whimpering at Janus’s feet.

 “Will you keep hurting yourself if I let you go?”

 No, Virgil wants to lie, yes, he wants to say just to spite him, what comes out of his mouth is neither of these.

 “You’re hurting me,” he pants, “you’re—it hurts.”

 Janus is silent above him, still holding his arms firmly above his head. Virgil chokes back a sob in the agonizingly painful position, barely suppressing his cries enough to still his shoulders which of course did nothing to alleviate the pain. Then another hand—right, he has six—touches gently beneath his chin, guiding his head up.

 Virgil meets such an open expression of concern that tears spring to the corners of his eyes. He looks away immediately, only for Janus to crouch in front of him. He keeps a hold of Virgil’s hands but the release in his shoulders is enough to make him gasp.

 “Sweetie,” Janus calls, “sweetie, look at me.”

 “No.”

 “Virgil, I need you to look at me.”

 Gritting his teeth, Virgil looks up at Janus. Janus squeezes his hands once.

 “When was the last time you had your wings groomed?”

 Virgil’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach.

 “Y-yesterday.”

 “Did you do it yourself?”

 “…yeah.”

 “When was the last time someone else helped you groom them properly?”

 Virgil swallows heavily and doesn’t say anything.

 “…oh, sweetie, have you not had anyone help you groom them since…?”

 Janus doesn’t even have to finish his sentence before Virgil’s nodding, the shameful secret finally spilling out. It’s Janus, he rationalizes, he knows how to keep a secret, right?

 “Why haven’t you told them,” Janus murmurs, his voice broken, “why, sweetie?”

 “Because telling people things is always so easy,” Virgil snarls.

 Janus accepts it with a slow nod, reaching out to cup Virgil’s cheek. On instinct, Virgil jerks back, unable to get away from the touch because of the grip on his hands. Janus’s eyes widen.

 “…oh, sweetie…”

 “Don’t tell them,” Virgil blurts out, “please don’t tell them.”

 “You’ve been hurting yourself, Virgil,” Janus whispers, “so badly, I can’t let that continue.”

 “I’ll—I’ll fix it, I can fix it—“

 “You know you can’t do this by yourself, honey.”

 “I have to,” Virgil cries out finally, “I have to, I can’t—I messed up, I messed everything up, I have to do it alone now, I have to—“

 “What did you mess up, sweetie?”

 “You a-and Remus and I can’t—I can’t ask you ‘cause I messed it up so bad—“

 “Shh, shh,” Janus soothes instantly, reaching out with another pair of hands to cup Virgil’s face properly, “you haven’t lost me, sweetie, you haven’t messed anything up so badly. You know you can come to me for help, you can always come here.”

 “But you’re—“

 “What, sweetie,” Janus prompts when Virgil cuts himself off, “what am I?”

 Nope. Because Virgil can’t even use the dark side excuse anymore because now the dark sides are accepted. He has no fucking excuse. He has no justification for why he’s doing this. He’s—he’s—

 He’s hurting himself.

 “It hurts,” he whispers instead, “m-make it stop.”

 “Do you have enough energy to sink out, sweetie?” Virgil shakes his head. “Okay. I need you to stand up for me, honey.”

 Getting to his feet is a slow process, Janus murmuring encouragement as they go. He sets Virgil’s hands gently against the stair railing and whispers that he’ll be right back, he just has to grab some things, wait here, please? Virgil lets him go and clutches the railing for dear life, trying to keep the waves of nausea inside thank you very much.

 “What do you mean, you haven’t seen him?”

 “I knocked on his door, he didn’t answer.”

 “So?”

 “So I…tried the knob.”

 “Roman!”

 “I know, I know, I’m not supposed to, but I was worried and he isn’t in there, so—“

 “Wait, he’s not in his room?”

 “No! That’s the problem!”

 “Well then where is he?”

 “I don’t know, that’s why I came to find you two!”

 “Wait…Virgil?”

  No, no, no—

 “Stormcloud,” Roman breathes from the top of the stairs, racing down, “there you are, we’ve been looking for you!”

 “What’re you doing down here, kiddo,” Patton asks worriedly, “are you…you don’t look so good.”

 Logan hustles around the end of the stairs to face him and no, no, Virgil doesn’t want this, not now—

 “Virgil,” Logan calls softly and he sounds so much like he cares— “Virgil, are you having trouble standing?”

 Virgil nods jerkily.

 “Let’s have you sit down, then,” he continues gently, trying to cover up the shake in his voice.

 When he doesn’t move, Roman can’t help himself. He walks forward, his arms opening to hover around Virgil’s waist.

 “Can I carry you, Stormcloud,” he asks, “just to the couch?”

 What does he do? He can’t say no, not when they look so worried. They just keep asking questions, they’ll just—but Janus asked him to wait for him, but standing is so hard and they all look so worried—

 He nods again.

 Logan carefully places his hands around Roman’s neck as Roman scoops him into a princess carry, heading for the couch. He sits down in the middle, holding Virgil as securely as he can, looking up when Logan crouches in front of them, nervously adjusting his tie. Patton sits on his side, pulling Virgil’s legs into his lap.

 “What do we do?” Roman whispers. “I don’t—what do you need, Stormcloud?”

 Logan nods encouragingly, still looking at Virgil with his brows drawn until realization dawns on his face.

 “Virgil,” he says as he gets up to sit beside Roman, resting his hands on Virgil’s shoulders to encourage him to lean against him, “are you…is your ‘everything machine’ breaking?”

 Oh.

 Yeah, that’s what’s happening.

 It’s Roman’s turn to have the ‘aha’ moment when he nods, taking one of Virgil’s hands and tenderly pressing a kiss to it. Logan keeps a steady, grounding pressure on his sides as Roman carefully lies him on the couch, going to the kitchen.

 “Can you sit up? It’s perfectly alright if you can’t,” Logan assures quickly, “but it might be easier to drink something if you are upright.”

 Virgil nods.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, “we’ll go slowly, alright? If you feel dizzy or light-headed at any point, squeeze my hand and you can lie back down.”

 As promised, by the time they’re fully sitting up, Logan’s hand still on his shoulder, Roman’s breezed back in with a tissue box, a glass of water, a glass of orange juice, and a mini french loaf on a tray, set it all down on the coffee table, pulled the table close enough where he can perch on the edge, and reached out to take his hand again. Patton rubs encouraging circles into his knee, murmuring soft words of encouragement.

 Virgil can’t move. He doesn’t know what to do. He—they feel so warm, they keep touching him so gently, it—his wings are straining.

 He whimpers when Logan’s hand lands on his back and Logan moves away immediately. The loss of contact has him itching to reach out but he can’t can’t can’t—

 “Well.”

  Janus.

 Virgil blinks, and sure enough, there he is, standing with his hands clasped out of sight. Distantly, Virgil thanks that he’s still trying to keep Virgil’s secret, hiding whatever he has behind his back. He makes eye contact with Virgil and asks a silent question.

 Virgil can’t respond.

 “Janus,” Patton says, “do you—do you know what’s going on?”

 “Can we help,” Roman blurts, “with whatever it is?”

 Logan stays silent, gaze going back and forth between Virgil and Janus. Janus doesn’t take his eyes off Virgil.

 He’s waiting, Virgil realizes, to see if I’m going to let them help.

 …he doesn’t really have a reason not to anymore, does he?

 Logan leans closer, his lips barely brushing Virgil’s temple.

 “Please,” he whispers, “please, dearheart, let us help care for you.”

 Oh.

 Oh, fuck.

 “…help.”

 It’s loud enough for Janus to hear and he nods sharply, sitting down on the floor and holding out his arms. “You’re going to need to pass him to me. Be careful of his back.”

 It takes the other three to get him tucked up against Janus’s chest before they shuffle back, wary. Janus wraps his lowest pair of arms around Virgil’s hips, holding him close.

 “You just focus on me, sweetie,” he whispers, much too quiet for the others to hear, “and if you want them gone, you say so, okay?”

 “R-Remus?”

 “Remus is coming, sweetie, he found me looking for your things.”

 “You kept them?”

 “Of course we kept them.” Janus rests their foreheads together. “Of course we did.”

 Janus holds him close, whispers a few more soft words, until Virgil nods and lets him unzip his hoodie.

 “How, sweetie?”

 “…sports bra.”

 He can hear Janus swallow a noise of protest before he nods. “I’m going to have to cut them off, it’s going to hurt too much if we try and pry it off you.”

 “But—“

 “Sweetie,” Janus hushes, “you’re losing circulation, it’s not good for you.”

 Virgil shudders. “…does that mean you have to cut off m-my shirt too?”

 “Do you think you can hold your arms up long enough to get it off?”

 “…no.”

 Janus holds him tightly. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie, I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

 Against his better judgment, Virgil turns and tucks his head into the crook of Janus’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent. “…always are.”

 “I’m going to need the others to help me, help you, okay?” When Virgil nods, he can feel Janus look at the others, can feel the way his face changes.

 “Roman.”

 “Yes, I’m here.”

 “I need you to get Virgil’s hoodie off.”

 “O-okay,” Roman says, and Virgil can hear him shuffle up behind them, “is it already unzipped?”

 “It is.”

 “Here we go, Stormcloud,” Roman says softly, sliding the battered old thing from Virgil’s shoulders like it’s some fine silk garment, “you’re doing great…there. Where should I—“

 “On the couch.”

 There are a few more rustlings and then Janus’s mouth appears by Virgil’s ear again.

 “I’m going to cut them off now. You just hold still for me, alright?” Virgil nods and Janus squeezes him around the waist. “Good.”

 He turns his attention to the others. “Virgil has decided to trust you with this. I have decided to trust you with this. Betray that trust and you will not like the consequences. Am I clear?”

 Murmured assurances. Then the soft rip, rip, riiiiiip of fabric, and the pressure on his wings releases.

 Virgil’s sure Janus is talking from the vibration of his throat and he’s also sure the others are saying something back, but he can’t hear anything right now over the rush of blood in his ears from his wings unfurling, creaking, in all their ugly, dirty glory.

 He winces, tries to stretch them, only to hear a cry of dismay from over his shoulder and an ‘oh, sweetie,’ from Janus. The tendon snaps back out of place and his wings slump.

 “Virgil,” Janus says next to his ear, “Virgil, Remus is here now. Do you think you can explain what we need to do or would you like us to?”

 Virgil should explain. It’s his problem. It’s his responsibility.

 But…but it would be nice to not have to…for once. To…to let them take care of him.

 “…c-can you?”

 “We can.”

 He feels another warm hand on his bare side and Remus’s voice in his ear.

 “Hey,” Remus says, “you really are a mess right now, huh?”

 Coming at any other time, it would be an insult. But right now, laced with concern, Remus’s statement sends a rush of warmth down Virgil’s spine.

 “We need to get the tendon reset first,” Remus says. Someone shuffles over to join him. “You know what you’re doing?”

 “I think so.” Oh. It’s Logan. Logan knows what he’s doing. Good, good. “Hold still for us, dearheart.”

 “Ah!”

 “Sorry, sorry,” Logan stammers, “but we’ve got it now.”

 “You’re gonna be sore for a bit, little monster,” Remus says, “but Logan’s right. You’re all reset now. You wanna stretch it out? Carefully?”

 Virgil does, tentatively extending his wing and it—it feels better. Well, it feels bruised and sore and achy—but it feels better.

 “It…it’s back,” Virgil says in a strangled whisper, “it’s back.”

 “Yes, sweetie,” Janus murmurs, “now let’s get you cleaned up.”

 Virgil drifts. In and out. He hears Remus explain how to straighten his feathers, feels two strong steady hands carding through them, Looks up to see Roman, expression more focused than he’s ever seen, sees that expression melt when he catches Virgil’s eyes. Plucks a loose feather out and lays it in a growing pile.

 Feels two more on his other side and looks around to see Patton doing the same, running his fingers through the primaries, secondaries, up to the covets, and through the scapulars. Feels his fingers linger just where the tips of the feathers brush Virgil’s bare back, stroking reassuring rhythms where he lands.

 Janus still has two of his arms holding Virgil in his lap. With Virgil’s nod, he slowly raises Virgil’s arms above his head again, letting the others have access to the rest of his wings. With his last two hands, he starts smoothing the bottom of his wings, lingering in the spots where Virgil winces, gently tugging and adjusting until everything’s just right.

 A flash of movement and he sees Remus over Janus’s shoulder, grabbing a spray bottle and two hairbrushes. He ruffles Virgil’s hair as he goes back around, warning him before he starts gently spraying Virgil’s wings, passing the hairbrushes to Roman and Patton with the instructions to try and get as much of the gunk out as possible.

 “You,” Roman murmurs as he works, “are magnificent, Virgil, just look at you.”

 “Don’t,” Virgil manages, “please don’t tease.”

 “I’m not teasing,” Roman promises, brushing a part of his wing that sends a shudder down his spine, “you’re…you’re—these are spectacular, Virgil, truly.”

 Virgil shifts in Janus’s lap. “…ugly.”

 “What?”

 “…they’re ugly.”

 “Of course they’re not, what do you…” Roman turns to him. “Stormcloud, who told you that?”

 “…me.”

 “Falsehood,” comes Logan’s voice from directly behind him, “your wings are indeed quite splendid.”

 “Because they’re interesting?”

 “Because they are a part of you,” Logan corrects softly, “and yes, because they are interesting.”

 “We love you, kiddo.” Patton reaches up to squeeze his hand. “That means all of you, even your wings.”

 Virgil opens his mouth to respond when hands slip through his feathers and every breath is stolen from his body.

 “Here,” Logan says softly, “are they here?”

 “Yep. Feel around in there a little, you should find the—“

 “Here.”

 Two thumbs swipe over the glands and Virgil shudders, right down to the tips of his wings. Logan pauses, leaning forward and doing it again. Virgil shudders harder, warmth shooting through his body, so warm, so warm. Then Logan’s hands start spreading the oil through his feathers and Virgil can’t.

 “Shh,” Janus soothes, holding him tightly, “shh, I know, sweetie, just hold on…you’re doing so well.”

 “Be gentle, Logan,” Roman orders, his gaze fixed on Virgil’s face.

 “I am.” Logan does it again and Virgil gasps. “This area is simply…sensitive.”

 Virgil swallows. “…haven’t…haven’t been able to…to…”

 “You have not been able to reach these areas yourself,” Logan finishes when Virgil can’t make words happen anymore, “and so the sensation is heightened by the newness of it.”

 “Y-yeah.”

 Then Roman’s hand brushes over his alula and he whimpers.

 “S-sorry.”

 “Would I be mistaken in saying this is quite…an intimate action?” Virgil shakes his head at Logan’s question. “Then you do not need to apologize. Trusting others with this level of intimacy is difficult, and you are doing very well.”

 “You are, kiddo,” Patton adds when Virgil makes a noise of protest, “and you don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. It’s okay that you’re sensitive, it’s okay.”

 “Is this alright, Stormcloud,” Roman asks softly as he keeps brushing the feathers, “can we keep going?”

 “Mhm,” Virgil mumbles, head lolling forward, “mhm.”

 “Good.”

 As they finish removing the clearly damaged feathers, the real grooming starts. Roman and Patton start gently tugging here and there to pull out loose and broken feathers, pushing the ones that are just slightly crooked back into place. The hairbrushes, with nice wooden spokes, split the feathers easily without a snag as Logan carefully works the oil throughout. Remus slips down, carefully spreading the oil over Virgil’s back, kneading out the tension from his sore muscles. Janus holds him steady, murmuring softly.

 Virgil floats, punch-drunk on the fuzzy feeling from Logan’s hands, Patton’s hands, Roman’s hands, Remus’s hands, Janus’s hands. It’s so warm, so warm, as he feels the lingering strings of hurt and tension slowly and persistently untangled from his wings.

 “I think that’s everything,” comes Logan’s soft voice an uncertain amount of time later, and yet none of the hands move away.

 “You’re so pretty, kiddo,” Patton murmurs, running his hands through the feathers, “so, so pretty.”

 “Guess you really did dig the purple, huh?” Remus gives Virgil’s hair a ruffle. “I think these are the best these have looked in a while.”

 Virgil shifts in Janus’s lap. “…yeah, well…”

 Janus shushes him. “It doesn’t matter, now, sweetie. It’s okay.”

 “You were hesitant because being vulnerable is hard,” Logan adds, still stroking up and down the joint of his wings, “that isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”

 Virgil opens his mouth to reply when Logan’s fingers skitter over the spot right under the joint and he cries out.

 “…Virgil?”

 Logan raises an eyebrow when Virgil simply shudders, his back arching. Slowly, he does it again, smiling when Virgil all but purrs.

 “I think he likes that,” Patton says quietly, “don’t you, kiddo?”

 Virgil whines.

 “Where else are you sensitive,” Roman murmurs, scritching his fingers lightly along the top of Virgil’s wing, “where else, Stormcloud?”

 “I don’t think he’s got command of words right now,” Remus chuckles.

 “If Virgil’s wings are anatomically similar to bird wings,” Logan murmurs, “then…”

 Roman’s hand is tangled in his alula. Patton’s hands are rubbing at the crook of his wings. Logan’s thumbs stroke over the oil glands again.

 Virgil’s mouth is suddenly very, very dry.

 Remus’s thumbs suddenly dig into the space between his shoulder blades, startling a short moan out of him. He hears a chuckle from over his shoulder.

 “Does that feel good, dearheart,” Logan murmurs, his nails scraping lightly over the soft skin where Virgil’s wings met his back, “right there?”

 Virgil’s only response is a long, low, drawn-out sound that would have been mortifying had he any control over his brain right now.

 “Oh, wow,” Patton mumbles from the side.

 Roman reaches up and wiggles his fingers next to Logan’s and Virgil keens.

 Janus chuckles, lowering Virgil’s arms around his neck and reaching out to scritch lightly at the marginal covets. “You’re about to get spoiled, sweetie,” he murmurs, “you just hang on, hmm?”

 Virgil wraps his arms around Janus and holds on for dear life just as fingers wiggle into his axillaries and he freezes.

 Then he melts, right into Janus, right into the hands in his wings, the sound physically being ripped out of his chest.

 Lips brush the side of his neck like the owner couldn’t stop themselves. The hand on his right twitches violently. From his left comes a long, shuddering breath.

 “Oh, Stormcloud—“ Roman, that’s Roman— “you best believe we’re going to spoil you all the time.”

 Just like that, everything multiplies. Pats, strokes, kneads, scritches, ruffles, so many so many so many gentle, adoring touches and soft voices in his ears and Virgil flies.

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[urimaginespimp]

Red for Christmas

Requested

A jealous Tommy x reader

--------

Christmas at Birmingham was never festive. The place, unlike other towns, remained dark, cold, and dangerous. This year however, the Shelby family took it upon themselves to hold a celebration at the Garrison.

And there you were. The pub was packed, a lot of people were drunk out of their minds – one of them your good friend Esme, who has declared John as her walking blanket tonight because of how cold it is. So, there they were, walking or tumbling around the Garrison drunk as hell, with John holding her in a back hug whichever direction she chose to go next, just laughing and yelling their asses off.

You knew the family since you were a kid. You weren’t personally close with them, but being neighbors meant that the chances of running into each other out of the house was unavoidable. For years, simple greetings or smiles were enough. That was until you met and instantly became friends with the woman who was then just newly wed to John.

The Shelbys had no problem with you hanging out and helping in their betting shop with Esme. But you didn’t fail to miss the constant teasing smile everybody was sending the brooding Thomas. Every time John talked to you, it was all about how he knows somebody who has fancied you since you were young. Arthur on the other hand, would only talk praises about Tommy.

At the back of your mind, you have put the pieces together. But it was also your personal stubbornness that stopped you from assuming things. That was until a year ago, when you were invited to their small Christmas family dinner at home. And the brothers being the way they are of course, got too drunk.  You, who had just washed your hands came out of the bathroom and came face to face with Thomas himself.

“My brothers, who have been with me through many brawls and business meetings, seem to think I don’t have the balls to kiss a beautiful woman.” He started, looking a bit soberer. Stealing a quick glance at his brothers at the back, they were already laughing their asses off.

“Well, Tom. I’ve seen you in brawls myself and know about who you’re partners with. Never saw you kiss a woman. So I guess they might have a point there.” You answered trying to act nonchalant despite your thumping chest. Arthur and John reacted to what you’ve said by yelling an amen.

Thomas chuckled and shook his head, walking closer to you. “May I?” He whispered.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Shelby.” You answered and kissed him first.

And now a year later, here you were Thomas’ girlfriend for a year already. You haven’t seen him since he excused himself to talk to someone earlier, so you sat by yourself on a stool at the counter.

“Well, hello there stranger.” A voice greeted you. Looking up, it was the guy who you were supposed to go with for New Year’s Eve last year. He was a handsome lad that you were friends with, and completely understood when you told him before that you couldn’t go with him anymore.

“Merry Christmas, Danny. It’s nice to see you here.” You offered him the stool next to you.

“I see Mr. Shelby has been treating you well. You look great.” He genuinely smiled and asked Harry for a drink.

“Thank you.” You answered. It’s true, you and Thomas had a great year together. He was very clingy behind closed doors, you’d tease him about his long-time crush on you, both of you wouldn’t let a fight last a day, and you were taking care of each other perfectly.

“How have you been, Dan?” you asked him.

“I’m doing well. I-uh actually just came here to get a drink and calm my nerves down.” He sheepishly answered.

“Why, what’s wrong?” You asked.

He leaned in a little bit and took something out of his coat pocket. Gesturing for you to come closer, you did so and saw a small jewelry box. “I’m proposing to my girlfriend at home tonight.” He whispered.

Unbeknownst to you, Tommy was back and saw you both a little too close for his liking. He was about to cool down when you finally leaned away, but his blood started to boil when you got up and hugged the man excitedly.

“Don’t break the glass with your hand, Thomas.” Polly said smirking as she passed by him.

He shook his head and placed the glass down on the nearest table and decided to approach you.

“Y/N, I think I want to head home, now.” He said when he was already in front of you.

“Are you okay, Tom? You look a little red.” You asked, placing a hand by his neck to check if his temperature’s alright.

“Yeah I think lying down would help.” He reasoned. There was no way in hell Thomas Shelby would admit jealousy over a hug.

“Dan, it was really nice seeing you. I wish you nothing but good luck tonight.” She smiled and hugged him again.

So that was the bastard’s name. He thought.

When you turned to Tommy again, he was even more red. “Do you want me to call a doctor, Tom?” You worriedly asked.

“No, I’m fine.” He snapped.

A while later, you were already in bed and it seemed that he was doing fine. You sat up cross-legged to chat with his lying figure.

“I forgot to introduce you earlier to Danny.” You started talking. Tommy who was at first smiling at you was now holding a stoic expression. The memory of you wrapping your arms around that man earlier made him all jealous again.

“What about him?” He asked uninterested.

“Well, he and I were supposed to spend New Years Eve last year, but then you and I happened.” You chuckled, starting to play with his fingers.

“So, what was he trying to do at the party earlier, eh?” He asked, failing to mask his annoyance.

Finally realizing what’s got him all red tonight, you started laughing.

“Y/N.” He called you when you were still laughing.

“Tom he was going to propose tonight.” You answered still laughing a little.

What you said didn’t sound right to him, and he was about to get up and hunt your friend down when you pushed him back down on the bed.

“Not to me, silly.” You smiled at him.

“Oh.” He answered, his mouth finally twitching into a smile.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous, Thomas Shelby.” You leaned and laid your chin on his chest, looking at him.

“I wasn’t jealous, Y/N.” He defended himself.

“Sure. And you weren’t as red father Christmas.” You rolled your eyes.

“Merry Christmas my angel.” He cupped your cheek.

“Merry Christmas you devil.”

--------

Check out my MASTERLIST

[evertriedsoywithyourpopcorn]

5 Reasons Roman Is Infuriating (And Why I DO NOT have a crush on him)

Chapter 4: A Date With Destiny

Read on AO3 Chapter 1

Word count:  2991

Tw: Food, Almost an innuendo, Fear of not being accepted for orientation

~~~

"I think I'm ready."

Logan looks at himself in the mirror, adjusting his bowtie. He hadn't gone super extra with his 'date' outfit, despite Roman's insistence to go big or go home. (Which wouldn't really matter, as Thomas is home right now, and therefore they wouldn't need to go very far.)

Just a few changes, to treat himself. The blue striped bowtie, obviously, some black dress pants, black socks and a black dress shirt instead of a polo. He also tried out a new shampoo, just for that extra self-care. That may sound like a fairly big change, but Roman looked uncomfortable when he presented the outfit.

Roman waves his hand about, diverting his eyes. "Ugh, whatever. You look great. I still think a full tux would've been a better choice."

"That would most likely be overdressing. I don't want to go into this date looking like a buffoon, now do I?" He retorted, slipping on his dress shoes. They're sleek and black, with a heel that gives him just that extra added height.

"Pfft, coming from the Nerdy Professor! You look like a buffoon all the time, I'm just doing you a favor."

"You don't think I'm ready like this?" Logan asks.

"You do. You're rocking it. No romo." Roman says, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"No... Romo?" He asks.

"Uh, yeah. Like... Uh, romantic. I invented it. Just now." Roman says, nervously fiddling with his sash.

"Oh." And if that doesn't feel like a metaphorical stab to the gut, Logan's not sure what it is.

Roman stands for a few seconds in silence, before looking away, into the mirror. "Now, go get your Daisy, Loguigi."

"That was a stretch, but thank you." Logan takes Roman's hand, squeezes it (he's sure Roman won't mind. He may think of it as a reassurance to calm Logan's nerves. Logan thinks of it as he wants to hold Roman's hand), and walks to the door.

"Logan-" Roman says before he can leave, and Logan turns back to him. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and seems to realize that Logan's waiting for him to say something. His hand reaches towards him, then recedes.

"Yes?"

"Good luck." He slumps, giving what seems to be an encouraging smirk. Logan nods, adjusing his bowtie once more, and strutting out of the room. If he had a cape, it would be flowing behind him dramatically, due to the sheer energy of his determination. Tonight is going to be the start of a big change.

"Alright Patton, prepare yourself for the strangest date you'll ever go on." He says in full confidence.

~~~

Patton sat at the dining table, feeling certainly awkward. Things certainly looked... Different. It was dim, mostly because the only light sources were an array of candles and a strand of fairy lights. There was a silky tablecloth thrown over the table, and a lovely bouquet of red roses in a glass vase as the centerpiece. There were also two glasses, and a bottle of red wine. Soft violin music played from an unknown source.

Usually this was something Patton would coo at. He always loved romance between people. Whenever Thomas and his boyfriends over the years hung out, it would be all he'd talk about. How happy he is for them. He'd even help Roman out with helping Thomas in his gestures of romance. It's true, Patton loved romance.

However, not when it was directed at himself.

He didn't want to be rude and leave, obviously. Logan set this up, and the last thing Patton wanted to do was break his heart beyond repair. He loves Logan as a friend, and he cares about him, and the emotions he barely lets himself show.

Patton twiddles with his thumbs, sweating quite a bit. He wonders what Roman has to do with this. He's certainly not also going to be here, unless this is a three-way date. That is unlikely, as there are only two chairs. Perhaps he's the wing-man? That would make sense, as he's much better in the romance category than Logan. But wait a minute, why would he help? Doesn't Roman-

"This is atmospheric." Patton gets pulled out of his thoughts by Logan standing there, looking at the decor. He takes a seat. Pouring himself a glass of the wine, he takes a big sip, before setting it down. "Patton, I have something to tell you."

Oh no.

Patton's sweating buckets now. "B-before you do, I just want to tell you that I respect you Logan, and that you're a very good person, and that I cherish the time we spend together, but I guess I haven't told you some very important information about myself, and I hope this doesn't hurt you too bad, it's that-" He takes a deep breath, about to spill. He's always been scared of this moment. Didn't he already tell Logan? Does he not believe in his identity? Patton opens his mouth to speak.

"You're aromantic. I know that Patton, and I respect that. Your orientation is completely justified and valid. I was going to tell you that this was not my idea. I do not harbor any romantic feelings for you, and I certainly don't expect you to either." Logan says, taking another sip of wine.

"Oh."

Well, that makes Patton feel much better.

"Then... Why are we here?" He asks, the nervous feeling replaced by confusion.

"Well..." Logan blushes as red as the wine. "I happened to be... Discussing my 'lack' of romantic feelings for... a side, which I realised was in fact a falsehood, and then that side happened to swoop in right after I realized, and mistook my presentation for being about you. Therefore, he decided to set us up."

The cogs in Patton's brain start to turn. He's not exactly known to be the brightest of the bunch, but he thinks he can decipher this one.

"Nm...Teh... Oh, it's Roman." He looks at Logan, who lowers his head into his hands.

"Yes. Yes it is." He admits.

"So, he doesn't know." Patton concludes.

"No, no he doesn't."

The words finally settle in, and Patton's face brightens significantly in a matter of milliseconds. "Oh my god! Logan! You like him!" He stands up, and jumps for joy. He twirls around the room a few times, and then pulls up Logan and gives him a hug. "I'm so proud of you kiddo."

"Thank you Patton. It certainly felt strange admitting it." Sighs, hugging him back. They break off soon after.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Patton asks, a little bit worried.

"I don't think I'm quite ready yet." They both sit down. "That's actually why I'm here. I was wondering if we could keep up a sort of facade for a while, until I'm ready to tell Roman. Obviously, we won't make anything official, but I could use your help, as I am not very skilled in this romance business, and we could use fake dates as a sort of counseling session. I could.. Use your help." Logan admits.

Patton is surprised, but delighted. "Oh! Well, thank you for telling me kiddo. I wouldn't mind helping you out." He pats Logan' shoulder encouragingly. "Do you... have a plan?"

"Not yet. I didn't want to start without you, in case I would need to scrap the whole thing." Logan takes another sip of wine.

“That’s absolutely A-okay. I don’t know if I’d be much help today though, cause this roller-coaster ‘date’ has really tired me out!” Patton says. (He’s never quite been put on the spot, and then given a plot twist like that one before. Oh wait, haha, he has.) He needs a bit of a mental break before he does any of that adultery thinking.

Logan looks around the room. “We aren’t on a roller coaster.”

“It’s an expression.” Patton clarifies. He sighs, adjusting himself on the seat. “I forgot that I haven’t come out to Roman yet. Or the others, for that matter.”

“You don’t have to if you aren’t comfortable. There’s never a bad reason not to come out.” Logan assures him, finishing his glass of wine. “And if you ever need my help, I will be there to support you in whatever ways I can.”

“Alrighty kiddo.” He smiles, looking to the kitchen.

“Do we have any leftover cookies?”

Patton suddenly looks guilty. “Well… About that.”

“Patton.” Logan’s gaze snaps to him, surprised. “Last time I checked, there were at least five left.”

“It wasn’t just me! Janus had one too!” He pleads, stating his case.

“One? That leaves four.” Logan squints at him. “I wanted at least two more for myself.”

A light in Patton’s brain ignites, and he jumps up. “Oh! What do you say we turn this into a baking ‘date’ then??” He does over exaggerated quotations with his hands on ‘date’.

“Bake ‘date’ it is then.” Logan fixes his bowtie in steely determination, and they both make their way to the kitchen.

~~~

“How did the date go?” Roman asks when Logan returns to his room, a giant fluffy red robe draped over himself, face mask on, and nails in the process of being painted. He’s got some showtunes that Logan doesn’t know the name of playing from a vinyl record player, which is illogical, because he’s pretty sure the musical is modern and that they can’t play voices, but he doesn’t comment.

“It went surprisingly… Well. He told me he may need a few more dates to make a decision.” Logan lies, trying to put anything other than indifference in his voice.

“Oh.” Roman looks taken aback for a second. “That’s great Specs. I’m proud of you.” The shaky hand he was painting swerves off to the side, and nail polish gets all over his finger. He looks at it, sighs, and puts the brush back into the bottle.

“You know, it isn’t a good idea to paint your nails in bed.” Logan sits on the edge, (of his own bed. Strange how Roman didn't just go back to his own room. He’s quite the stark contrast, him and his items bright red in a sensible dull, midnight blue room.) and turns his torso to face him.

“But it’s so much more dramatiiic. Besides, you told me not to touch your desk, and I am a princ- uh, a man of my word.” He laughs a little nervous laugh. “Besides, I can just clean it up with the powers of magic.”

“That’s nice.” Logan says, distracted by Roman’s nails. He’s hiding the hand he messed up. On his non-dominant hand, he has masterfully done nails, red with golden designs, such as a crown on his middle finger, a flower pattern on his pointer, thumb and pinky, and on the ring finger there’s an ‘L’...

Logan gently extends his hand. “Can I see?”

“Oh, um, yeah.” Roman lets him take his hand. Up close he notices that the gold is sparkly. Certainly a touch that is in character.

“What does the ‘L’ stand for?” Logan asks, looking at him.

Roman seems to burst red in the face. “O-Ooh it means ‘Left’. I… Often forget which direction is which, so I put it on my nails to remember. There’s no second meaning behind it or anything. Not at all.” He smiles wide.

Now Logan suspects there may be a second meaning, but he does not comment. “Is it okay for me to see your other hand?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to, I mean, it’s not nearly as good and it isn’t at all finished and I just made a mistake-”

“I didn’t ask if I would want to see it. I asked if you were okay with me seeing it.” Logan cuts his self-deprecating ramble off, assuring him softly. “I won’t look for the imperfections if you don’t want me to.”

“I…” Roman sighs and nods. “Go ahead.”

Logan takes Roman’s right hand gently with his own, and brings it close enough to inspect. It retains the same colors, but even with just the base red layer it looks a little bit less neatly done. The color extends past the cuticle, and you can see little bumps and imprints of things that accidentally touched the nail before it could fully dry. It wasn’t bad, per se, because those things could easily be fixed without removing the entire coating, but it probably seemed pretty bad to Roman when comparing it to his other hand. And then there was the streak, which was unfortunate but can be arranged.

“I can help you with this hand, if you’d like.” He offers, much to Roman’s surprise.

“Sure… But you don’t have to-”

“Preposterous. I want to help, and although I am not a master in the arts and creating designs, I happen to be a master duplicator. I believe Virgil described it as ‘cloning but like without the technology part and shit’. I even remade an exact duplicate of a frankly disgusting and creepy doll for Remus from scratch.”

“Oh.” Roman laughs softly. “Talented.”

“Yes. I am.” Logan says, internally giddy from the compliment. He uncaps the nail polish remover from a very fancy tray, where all the supplies are stationed on. “We just need this for the stain.” He takes a cotton pad, letting go of Roman’s hands to wet it, and recaps the bottle. He retakes Roman’s right hand, and lightly swipes the pad across the smear.

“You smell like baking.” Roman notes, barely over a whisper.

“That makes sense. We did some baking. Mostly me, and he kind of watched until they were ready to decorate.” He places the cotton pad in a little glass junk bowl on the tray.

“Are you sure he’s not just going to use these dates to make him cookies?” He says lightheartedly, tapping his other hand along to the sound of the music.

“Perhaps” Logan laughs a little bit. “Actually, I set aside a bunch for you. They’re in a bag, wrapped in a ribbon. That usually wards off everyone else from eating what’s inside for a few days, but do get to them before the fourth day because that’s often when Remus loses his patience.” He doesn’t admit that it was a spur of the moment decision, and that he felt like a lovesick fool setting aside those for him. He did admit that to Patton though, who chuckled.

“Mmm, thank you. What kind?” Roman asks, as Logan uncaps the red nail polish bottle and starts applying a light coat on each nail to even things out.

“Cranberry and White Chocolate Chip.” Roman’s favorite. That may have also been on purpose.

“Oh.” He says, and that’s where that subject of conversation ends. Logan continues applying the coating, then recaps the bottle.

“Alright, this will need to dry.” Logan guides his hand to a solid resting place. They sit quietly for a moment, only the sound of what he recognizes as Razzle Dazzle playing. It’s quite strange to have music in here. The rows and rows of dark-wood bookshelves, kept neat and clean, seem much brighter like this. His planning cork-board, with strings run around and pictures and notes in a neat order (along with the depressing sight of his calendar), looks less dull. Maybe it’s his mood. Maybe it’s just Roman.

“Logan?”

“Yes?”

Roman scoots over, without moving his drying hand. He leans in closely, looking just above Logan’s eyeline.

“Y-yes?” He squirms as Roman reaches with his dry hand to the top of his head. He shakes Logan’s hair, and he presumes it looks like a mess now.

“Flour.”

“What?” Logan asks, as he returns to sitting like he did before.

“You had flour in your hair. It was bothering me.” Roman informs him, pointing to his head.

“Ah.” They return to their silence.

When Logan determines the perfect time for the polish to dry, he uncaps the glittery gold nail pen. Using the other hand as reference, he copies the designs finger by finger, putting all of his concentration into it.

“And… We’ll put an ‘R’ here... ” He tries his best to copy the font of the swirly ‘L’. It looks pretty good, if he does say so himself. Which he does say out loud.”

“Yeah, it does. Thank you Logan.” He looks up at Roman, who smiles a very shy smile. He suddenly brightens, and jumps up, rattling the tray and scaring Logan. “Aha! I’ve thought of a perfect nickname! Holm Office Photopy Machine! I need to write that down.” He fumbles around, and then summons himself a very used-looking sketchbook. He stays standing on the bed, flipping through pages and then scribbling it down.

“That certainly is long.” Logan adjusts his glasses in surprise.

“Long like my- Sorry that was a strange thought.” Roman makes his things disappear, checks his nails, and then flops back down onto the bed.

“I hate to bother you, but at one point I’m going to have to sleep on here.” He watches as Roman unsticks his face-masked face from the bed in disgust.

“Why did I do that- Oh, yeah, sorry.” Roman gets up, looking guilty, and certainly not as fancy as he did before, fibres from the blankets stuck to his face mask and some of the mask still attached to Logan’s bed. Still, he’s got his stupid smile on his face, and that power stance. He’s…

“Wonderful.” Logan says under his breath as Roman’s turning to leave.

Unfortunately, he heard, and he turns back, confused. “Huh?”

“One earful.”

“Alright.” Roman looks perhaps even more confused, but turns back and sinks out, with a “Buh-bye Specs.”

When he’s out of Logan’s room, he snaps his fingers to rid of the mess (He left the tray there too. The nerve. The gall. He sends it to Roman’s room, and prays that it lands somewhere incredibly inconvenient just for revenge sake. He also keeps the record player, because he could use some music in his life) and prepares for bed.

Step 1: Complete.

~~~

Taglist:

@crossiantgay

[evening-starlight]

Daddy’s Best Friend

Tag List is open! Comment or DM to be added.

All Works Master List

DBF Master List

12

Word Count: 1992

    The pile of clothes at the end of the bed seems impossible to sort as Amaris searches for her shirt. Her hands shake, and her mind yells at her. She said it would only be once, so why has she been in Tom's bed every day for the last week?

    "Here, your shirt," Tom says as he hands Amaris her ripped Metallica shirt. She didn't listen to the band much anymore; they were a little too heavy for her. She thanks him with a small smile and throws it on, finding her blue shorts quickly after. "You know, you don't have to leave so fast," Tom states, leaning against his bedpost. He hated seeing her leave so quickly after; it sent dread and sadness throughout his body. "We're still friends."

    Amaris can't help the heavy sigh that passes her lips. "Are we Tom? We haven't done friendly things since we started this mess. All we do is fuck," She bites, making her way out of his bedroom. It felt suffocating in there. Like all her evil deeds were ganging up to end her then and there. She didn't mean for the words to sound bitter, but it was true.

    Tom follows her out. "Then let's do something today. It's only noon. We have the whole day. Let's go bowling or something. Let's hang out, Mari. Let me show you we're still friends." Tom begs. He didn't want to lose her as a friend, which is why he hid these feelings for so long. It felt like his worst nightmare was happening before his eyes, and it had only been a week into the affair.

    He knew she was still with Armel, but he didn't care. He had her too, and he didn't mind sharing when she came to him to finish the job Armel couldn't. However, the jealously was nagging at him, and he had to continuously remind himself that this was what he wanted.

    "Fine. Armel and Juno are in classes, and I don't feel like dealing with Danny's drama." Tom smiles, stepping forward to kiss Amaris. She puts her hand up as a shield. "Strictly friends, Thomas." He sighs and chooses to wrap his arms around her shoulders in a friendly hug.

    "Deal. So bowling?" He asks. "Museum? I have no preference." Amaris thinks what the least romantic option would be.

    "Bowling," She states, pulling out of Tom's hug. It was public and loud, not a typically romantic place. She eyes him up and down, lingering on his shirtless torso a second longer than was platonic. "But I think you'll need to put a shirt on." She giggles as Tom flexes in typical bodybuilder poses.

    "What? Think you'd get too distracted by these guns?" He teases, flexing his biceps.

    "More like blinded by your pale skin," Amaris quips back. Tom fakes shock but can't hide the laugh bubbling in his belly. It felt good to joke around as friends again. Amaris could almost forget that she was slowly breaking Armel's heart. Almost.

    Tom holds the door to the bowling alley open for Amaris. The drive to the destination was full of jokes, singing, and everything they used to do when strictly friends. Amaris stays behind Tom, looking around for any fame hogs to steer clear of.

    Wherever Amaris went, she had to worry about someone using her to get famous or selling photos to the press. Of course, her being out with Tom wasn't anything new. The tabloids knew they were friends from a young age. But now that she's secretly sleeping with him, she continued to shift from foot to foot, heart pumping with exhilaration. She was out in public with her sideman, and no one knew but them.

    The pair sit in front of their lane, tying up their bowling shoes. "You still bowl with a ten, right?" Tom asks, standing up from his seat. Amaris confirms and goes to set their names in the tracker. She puts Tom under Tommy and hers under Mari. She wasn't the most creative when it came to nicknames.

    The first few rounds go by quickly, both adults focusing on dusting off their bowling skills. They used to bowl together a lot when Amaris was younger. This is the place he would take Amaris when she couldn't stand being a daughter of a millionaire much longer. Bowling was one of the few activities she had that made her feel like an average person again. At least for the duration of the game.

    "Take that, Maria," Tom jokes, finally getting a strike. He doesn't know where the nickname Maria came from, but it's only said during bowling. Amaris flips her friend off and gets set for her next bowl. When all pins are set up, she gets into her stance, focusing all her energy on trying to beat Tom.

    She pulls her arm back, about to let go when Tom's foot collides with her butt, throwing her off balance. The ball slowly rolls into the gutter. Amaris turns around to yell at Tom, stepping back when he's closer than expected. "That's a party foul," She whines.

    "Oh well," Tom says, walking back to his chair smugly. His roguish smile plastered on his perfect face as he takes a seat, leaving Amaris flustered.

    "You're an asshole, Hiddleston," She pouts, going back to the ball return. Tom chuckles and crosses one leg over the other. He felt proud of his actions. Amaris was a better bowler than he was, so he plays dirty when he can. It was also a mild excuse to touch her ass in public. It was the little wins for him.

    The joke was on Tom, though. After his little stunt, Amaris set out to obliterate the man and scored nothing but strikes and spares from then out. Tom steps up to the lines with an exaggerated pout. It was his last bowl, and he had to get a spare with split pins if he was going to try to make the embarrassing difference slightly less embarrassing.

    Amaris falls into a fit of giggles when Tom's ball ends in the gutter, hitting neither pin. Tom stalks over, not offended but feeling a swell of pride at the fact that he made her laugh this hard, all on his own. "Think something's funny, do you, Mari?" He asks hands on hips. The teasing was his favorite part of their dynamic, and he's thankful to all things good that it's back.

    "You bowl like an infant," Amaris continues to giggle, clutching her stomach. The last time she laughed this hard was when Juno slipped off their barstool after one glass too much and could only mumble an incoherent sentence about the 'stupid stool moving when I need it.' Amaris may have been tipsy as well. "I could bowl better from the womb," She continues.

    They both knew the joking and berating was good fun. It's just how Tom and Amaris were. They teased and fool around with each other until one cracks and gushes about loving the other. As friends, of course.

    Tom plops down in the seat beside her, crossing his arms. He could never be mad at her. Especially when she's laughing so hard she has to cover her mouth to muffle snorts. Those were Tom's favorite sounds. Sure, having Amaris scream his name was heavenly, but her snorts meant she felt safe and happy in her surroundings. He can't help but feel his smile widen at the fact that he's her safe spot.

    Amaris lays her head on his shoulder after her laughter dies down. "I'm pretty sure you find yourself funnier than you find me," Tom laughs, resting his arm across her shoulders. She nods, falling into another small fit of giggles.

    "'from the womb,'" She quotes herself. Amaris clears her throat as she sits straighter to look at Tom. "You know I love you, Tom," The words were so innocent, and she's said them to him before, so why did it feel different this time? Her cheeks burn, and her ears ring as if the words rang a bell right in her ear. "But please never take up professional bowling."

    "What do you mean? I could be the comparison person. 'And here we have average Joe to show you exactly how hard this dreaded spot, that's not really a sport, is,'" Tom jokes. Amaris giggles again, shaking her head to the man. "Keep laughing, and I'll throw you down the lane," Tom threatens lightly.

    "Don't threaten me with a good time, Tom," Amaris says, smiling widely at her best friend. It felt like all the guilt and troubles she's felt since Armel came to New York continue to fade into background noise when she's with Tom. He made everything feel brighter and lighter for her. Amaris felt like she could breathe for the first time when she's with him.

    "What? Sliding down the alley?" Tom asks, shifting to look at her better. She was the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Amaris's blonde hair was sticking to her face caused by the sweat, her smile was brighter than a thousand suns, and her eyes were like nothing he's seen before. They held so much joy that Tom forgot what sorrow was. Amaris nods. "Why not?" Tom asks, standing up from his spot, offering a hand to Amaris.

    "What?" Amaris asks in shock. She didn't think Tom would want to do something so juvenile with her, especially in public where anyone could see them making fools of themselves. Tom pulls her out of her seat.

    "Life's not fun if you take yourself too serious, Mari," Tom says, backing towards the lane. "You said you wanted to do this, so let's do it. I'll even go first."

    "Are you peer pressuring me?" Amaris asks, crossing her arms. The smirk she wears gives away that she was going to go after Tom anyways.

    Tom nods, a mockingly serious expression on his face. "Absolutely. Is it working?" Tom asks, waiting for Amaris's cue to embarrass himself in front of everyone. Not that he genuinely cared. They'd be a page story for one print, and everyone would forget.

    "You know I crack under pressure," Amaris says. Tom takes that as a yes and turns towards the lane. He takes a running start and maneuvers to slide down the alley on his belly.

    The disappointment he felt when he doesn't slide far makes its way onto his features. His feet weren't past the black line of the lane. Amaris stands behind him, giggling up a storm.

    Tom shuffles over to her, shoulders slumped, and head hung low. "Good luck," He wishes, patting Amaris on the back. She starts running from where she's at and makes it only an inch further than Tom did.

    Amaris jogs over to him, already seeing the staff discussing what to do about them. "That was extremely disappointing, and I think we're about to get kicked out," She laughs, gesturing to the staff. Tom laughs and hurries to sit down, taking off his bowling shoes. Amaris follows suit.

    This was one of the best days she's had since being home. It felt freeing to be out with Tom and not worry about anyone else but him. Her cheeks were growing sore from all the joy showing itself on her face. But the smile was only the tip of the iceberg. Her heart was pumping, and she felt like she was vibrating and needed an outlet for all the emotion. It was almost too much for her small frame to handle.

    Tom felt similar. He enjoyed spending alone time with Amaris. He didn't have to worry about business or what he hadn't done. Amaris helped Tom focus on what he is doing. And what he is doing is having the time of his life sliding down alleyways with the woman he loved with all his heart. As a friend, of course.

Taglist: @queenofallhobos​ @kingtwhiddleston​ @cynic-spirit​

[regrettablewritings]

I’ve been in an Arthur Curry kind of mood lately so let’s see your take on Arthur for the General section of the headcanons

I think Big Boy’s been in our heads ever since Jason snapped the other day over WB’s bullshit 👀👀👀

Who initiated the relationship, and how did it go?: It didn’t exactly get initiated so much as you guys sort of . . . fell into it. Neither one really noticed when the talking turned into actual conversing with one another, or when the conversing began to include you two inching closer, or when that started to include the both of you meeting up at a bar or taking walks or going to the beach to relax and so on. Arthur’s kind of thick-headed in that regard, the realization hitting him one day that what the both of you were doing could technically be qualified as dating. Hell, it wasn’t even so much as a hit as it was a nudge in his brain that made him take a pause as he drank his beer, glance at you as your eyes skimmed the grill menu, and think to himself, Oh, shit. Guess we’re datin’ now. And then take another swig. You never corrected him when he referred to you as his significant other around other people, either, so it’s safe to assume it works for you two knuckleheads.

Did they have an official first date? If so, what was it like?: As stated before, you two kind of stumbled into dating the same way someone who keeps walking in New York will eventually stumble into a bodega. If you wanna play it loose, then the first time you guys went on what could be considered a date was when Arthur dragged you to a taco truck he and Barry had tried out the other day. To his credit, it was a pretty kickass taco, and you were more than happy to admit that as the two of you sat down and people-watched, with him occasionally working the water in the nearby fountain to take the form of random shapes or funny scenarios. When it finally clicked that the two of you were an item, there was more or less a feeling that you should probably do an official outing just to make sure you were “doing this right”, whatever that meant. It took a bit of “conversing”, but eventually Arthur pulled a few strings (read: Convinced Bruce to land him a reservation at one of the best restaurants in town) and, well . . . It definitely could’ve been worse. Arthur has definite home-training, but fancy establishments just aren’t his cup of tea. He honestly had more fun making the wine in everyone’s glasses make little whirlpools, or having the still-alive lobsters climb out of the tank and “mysteriously disappear.” Suffice to say, maybe the first “date” really was the date done right. It also suffices to say that Bruce never pulls a favor like that for Arthur again: the next time y’all want a date somewhere exclusive, you have to be the one to do the talking.

What was their first kiss like?: Hot. Passionate. Hard. Wet. (God this sounds pervy.) When I say “hot”, I mean temperature-wise: Arthur runs hot, so his lips can feel almost searing when he’s really feeling a mood. The passionate and hard are given traits, considering that that’s just how Arthur does this: Never half-assed, always a full and complete 110%. And as for wet . . . Don’t worry, it’s not because he’s a sloppy kisser. It was because the first kiss the both of you ever shared happened to be after he returned from a mission. It wasn’t an especially life-or-death type of experience, mind you, but that didn’t make it any less nerve-wrecking for you since it considered him pulling an entire cruise ship to port. But the thrill of seeing your boyfriend succeed and be a hero quickly filled you, to the point where it was quite evident in your features when the soggy boy came home. Maybe he felt the need to bathe in that praise before even bathing himself. Or maybe he thought you looked so puppy-like that he just had to plant one on you. But whatever the case was, you got your first kiss of the relationship in the living room of Aquaman’s place. With him smelling like the water and everything that was in it. . . . Well, at least he was hot dripping wet, no?

Were they each other’s first anything (kiss, relationship, etc.)?: Well, if you really want to stretch it, you’re the first human he’s dated since being revealed to the world as Aquaman. Things with Mera . . . didn’t work out, but she does unfortunately hold the title as first to date him period. But as an Atlantean, there are just some things the human world’s got her beat on: Like the fact that it has you.

What’s their height difference? Age difference?: Soooo . . . Arthur Curry is 6′4″. Make of that what you will. Do the same with the age he’s approximated to be if you’d like.

What’s their relationship with each other’s families?: If you still keep in contact wit your family, they’re both amazed and thrown off by the fact that you’re dating the Aquaman: He’s a superhero, he’s an underwater king, he’s a member of the Justice League, he knows Batman, and, oh yeah, he’s hella fine. If you ever bring Arthur around your family, they’re definitely going to want to take photos or have him show them feats of his strength. He’s more than happy to drink any drunkles or cousins under the table, and gleefully lets younger kids dangle from his arms like he’s a living jungle gym. (Frankly, he prefers interactions with younger members of your family since they’re innocent and generally more upfront yet less nosy.) Thomas and Atlanna adore you, being ever so proud of their son for finally being with someone who looks like they’ll stick around for the long haul. Thomas is more than happy to share with you silly stories of what Arthur used to do growing up, and Atlanna just pretty much wants to hear everything about you. Given that she’s missed out on most of her son’s love lives, she wants to be very aware of you and familiarize herself with you. They welcome you back to Amnesty Bay any time. If they think Arthur is shirking on his boyfriendly duties, they are not afraid to get on him about it.

Who takes the lead in social situations?: Arthur, most definitely. He’s not even the most confrontational person, he doesn’t necessarily seek out situations to take the lead on. But when you’re a 6′4″ wall of muscle and a fairly recognizable metahuman superhero, people sort of wind up looking to you for answers. He’s more than happy to let you take the lead, however.

Who gets jealous easier?: A little bit you, but honestly neither of you are particularly the jealous type. The only reason I could venture to say you is because you have yourself quite a catch, no pun intended: Tall, handsome, heroic, a literal king, smart, kind . . . Everyone wants a piece of the Aquaman, and you can’t fight them all off. The good news is that you don’t have to: In spite of his party boy image, Arthur knows about dedication and loyalty in a relationship. As messed up as their relationship was in some regards, Arthur very much respects his parents’ union and, deep down, hopes for something even half as good as what they had. And he already knows he’s not about to get it from just any old random person trying to cop a feel of his biceps. So it’s perfectly safe to say that Arthur’s ghostly eyes are only ever for you. Though . . . it couldn’t hurt just to hang on his arm. Just to let people know, y’know?

Thanks for sendin’ in this request, I forgot it can be fun to write for this rascal!

[damianwaynerocks]

Zuko & The Waynes

atla/batfam crossover

taglist: @bi-fr0000g​

Part 2

Summary:  Prince Zuko has just seen a light; the Avatar has returned. He was just about to go capture him, when he falls through a portal, and lands in Gotham City. He’s angry. He was just about to regain his honor, to regain his father’s love. After he is adopted by Bruce Wayne and becomes Zuko Wayne, the second youngest child, Zuko starts to have second thoughts about regaining his honor. Living as Zuko Wayne makes him think that maybe, just maybe, he’s deserving of love just the way he is.

pt 1

Part 2:

"Word of advice; never check your hashtag."

Zuko muttered a thank you to Dick as he set his phone down to take a cup of tea being offered to him by his older brother, who say down himself and leaned his elbows on his knees. He smiled softly as he looked at Zuko. "Look, everybody thinks that we care about their opinion. They feel like their opinion on things we do matters, especially the negative ones. Plus, a lot of it's just for attention, just to get us to see it and say something."

"Don't worry about me," Zuko sighed, "I'm used to people saying things like that."

"I'm sorry about that." The two say in silence for a few minutes, before Dick perked up. "I forgot!" he fumbled to grab the remote, "I was going to show you Brooklyn Nine-Nine!"

"What's that?" Zuko asked, taking a sip of his tea. "This is really good, by the way, almost as good as my Uncle's."

"Thanks, Alfred makes the best tea," Dick replied, going to Hulu on the tv, "But Brooklyn NIne Nine is amazing! It's a cop show but so funny at the same time!" He pushed play, and sat back to watch.

It was funny. Zuko laughed a few times. He couldn't stay focused for long, though. He was nervous. His interview with Gotham Gazette was coming up the next week. He'd given interviews as Prince of the Fire Nation, but he'd always been with his father and sister, never really speaking unless agreeing with his father.

As if sensing his nervousness, Dick spoke. "Hey, I know you're nervous about the interview, but I promise it'll be okay. It won't be televised, and Bruce paid the Gazette to allow a family friend, Lois Lane, to interview you. She knows about all of this, including you being from another dimension, so it'll be easier."

Zuko took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Who is Lois, exactly?"

"Superman's wife," Bruce said as he walked into the room, holding a manila folder in his hand. He smiled. "How are you doing, Zuko?"

"I'm fine," Zuko said, crossing his arms  after he set his tea down on to the coffee table.

"It's okay to be nervous, it's your first interview," Bruce said kindly, sitting on the other side of him "I was for mine." Zuko looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"You? Nervous?"

Bruce laughed. "Oh, yeah. I was terrified. I was about your age. The Gazette wanted an exclusive about the new Healthcare program Wayne Enterprises were putting together- which I had little to no part of since Lucius Fox was running it for me."

"What'd you do?" asked Zuko, shifting to face the man.

"Alfred phoned the Gazette and played the sad orphan card for me so I could get the questions in advance," Bruce explained, smoothing the folder on his lap. "Lucius told me the answers to all of them, and so I knew what to say when the interview came."

"Lucky," Zuko snorted. Bruce smiled softly.

"No. Not luck. I just had people that loved me looking out for me." He handed Zuko the folder. "I called Lois and asked her to send over the questions she's going to ask you. Look through them to prepare for your answers, and if you need help, just ask." He ruffled Zuko's hair as he stood up and left.

Zuko blinked, and opened the folder. He read a few of the questions, and groaned. At Dick's questioning look, he said, "Half of these are way too personal, and I don't know what the other half of these mean! Current tv obsession? What lyrics from a song mean the most to you? Anakin Skywalker or Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

"What about Anakin Skywalker?" Duke piped up, sticking his head in the room. "I don't know what we're talking about, but if it involves Anakin, I want in it."

"Lois sent over the interview questions for Zuke," Dick explained, ignoring Zuko's protests against the nickname, "And some of them involve pop culture." Duke looked at the paper over Zuko's shoulder.

"I can help with these," he offered, "After that month mission in San Fran, I'm taking a week break. I can educate you on the icon that is Anakin Skywalker and all the other stuff."

"Okay, thanks," Zuko replied. Duke grinned.

"Now come on, we're binge-watching all the seasons of Clone Wars."

-_

Zuko and Duke were inseparable for the next week, constantly talking about the interview. Duke was telling him all about Star Wars, showing him his Spotify playlist, going to the Gotham Fashion Show, and trying new foods, to name a few.

"You're taking my sparring partner, Thomas," Damian had snapped on the third day.

"Sorry, man, Zu and I have stuff to do!" Duke had replied as he dragged Zuko to the garage by his hand, not looking very sorry at all. Duke had taken to calling him 'Zu' and if he was being truthful with himself, Zuko didn't mind it. They'd become very close.

It was the day of the interview. Zuko was nervous as he and Duke ran over his answers again.

"And remember, if you forget one, just say what you think," he was saying as Bruce straightened his tie. Bruce nodded in agreement.

"And I'll be right behind the camera," the man added, "If you get overwhelmed, tap your leg three times, and I'll interrupt you so you can get a break. Zuko nodded.

"Thank you," he breathed. Bruce and Duke smiled at him.

"Zuko," a woman with long black hair in a white blouse got Zuko's attention, "We're ready."

Zuko took a deep breath as he walked over, sitting on the couch they'd brought into the room for him and Lois to sit on. A broad man with black hair and glasses was behind the camera- Superman, Zuko remembered -smiled encouragingly at him. Usually, Bruce had told him, a man named Jimmy was Lois' partner, but Bruce had requested Clark just in case Zuko had accidentally revealed something incriminating.

"Okay, Clark," Lois said, making a motion with her fingers, "Let's do this." A red light blinked on the camera, and Lois turned to Zuko with a smile. "So! Zuko!" she grinned, "It's nice to meet you! How are you feeling?"

Just say what you're thinking, Duke's voice reverberated in his head. Zuko's voice didn't tremble when he finally spoke, "I haven't felt anything in years."

Lois blinked. "Oh? Did you have a rough life before you met Bruce?"

"Something like that." Lois smiled sadly. She knew the truth, as Clark had told her.

"I'm sorry about that," she said, before clearing her throat. "So! The Gazette put together the 'twenty-one questions' questionnaire for you to go over! Does that sound good?"

The interview was a blur. He remembered telling her that he liked Anakin more than Obi-Wan and that his favorite song was Choke by I DON'T HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME. He told her that his favorite part of living with Bruce was Alfred's tea because it reminded him of how his uncle would make it.

"Thank you for your time, Zuko," Lois smoothed her skirt in her lap as she smiled warmly, "It's been lovely to meet you."

"And we're good!" Clark said from behind the camera, giving the two a thumbs up. "You did great, Zuko!"

"Thanks," Zuko replied, releasing a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding.

"Hey, dad!" a boy around Damian's age in a Superman hoodie with black hair and blue eyes flew down the stairs until he right in front of Clark. "Can I spend the night?"

Clark looked at Bruce. "If it's okay with Bruce, sure. As long as you're back tomorrow by noon."

"It's fine with me," Bruce agreed. Jon grinned.

"Yes! Damian, it's a go!" he threw his arms around Clark. "Thanks, Dad!" he turned to Zuko and held out his hand for him to shake. "Hi!" he chirped, "I'm Jon, Damian's best friend! It's nice to meet you!"

"Uh, nice to meet you, too," said Zuko, taking the Kryptonian's hand. Jon's eyes lit up.

"Do you like smores?" he asked. Zuko's eyebrows furrowed.

"What's that?"

"Jon," Bruce said sternly, "You and Damian are not starting a fire in this house. Not after last time." Jon’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

"But Mr. Wayne-"

"Jon," Clark cut him off with a look, "Bruce said no."

Jon sighed. "Aw, fine. But come on, Zuko, let's go!" he picked Zuko off of the ground with startling strength and carried him to Damian's room.

"Don't carry me!" Zuko snapped, shoving the boy off of him and dusting off his clothes. Jon laughed.

"Wow, Damian! He's just like you!"

Damian scoffed from where he was sketching on his bed. "Don't be absurd, Jonathan." Jon raised an eyebrow.

"Let's see; grumpy, not liking being carried at first," he was counting on his fingers, "Trauma, a little scary, black hair, little to no social skills-"

"Hey!" Zuko and Damian interrupted simultaneously. Jon laughed.

"I'm just saying! Anyways, Bruce said we couldn't start a fire for smores."

Damian groaned. "That is so unfair! The chandelier incident was not our fault!"

Zuko blinked. "That... what incident?" Damian waved him off.

"Never you mind. Father is just being unreasonable." he paused. "Jonathan, what exactly did he say?"

Jon cleared his throat before lowering his voice several octaves in an impression of Bruce. "You and Damian are not starting a fire in this house." Damian smirked.

"So we cannot start a fire, but he said nothing about Zuko, the firebender!" he turned to Zuko, "We will go get the supplies. You stay up here. We'll use these to communicate." he tossed an earpiece into his hand. Zuko frowned.

"We need an earpiece just so we can get food?"

Damian gave him a disbelieving look. "Zuko, at this moment there is a Kryptonian, my father, Drake, Thomas, and Lane in this house. We have to cover all of our bases."

Zuko rolled his eyes but put the device in his ear anyway. Damian did the same. Jon was staring at the door, using his x-ray vision to see if anyone was coming. He didn't need an earpiece due to his superhearing.

"Alright, I will go get the marshmallows and graham crackers, and Jonathan, you go get the chocolate from Drake's room," Damian commanded in his voice typically only used for missions. "Zuko, you stay here, and do not let anybody know our plans."

Jon and Zuko nodded, the Kryptonian's serious and the firebender's condescending. Damian gestures to the door. "Let's be off, Jonathan." the two left the room, leaving Zuko standing.

Zuko looked around Damian's room. The walls were bare aside from two swords mounted above his bed and a framed picture of all of his bets above his television. Zuko was accepting the fact that he would be bored whenever there was a knock on the door.

Clark walked in, looking for Jon, but frowned when he didn't see his son. "Where are Jon and Damian?" he asked.

"Play. Dumb," Damian hissed in the earpiece. Zuko put on a confused expression.

"Who's Damian?"

"Not that dumb!"

Clark rolled his eyes fondly, clearly not believing him, but not wanting to push him. "Whatever. Tell Jon I said I love him."

Zuko nodded. "Will do, sir!" he said. Clark nodded, and left.

Jon was back in the room shortly after with a box of chocolate under his arm. "Golly," he gasped, "Tim's room is booby-trapped to the extreme! I barely made it without tripping any of them!"

"That is because you are an imbecile," Damian said from the doorway with a box of crackers in one hand and a bag of marshmallows in the other. He looked at Zuko with a deadpan expression. "You have much to learn when it comes to lying."

"He believed me, didn't he?" Zuko countered, crossing his arms over his chest. Damian rolled his eyes.

"No, he did not, he just heard a distress call from Metropolis and he did not have time to wait," he replied matter-of-factly. Jon's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"I didn't hear a distress call."

"That is because you were too busy trying not to get trapped in one of Drake's childish snares."

"Why does his room have those, anyway?" Zuko asked.

"Because he is worried somebody will come in and steal his things," Damian explained, "as he thinks that anybody with time on their hands would care enough to snoop through his stash of Penthouse magazines."

"What's that?" Zuko and Jon said at the same time.

"Pornography," Damian replied, opening the bag of marshmallows and pulling one out. He put it in between two of the graham crackers, and grabbed a square of chocolate to add. He looked at Zuko expectantly as he impaled it with one of the swords on the wall.

"Light a fire, Zuko," Jon explained, doing the same thing as Damian. Zuko obliged, a fire igniting above his palm. Damian and Jon put their smores in the flames, letting them toast. After a minute, Damian pulled his out. He handed the sword to Zuko.

"Here, eat." It was more of a demand than an offer, but Zuko didn't argue. He took the smore from the tip of the blade and took a bite. His eyes widened.

"This is amazing!" he praised, taking another bite. Jon smiled brightly.

"Right? They're the best!"

"They are a delectable treat," Damian agreed, taking the sword back from Zuko to make himself one. "Even if they are for children."

"Don't forget forbidden."

The three jumped at the voice, the flame fizzling out from Zuko's hand as he saw Bruce standing in the doorway with a frown on his face. "I thought I told you all that you could not start a fire!"

"On the contrary, Father," Damian contradicted, "You said that Jon and I could not start a fire. You said nothing about Zuko."

Bruce narrowed his icy blue eyes. "You're a smart boy, Damian, you knew what I meant. No patrol tomorrow!" Damian's eyes flew open.

"But Father-" he protested, but Bruce cut him off.

"No, Damian, you disobeyed me. And you, Zuko," he turned to the firebender, "No going to John Mulaney's show with Duke tomorrow."

Zuko's jaw dropped. "But-"

"And you, Jon," the Bat ignored him, setting his eyes on Jon. "I will be informing your mother of this." Jon paled.

"No," he whispered, "Not that. Anything but that."

"Yes," Bruce said sternly. "Now, I have work to do." Before he could walk out, Zuko's voice stopped him.

"That's it? Aren't you going to hit us or something?" he asked, confused. That's what fathers did whenever their children misbehaved, after all. They disciplined them.

Although it was impossible to tell, Bruce's heart cracked at his son's bewildered face. "No, Zuko," he answered, his voice much gentler now, "No. A father should never hit his children."

After Bruce left, Damian groaned, throwing his arms into the air. "This is ridiculous!" he seethed, "No patrol? For making smores?"

"My mom's gonna be so mad," Jon whimpered, closing his eyes as though that would erase the image of Lois' disappointed smile out of his head.

Zuko, though, was silent. Bruce's words were running through his mind. A father should never hit his children.

_

Zuko awoke the next morning to texts from the group chat.

Frowning, Zuko opened his twitter as he stood up, stretching. His eyebrows furrowed as he read.

"What the heck?" he muttered as he texted the group chat a response.

"Well," he said aloud as he put on a shirt and prepared to go downstairs for breakfast, "Alrighty then." As he made his way to the kitchen, the voices of the other boys reached his ears.

"If we were in a band, I would be the lead singer!"

"No you wouldn't, you can't sing!"

"What the hell do you know, Drake, you have barbecue sauce on your toast-"

"Damian don't fucking swear-"

"Jason! Stop teaching him those words!"

"How I eat my toast isn't relevant to the fact that Dick can't sing-"

They stopped arguing as Zuko entered the room, sitting into the seat next to Tim and rubbing his eyes. Seeing Tim dipping his toast in barbecue sauce, he wrinkled his nose in disgust and got up from his seat and moved to the one beside Duke.

Tim didn't seem phased. He pointed his toast at Zuko. "You went on a midnight drive with Dick, right? Was he a good singer?"

"No," Zuko replied bluntly, meeting Dick's pleading look. The acrobat scowled.

"That is false! False! I am a great singer!" he huffed, "Just ask Superman!"

Jason laughed. "Dude, Clark was lying! He's too nice to tell you the truth! You royally suck."

Bruce was sitting at the head of the table reading the newspaper, sipping his coffee as he tuned out his children's argument. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"The gala's tonight," he said, "And I want everyone on their best behavior."

The gala was for Zuko. An event to celebrate the Waynes bringing in another child.

Zuko was not excited about it.

The day was spent with preparations. Getting the ballroom ready, running over what to say when Gretchen Milliana made you comfortable, and ballroom dancing.

Zuko was not very good at the last one.

"Okay, so, you might need more professional help," Dick admitted after the second hour had passed. "Never fear! We'll get Cass."

Cassandra Cain, the only female Wayne, was in the dance studio. Zuko had only met her a few times.

"Hey, Cass!" Dick greeted as they entered the room where a girl of Asian descent was practicing ballet. "Any chance you can help Zuko get the waltz down before tonight?"

"Sure," Cass replied, stilling her motions. "Come here, Zuko." She placed his right hand on her waist and put her own on his shoulder, interlocking their other hands. "Like this."

She began leading him in the dance, but within two steps, Zuko stepped on her feet. "I'm sorry," he muttered. Cass shrugged.

"It is alright," she paused, "Think of it as if you were in combat. As though you're learning a new fighting technique."

That worked.

After ten minutes, Zuko was starting to get the hang of it. Cass was a good teacher. And surprisingly, Zuko found himself having fun.

The two danced around the room to a Beethoven song. Zuko had a smile, a real smile on his face. He liked it. It was peaceful. It was graceful. It was fun.

"Very good!" Cass praised, "You're a natural!"

Zuko laughed nervously before asking his question. "Do you think... do you think you could show me ballet sometime?" he asked, his face red. Cass smiled.

"Of course! You're a great dancing partner!"

_

Eight hours later, Zuko was in a suit. He pulled at the collar nervously. Duke saw this, and stepped in front of him to straighten his tie.

"No worries, dude," he said, "It isn't that bad. Besides, aren't you a prince? You've probably been to a ton of these things."

Zuko shrugged half-heartedly. "Yeah, but it's different."

"Then don't make it different," Duke replied, "Just put on your Prince Zuko face and pretend like you know what you're doing even if you don't. Fake it till you make it."

Zuko did just that. He put on his Prince Zuko face and acted.

He stood by Dick most of the time, his older brother doing most of the talking for him. But, as all good things must come to an end, Gretchen Milliana asked him to dance.

"You're a good dancer!" the forty-year-old woman purred, "Who taught you?"

"Cassandra," Zuko replied simply. "She's a good teacher."

"She must be," Gretchen smirked. The conversation continued, Gretchen flirting with the sixteen-year-old until he was red in the face. Finally, the song ended, and he said a polite good-bye and went back to find Dick.

"How was it?" Dick asked.

"Take a guess," Zuko grunted. Dick sucked in his teeth.

"Yeah, she's something else. Very yucky." Zuko raised an eyebrow at the word choice.

"Yucky? How old are you?" he taunted. Dick rolled his eyes.

"Twenty-three, which makes me your elder and therefore deserving of respect." He showed Zuko his phone. "Look at my post!"

Zuko looked up at Dick. "Where'd you get that picture?"

"The paparazzi work fast, my guy.”

_

After the gala, Zuko was making his way to his room, when Tim stopped him.

"Come on, I have a favor to ask!" he said, leading him into the Cave where a girl with blonde hair and star earrings was waiting at the computer.

"Zuko, this is Cassie Sandsmark, also known as Wonder Girl," he introduced. Cassie shook his hand.

"Nice to meet ya, Zuko!" she greeted.

"You too," said Zuko, before turning to his brother. "What do you need?"

"So, my team and I have been tracking a magyntite dealer for months," Tim began, sitting on the chair in front of the computer. "Magyntite is a chemical that, when coated over something, makes its durability increase ten-fold. Like, if you made this stuff into a suit, even a punch from Superman wouldn't hurt you."

"It's from the planet Tatooine," Cassie added, "No relation to the Star Wars planet, though. Total coincidence."

"We tracked the dealer to Gotham, and he's having an auction at one of Falcone's clubs. They're calling it 'Masked Magicians Monday,'" Tim said, cracking his knuckles.

Zuko interrupted him. "What does this have to do with me?"

"We need to infiltrate it," Tim explained,  "and we need your help to do it, Zuko. You and Cassie are going to pretend to be a magician couple."

"No offense, Zuko," said Cassie with a glance at him before looking at Tim with a raised eyebrow, "But why isn't Bart or Kon doing this?"

"Because they don't have experience acting as a fancy socialite. Zuko does, being a prince as well as being apart of a gala."

"I don't have experience either!"

"I know but like, you're the only girl." Tim rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly at her glare.

Cassie sighed. "Alright, what's game plan?"

"You and Zuko go to the party in Carnevale masks- I got one big enough to cover your scar-" he added as Zuko opened his mouth, "And when it's time to bid on the magyntite, you get it. I've got $50,000,000 in cash."

"Sounds easy enough," Zuko said. Cassie nodded in agreement.

Tim sucked in his teeth. "Yeah, this is where it gets weird though. Whoever the dealer is is bonkers. Really weird rules. You have to have a date to get in, and you have to be in a relationship with the person. And you have to be convincing. Like if they suspect you're faking, you'll get kicked out."

"That sounds fake," Zuko grunted.

"That's what I thought, too, but it isn't," Tim argued, "This dude only wants couples. Maybe it's a sex thing?"

Cassie scrunched her nose in disgust. "Whoever this guy is, he sounds like a creep. Why does he care?"

"Who knows?" Tim shrugged, "And another rule is that you have to show that you can do magic- real magic, not that children show magic -at the door. I figured Zuko would light a fire in his hand."

"Does he have to say a spell?" asked Cassie.

"Yeah, just come up with something," Tim said to Zuko. "Also, for obvious reasons, you guys need to think of fake names. I have your ids all set up, but I was gonna let you pick your names so it's easier to remember."

Cassie turned to Zuko, putting her hand on her chin and scrunching her face up in an exaggerated thoughtful expression. She furrowed her eyebrows. "You," she pointed her finger at Zuko, "Look like a Dylan."

"Dylan?" Zuko echoed with a frown. "I don't like it. That doesn't sound regal enough."

"Oh, you want a regal name, Your Majesty?" Cassie bowed dramatically before flashing him a grin. "Okay! What about Henry?"

"Henry is... acceptable," Zuko replied, rolling the name around in his head. Tim furrowed his eyebrows, his mouth agape.

"Tell me you didn't pick Henry because Timothée Chalamet played Henry V in that movie."

"That's completely the reason and I'm not even remotely sorry about it," Cassie huffed, placing her hands on her hips dramatically. "I've said it before and I'll say it again; if I don't marry Timothée Chalamet, my life has been a waste." Tim stared at her as if she'd grown another head.

"You've saved eleven people from dying this week alone."

"A waste, Tim. A waste." The corners of her mouth turned up as she looked at Zuko. "Your turn, fake boyfriend, pick a name for me."

Zuko sized her up, thinking, but the only name that came to his mind was 'ty-lee' and he certainly couldn't give her the name of his sister's best friend.

Cassie shifted her weight from one leg to the other impatiently. Zuko's eyes zipped around the room and landed on an empty starbucks cup. "Uh, what about Larissa?" he finally said

"Larissa," Cassie hummed, "I like it!"

Tim gave Zuko a strange look as if to say why did you give her the name of our favorite starbucks barista?

Zuko gave him an anxious look in return as if to say I don't know I panicked.

"So what about last name?" Cassie asked, seemingly oblivious to the silent exchange. "Are we married or what?"

"No," Tim answered, "You're engaged."

"Ooh, that means a fancy ring! Score!" Cassie cheered. She gave Zuko a friendly nudge. "And you'll get one too! Though you're probably used to fancy things, being a prince and then being a Wayne and all."

Zuko shrugged. "I'm not really a jewelry person."

"Well too bad, fiancé of mine," Cassie wrapped her arm around Zuko's waist and gave him a playful side hug, "You are now! Come on, we should get ice cream or some thing else so we can get used to each other so the chemistry seems real and all."

Zuko sent Tim a glance over his shoulder as Cassie grabbed his hand to pull him to the motorcycles. She handed Zuko a helmet and revved up the engine. "My mom doesn't know I have this, so keep it a secret."

"Your secret's safe with me."

Cassie was a bad driver.

Zuko didn't get scared often, but riding with Cassie on a motorcycle? A terrifying experience.

"I can see why your mom doesn't want you to have one of these," Zuko gasped as he hopped off the motorcycle, putting a hand over his chest. "You're a terrible driver."

"No, I'm not!"

"We almost died!"

"But we didn't!" Cassie countered. She walked ahead of him towards the building. "Anyways, let's go eat ice cream! Your treat, since you're rich and all."

"This ice cream better be good, or else," Zuko grumbled. Cassie laughed.

"What are you gonna do, break off our engagement?" Cassie had a twinkle in her eyes as she spoke. "Whatever shall I do?"

Zuko rolled his eyes and led her to a table. Their waiter arrived shortly, holding a notepad and pen. "What can I get you two?"

Before Zuko could say anything, Cassie interrupted him. "Vanilla milkshake please, two straws," she said sweetly. The waiter chuckled, his eyes flicking between the two of them, and walked to the back.

Zuko gave her a look. "Two straws?" Cassie shrugged.

"Hey man, the event's tomorrow night and no offense but being romantic doesn't seem to be your forté. We're gonna have to do a ton of couple stuff so you get used to it."

"I can be romantic!" Zuko protested, "I've had a girlfriend before!"

"Oh yeah? How old were you?"

"Thirteen!"

Cassie laughed. "In my book, any relationship thirteen and younger doesn't count."

"Well, we must be different then," Zuko grumbled, crossing his arms.

Cassie's eyes softened. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"You didn't."

Cassie clearly didn't believe him, but she didn't press it. "So! What do you like to do for fun?"

"I don't do fun," Zuko replied, looking out the window. Cassie rolled her eyes.

"Oh wow, you are so Bruce's kid. But seriously, Zuko, everybody has something they do for fun! You have to have an idea."

"I mean..." he wracked his brain for an answer, and remembered Cass. "Turns out I like dancing. It was outlawed in the Fire Nation, so I'd never danced before. My sister Cass was teaching me how to ballroom dance and I actually really liked it. We're gonna start doing ballet together." His face turned red as he realized what he'd just admitted. A boy? Doing ballet? His father would have scoffed at him, calling him pathetic.

Cassie shocked him by giving him a warm smile. "I love that! Cass is the best ballet dancer I've ever seen, you're super lucky to have her!"

Zuko looked down. "I'm not lucky," he said darkly, "It's like my father always said; my sister was born lucky, while I was lucky to be born."

Cassie scowled. "Well, that's awful to say! I think you're very lucky! I mean, hey," she leaned back in the booth, putting her hands behind her head and smiling, "You get to fake-date me! The great Cassandra Sandsmark!"

Zuko snorted a laugh, which made Cassie's grin widen.

"Score! I made you smile! We'll be a believable couple in no time."

The ice cream arrived, and Cassie put the two straws in. Telling him to 'drink up,' Zuko took a zip.

"This is really great," he said. Cassie grinned.

"Ice cream's so good, man, I'm glad you like it."

"I'm exhausted," Zuko complained, leaning back. He was still in his suit from the gala.

Cassie waved. "Hi, Exhausted, I'm Cassie!"

Zuko gave her a weird look.

Cassie frowned. "You know? You said you were exhausted so I said 'hi, exhausted?' It was a joke."

"It was a bad one."

She scoffed. "As if you can do better!"

"I have plenty of jokes!" Zuko argued.

"Oh yeah? Tell one!"

All Zuko could remember was half of the joke Iroh had told him the night before he's arrived in Gotham. "My uncle used to tell me this one all the time. I don't remember all of it, but the punchline was 'leaf me alone, I'm bushed!'"

Cassie sucked in her teeth. "Tt. You know, a joke is only funny if you tell the entire thing."

"Okay, Damian," Zuko retorted, referring to her use of the sound Damian constantly vocalized.

"Speaking of Damian, what's it like living with him?" she rested her elbows on the table. "Tim says he's a nightmare, but surely he's got his moments, right?"

Zuko didn't respond for a moment, his mind wandering to a few days prior, whenever Damian had invited him up to his room to paint the sunset with him.

The two were silent, nothing but the sound of paintbrushes gliding along canvases filling the air.

"The League of Assassins told me many things." Damian's voice broke the silence, not looking up from his canvas. "They told me that they were great, that they- that we were only killing because we had to. That we were doing good work. That we were going to make the world a better place, start a new, good world order, and that I would lead it."

"I know what you're trying to do," said Zuko shortly, not looking up from his painting.

"I am simply relaying facts to you," Damian denied, "Anyways, I believed that I was doing good. The murder, the cruelty- it was all for the greater good. But... but it wasn't. It wasn't good. Murder is murder. We were using murder as a way to gain power, to gain control over everything. Not to make a good world. They didn't care if the new world is good, as long as they got to rule it." His eyes flicked to Zuko briefly, before returning to his painting. "It took me a long time to realize that. That I was being used. I was a pawn. They didn't love me, I was a weapon. A tool. Something they could use to get what they wanted."

Zuko didn't reply. Surely his father wanted to love him. After all, he was giving him a chance to regain his love. He only had to capture the Avatar. And the Fire Nation was the greatest of all. They were doing good, helping the world.

And yet, the more he thought about it, the more Zuko realized that he couldn't find any instance of the Fire Nation doing something that would directly benefit the Air Nomads, Earth Kingdom, or the Water Tribes. The more he thought about it, the more he noticed the similarities between the Fire Nation and the League of Assassins.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized how different Bruce Wayne was from Fire Lord Ozai. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how different his relationships with Tim, Duke, Damian, Dick, Jason, and Cass are from his relationship with Azula. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how much safer he felt at the Manor than he ever felt at the Palace.

And the more he thought about it, the more the hand holding his paintbrush shook.

"Living with Damian gives you a headache," Zuko finally answered, taking another sip of their milkshake.

[highsviolets]

ne plus ultra

summary: you encounter acclaimed scholar obi-wan kenobi after an academic conference

rating: mature (not explicit)

notes: all my love and affection to brit and mia. @profkenobi​ you are my prompt muse & @goldenkenobi​ you win many awards by listening to my endless rambles about this fic. // CHAPTER TWO 

ne plus ultra (n). 

(1) the highest point capable of being attained 

(2) the most profound degree of a quality or state

the story starts in medias res, as all lives do. the beginning of your life is always in the middle of someone else’s. your death coincides with another’s gallant ebullience, your semi-colon failing to incise upon their life. so the scholars say.

the conference — your first since you passed your dissertation — had made you nervous, and you were glad to be spending an extra night before returning to the real world tomorrow.

your palms are slick, as they always are after too long spent in the company of other academics. the anxiety that swells in you is ballast and the deadweight forces you to slump forward slightly, the visible seam on your the shoulder of your shirt sashaying inwards.

when you smile at the concierge, it is tight, like a formation of soldiers in Napoleon’s day, and does not quite reach your eyes. still decked with traces of freckles and darkened by a summer spent abroad under the sun’s penetrating gazes, your skin fails to comply with demands of minuscule muscles pulling and stretching, commanding it into a thin arc.

but it is no matter — you receive your key and you sign the paperwork and are ascending the winding staircase to the seventh floor. emerald green carpet is your guide, swathing your ascendancy in a sheen of dark-hue velvet. sir gawain chasing after the knight in green armor, a lecture on virtue streaming from the knight’s mouth, materializes on the steps. the galloping thought makes you smile, this time more relaxed. that story is something you know. something you know so well you could almost touch it. indeed you had fingered its pages, during your apprenticeship at the British Library.

hope. the words springs forth, nearly unbidden, from your lips. the word is spoken so softly — merely a breath and a hint of sound disturbing the stairwell’s precious physics. it is a reflex of association. green means hope, the scholars had said, and during the course of your studies you had been disappointed to find that you agreed with them. you did not want to agree with the fashionably smug expert in the field. you wanted to rattle him. shake him to his sacrosanct core, the sanctimonious scum.

you had never met the man: the mysterious OWK. your advisor had raved about his breakout lecture series that had taken place years ago, when he was a newly minted phd and you were still in undergrad. sipping a cup of cafeteria coffee (they always forgot you preferred tea, all these years later), they had rambled on about the poetry of OWK’s phrasing and his decisiveness in speech and the unparalleled skill of his primary source research. the lectures had been sadly lost, the footage deleted, or archived, they didn’t know which. just that the man had refused to distribute them and speak on the matter further, nearly abandoning academia entirely.

the beverage was bitter but you laughed lightly. “is this thomas moore and his lectures on st. augustine, then? so legendary that no one can find them?”

your advisor had inclined their head, congratulating you on your witty reference. “i suppose so,” they had mused, leaning back in their office chair and staring at some point above your head, at the oaken bookshelves with brightly colored book jackets lining the walls. “now, your latest draft—“

the memory fades as your purpose alters. a simple twist of the key and the door opens. but you remain on the threshold, stuck between two modes, between here and there.

there is a man in your room, and he is as handsome as sin. he sits in a chair in the corner of the room and one leg is resting on the other’s kneecap at a ninety degree angle. he is wearing glasses, and has short auburn hair that gleams in the dull light of the lamp beside him (although, a few wayward strands obscure his eyes, layering over the frame of his glasses). he is reading. the cover is folded over so you cannot see the title but it is hefty, judging from its position on his thigh. shadows have formed over high cheekbones.

the man removes himself from the task, focusing his gaze on you. you see now that he has bright blue eyes.

“hello there!” his greeting is polite, and amiable, and accented, though not pleasantly so. “can i help you?”

“I’m afraid there seems to be a mix-up!” you say in your ‘adult voice.’ it’s same one you used on your dissertation defense. “it seems we were placed in the same room.”

“ah.” he nods sagely, as though this were to be expected, and unfolds himself from his chair.

you place a hand on your hip — near the phone snug in the back pocket of your jeans — and shrug. “I’m sorry.” the apology is saccharine and tastes like grenadine. “I’ll pop back downstairs and find out what the problem is.”

he urges you to stay, to let him call from here rather you lugging your things all the way down and all the way back up again. “it’s not proper,” he insists, dragging you in and closing the door behind you. in the time that his is so near to you and you feel the way his frown matches the steady grip on your upper arm, something warms in you at his indignation. your hand drifts away from your phone. he retreats to his corner to make the call while you linger just beyond the threshold.

the conversation is hushed and decorated with the raised tones of inquiry. when he hangs up, he sighs.

“they were under the impression that we were a married couple. apparently we booked under a similar last name.” his voice turns down at the edges. he sounds the way his frown had earlier: weary, confused, and a dash of inexplicable certainty.

“but—“ you gesture to the beds — “two beds?”

something of a grimace shadows his face. “all that was available, apparently.”

“oh.” there is a pause. he does not continue. “but they got me a room, right?” if you sound slightly desperate, perhaps it is because you are. you are sweaty. you are nervous. you want to relax. in your own room.

he zooms past your query. “i know you,” he says, and sounds as if he is surprised he knows how to speak.

“i —“ you shake your head — “i don’t think so.”

when you give your name and recognition fails to present itself, he falters and twists to stare through the glass behind him. “i thought…” but he breaks off.  in the end he rights himself and tells you of the situation — how there is no vacancy, but he does not mind the sharing a room with you, just for the night, it wouldn’t be a bother.

there is something different about him. maybe it is the way that he emphasized the word can. maybe it is the way he is pushing the hair from his eyes, and removing the glasses from his face. maybe it is the way that, now pausing his actions, the man cants his head and furrows his brow.

air grows thick with the brush strokes of caravaggio: he is in the spotlight, sure and solid and steady, pure against the whirlpools of unknowing realism.

you are on the cusp of stepping into his white light when he offers his name. the first letter of each word drags itself from his mouth and burrows into your ear, until you almost divorce the meaning but for the particulars.

the first instinct that you are aware of is one you cannot name — it is an anger that is sweet, and one that is shielded by sadness, yet fueled by frustration.

there are dozens of others that your heart and mind have already examined, of course, turning them this way and that, inspecting their corners with bloodied hands. but they are rejected, and expelled into the waxy shadows, without your being aware of them. that is the job of the soul: to know before you are even aware.

he senses the shift. perhaps uncertainty has clouded your eyes. obi-wan kenobi, OWK, takes a step back from rising mist and shadow and once more turns to gaze out the window. through the glass there is a gentle village scene, all cobblestones and iron street lamps and hills keeping time on the horizon.

“i — “ you start, but you stop again. you must start, you feel, but you do not know what path to take, and you halt. the time he thinks you consider you are in fact not considering at all. there is only one answer (answers that are wrong are never really answers, after all, just more questions).

“i’ll stay.”

—

Obi-Wan is courteous and deferential and demands that you permit him to treat you this evening as an apology. he departs to give you privacy as you shower, and the flash of shimmering emerald carpet you spy as he exits makes you wonder if you are the Lady Bertalik to his Sir Gawain.

the steam and the water beat down clenched muscles with gentle hands and lingering touches. it is for several minutes that you linger in their warm embrace, but as you wipe away fog from the mirror you cannot help but encounter the sensation that you are alone, and wrongfully so. you cannot feel Obi-Wan’s presence and the air feels stale without him — like there is no current disrupting the atmosphere’s mundane course.

droplets decorate your shoulders and the hollow of your throat. they hold fast even when you pad softly to your belongings for a fresh change of clothes.

The ache in this room is stronger. The walls themselves are mourning his absence. You feel it settle in your gut, a gluttonous mass that lightens when you consider that he should be returning soon. the sky outside the window is orange and gold, flattering the leaves of maple trees in autumn.

the room is pretty, in a simple way: the emerald carpet of hope has been exchanged for a darkened hardwood. Chrome accents gleam in the reflection of the wood, and two beds — one at opposite ends of the wall — are smothered silver-white sheets. a series of Malevich paintings are hung up in a neat grid, as though the dissembling artist would come barging in, screaming of the devil, if the French theories of symmetry were not obeyed.

as you dress and begin to comb your hair, you wonder why you miss someone whom you have just met, and someone you are not disposed to like. can you miss someone you don’t like? he is sporadic and paradisiacal; in motion and steady. his kindness had surprised you, as had his beauty. he was less corrosive than your advisor had made him out to be, less ambitious than the accolades awarded to his name. but he is zealous, hungry, seeking: you could see in the way his eyes bunched around the edges, in the crick of his neck when he sought wisdom from the hills, how he had contorted his body in the chair.

(he is like you, both here and not here, and although you did not yet know, your soul was aware and reflective in wonder)

when your flesh-and-blood sir gawain returns, you muse that you are a poor temptress in an thick-knit ivory sweater that encases your body from neck to wrists. it had been a steal from a second-hand store a few years back, and you had never found the heart to give it up. it was like a childhood book, or a favorite mug — the object, in all its durable materiality, was akin to you.

Your smile pleases him. Obi-Wan says he has found a place for this evening, nothing special, but nice. “We are celebrating after all,” he says, shrugging off a dark woolen coat.

“We are?” you look at him through the reflection of the mirror. blue eyes meet yours.

“Of course!” the phrase suspends itself for a moment, maybe two, as though it is waiting for something to slip in and complete its trinity. but it falls, tumbling back down to terrestrial concerns. “We are celebrating our meeting.”

He is absurd, and you laugh. Obi-Wan’s theory of festivity is not so mercurial as his speech — the declaration sticks to your ribs, pumping blood to your heart and flooding your cheeks with a natural flush.

Obi-Wan continues to examine you. “Might I ask,” he starts, hands stilling in their expedition of finding suitable attire, “where you bought your sweater?”

you respond: it was from a second-hand store, you found it during your apprenticeship, it was the only thing that kept you warm that terribly dreary winter, it was your constant companion.

“does it have a trio of red threads on the left cuff?”

satisfying his quench takes precedence to mystery of his request.

Obi-Wan’s smile engulfs the spirit of the room, and the two of you, and the bedding, and the glass window, too.

“that was my sweater,” he says. “my uncle made it for me, and i gave it to my brother after we adopted him. he wasn’t used to the dampness of English winters, but he didn’t like the itchiness of the knit. he always had an aversion to gritty textures.” he reaches out a hand with a faint smile, like the combined power of his simple offering can cross space and time and memory and return him to the days of him and his uncle and adopted brother.

you do not know what to say. you watch him for several moments. you want to speak, but your mind is blank, thrumming with the idea that it is so very right that part of him has been with part of you all of these years. parts have him has seen you through the long hours of a dreary apprenticeship and discovering the healing properties of English tea and catching tears and wisps of smiles and witnessing ink spill over pages as you churned out dissertation drafts until the argument was smooth and refined.

the idea makes you feel very alive, and alert, and you want to offer him comfort. “would you like to take it back?” one hand tugs at the edge of the cloth, near your waist. “it’s yours anyway.” the pain of parting is lessened by the joy of giving.

he demurs, you coax. eventually it is determined that he will wear the garment for the evening, but only if you wear something of his, too. “that way it’s even,” he says, and you laugh again to hide the dip in your stomach at thought of wearing something of his, of wrapping yourself in his scent, of placing your body in a place his had once inhabited.

you settle on a light gray blazer that you think must compliment his eyes, which sparkle with aquamarine and crystal. it is paired with a turtleneck and when you emerge to show him the completed ensemble, spinning in a circle, he chuckles.

“you look like me,” he says, one hand cupping his chin.

a feeling pulses in your mind but you let it go. you may like him after all, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a pompous academic whose theories had made your life hell.

—

you expect him to take you to a cozy place. somewhere where they serve the local brew and make homemade shepherd’s pie, but he doesn’t.

he takes you a bar that is sleek and modern, with soft yellow lights and paneled ceilings and marble counter-tops. Obi-Wan escorts you to a high table in the corner, a hand on the small of your back. the warmth from his palm spreads through his jacket and your turtleneck and it feels like cinnamon and candlelight.  

later, you will not remember what you ordered to eat, but you will always remember the two cups water that appear on the table.

the glasses have smooth edges and and rounded sides, curving around themselves ad infinitum or perhaps reductio ad absurdum. faint golden orbs hunch against the surface; integers of light cling to any sort of tactical reassurance. even the glass will do.

the cups are hefty, and not just with the font of life. the vessel is weighty, durable. Obi-Wan tells you that they are recycled.

he does not talk about what he does now and how he teaches, and you do not mention your work. you do not need to: what these truths have taught you is in every swallow, every glance, every gentle barb. the two of you do not need shields of citation guidelines to understand one another.

the conversation dances. he pulls you in with a question. you twirl around him, brushing his five o’clock shadow. artifice glistens and then falls away. with every pass and dip and pas de chat resentment and assumption weaken, and your eyes become bigger. he changes the time signature, the style (first it was a waltz, and then a swing step, and now it is easing into something unknown). the fabric of his jacket is smooth, and comfortable, and smells like him — warm and spice and clean. you ease into it like it is your birthright.

you do not see, but Obi-Wan notices, and grins into his water.

he does not see, but you notice, the way he couches into your sweater, and your eyes curl in some form of elation.

“what were they about? the lectures, i mean.” this is the question you have been waiting to ask. here, in the bar, with glass, you are emboldened to let go of one last grudge.

he looks at you, and his gaze stabs you, but then it softens — like the needle from a shot easing into muscle before retreating as swiftly as it came.

“what did your advisor say they were about?” he fiddles with his glass.

“they said…” you close your eyes in recollection. eyelashes flutter against freckles. “they said the lectures were about grief.”

Obi-Wan’s smile is wry, but he does not seem displeased. he is still too relaxed to be angry. how you can read his body language so quickly, you are not sure — maybe it is because he is wearing your sweater. so many things you are unsure of, but he is not one of them. not really.

uncertainty is different with him. he is not an ever-fixéd mark, nor a staid anchor in the waves. but he is resolved, and you can separate him from the rest of the particulars that impede your life. he is not just krei: distinguishing and judging and explanatory and crisis all at once, all at everything.

yes, uncertainty with him is less about judgment and is rather imbued with mystery. it is krei mixed with mysteriam: separating the hidden things from that which is known.

Obi-Wan taps his finger on the glass and the sound returns you to the present. he has caught you wandering, again, wandering the wayward halls of esoteric remembrance.

“they were about grief,” he nods, staring at the transparent material in his hands.. Obi-Wan’s voice is kingly and aromatic, like basil. it lilts and sways around the words he speaks as in a courtly dance, like those Anne Boleyn performed for King Henry.

lifting his gaze to yours again, he adds, “and they were about joy. those lectures were about everything, and nothing.” a hand rises, and rhythmic fingers sweep away invisible cobwebs. “they were,” Obi-Wan concludes, “about life itself. phenomena, as it were.” the hand floats down and rests on the table.

it is perilously close to yours now: mere inches from the edges of your body. you both look down at his hand in a brief moment marked and scratched with silence, and you are alone with  your thoughts. his hands are worn, like they have been used — little scars and wrinkles and a slight puffiness that tells you that he spent a lot of time writing today. you like that.

you point to the swelling, at the v of his hand where thumb and palm meet. the tip of your index finger hovers above the spot and your confession must linger too, because it takes several moments for him to drag his eyes upwards to study your face.

“how many ACE wraps did you fray while writing your dissertation?” he asks, and you want to push him for being such a competitive brat.

your hand is still suspended above his.

you tell him your answer, and he cups his fingers around yours in a spasm of revelation. “me too!” his grip tightens. “academia is one son of a bitch.” he catches you in a sideways glance, and when you laugh, he relaxes into a smile.

“I read your dissertation, you know.” the sweater itches against your wrist, where the sleeve of his blazer has ridden up and exposed skin.

“i didn’t.” you take a sip. “but i do know how you feel about scholars such as myself.” another sip. are you biding time? you are not sure. “you feel very strongly about the color green, Dr. Kenobi.”

his grip slackens but he does not release your hand completely. “please. call me ben.”

“no?” your eyebrow arches. “not OWK, either?”

“I don’t use that name with friends.”

“Are we friends?”

his eyes are earnest, open, porous, like blue tulle on ballet costumes. “yes. i dare say we are.”

—

when the two of you stand to leave, there is a still a table that prohibits unity. emptiness subsumes you; he is so near and yet so far; Ben should be next to you. the distance continues, grows, as you exit, and an ache pours forth from your soul, because you now know what you did not know before. you had seen it in the glass, and in the reflected light, and the way you had seen yourself in his eyes when you danced with him without touching his hand.

you halt, he pauses. you take a step forward and Ben watches you. darkness blankets the town’s cobbled streets; the stones gleam dully and swallow the street lamps all into an abyss. except his eyes: Ben’s silken azure eyes are your anchor.

people don’t make sense but you do.

a few steps more and the two of you are very close. you tilt your head to look at his face. you are there, reflected in his pupils. “maybe i am you.” you mean for it to sound teasing, but your soul knows before you do, and the words are laden with imperial import, like a royal seal.

those gemstone eyes flicker over your face. he has felt it too, he is telling you, but how you know this you cannot say. “no, i do not think so.” letters drip out, leaking in a slow stream. “but i think perhaps we are a part of each other.”

and then you have narrowed down the sum to its composite parts. the glass has shattered and the left hand swims in its sand and calcium carbonate and ash, drifting through a process of becoming. particles glimmer on skin, under nails, brandishing depth and texture and a pantone coloring book of the human heart.  

it is a mutual kiss, one where individualism no longer endures. his hands — swollen, calloused, firm — are grasping your cheeks. your arms are around his waist, winding around sweater and skin and soul. when you close your eyes, you think it will be dark. you are wrong. tenebrism creeps away and shadows vanish, and there is only him, and a resounding tenor of colors.

ben’s lips are soft, and his breath is warm, and it is the kiss for which you feel like you have spent your whole life preparing. he is safe (tender) and unexpected (his tongue grazes your teeth). he likes it when you grip him harder, the knit no longer coarse against your palms, not when his hand is wandering through your hair in flashes of blue and gold and pearl.

when you pull away, and nuzzle his cheek, Ben smiles — soft and comforting like the garment on his back. maybe this is why glass shatters and cracks around your feet, crunching as you sway slightly in each other’s arms — you have worn his jacket, and he has worn your sweater.

—

it is predawn the next time he kisses you. the two of you are on his bed, near the window. sweaters and blazers have been exchanged for baggy t-shirts and sleep shorts. Ben is facing you, cross-legged on the pale sheets, and he watches you as you take in the metamorphosis of the sky, from black to navy to the merest smidgen of blue and grey on the horizon, skating across the silhouette of the hills.

he watches you as you speak, too, about the way you loved the ocean as a child, and your favorite book is Moby Dick. it was so very ethereal to you, the way that sailors used the stars to navigate. it was like they were communing with the heavens.

Ben thinks that your voice glitters. it is weary with much talk and too little sleep but it shines the way diamonds do when they are stitched onto spanish lace, supported with the strength that is only found in delicacy.

your eyes, he thinks, are more like satin, for the way they gleam and mix their depth and shadows without losing their sheen, glassy in their wonder.

but you notice his regard, and you pause. he cannot see it, but he can feel a blush jogging from your neck to your cheeks.

you stare at each other. and then — he is next to you, and laying you down, and you are learning his labyrinthine ways even as you begin to come undone.

he is coming alive, or waking up—you’re not sure. his ends and beginnings are still a unknown to you: you must fashion yourself a mystic to enter his realm. somehow you suspect he is yours. your alpha and omega, the moral force that has driven you forward to now, to this point, where his forehead is meeting the jut of your jaw as he kisses his way down your neck.

you are hot and cold all at once and when he licks your pulse point, and sucks, you gasp. it is a gentle thing, more like a deep breath than an exclamation. you feel yourself leaning into him, straining for his touch. his auburn hair under your fingertips is soft and slick with his gel and you tug at it in an act of encouragement.

he pulls away. hovering over you, eyes blue and silver in the pale light — twin moons, perhaps — he smirks. “are you trying to tell me something, darling?” he asks lowly, and his voice is dark molasses. it is sticky and sweet and bitter, inching down your body. you want his kisses to follow its tortuous path, staining you with vermillion and black and dying you with pleasure.

he is color. you are cloth.

the durability of your nature returns in a rush marked with grains of steel. “no.” you swallow and the action traces where his lips met your skin just moments earlier. “i rather thought you were trying to communicate with me.” you sound ragged, coy, on the verge of aching.

Ben does not take your bait. “i was.” his breath is hot against your ear, and arresting. he pauses. the molasses continues to drip. “i was just wanted to make sure i had a clear answer.” and he nips your earlobe. you bite your lip in response: the two of you are in sync.  

“yes.” you are fabric, and your voice is terrycloth.

“Yes?” he repeats your fiat. Shards of glass collapse around you as he again meets your gaze.

this must be how the Virgin prayed her Magnificat, you think as his heart errantly beats against his throat. She must have been like he is now, brimming with humble righteousness and bound by understanding. Tenderness cords through you; it tempers your breathing, smoothes the bubbles of molasses. Reaching up to to cup his face, you let your fingers splay over his cheek, resting on stubble and skin. your pinky finger meets the angle of his cheekbone. the image falls into place and the symmetry causes you to smile.

“yes. etiam. ja. sí.” you are about to conclude in greek — ναί — but he halts your litany of assent by placing an offering on your lips. the greek is in the twists of his tongue in your mouth, and so is the hebrew, and the arabic, and all the languages yet to engrave themselves in your memory.

it is like the first time you experienced champagne at your father’s christmas party. one of his students had poured you, then sixteen, a glass and said with a wink, “the monks declared it was the taste of the stars.” you had raised the flute to your lips and drank as you were bid, and when you had swallowed, you knew the world was different now. or perhaps the old world had not changed, you had merely adapted to fickle ways.

your tongue did as it had then, skating across your front teeth onto your upper lips in quick, jabbing motions. unsatiated and incomplete.

he pulls away again and you frown. eyes closed, you tug at his shoulder in a nonverbal ask to come back.

silence meets your plea and you open your eyes. he is still above you, weight resting on his forearms, and he is smiling.  “you are so impatient.” the rebuke is fond and he soothes its burn with a kiss to your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, briefly.

“i am not impatient.” arms cross over your chest and eyes roll. “i am —“ the phrase is paused as he kisses your other cheek. you open your eyes. “i am.” he waits for you, as he always has, but after a few heartbeats he gleans the completeness of your meaning. existence is the watchword of this night, or this dawn: let sartre and his kind be put to rest.  

so the two of you kiss again, and when his arms get tired, you drape your legs over his lap and press yourself into his chest. the last vestiges of moonlight have settled upon you, but it is no thing, not when skin feels what eyes cannot. lips are languid and hands stroll up and down pathways and alleyways and sidewalks. brittle substances of impatience are burned away through the silk of his fingers. you are content to rest in chiaroscuro.

there is another breaking: transparent and fortified compound of ash and sand — let in by the moon and the rising venus — twinkles around your head, his spine. a whispered ask, a tender assent: shirts glide over shoulders and he guides in your descent.

breathing is knowing, feeling is seeing: for here essence and existence bleed into one consummate act of communion.

lips touch your collarbone, your breast. your hands plane over his chest in a crusade of knowledge. he does not begrudge your gasps, now, or the arches your back erects to his honor. ben’s lips, hands, the vehicles of his words to the world, at once analyze and soak in praise.

clothes fall away, skin uncovering skin, manifesting a reality that had resided in your souls far before today. before the bar, the hotel, the sweater, there was always the two of you, striving for eudaemonia.

“this is phenomena,” he whispers against the curve of your hip. ben presses a kiss to the bones that give form to your body politic (the totality of your shattered glass made whole).

fin.

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[itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto]

Incredibly dense genius.

A/N: Hi everyone, Merry Christmas/Festivities, or have a relaxing December/January if you don’t celebrate. Just a little Matthew Gray Gubler fic for you all, so enjoy! This is set where reader is an actress on Criminal Minds. 

Y/A/N- Your Agent Name, Y/A/S/N – Your agent surname

Trigger warnings: Case details, bodies being found in tanks, swearing, drinking (alcohol), smoking

“Tell you what, I’m really looking forward to the end of series wrap up party/Christmas party tomorrow night.” A.J said, as she sat down at the big table, getting ready for the next scene. “I hear that.” Thomas said, as he got into position. “Preach it sisters.” Kirsten giggled, “And Christmas is coming soon too!” “Morning guys.” You yawn walking in, as you were not needed for the last scene. You started on the show two years ago, and have been settled in since day one, making firm friends with everyone, but your best friends are Matthew and Paget. You have fancied Matthew since you started watching Criminal Minds when it started, and when you joined the cast, you had a boyfriend, and Matthew was seeing someone. Since then, you are now single, but you assume Matthew is still seeing someone. “Morning sweetness.” Paget smiled at you, knowing you aren’t a morning person. You get into position by the surveillance board as the director calls action. “Today we are going to Florida, and crime fighters, you are going to help the police solve the mystery of bodies showing up in storage tanks. Y/A/N, could you show the pictures please, whilst I look away?” Kirsten asked “Yep, sure.” You say scrolling through the photos, as Matthew walks in, looking handsome as always. “Sorry I’m late.” Matthew says ruffling his hair, “I drove in and forgot to apply for a parking spot.” “I did e-mail you about this Reid. Don’t let it happen again.” Thomas said handing Matthew a paper file. Matthew mumbles a, “What’s an email?” to himself as he looks through the photos. “The victims look pretty fresh. Has forensics looked at them?” “Not yet. They are waiting for us to get there but I suggested to preserve the evidence, and for us to find the un-sub quicker, they should do the autopsy now and call us on the plane.” You say “Good idea Y/A/N. Wheels up in an hour.” Thomas said as the director called cut, and you did the scene again a few times from different angles. As Matthew spoke, you thought about how recently he had been very distant from everyone, not as much to you and Paget, but very quiet and not his weird and wonderful self. You did ask him if he wanted to talk to you, and he would always politely decline so you chose not to push him. “Okay guys, we’re good here so if we all make our way to the jet we will shoot that scene next.” The director said. “Morning Gube.” You smile at Matthew “Morning Y/N. You okay?” Matthew asks you softly, with a smile “Yes. Looking forward to the party tomorrow. You good?” You ask “I’m good, just tired.” Matthew says rubbing his eyes and bites his lip, debating if he should ask you out or not. “Do you want to grab a smoke break later?” “You never need to ask.” You smile sitting down at the table. “Everyone ready, and action.” The director called as the scene started. “This body definitely looks more de-composed than the others. Between 8 and 10 days... Fuck wrong days.” You say as everyone laughs, “You’re all cunts.” You say laughing too, knowing you always get numbers wrong on your lines, and the writers always like to test you by making sure your character has all the lines to do with numbers. Most outtakes come from you, and your mistakes/swears always cause everyone to have a fit of laughter. “Re-set and action.” The director said whilst laughing. “This body definitely looks more de-composed than the others. Between 3 and 5 days after death, the human body starts to bloat and foam containing blood leaks from the mouth.” “And after that?” Paget asks you. In the show you are an agent, but your characters background was in forensics at NCIS as a Medical Examiner with a PhD in forensics. “The body starts to turn from green to red due to…” You start to say “The blood de-composing and the organs in the abdomen accumulating gas.” Matthew says finishing your sentence “That’s right Dr Reid.” You say smiling “I read all 54 of your papers before you started working here Dr Y/A/S/N.” Matthew smiled. “But I know you have published a further 6 since working here and I have started reading them.” “How long did that take you?” You ask “1 hour 55 minutes.” Matthew said “Same length of time as this flight then.” You say Matthew nods, doing his signature Spencer ‘frog face’ as the fans of the show call it. “Happy Wednesday my nerds.” Rossi said “When we get there, Reid, Y/A/S/N, Rossi, go to the forensics lab. J.J, Prentiss and I will go to the police station and see what we have so far.” Thomas said “What about me?” Shemar asked Thomas rolled his eyes, “Fuck. I genuinely forgot you were here.” He said as everyone laughs. After 4 hours of filming you break for lunch, and as there’s a long line, you decide to go over to Matthew. “How about that smoke break?” You ask him with a smile “There you are, let’s roll.” Matthew smiled, as he linked his arm with yours. “They really need to get together.” Paget said “They really do.” Kirsten said, “It’ll break my heart otherwise.” “Agreed.” A.J said “Even on their days off, they spend all day together.” Joe smiled “So, Gubler, what do you have planned for Christmas?” You ask taking Matthew’s lighter once he’d lit up “I’m seeing my Mum, sister, her husband and children for Christmas. New Year’s I’ll see my Dad and my brother probably.” Matthew smiled, “What about you?” You nod, “Probably just see my parents. I need a quiet Christmas after the year I’ve had.” You say, along with Criminal Minds, you write for a few TV shows and do a lot of voice over work. “I’m surprised you have time in your busy schedule to smoke with your best friend.” Matthew laughed “I always make time for people, you know that.” You say as Matthew nods, biting his lip.

After another 8 hours filming… “And cut! We’re officially finished for Christmas!” The director called and everyone cheered “Glass of champagne Y/N?” A.J asked holding two up, secretly knowing you don’t like champagne and made sure Matthew grabbed the beer “No thanks AJ.” You politely decline, never being one for it. “Beer Y/N?” Matthew offers, holding two bottles with a cigarette in his other hand “You know how to win my heart Gube.” You smile taking the beer off him and yawn “I’m not that boring.” Matthew chuckled You shake your head, “Not you. I had to do another two voice overs during dinner break, so I haven’t eaten since lunch.” “Hey Tom, don’t eat that pizza!” Matthew shouts, and grabs the pizza box and brings it to you. “Here lovely.” He smiles at you, noticing it was your favourite, double cheese and ham. “I love you.” You say to the pizza and scoff it quickly, but secretly you’re saying it to Matthew, in a more than friends kind of way. “I love you.” Matthew thinks to himself and lights his cigarette as you put your head on his shoulder, as he wishes he could tell you his feelings

The following day, it’s the party. You are at your apartment putting on a floral dress and converse, with cute hoop earrings when your phone rings. “Oh, hi Pag, everything okay?” You ask “Yeah, you excited for tonight? I think someone may get lucky…” Paget giggled “Have you started drinking already?” You ask as Paget went silent, “Take that as a yes.” You think to yourself. “You going to open your front door or not?” Paget asked You open your front door and Paget is there holding a bottle of wine, half-drunk from. “You are such a fucking weirdo.” You say letting her in, “And who exactly pray tell, is going to get lucky tonight?” Paget giggles again, “You silly.” You look at Paget confused, “What are you on about?” “Oh, come on Y/N, you and Matthew. It’s so obvious.” Paget says as you take a drag from your e-cigarette, since you don’t smoke cigarettes in your flat. “He really likes you.” “You are my best friends.” You say exhaling, shaking her comment off knowing Matthew would never be interested in you. Paget opens her mouth to say something but drinks from the wine bottle instead. “Shall I book a cab?” She asks you “No, I have booked one, should be here in 10 minutes.” You say checking your phone Paget nods, “Alright miss organised.” She smirked 10 minutes later you and Paget were in the cab, taking a few selfies and chatting to the driver who is a fan of the show. “You have a lovely night ladies.” He smiled, as you paid him giving him a tip too. As you are about to open the cab door, someone opens it for you, it’s Matthew in a full suit, looking stunning, well, he was a model after all. “Ladies.” Matthew smiled “Thanks Matthew.” Paget said squishing his cheeks and kissing one of them “Thanks Gube.” You smile as Matthew kissed your cheek and you kissed his cheek back, noticing he was wearing the cologne you brought him for his birthday. “You’re welcome.” He smiled, blushing slightly as you all walked into the venue. “Now I understand why Joe organises these things, this venue is stunning.” You say looking everywhere “Thank you bambino.” Joe smiled greeting you with two soft kisses on the cheek “Hi Joe.” You smile at him, “Thank you for organising this.” “Of course.” He smiled and kissed Paget’s cheeks softly, and shook Matthew’s hand, “Gubler, you and I need a word.” “Ooooh.” You and Paget say “Where is the alcohol?” Paget asked “Right here.” Kirsten waved over to you two as the music started playing meanwhile Joe brought Matthew outside “What is it?” Matthew asked fiddling with his converse “Well, pretty boy, we just wanted to say we all know you’re totally in love with Y/N and…” Shemar began “Am not!” Matthew shouted as he blushed even redder “Your cheeks say otherwise.” Thomas said “We just wanted to say, go for it. She totally adores you.” Joe added “We’d advise you make it soon or she’ll end up kissing someone else under the mistletoe.” Shemar said wiggling his eyebrows gesturing to the mistletoe by the balcony Matthew sighed, nodding. “I need a drink.” He said “Oi Gube, our song is on!” You say gesturing him to come inside as ‘Fireflies’ by Owl City comes on “Coming.” Matthew smiled at you and took one of the beers you were holding as you danced together for a bit. “What was that about?” You ask as you twirl around “Oh, Shemar wanted some advice on this lady he’s dating.” Matthew shrugged “Aw how cute.” You smiled. The evening progressed, and everyone was pretty drunk now. “Y/N… You can’t vape in here.” Kirsten giggled taking your vape off you You pout and sigh, “Fine. I’ll vape outside.” You say, taking your vape back, in the last hour you lost Matthew but knew he was still around somewhere. As you go outside, you’re lighting a cigarette and see Joe, Matthew and Paget talking, overhearing Matthew say, “I’m going to tell her. I’m so in love with her.” and your heart breaks into two, but you put on a brave face and walk over anyway. You sip your glass of water, “Hi sweetpeas.” You smile “Heeeyyyy it’s Y/N!” Matthew says all excited, opening his arms out, holding a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “Can I join you all?” You ask laughing at how Matthew is a bit more drunk than you “Course angel face.” Paget smiled Joe nods, “You never need to ask Y/N.” “Can I have some of your water?” Paget asks you You sit down and hand it to her as you take a drag from your cigarette. “Those things will kill you.” Joe winked at you as he lit a cigar “Those things will kill you.” You winked back “Can I have a puff Y/N? I don’t want a whole cigarette, but you smoke my favourite brand.” Paget says You roll your eyes in a sarcastic manner, “All it is tonight is is Y/N pass me my wine, Y/N can I have some wine, Y/N can you go with me to the ladies room, Y/N can I have a puff of your cigarette. God, Paget, you’re so fucking needy.” You laugh as everyone else does, and you hand your cigarette to her “Thanks babe.” Paget says and you all take a few selfies putting a few on your Instagram. Joe’s phone rings, “Better tell the wife I’m getting a taxi home.” He says, “See you back in there.” As you all nod “Oopsies, I’m out of wine, I’ll see you both in there.” Paget says and waddles off as you laugh at her Matthew chuckles and lights another cigarette up as a cool breeze hits you both. “I should’ve brought a coat.” You say shuddering as Matthew takes off his jacket and drapes it over you. “Aw, thanks Gube but won’t you get cold?” You ask feeling bad Matthew shakes his head, “I’m quite hot.” He says wiggling his eyebrows as he exhales from his cigarette “Yeah, you are.” You accidentally say out-loud and bite your lip, so you don’t say anything else “What was that?” Matthew asked “Nothing.” You say shaking your head “Nu-uh Y/N. I heard you say something.” Matthew said poking your arm gently You groan, “I said you are hot. Happy?” “Well, I think you’re beautiful.” Matthew said, returning the compliment “Really?” You ask exhaling from your cigarette “Really, really.” Matthew said and looked up, “Mistletoe.” He said pointing at it “Mistletoe.” You repeated, “It’s okay if you don’t wa…” You say as Matthew brings you in for a deep kiss, letting it do the talking. After a few moments, you break the kiss and smile at him. “Y/N, I’ve fancied you, and been in love with you for years, even before you started on the show.” Matthew began, “But when you started on the show you were seeing someone else, and I was seeing some…” He rambled as you pulled him in for another kiss “Shut up.” You say giggling “So you’re not seeing anyone?” Matthew asked “I’m seeing someone now…” You smirk “Who?” Matthew asked “For someone who plays a genius with an IQ of 180, you are incredibly dense.” You laugh “Oh me?” Matthew asked You nod, “If you want us to be.” “I want us to be.” Matthew said holding your hand “Me too.” You smile squeezing his hand softly “Merry Christmas Y/N.” Matthew smiled as you put your head on his shoulder smiling to yourself “Merry Christmas Matthew.” You smile

Taglist (open): @pumpkin-goob​ , @andiebeaword​ , @hopebaker​ , @hotchsbabygirl​ , @hercleverboy​ , @cupcake525​ , @gubetube​ , @aperrywilliams​ , @cosmic-psychickitty​ , @marleyhotchner​ , @gubler-me-up​ , @goldentournesol​ , @jenna-jd​ , @reidgraygubler​ , @g0ldengubler​ , @gcblers​ , @peachpitfics​ , @reidbuck​ , @spencerreid-mgg​

[me-myself-and-my-fos]

Mother’s Day

Pairing: Montgomery Scott x Nicole Scott ft. the Scott kids

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Scotty gives Nic a relaxing Mother’s Day

A/N: I know this is a day late but I had to write a Mother’s Day fic

Tag List: @hyperionshipping @heavenshipped @dancing-with-skeletons @selfshipfeelings

“Monty, you didn’t have to do this,” Nic protested for what felt like the thousandth time. Scotty shook his head as he helped her out of the car.

“This is the first Mother’s Day we’ve spent together in five years. If you think I’m not spoiling you for the day then you’re mad,” he told her fondly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “The boys and I will be fine, you deserve the rest.”

Nic sighed. “I don’t get much rest these days anyway.”

“Next year we’ll get to celebrate with Saoirse, but until then—” Scotty took her hands and pressed another kiss to her head, “—you get treated like the queen you are.”

“Are you sure?” She asked, a little apprehensive of leaving the boys. It came as a habit from not only taking care of them for so long by herself but also as a maternal instinct that had steadily increased over the course of her pregnancy. If it weren’t for her husband, Nic is pretty sure she would’ve ripped the head off of the woman at the grocery store who said Thomas was an adorable little gentleman.

“I’m positive,” he assured her. They looked over to the boys who were busy peering into the window of the spa. “Boys, time to say bye to mum.”

Thomas and James looked over at their parents and rushed over to hug their mother. They gripped onto the fabric of her maternity sundress.

“Don’t go, mum!” James whined.

“Peese mummy!” Thomas begged.

“It won’t be long, I promise my loves,” Nic said, playing with their hair. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to both of their heads. “Besides, you two will have so much fun with dad that you won’t even have time to miss me. And when I get home, we can cuddle in bed and watch tv.”

“Okay!” The boys perked up at the mention of tv. They each gave their mother a big hug before being shooed into the backseat of the car by their father.

“We don’t have a lot of time now, get in the car,” he told them. When the boys refused to move from Nic’s side, Scotty sighed. “I’ll let you have ice cream when we get home if you get in the car.” Quickly the boys scrambled and pushed past each other to get into the car. Nic laughed softly as Scotty smiled at her. “Now don’t you worry about a thing, dear. I’ll take care of everything. The appointment is at least five hours so I’ll be back here at five-thirty to pick you up, okay?”

“Geez, five hours by myself for little ol’ me?” She giggled.

Scotty nodded. “Aye, they’ll give you the best treatments. Now go before you miss the appointment.”

Nic gave him a quick kiss before heading towards the automatic doors. “Don’t set the house on fire while I’m gone, Monty.” She joked over her shoulder. She sent the boys a wave as they watched her leave before disappearing inside.

Nic made a mental note to thank her husband when she got home. He apparently knew everything she needed and already arranged for the treatments. First was a facial—she had been complaining about the acne she was getting from the pregnancy. Then she would get some time in a nice warm bath—something she never got at home, usually a quick shower before dinner while the boys napped or when Scotty was keeping them entertained. Third was the prenatal massage, a type she didn’t know existed but was sure she’d be grateful for. And last came the foot massage, the one she most looked forward to. As she changed into the fluffy white robe in the private room, a glass of water and a bowl of complimentary fruit sitting on an end table, she stared down at her phone. After a minute of debating she decided to leave it on, but tucked away beneath her clothes. She knew that her husband wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency. Nic let out a sigh of relief when an employee came and told her it was time for the facial.

At home, James and Thomas sat at the dining table eating their ice cream. They played with their action figures between bites of ice cream, and Scotty sat on the couch folding laundry. He didn’t realize how much clothes there were. Sometimes he forgot that it wasn’t just his and Nic’s clothes anymore; it was both of the boy’s clothes and soon onesies for Saoirse as well.

Tiny hands covered in vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup came into view as Thomas reached for the pile of clean laundry.

“Oh no you don’t,” Scotty grabbed his son and set him on the couch, away from the clean clothes. “If you get those sticky from ice cream your mum is gonna kill me.”

“I want my shirt,” Thomas whined, pointing at the blue shirt with tigers on it.

“You can put it on, but let me clean you up first,” Scotty picked him up and carried him over to the kitchen. He set Thomas on the counter before grabbing some paper towels. He ran the sink to get the paper towel wet and began to clean the ice cream off Thomas’s face and hands. “You’re as messy as your mother,” he chuckled.

Once Thomas was cleaned, Scotty threw away the paper towels and shut off the sink. Or at least tried to. The water continued to run. He fiddled with the sink handle for a minute before sighing.

“James, can you please bring my tools over here?” Scotty asked, crouching down at the cabinets. He opened it and inspected the pipes as James dragged the toolbox over into the kitchen. “Thank you, laddie.”

Scotty began to inspect the pipes to determine what the problem was. As he did this, James settled on the floor by the toolbox and watched his father. When he reached for one of his tools Scotty realized he had an audience and smiled. He happily worked on fixing the broken pipe, telling James what he was doing when the young boy asked and asking James to hand him a tool every now and again. He was pleasantly surprised when his son knew what tool he needed, and happily showed him the tools James didn’t know. Once the pipe was fixed, Scotty tested it to make sure it was in working order. Satisfied with the results, he put his tools back in their rightful place before going back to the kitchen. Thomas still sat on the counter, kicking his legs as entertainment.

“Can I wear my shirt now?” He asked his father.

Scotty chuckled and put him back on the floor. “Of course.” He went over to the laundry and grabbed the shirt. He helped Thomas change out of the ice cream stained one he had been wearing and into the clean tiger shirt. Scotty sat back on the couch to finish the laundry and Thomas lingered for a moment.

“When is mummy coming home?” Thomas asked.

“In a while. She’ll be home for dinner, I promise.” Scotty told him. As he said that, an idea came into his head. He looked between the boys. “Do you two want to help me bake a cake for her?”

At the mention of a cake both boys perked up. “Yes!” They jumped up and down excitedly.

“Alright, let’s get to it!”

About halfway through making the cake Scotty realized why Nic was the one who always baked. Yes he could cook, but baking? That was her thing. And it didn’t help that he was having to stop Thomas from trying to eat the batter every five minutes. Scotty nearly had a heart attack when he saw Thomas reaching for a raw egg. After the cake was successfully put in the oven, he agreed to play with the boys for a little. But while the cake was cooling Scotty went back to folding the laundry and the boys took their naps. He wanted to at least get the laundry done before she got home. The boys were most excited about icing the cake, and Scotty had to keep the extra icing out of their reach. The cake was covered in the white icing and had “Happy Mother’s Day” written on it in blue icing. Scotty put it in the fridge and checked the time.

“I have time to make dinner,” he mumbled to himself, getting things ready to make dinner. He knew she’d want something simple but he still wanted to spoil her, so he decided on spaghetti. He had just finished plating the food when he noticed the time. It was nearly 5:30pm.

“Boys, let’s go pick up yer mum!” He called to the boys.

He hadn’t been waiting long when Nic exited the spa. She looked much more relaxed than she had when she entered and that made Scotty smile. She stopped in front of him and grinned, reaching up to cup his face and kiss him.

“How was the appointment?” He asked, although sure he already knew the answer.

“It was amazing, thank you for that, honey,” she kissed him again. “How was everything with the boys?”

“We fended for ourselves,” he joked. “They missed you, though.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“How did our wee angel do?” He asked, putting a hand on her stomach.

“She slept the entire time. I think this has been the most relaxed I’ve been in months,” Nic told him.

“I’m glad. Now let’s get you home. The boys are excited to have you back and we have another surprise for you at home.”

Nic hummed softly at that. “Lead the way,” she said. Scotty helped her into the car and closed the door, and Nic looked at the backseat at her sons. “Hi boys, I missed you.”

“I missed you, mummy!” Thomas exclaimed, reaching out for her.

Nic put arm back so he could hold her hand. “I’m here now, baby.”

The family got home and after getting out of the car, Thomas stuck close to his mother. She smiled and pet his hair as they got into the house, the smell of dinner hit her nose. Scotty guided her to the dining table where a plate of spaghetti and garlic bread sat.

“Sweetheart, you didn’t have to make dinner. I would’ve been fine with takeout,” Nic said as she settled into the dining chair. Thomas sat beside his mother as Scotty sat across from her and James beside him.

“Like I said before: I’m spoiling you today.” He told her.

They happily ate dinner, James excitedly telling Nic how Scotty fixed the sink. And Scotty grinned, adding that James acted as his assistant. Nic was happy to listen about how their few hours without her went. Once dinner was finished, Scotty insisted on clearing the plates and cleaning them. But before Nic could push herself out of the chair, her husband came back over with two plates and a cake.

“You didn’t have to make me a cake,” she said, feeling herself begin to tear up. James and Thomas kissed either cheek and grinned.

“We wanted to!” James told her.

“I love you boys.” Nic pulled them into a hug and kissed their heads. She smiled at Scotty as he cut two slices. “I love you, Monty. Thank you.”

He smiled at her and set the plate in front of her with a fork before giving her a quick kiss. “You’re welcome, darling. Anything for you. Happy Mother’s Day.”

[rudemaidenswrite]

Letters

Thomas Hewitt x Reader, Leatherface x Reader

Part 1

By: @pusantheamazonian            For: @sylvanasthebansheequeen​

You’ve been sending letters to him ever since you moved. But you never got a response until now.

"This place is a dump. Can't believe you actually lived out here." A scoff comes from the driver. Scott's always been a jerk, saying the first thing that comes to mind.

"It's not that bad. The people are what made it the best."  You really don't want to argue about this again. 

"No, Texas is a shit hole. Good thing you left." Scott cackles.

Against my will. 

"Like Mississippi is any better?" Donna chimes in from the front seat. 

Ignoring them both and their ignorant bickering. Texas was the best time of your life. That's why you're going back. You have to know if your happiness is still there. A deep itch of finally being almost home. Has you restless as fuck. You can only hope they remember you. It's been fifteen years since that horrible day. But as it turns out, the world is testing you today. 

"Can you fix it?" Donna whines as the three of you are on the side of the road, looking at the flat tire.��

"Yeah I got a spare in the back. Must have been a nail in the road." Grumbling Scott opens the trunk pulling everything out.

"Well thanks for the lift but I'm gonna bail. I'm just gonna walk the last few miles." Scooping up your backpack, you slowly start walking backwards. 

"What? No you can't just abandon us. We don't even know where we are." Donna practically screams in horror. 

"In good old Texas. Just keep following this road until it hits the interstate." Forcing a smile you keep backing up. 

"Seriously?"  Scott stares in disbelief. 

"Yup! Thanks for the ride and hope you have fun in California." Waving you turn around and start power walking before they can guilt you into staying. 

Freedom! Now it's just you and the land in this long trek. You forgot how eerily silent the town has become. You had heard that the meat plant closed down a few years ago. Hell you'll be surprised if there is anyone still living out here. The plant should have killed everyone, would have saved money if they did it that way. Rather than let the whole town slowly bleed dry. 

*Woop Woop*

"Fuck." Whispering you stand by the side of the road and wait. You know that annoying Woop Woop anywhere.

The old sheriff car slows to a stop a few feet from you. The car rattles as he steps out, an old grouchy looking man.

"You lost missy?" The gruffness is matched with a sour look.

"No sir. Just taking a walk." You remain neutral as possible and polite. 

"I ain’t seen you around. Where are you from?" 

"Rhode Island but-"

"You wouldn't happen to know what happened to the two young'uns a few miles back?" Cutting you off he steps forwards with a purpose. 

"What do you mean?" That question peaks your curiosity.

"A ways back looks like car trouble but both are dead."

"What? I left them thirty minutes ago. How can they be dead?" Confused, you don't know what to say. They were alive, bitching at the car but alive.

"So you do know them. Well I think we need to have a talk. Get in the back."

"Sheriff-"

"Get. In." He pulls a pistol out. Pointing at you and the car. Panicking you shuffle towards the door. This situation is not good but what's worse is you can't figure it out but the sheriff looks familiar. The tattoo on his forearm, you know it from somewhere. 

Sliding into the back seat you place your backpack beside you. The car stinks, it's a putrid smell. Either something died in here or there's something dead in the trunk. 

The Sheriff climbs back into the driver's seat, slamming the door hard. He's not interested in any conversation. Driving in silence he gives you the side eye from the mirror the whole way.

Now this is confusing, he's pulling up to the place you were going. 

"Sheriff how-"

"Stay here." Barking out the order with a glare, you nod in response. Leaving you alone in the locked car, he walks inside. 

What is going on? You didn't tell anyone that you were coming for a visit. The Sheriff certainly didn't even ask for your name. So how would he know to bring you here?

Leaning on the front seat you can see the house has taken a beating over the years. But it's still the same two story white plantation style house as before. 

The loud bang of the front door opening scares you. A massive man wearing a stained apron walks towards you. Keeping his head down the whole way. Retreating into the back seat. Who the hell is this?

Reaching the door, he pauses a second before quickly opening it. Startled by the force you scoot towards the other door. Panic sets in. Suddenly he's grabbing your ankle and dragging you to the edge. Just as you start to fight him, he lets go of you. Curious you risk a glance. You’re staring into chocolate brown eyes. Eyes you know so well, the ones that haunt your dreams.

“Thomas?”  Whispering you can't believe it.

He blinks in shock. He never thought you would recognize him. He recognized you instantly.

Out of muscle memory, at the same time you hold your left hand up using the sign language I love you symbol. He is doing the same symbol with his right hand. Pressing them together you both stare, never blinking. Different emotions are flowing in the silence. That is before you throw yourself into his arms. 

Falling onto his back he holds you tightly watching your happiness explode. As you babble about how happy you are to see him, how you have missed him to upset that he never answered your letters back to squealing in joy. 

“How dare you leave me without a word!” Teasing you can't help the tears. His hands cup your face, wiping the tears away. "I’m okay. They're tears of joy, I always hoped that I would see you again.”

Everything is clearer now the rude Sheriff has to be Uncle Charlie. He was always an ass but now with power he's gone a little psycho.

“Thomas quit fuckin around get her inside.” The Sheriff's gruff voice returns. 

Speaking of the asshole. Thomas steps in front of you shaking his head no. 

“No?”

“Hoyt what's going on?” A faint voice comes from the house. 

“Nothing Mama.” He shouts back.

“Hoyt? When did Charlie change his name?” Confused, you practically shout the question out. 

“What did you say?” Uncle Charlie, Hoyt whatever he wants to be called questions. 

“I asked when did you change your name to Hoyt? I clearly remember calling you Uncle Charlie.” Peeking out from behind Thomas you stare at the man dressed in the Sheriff's outfit. You knew there was something familiar about that tattoo. 

A huge arm he pushes you back. Thomas wants you to stay behind him.

“Y/N? Y/N Y/L/N?” 

“Hello!” You peek back out. With a frustrated huff he shoves you behind him again. “Thomas I was just saying hello.”

“Bullshit.” Scoffing, Hoyt can't believe it. 

“Uh huh!” Side stepping around Thomas, lifting your shirt up. Exposing the scar on your stomach. The one that dons most of your stomach, separating into three individual scars. You two were playing in the woods when you crawled over a piece of barbed wire. Uncle Charlie had to hold you still while Mama Luda stitched you together. 

“I'll be damned. There's never be a girl stupid as you that crawled over barbed wire for fun.” 

Frustrated, you watch him laugh. They never did believe you that it was a simple mistake. 

“It was an accident!”

“You knew better than to be playing in the woods.” Huffing he  remembers the two other people from today. “Well shit, your friends.”

“It's okay. I was only hitching a ride with those assholes." Shrugging if you're being honest they were not your friends. A coworker introduced you to them because you were looking for a ride. 

“Asshole? Good riddance then. Common on Mama and Uncle Monty aren't going to believe this.” He nods at the house. 

Smiling you interlock your hand with Thomas's and follow Uncle Charlie inside. Pulling Thomas with you. Giddy you can't believe everyone is still here. 

"Mama! Uncle Monty! You're never gonna believe who I found." He yells once passing the threshold. 

"Hoyt, why are you yelling? There's no yelling in the house!" The scolding voice carries from the kitchen. Followed with the shuffle of two footsteps. 

"Mama you remember Y/N." Hoyt smirks.

"Oh my… Y/N is that really you?"

"Yes it's me." Smiling you never thought you could be this happy. Mama Luda and Uncle Monty haven't changed either. 

"Well I never! You've grown up so beautifully." She's in tears cradling your face, treating you like glass.

"Thank you."

"You come and talk. Tommy has some work to finish." Hoyt orders interrupting your peace.

Turning you stare at Thomas like he's going to fade to dust right in front of you. You can feel Thomas staring the same way. Neither one of you wants to let go. 

"Y/N. Tommy. You can see each other later." Luda takes you free hand in hers. 

"Yes Mama." The words tumble out slowly as she tugs you along. Internally screaming you don't want to talk. You just want to hug Tommy until there's no tomorrow. Nonetheless you let her pull you into the kitchen. 

Planting you in an empty seat at the table. She pours some lemonade as everyone sits down and you notice that Thomas heads to the basement.

"Now tell me. How are your parents?"  Mama Luda scoots her chair closer.

"Both have passed on." It's a somber moment officially talking about it. 

"Oh dear. I'm sorry." Instantly she's frowning. You guess she didn't expect that answer. 

"Father was eight years ago. Mother last fall."

"What have you been doing since school? There must be something." Trying to sound cheerful she diverts the conversation. 

"I'm a mechanic."

"A what?" Mama Luda and Hoyt question in unison.

"You became a mechanic!" Uncle Monty is laughing his ass off. Everyone knows that's something you must have picked up from him.

"That's not fit for a lady." The frown temporarily returns to Mama Luda’s face. 

"Mama wasn't happy about it either." Smiling you remember the horrified face she made when you told her. "I was thinking about trying to buy the old house back and maybe open a mechanic shop." Shrugging you take a sip of lemonade.

"Dumb idea no one left out here." Uncle Monty states sourly.

"I know." Smiling it feels good to be home.

After dinner Thomas is showing you to your room, the same room you used to use when you would spend the night. But with each step towards the spare bedroom you feel queasy, you don't want to sleep alone. Grabbing his shirt you insist that he stop for a moment.

"Thomas...Can I stay with you?" He turns, staring at you with wide eyes. Now you feel embarrassed. "You don't have to say yes. I understand that you'll want your personal space. It's just been so long and I have this overwhelming need to be close to you."

With a silent groan he pulls you towards his room. It's just as you remember. The old spring bed, dresser off to the side and the now seemingly too small desk and chair. You place your backpack in the corner. You don't want him to accidentally trip because of your clutter. Leaning you pull out some pajamas. 

That's when he sees it. Your shirt rose up and in black ink is his name. It could be anybody's name but in shaky writing is the name Thomas. Before he knows it he has a hand on your hip. 

“What are you doing?”  Startled, you didn't expect such a warm hand on your hip, especially Thomas's. 

Bewildered, he looks at you quickly removing. Pointing at your hip, he pokes it. Following his eyes you see what has him curious, most of your tattoo is showing. Exposing your hip so he can see it completely. Curiously he traces it with a finger with wide eyes. 

“Yes I have your name tattooed on my hip.” He gives you a look that you interpret as him asking why. “Because we were always attached at the hip.” 

Minutes go by as he processes this, slowly caressing the letters.

“After you left school to work at the plant. I stole some of your homework that the teacher still had. Then when I got old enough I brought with me to the tattoo shop. I wanted it to be in your handwriting.” Embarrassed you've never told anyone the truth about the tattoo. That you wanted it because it was your way of staying sane and remembering the good times. Before he dropped out of school to help support the family and you moving away.

You see him frown slightly as he turns to the closet. Opening it he's searching for something, it's not long before he finds it. His body is trembling as he hands you an old shoe box. You've never seen him this worried about showing you something. Sitting on the bed you carefully open it. 

“Oh. My. God. You did receive my letters.” Your heart drops.

Everything's gone numb, you don't know if you exist anymore. The box is filled with everything you ever sent him and things from when you two were little. Picking a letter up you notice the worn edges like it has been read over and over. 

“I never knew if you did. I thought that they were ending up in the trash somewhere or to another person.” 

Placing it to the side, you see the pictures you have sent with the letters. Most just the yearly school photos but during high school you started to add different candid photos you thought were cute. But there's some old ones, of you two or just him that are burnt. Picking up the least burnt one, you and Thomas are in your Sunday best. Sitting on the front porch with his head resting on your shoulder while the two of you are reading Clifford the Big Red Dog. It looks like someone started to burn his face out but chose against it at the last minute leaving it an obscure dark color.

“You…have no idea how much I've missed you.” Breaking down, you sob uncontrollably. Holding the picture tightly. "Please…. Please don't ever leave me again." 

Thomas doesn't know what to do. He never meant to hurt you, he just wanted you safe. He didn't think that ignoring your letters would cause this much pain. Watching you cry feels like a stab to his own heart.