#but then the realisation that he's so guilt ridden and in pain

[sophsun1]

Queer As Folk – 2.02: All Better Now

[minaturefics]

There Will Be Time

Request: I have a request for Boromir x reader! (My favorite of yours is "Anything But This"). What if Boromir survived the Uruk-Hai ambush by getting pierced by just one arrow, was saved by Aragorn and helps pursue the orcs to save Merry and Pippin? He still carries the wound of the arrow and the guilt of attacking Frodo, but his internal and external wounds begin to heal by falling in love with a shield-maiden of the Rohirrim.

A/N: Thank you for waiting! I actually wrote part of this before my hiatus and finished it recently so hopefully it doesn't feel too disjointed!

Boromir x Reader

Fem reader

Content warnings: Vague mention of battlefield carnage

3.9k words

---

It was day but the sky was dim and overcast and tinged with an ominous red that bled from the horizon. The clamour and chaos from the city and the citadel seeped through the walls of the Houses of Healing, and even the matrons and patients were restless with the mustering of the army. You paused by an archway, staring out at the plains, still dotted with blood and bodies, and looked to the horizon. In a day or two, the people will march. And the fate of Middle Earth would be determined. 

You carried on along the corridor, cradling your bandaged arm, wishing you had accepted the healers’ suggestion of a sling, and searched for Eowyn. It had been a terrible day in Dunharrow when you realised she had gone off with the army. Your princess, your future queen, but more than that, a friend, a sister almost. You had ridden after them, arriving just in time for the battle, and your heart had shattered when you heard Eomer’s cry of anguish on the field. 

You rounded a corner, eyes still half-focused on the horizon, and collided with someone. Pain flared in your arm and you hissed. The other person let out a pained groan and a sharp exhale. Righting yourself, you looked up at them and saw a familiar face.

“Boromir?”

He looked better than he did the past week, laid up in bed, pale and delirious with fever and infection from the arrow wound in his shoulder. It seemed that the matrons finally allowed him out of bed and granted him a bath, for his hair was damp and his beard was trimmed. Colour was coming back to his face and he looked more like the strong man you saw a few months back when he had stopped by Edoras to borrow a horse. 

“My lady,” he said, astonished. “My apologies, I was not watching where I was going.”

“I am equally at fault. I was distracted by the sky.” He nodded, understanding. “I was looking for Eowyn, have you seen her?”

He chuckled a little, the smile softening his face to something cheeky and boyish. “She is with my brother. The last I saw of them they were talking on one of the balconies. I think it is best we leave them undisturbed.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.” He grinned. “Though, if you are in need of some company I will happily volunteer my own.”

Your acquaintance with Boromir was still a fresh one; he had not come with his companions to Edoras and instead had gone ahead to Minas Tirith. It was visible to anyone that Faramir had some amount of admiration and interest in Eowyn, but it puzzled you why Boromir always seemed to come along to the rooms where you and Eowyn were staying when Faramir visited. And when Faramir and Eowyn were lost in their own conversation, you would speak to Boromir.

Seeing him up close and at length, it was easy to believe the stories of bravery and valour about him that spread to Rohan. He spoke with a sureness and an authority, logical and bold with his opinions. But of course, none of the stories mentioned how quick to laugh he was and how freely smiles came to him, and of course, there was no mention of the endearing  avuncular fondness he seemed to have for the hobbits.

 Still, there was a grimness to him, a darkness that seemed to pass in his eyes every once in a while, his expression turning from elated to guilty when he spoke of the halflings, particularly Frodo and Sam.

Was there something there? He had said that the fellowship had become separated when the Uruk-Hai attacked, but he always omitted the reason for the separation, or what drove Frodo and Sam to be foolhardy as to continue on the quest alone.

“My lady?” Boromir said, a frown forming on his face. 

“Forgive me, I have been lost in thought,” you said. “Your company would be delightful.”  He offered you a fleeting smile and the both of you drifted towards one of the small balconies overlooking the fields. You rested your arms on the cool bannister and gazed out at the carnage. 

“I wish I could go with the soldiers to The Black Gate,” you murmured. “I feel guilty that I am unable to fulfil my duty to my people.”

“I understand what you mean,” he said, voice low. “To have my father so recently gone, and Faramir and I here… It feels as though the House of the Steward is shirking its duty.”

“But you have done your duty — shepherding the ringbearer, travelling by yourself from Rohan to Minas Tirith, wounded, to warn your people. But me?” You could not help the note of bitterness that seeped into your voice. “I did not fight at Helm's Deep, I left my people at Dunharrow, arrived just in time to join the battle here and still managed to wound myself and fail to defend my lady Eowyn.” 

“I would tell you not to be so harsh on yourself, but I think it would be hypocritical of me.” He gave you a wry smile before his face grew serious again. “Though, my time away from my city and the hours I have spent alone here in bed have made me question how I value pride and valour and duty. It has made me wonder how easily the pursuit of such things may warp one’s actions.”

You eyed him, curious but cautious. The red light on the horizon only served to highlight his handsome features. The line from his brow to his nose was strong, and his chin was lifted, still proud and noble even in such dire circumstances. And his eyes, all grey and cold steel, were burning with intensity. 

Would it be better to be tactful? Or would directness be best with a man like Boromir? 

“Did something occur on your quest?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light. “Such thoughts rarely arise without some sort of event to drive them.”

He paused and looked at you, his gaze hardening then softening. He let out a long breath and shook his head. “You must forgive me. You have been frank with your… perceived failings, but I fear I am still too proud of a man to admit my own. Perhaps in time I will forgive myself enough to share my shame.”

You nodded slowly. “I hope when the time comes you will find in me a good enough friend to speak of such things. Sometime in… the future.”

“Ah yes, the future. Here on the cusp of destruction, can we even speak of such things?”

“I must confess, I have lived so long in the shadow of the Enemy, I am uncertain what I shall do with myself once it is all over.” You sighed, wistful. “My family rares and cares for the horses that the Rohirrim ride on — it is how Eowyn and I met as children — I was to carry on the tradition but… More swords were needed, and I felt a need to stand by and protect Eowyn while she was still restrained by the trappings of her position.”

He hummed. “I am the same as you — I do not know what I shall do once we have victory and peace. I suppose either my brother or I will take up the mantle of Steward. Faramir is far more suited than I am, so I’ll have to find some way to occupy myself.” He grinned. “Maybe I shall take up smithing or music or… weaving.”

You laughed, lightness slowly filling your chest. “All those things require patience, Boromir. Are you sure you have enough supply of it?”

He chuckled. “We will have to see. I have not had much time in my life to explore what else I may pursue and enjoy.”

“I am the same. Maybe I will join you in your smithing or music or weaving.” 

Another laugh burst from him and suddenly he looked young and boyish, his head thrown back, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and your heart leapt from your chest. You turned away from the horizon and looked towards the comforting warm light of the torches. “We should make a list.”

“A list?”

“Yes, to ensure we have a good variety of activities to try. At the very least, it would serve as a distraction for the time being.”

“Very well.” He gestured towards the corridor, a wide smile on his face. “Lead on, my lady.”

-

Boromir frowned at the paper flower in his hand. The binding’s tension was uneven and the delicate paper was mangled and creased. Merry and Pippin had somehow convinced him to help them make decorative flowers in preparation for Aragorn’s coronation. The hobbits had shyly offered to create something for the high table, and Aragorn, forever fond of his little friends, had given them free reign. 

He sighed and tossed the ruined flower off to the side. 

You came through the archway and into the little alcove the hobbits had commandeered and smiled at him in greeting.

You were dressed in a set of borrowed clothes and your hair was done up in a simple braid. The Gondorian cut and style complemented your figure, and you stood strong and healthy and radiant. His eyes lingered on you for a moment, before he looked back down at the table. You were not for him, never for him. If you knew the depths of his treachery, there was no doubt you would scorn him.

The last couple of weeks were spent in a wild fervour. Between managing the city with Faramir, he had attempted the activities on the list he shared with you. You had excelled in the wood carving, your little bear more detailed and fine than his, but he had bested you at the loom, his piece of fabric coming out more smooth and even than yours. Pottery, painting, gardening, juggling, needlework — the both of you attempted whatever your injuries allowed.

He adored the way you looked when you were concentrating. Your eyes were downcast and focused, your brow just slightly knitted, and you had this endearing habit of tilting your head just so when something vexed you. Each time he met with you, he searched for ways to elicit your smile, fumbled with something just to get you to laugh, even at his own expense. What a privilege it was to see the respected and stalwart shield-maiden soften and melt. It was even more of a privilege to watch you with the horses.

The old stable master had taken to you instantly, curious and interested in what you had to say about the care and rearing of horses, and nearly every morning you had gone down to the stables to check on the animals. He had watched as you taught the shy stableboys how to braid the horses manes, your deft fingers working the strands, and listened as you told them what sort of grains and seed were best for the foals.

You seemed to come alive in the stables, eyes bright and smiles brighter. Was this what you looked like unburdened by duty and responsibility? Was this what you could become, always?

The stablemaster was old, due to retire, and perhaps…

He shoved the thought out of his mind. 

You were friendly enough with him, playful and affectionate with your comments sometimes, but if you knew the truth… How could someone like you, loyal and strong, look past his mistake with Frodo? No. It was better to keep you at arms length, as a friend. Whatever disappointment you felt with him would be more tolerable.

“Having trouble?” you asked, plucking the ruined flower from the table and holding it up to the light. 

“You are welcome to give them an attempt if you wish,” he said, gesturing to the empty seat beside him. “Valar knows we’ll need more hands if we are to finish these. I can teach you.”

You slid into the chair and watched as he moved through the steps. The flower looked better than its previous counterpart but it still looked a little wrong somehow. “Where are Merry and Pippin?” you asked, taking a sheet and mimicking his steps, folding the paper and trimming the edges.

“They have gone to visit Frodo and Sam.”

“And you did not follow?”

He shook his head and kept his eyes fixed on the sheet of paper. In truth, he had already gone to see Frodo. There, in the quiet and privacy of Frodo’s room, Boromir had wept and fallen to his knees, asking, nearly begging, for forgiveness. Frodo’s eyes, so wide and expressive, had softened and watered. He clasped Boromir’s hand, bid him to rise, and gave his forgiveness right then and there. 

But how could it be so simple? So easy? Was there not some sort of trial, some sort of penance, that he must perform to earn such forgiveness? 

You let out a little gasp of delight and presented your flower to him. It was beautiful and well formed, the petals fanned and splayed, the perfect facsimile of a blooming flower. “You know,” you said with a smile. “This is probably one of the more agreeable activities we have done.”

He wished he could spar with you, to connect with you in the mutual language of battle,  but alas, your injuries and his were still healing. He rolled his shoulder, the muscle still stiff and sore from the wound, and grimaced.

“It is still not healing well?” you asked, lowering your flower.

“The infection from before did more damage than previously thought. It is healing, just slowly, the matrons assured me.”

“Merry and Pippin told me how you faced the Uruk-Hai by yourself. Truly, a remarkably brave act.”

He deflated a little in his chair, thumbing the edge of the thin paper. “Bravery did not enter into my mind at that time. I thought only of my friends who, at that time, were neither ranger or soldier.” 

“Still, it was a brave act.”

“Brave… but not strong.”

“Boromir,” you said, exasperated. “The fact that you are still alive now is testament to your strength.”

“It is not the strength of body I am speaking of but rather the strength of will.” He shook his head and forced a smile onto his face. “What am I speaking about? These are merry times and happy days — we should not dwell on such ill things of the past.”

You paused, eyeing him. “Just as our bodies sometimes fail us, so do our minds. In Rohan, we learn in our training that it does us no good to fault and blame our bodies when they cannot perform as we wish — it simply gets in the way of learning, and more importantly, healing — it would seem remiss to not extend that same grace to our minds.”

Grace. Forgiveness. Gentleness. He had never been able to afford such luxuries, not ever since his mother died and he and Faramir had to grow up all too fast in the shadow of Mordor. Faramir seemed to be easing into the position of Steward comfortably, looking far more at home in the office than he did in the barracks, and even Eowyn was getting on well in the Houses of Healing. 

People were… moving on. Or at the very least, trying to. 

He picked up a sheet of paper and began folding it, binding the middle and trimming the ends. He started to unravel the petals but only managed to put his thumb through it.

 Could he move on as well? Was he allowed to?

“Here, like this,” you murmured and reached over. “Slowly. Gently.”

You guided his fingers, and right in his hands, his flower bloomed.

-

Early morning light glowed through the open ends of the stables. The air was warm and musky and you inhaled, relaxing into the familiar scent of horse and hay. The stableboys were yet to turn up for the day and you took your time greeting the horses individually. One of your favourites, a beautiful black steed with a glossy coat, nudged your outstretched hand and dipped its head while you stroked it affectionately. 

There seemed no end to the post-war celebrations with the coronation beginning a stream of parties and dinners, lunches and teas, but finally after nearly two weeks, the city was blessedly calm. You pressed your forehead to the cheek of the horse and sighed. He was warm and solid, grounded and real. The days and nights had passed like a dream. Boromir, smiling at you over the rim of his mug. Boromir, meeting your glances across the room. Boromir, taking you into his arms, your bodies moving in sync with the music.

He had been so close, so warm. His smell, salt and cedar, enveloped you. You had looked up into his eyes, the candlelight flickering in them, and nearly leaned in.

The horse snorted and you stepped back. What were you thinking? There was no time for such things. You were still yet to find yourself in this new world of peace, King Theoden still needed to be buried and mourned. Eowyn would return to Minas Tirith in due time — Faramir had all but formally proposed, waiting for the mourning period to be over — but what about you? 

Eomer had assured you that if you wished to return to Rohan there would be a place for you as part of the personal guard but was that something you even wished for yourself? 

Minas Tirith had grown on you. The bustle of the morning markets, the distant bell that tolled every hour, the ivy covered walls, the polished marble. Boromir had even promised to take you to Dol Amroth to see the ocean one day. And Eowyn would be here in Gondor.

It had been so lovely working with the horses and the stableboys, your muscles remembering the things you had been taught as a child. It felt like some part of you, long dormant, was finally waking up. The stable master had mentioned that he was planning on retiring soon. Perhaps you could speak to Boromir and Faramir about filling the post. 

You hummed to yourself. With Boromir retaining his position as Captain of Gondor, there was something deeply satisfying about the thought of caring for the steeds he and his men would ride on. 

“My lady?”

You turned and found Boromir standing by the entrance of the stable. He was in his casual tunic and trousers, and his hair was lightly tousled. Boromir looked the best liked this, just slightly dishevelled, loose and relaxed. 

“Good morning,” you said. “It’s early, even for you.”

���I wished to speak with you. You and Eowyn will be heading back to Rohan in a few days and I wanted to discuss something with you before you left.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Very well. Let us speak outside.”

He nodded and the both of you made your way out to a small open balcony that overlooked the rest of the circles. The air was warm and balmy and the scent of freshly baked bread wafted on the breeze. Boromir stood beside you and surveyed the city. 

“I never thought I would see the day where there was no shadow on the horizon, that my people would wake and live in peace.”

“Yes,” you murmured. “There is change in the air, a renewal. It is quite exciting to witness.”

“Speaking of change…” He turned to face you. “I am sure you are well aware that our stable master is thinking of retiring. Faramir and I have been discussing and we were wondering if you would be open to fulfilling the position.” He glanced away then back at you. “You and I will be working with each other, of course, with regards to the Calvary. Before you accept, there is something… something I wish for you to know.”

His eyes swept down and his jaw tensed. “Go on, my friend,” you said gently. 

“The Ring… I had tried to take it from Frodo. He had gone off to think and I had followed him. In my weakness, I —” He swallowed. “That was why he had continued on alone with Sam.”

You had suspected as much, gleaned from his various comments and the way he would both keep his distance from Frodo but be overly courteous in his presence. “The Ring had tempted many over the years. I do not think any less of you. And… this may be presumptuous, but knowing you, I suspect you were motivated out of love for your city and your people rather than any personal gain.”

He exhaled, short and sharp, and a wry smile crossed his face. “You know me too well.”

You shrugged. “We are friends, are we not? Friends and —”

You snapped your mouth shut and looked away. What were you going to say? ‘More’? How foolish. The man had just offered you a job, for Valar’s sake. He was a friend. A friend.

“And?”

You hazarded a look at him. His eyes were wide and his lips were parted in disbelief. Was it possible that…? 

“I… I do not know,” you muttered, and he deflated a little. His mild disappointment emboldened you and you continued. “Sometimes, I think I see more in your eyes, but I can never be sure.”

“You are not mistaken,” he said, straightening his shoulders and meeting your eyes. Your heart sped up and hope sparked in your chest. “But I do not wish for this to sway your decision in accepting the position. I —”

“Either way, I would accept. I do accept.” You smiled. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to oversee and care for the steeds of Gondor. Except, perhaps,” you added softly, “being able to be by your side.”

A smile broke out on his face, open and unguarded, and the years fell away from him. He offered his hand, palm up, and you reached out, intertwining your fingers with his.

He chuckled and shook his head. “Faramir has always berated me for my lack of romantic tendencies and I always dismissed him. For the first time, I wish I had paid more attention in my poetry classes.”

“I do not need to be wooed with poetry and flowery words, Boromir.” You laughed and he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. “Besides, it is not our way.”

“What is the Rohirric way?”

“Sometimes courting couples braid the manes of each other’s horses, weaving in their family’s colours or tokens. Wealthier families exchange horses to show that their horses are healthy and well-trained, that they can be trusted with the care of their partner, to carry and support them through life.”

He nodded. “I like that. It is practical and… sweet, in a way. I would offer to give you a horse, but I have just given you a stable full of them I suppose.” You laughed and he shared a smile with you. “In seriousness, I wish to court you properly. I understand that you will have to go back to Rohan, and there are matters to sort out. But when you return to Minas Tirith…”

“Yes. Whatever you wish, yes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Whatever I wish? A dangerous thing to say.”

“I trust you.”

He leaned in and kissed your temple, his warm breath tickling your hair. He smiled against your skin and drew back.

“So yes,” you murmured, grinning. “Whatever you wish.”

___

I really wanted the reader to have some sort of arc/development as well, and not just act as some developmental catalyst for Boromir - I hope that came through.

@mileycyprus-hill

[sun-snatcher]

( credits to @perryabbott for this phenomenal gifset ! )

1/? | SEAWARDS, TO YOU. ; REPENTANT!AU

summ.  Mairon Sauron repents. The Valar test his resolve. or:  A Seabird meets a Jailbird.  pairing.  (Repentant!Mairon/Sauron) Halbrand / f!reader w.count.  4k a/n.  AU!s1 in which the Valar are the ones who habit Sauron into Halbrand’s body , Númenor timeline is extended ,  Reader has an established Númenórean name , Galadriel’s call-to-arms is Sauron’s temptation , The Valar are just curious which path he’ll take atp

[This looks to be setting up for a series... Feel free to send requests so we can explore this AU together!]

HE BEHOLDS A LIGHT.

And then— and then.

Grief follows.

Great and bitter and relentlessly pitiless. 

It swallows him whole— spirit and body and thought alike— an all-consuming maw of devouring sorrow that he’d been forcefully severed from. All that Melkor— no, Morgoth— had sought to smother and sunder from his very esse, stirring back to life from where it’d first been cast to the black depths, like a scalding brand of hot iron against skin.

An eternal, burning reminder.

RETRIBUTION—

—howls the great Winds. 

It muffles his screams from unseen heights. Pure, unadulterated agony; his heart aflame of every pain he’d ever wrought throughout the age, throughout the centuries—

It takes a moment for him to realise he’s dying.

Enough, comes a soft-rising lament. He despairs. He is not yet forsaken. 

The voice lilts like a mournful dirge, and with it had come a gentle peace, and the torture seemed to cease nigh in an instant. 

Any will despair in the face of Death, booms another. It rumbles across towering pillars and a cavernous hall of light.

He is not as others. A mighty wave crashes on unseen shores. There’s a swelling cascade. He is Mairon, Maiar of Aulë. 

His name lights the world alive. Other voices have come, now. A curious crowd, a divine council.

He seeks repentance---Does he deserve it?---He is dying---Irredeemable!---He has yet to weep a single tear in the name of any that is good---You would grant him a chance to inflict the same corruption?---Cast him away--- Condemn him to the Night!---He is but a servant hand of M—

A fierce billow of wind. Lashing and deafening, enough to sweep the black name into muteness; into nothingness. 

INVOKE NOT THE DARKNESS HERE.

Quickly follows is a crescendo of music, a song of all Age and that carries all note of harmony, so beautifully terrifying it chills him to the bone. Strikes an utter fear in his heart he hadn’t felt since he’d first been tortured by—

“Let him speak,” commands One.

At once, All had fallen into quiet. The tides recede. The earth stills. The stars dim.

And then—

“Peace,” Mairon trembles, bowing low and terrified, guilt-ridden in his and all eyes. “I wish only for peace.”

Halbrand startles awake.

There are tears down his face.

Númenor, he remembers. He’s in the prisons of Númenor.

His senses are devoid of howling winds, of rumbling earth, and of roaring waters. No thundering night sky of stars. No agonising pain.

But then, echoing from behind, a voice resounds— delicate and openly gentle— and for a terrifying moment he thinks he might still be dreaming; that one of the Valar is speaking to him unseen once again, or perhaps the statue of Uinen graced outside his cell has come to life.

“Nightmare?”

A beat. 

“…Memory,” he answers tentatively, from where he’s curled in his cot. He rubs his face awake. “Where is Galadriel?”

“Trying to win over the heart of the Queen, still.”

“Here.” Halbrand hearkens, and can see a figure shift neath the torchlight closer to the wrought bars, kneeling down to offer him a sip from a carafe of wine. 

A bitter memory involuntarily resurfaces in him: A bottle of wine in his hands, red as a blood moon, feeding it to a black-haired elf chained upon a dark and nameless peak, scarred to the brink of death.

A blistering ache crawls down his nape. He grimaces. 

“No than—”

The moonlight gleams. Halbrand seizes. 

It’s… you .

The fair lady; from ereyesterday he’d recalled standing alongside the Captain of the Sea Guard, when he and Galadriel had first been brought before the royal court to face Tar-Míriel, and you looked like a vision of gold and ocean-blue. He had only caught a glimpse of your profile at the time, but here, now—

You’re beautiful , Mairon thinks candidly. The kind that would make men drown themselves at sea. 

“…No thank you,” Halbrand repeats, significantly less bitter than before. He shifts to sit comfortably, and leans his head back against the barred wall as he carefully scrutinises your ensemble under the hanging firelight— the shell-braid hair, the fresh-water pearl jewellery, the deep-teal gown. 

Princess? He reckons. No. You carry yourself light in both presence and step, but not sophisticated in the high and tight way someone of noble status tends to— not quite like Galadriel, even in all her salt-soaked mien. 

Politician, perhaps? Considering the attempt at an olive branch; an out-of-place kindness if you were to compare it to the scorn from the other Númenorean folk.

Nevertheless: “I was told nobody kneels in Númenor.” Then, more scathingly: “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?” 

The rough blatancy would have put anyone off.

But instead, you blink in surprise and laugh. It’s a soft, wind-chime of a sound, quickly ducked down so he could only catch the tail-end of your obscured, dimpled smile.

(He was surprised to find himself thinking he should have sat closer to the light to see it.)

“So says the castaway,” you volley breezily, rising back to your feet with your peace offering.

Halbrand finally stands to height before you move to leave. He’d much rather take the opportunity for a decent conversation at the very least, than stare mindlessly at the dark until something else interesting happens.

He’s tall, you come to realise. Dizzyingly so.

For someone who’d supposedly been adrift for weeks in the ocean, he looks surprisingly as hale as the she-Elf. Strong, even. It shows in the curl of his biceps, in the firm way he’s leaning down onto the bars now, forearms poking out as the sea-green shift in his eyes regard you almost inquisitively. 

If not for the tell-tale signs of a bad sunburn and his salt-licked wounds, you wouldn’t have been able to tell him apart from a local Númenorean sailor.

“To whom or what do I owe the pleasure of a fair maiden’s presence?”

But you aren’t so easily swayed. “Flattery will not get you far, Southlander.”

“So says the one who tried offering me wine,” he shoots, cocking his head to your bottle.

Well — 

Well.

Fine. Maybe you are easily swayed. Blame the quick-wittedness of him and that cheeky, roguish smile cutting across his chapped lips.

“Offered,” you correct, uselessly. He can surely recognise it: your meek attempt to have the last say. “You’ve lost your chance.”

He hums. “Hopefully not the chance for a name, at least?” 

Though it seems he’s lost that too—

A clamour descended from a distance; the jingle of skeleton keys, the sound of approaching footsteps in heavy armour. Change in guard shift, maybe, or it could be Galadriel’s escorted return. Regardless, you’re quick to gather your senses and make headway to the shadows.

“Wait—” Halbrand catches your fingers just as you turn to leave. The touch feels like a kindle; a spark of ember. “What are you called?”

“Tell no guard I was here, and I may just yet be able to tell you another day,” you whisper, before quickly slipping from his grasp.

And then you’re gone. Like sand between his fingers, like a ripple in water—

(Something, however, tinkers to the floor.)

“Who’re you talkin’ to, Southlander?” comes a snap.

(Halbrand stomps a foot on the rolling ring.)

“Myself,” he smiles.

You come the next night after.

Galadriel recognises you. 

“Does your father not caution you to speak with strangers?” she bites, when she watches you poke your hand into her cell. It’s a canteen of water.

A shrug. “If you speak of the Captain, you are mistaken.” Then, almost breezily, as if a tale told by you countlessly: “More he my ward and I his charge, if nothing else. Elendil found me in a tidepool, as an infant.”

Something flashes in Galadriel’s mind. A memory that never dims: Seaside, and a skin of water she’d given to a tidal-haired half-Elf, who had been left estranged with neither friend nor kin. 

She casts her eyes aside. 

“Erulaitalë will begin soon,” you warn. “The guards may likely conveniently forget to bring down your dinner amid the days-long occasion.” (You leave out the obvious: And because you’d socked two of them in the face during your little tirade towards the Queen yesterday.) 

Galadriel begrudgingly relents. 

When you get the canteen back to offer her prison mate, he’s already looming at the bars of his cell. 

“That’s not why you came, though, is it?”

He’s fidgeting with something in his hand. A mixed metal ring— silver and gold— dainty and elegant, crowned with a freshwater pearl in its centre. To someone like him the build is simple. Ordinary. But the startled look in your eyes seems to imply it’s not as meaningless as it appears. 

“You ought to reshape this,” he murmurs, thumbing at the edge as he studies it. Scrutinising, almost, in his mind’s eye— like he couldn’t help a habit of assessing the details and correcting any flaws. “It’s loose.”

You wrinkle your nose. “What would a castaway like you know of craft?” 

His face lights with a soft smile. (Galadriel thinks it might’ve been the most genuine she’d ever seen of him yet.) “Plenty, if you consider I was once a Smith.”

“Captivating,” you dismiss. “Now give it b—” 

You reach out reflexively, but he’s quick to retreat back into the safety of his cell.

“Ah. I believe you owe me your name,” he cocks his head slowly. “Fair lady.”

A huff. It’s almost comical how your shoulders sink in defeat as he continues. “Or perhaps you’d prefer, hm, I don’t know; Seabird —?”

“Eärmaril,” you admit, reluctantly. “Now give it back, lest I cut it apart from your very fingers myself, jailbird .”

There’s a long, tense moment. 

You wonder if he’ll return it to you; if he’ll continue to covet it as a method of leverage, perhaps— but then you watch him slowly make his way to lean on the bars to meet your gaze once more, and to your surprise, gestures for your hand.

You hesitate.

Halbrand patiently waits.

Then, tentatively, you reach out.

Seducer, you want to scoff— 

He carefully flips your hand palm-down, slides the ring gently back in place. 

—But you’re too distracted by the striking feel of him on your fingers. It’s callous, rough, strong. You’re surprised a man of his seemingly boorish nature can handle your hands this delicately at all, much less be this effortlessly charming.

“Sea-crystal,” he dazedly translates your name, once your presence had finally slipped free from the dungeon. “No?”

“A pearl,” Galadriel specifies. “The Heart of the Sea. ”

You’re back, again.

Halbrand is pleasantly surprised, to say the least. He’d half-expected you to stop showing up after the stunt he’d pulled, but there’d also been that gnawing part of him that knew (hoped) you’d return. There’s a stubbornness in you he can recognise from the she-Elf— it must be why the both of you take to each other so easily. 

“It’s no Lembas,” you tell Galadriel, handing her an apple. (Fresh, still. She can smell the dew rolling down its skin.) “But it’s better than what the guards have been offering you, here.”

He knows what you’re doing, if Galadriel’s word is right. You’re trying to turn the tides towards their favour; to, at the very least, get them out of these wretched cells while the kingdom debates their fate. Getting into their good graces, however, and why you’re going the extra mile with feeding them— he’s not quite sure he’s figured that out exactly yet.

“Enlighten me, what do you stand to gain from your act of breaking proverbial way-bread?”

“Halbrand,” Galadriel warns.

“It’s fine. He’s right to be wary,” you say, before turning to him. “Is plain amity not enough of a reason?"

“Not to my esteem. Everyone has wants,” he says. “Besides, looks can oft be deceiving.”

(You can’t discern if that’s a jab or a compliment or something else entirely. Perhaps all at once.) 

“And what is it you think I want, Southlander?”

He leans on the cell, studies you purposefully. “An escape. Off of this island home you’ve grown bored of. That in hopes, if the Queen should let us free, you could set sail along with us,” he says. “I think you long for a grand adventure, outside the shores of Númenor, to seek the finer joys of life beyond your charted waters.”

A stagnant moment passes.

“Hm,” you shrug, sounding unimpressed. “…Of grand adventures and finer things. That shall be my reason, then, if it is enough for you, Halbrand.”

He falters. The name rolling from your tongue sounds like the purl of a steady, clearwater stream. Like he’d been quenched of something he couldn’t quite place; of something he never noticed longed to be slated.

“What about you? What do you want?” you ask, setting the apple in his hands. 

You miss the turn of Galadriel’s head. 

Sauron doesn’t.

Vengeance, his heart cries instinctively, meeting Galadriel’s rallying-like gaze. 

But then Halbrand blinks your way. 

“Peace,” Mairon recites. “I wish only for peace.”

Someone else delivers in your stead, this time.

A cadet, who appears still wet-behind-the-ears; tanned with a mop of tight curls on his head, and holding a dissimilar kindness to your own eyes. He seems less inclined to linger in his visit, nor to entertain any of their questions. 

“Where is Eärmaril?” Halbrand asks, when the cadet clarifies your supposed order to him.

“…She regrets her absence.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he says, and couldn’t bite back the demand of his tone in time.

“Occupied,” states the cadet.

“With?” Galadriel urges.

“Dealings of which are not of your concern.”

He doesn’t know either, they quickly realise, sharing a knowing glance at each other. 

It’s only when five long minutes pass that the cadet concludes the bowl of scallops prepared will go stubbornly untouched out of distrust, and so decides to clear the evidence away, and turn on his heel to leave.

You fail to appear a night after.

And then the next.

Halbrand just stares at Uinen, and worries.

“Awfully hungry, are you?”

With a handful of fruit, you freeze in place. There’s a chill you feel crawling over you, the type you get when you know you’re caught red-handed; the type a child would get at the icy wrath of their father.

He’s not your father, you try to thaw. But it would be impossible to attempt that. So you allow yourself to look at him as Captain of the Sea Guard instead. “…Very much so.”

“We may not be of blood, Eärmaril, but to me you are still my eldest,” he reminds, “I’ve raised you longer than I have Isildur and Eärien.” 

“Only by three years,” you dismiss, leaning back onto the kitchen counter and crossing your arms.

“You’ve been sneaking to the prison.” He doesn’t sound surprised as he puts it out in the open. You wish he would’ve at least sounded as such, even a little bit. 

“The Faithful have believ—"

But having brought up that subject alone seems to effectively tip the scales against your favour. “Stop,” he says, in the authoritative tone he always uses to clinch arguments, “You will cease this madness.”

“Is that what we’re calling kindness, now?”

Elendil pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You are lucky, foolish girl, that I caught on, and not any other of the Guard. Why is it you care so much for these castaways?”

I don’t know would’ve been a terrible answer, but it would’ve been an honest one. That you cannot explain the call or the pull towards them since the day those two had set foot on Númenor—

“The sea put them in your path the same way I was put upon yours. And the sea is always right.” 

“That was different. You were an infant,” he corrects. “With no past to haunt you, and no intentions hidden in your heart. These are strangers.”

“Galadriel is known to Númenor. She was the Scourge of Orcs,” you defend, waving an arm. “And of H— the Southlander, I have seen nothing in him but the utter desire for peace.”

Elendil’s face twists into incredulity. “You can see that, and yet for Valandil you were seemingly blind to how involving him could have risked dismissal from the coming Sea Trials—?”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

“You brought him into this!”

“He offered to help—”

“Because he has a good heart.”

“—because you declined to help in the first place!” you snap, and set the apple down with an irritated thud. “All you had to do was convince Chancellor Pharazon to consi—”

Elendil huffs your name, and it feels the verbal equivalent of him flicking your ear. “Don’t you dare fault any of this on me.”

“I am not,” you assert. “I am merely stating the truth. I can take full responsibility for everything else, but whatever fault you feel inside of yourself is not my doing.”

Your expression sinks. “And what I asked of you was simple. If you cannot do even that, then at the very least: turn your gaze inwards for once, instead of casting it across the waters.”

That seems to have knocked the wind from his sails. 

(Surprisingly, yours too.)

“You know,” he sighs, after the silence stretched for a moment. “You are so much like your mother, sometimes.” 

“She’s—” Not my mother, you defy reflexively. Though that would’ve been unfair. She may not have been your mother, but you will always be her daughter; she had raised and cherished and loved you as her very own nonetheless; had chivvied and taught you the ways of water and the world better than anybody ever could have. “—She’s gone.”

“She lives in you. I can see it. Everyday,” he says. 

But that is all the grief he allows you to see. His hard, insular gaze set back into place, and suddenly you’ve found Elendil of the Sea Guard, again, as he goes to swipe the bag from your hands.

Later— much, much later, in fact— you learn Elendil’s following meeting with the castaways that night goes a little something like this:

A cut-glass voice, and a stomp of his feet. “Ever since you two driftwoods have sailed into my path,” echoes Elendil, “A discourse has been sown between me and my daughter.”

“What damage could we possibly have done,” Galadriel says in an undertone, watching him stride in. “Locked in a cage like beasts since our arrival?”

Halbrand shoots her a chiding look. Let me handle this. “Our… sincerest apologies, Captain. We did not intend as such. Your daughter merely extended us a kindness.”

A snort. It’s Galadriel’s.

“I don’t know what she sees in the both of you.” Elendil sighs, and a deep set frown makes itself known on his weary face. The Captain stops short at the foot of Uinen’s statue. “Perhaps a reflection of herself,” he continues, admiring the stone-carved hair blend into crested waves of the sea. “A key to understanding it.”

There’s a cold, calculative look in his eyes as he turns to face them. It’s nothing like the one you wear— warm, assessing. But there’s a kindness, still, in both of you; where the familial thread connects.

It seems you’ve managed to pluck that chord.

“Erulaitalë is a week-long trip to and fro. With the storms we’ve been having, maybe more. I’ve managed to get the both of you an audience with the Queen before then,” he lays the bag of fruit to their cells. “Tomorrow you will have a chance to plead your case. But whatever is commanded of me, I will obey. So for the sake of my daughter, and for yourselves, I ask you tread lightly .”

The last line is said pointedly at Galadriel. 

“Thank you,” Halbrand says. It’s forced— but genuine.

Galadriel says it too, though the day after; and not to the Queen nor Elendil, but to you, after the audience had gone as well as it could have.

Tar-Míriel now considers them guests of the island while she travels to perform her duties amid Erulaitalë, though they will be surveilled for the time being until her return, and will personally ensure the matter of their fate be seen to by then. 

Throughout the final mandate, however—

Ivory white is a beautiful colour on you, Halbrand concludes, distractedly.

“Glad to see the Captain didn’t lock you up in a tower,” he says after, as the Guards unlock his shackles. “Do you always have a tendency to help strays? To beachcomb for flotsam and jetsam that wash ashore?”

“A thank you would be nice,” you scoff, but without heat. “And yes. Call it a mutual understanding.”

The Guards shuffle off. Halbrand is left in the borders of the court, speaking to you, who’s robed in a dress like a monolith of pure light. Salvation, you look like. And you had been, in a way. He cannot deny that.

But he cannot deny he doesn’t trust any of it either.

(Something about things being too good to be true. He’s learned that lesson before.)

“I still don’t know what you want of me, Eärmaril,” he remarks, and was glad to know the sound of your name finally being uttered by him seems to have an effect on you. “But a part of me gathers that staying in those cells to rot might benefit me more, than to be at risk of being at your disposal outside these stone walls.”

Hurt flashes in your eyes. It’s the first he’d ever seen it. 

As if the thought of having someone in thrall to you was— outlandish. And here, perhaps now Sauron will see the malice cut through your façade. That alas, your true colours and intentions will bleed through, as always, like he’s been expecting and predicting all this while.

But then:

“You must have been hurt so, to be this distrusting, Halbrand.”

He seizes.

Your gaze melts into something sickeningly compassionate. Severe, almost, as Estë’s healing touch in his faded dreams.

Sauron doesn’t know what to make of it.

“You— think me afraid,” he manages, terse enough to be a statement more than a question. (Enough, hopefully, to hide the fact you have, indeed, rattled him.)

“No. I think you don’t know what true kindness looks like, even if it’s being handed to you on a silver platter.”

“I’ve done evil,” he says, slow and careful, and accompanies it with an intimidating step into your space; your orbit.

You don’t waver. 

If anything, you’ve boldly bared your throat as you crane your neck to level his steely gaze. “It is said only the sea can wash away all that is evil. That it can erode all given time. I believe that’s why you were adrift and washed here.”

“A baptism,” he muses, suddenly remembering Ossë, between the battle-drum in his ears. 

“Whatever floats your boat.”

Halbrand scoffs. “You think you know me.”

“I know enough,” you say. “I know I’m the only person in this moment who can give you what you want.”

“You alone cannot give me peace.”

“I cannot,” you agree, before cocking your head to the side. “Though, I can lend you a Smith’s hammer and tongs.”

In spite of himself, and against his better judgement—

Mairon lights up.

Footnotes:

Erulaitalë was a ceremony observed on the summit of Meneltarma, the tallest mountain peak of Númenor, in which praise was given to Eru for his works.

[actual-changeling]

some early fluffy msr featuring once again a very tired scully and a worried mulder. if i end up writing more vignettes like these i might start posting them on ao3. this is set a few days after the first pfaster incident.

—

Mulder should really wake her up.

Not only is sleeping on the desk incredibly uncomfortable—speaking from a lot of experience—but he also knows that her first reaction to realising she fell asleep at work will be shame. She is slumped over in her usual chair, angled towards him and with her back to the door; every now and then she makes a little noise and buries her face deeper into the cradle of her arms.

Her blazer has ridden up her back and her blouse with it, revealing not soft skin but a deep-blue, slowly healing bruise. There are several more littering her entire body, and Mulder has caught her wincing or hissing in pain more times than he can count, swallowing the needle of guilt that comes with it. The memory of her sobbing into his chest is at the forefront of his mind, impermeable and achingly bright, and he regrets not shooting Pfaster dead right where he stood.

Scully had insisted on going back to work and shrugged off any and all attempts at getting her medical attention, eventually telling him to 'leave her alone or so help me god'. Not wanting to push, he had, and yet, seeing the shadows under her eyes match her bruises more and more, he wishes he had said something—anything—if just to make sure she is not hurting more than can be avoided.

It is not difficult to guess what exactly is keeping her up at night, and this is not the first or the last time a harrowing experience haunted them all the way home. Nightmares are as much part of the job as paperwork, and he would carry it all for her if he could.

Mulder watches her lips part for a sigh, a week's worth of fatigue finally catching up with her, and his indecision disappears entirely. He quietly pushes back his chair and tiptoes around their office, first taking the phones off the hook, then switching off their cellphones too. If anyone wanted something from them (and 'anyone' was almost exclusively Skinner), they were going to have to wait.

After locking the door, he turns off the ceiling light, picks up his coat, and gently drapes it over her shoulders; the heavy fabric wraps around her like a cocoon, making her appear even smaller than she already was. Shifting for a few seconds, Scully seems to adjust to the new weight and influx of warmth, but she quickly settles again with sleep softening her features. Hesitantly, Mulder reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, disproportionately endeared by the content noise he gets in response.

In the late afternoon twilight, her red hair is littered with specks of gold, and he cannot resist the urge to run a palm over the back of her head to smooth it down further. Leaning in, he presses a tender kiss on her temple, murmuring "_sweet dreams"_ before he can second-guess himself.

Mulder knows he cannot change what happened or the lingering trauma she is inevitably struggling with, but he can allow her to get the rest she needs, if just for a little while, his gaze never straying far from her. No uninvited visitors disturb her peace, and he busies himself with expense reports and filing while she naps. 

The sun sets, the moon rises, and a handful of hours later, he catches her lashes fluttering and fingers twitching as she finds her way back to consciousness.

Contrary to his initial assumption, Scully doesn't seem to feel embarrassed or uncomfortable, but rather leans back and pulls his coat tighter around herself. Her eyes are clear, and he can spot the beginning of a smile tugging on her lips. He breathes against the sudden wave of anxiety washing over him, worried that he somehow overstepped.

"Better?"

Scully nods, letting out a puff of air and looking away as a blush rises to her cheeks.

"Thank you," she whispers, extending her arm to take his hand, which was starting to make a mess of the files without him noticing. Mulder squeezes it in return, his thumb unconsciously drawing circles along her knuckles. Unsure of how to deal with the emotions surging between them, he bites back the joke on his tongue and settles for honesty instead.

"If you ever—you can call. Anytime. Odds are I'm probably up anyway, and if-" he stumbles, mentally preparing himself to see her walls slot back into place, but she is meeting his gaze with steady, familiar affection. 

"If that's something I can do, please. Let me."

Scully squeezes his hand one more time before pulling back, carefully pushing herself upright. His coat is swallowing her, merging her with the creeping shadows on the wall, and her hair is a flame, drawing him in like a moth to the light. His light. 

"Dinner? Your choice."

Mulder smiles, recognising the offer for what it is: gratitude and affirmation wrapped in one.

"Let's go."

(When Scully calls him later in the early morning hours, they end up falling asleep together, and seeing her lively and infinitely less tired at work is worth the phone bills he continues to amass over the next few weeks.)

[vincentvalenfine]

SLAMMING my hands on the table to yell Vincent realising he’s his partners first everything and developing the worlds biggest corruption kink - YES he will be angsty and guilt ridden about it but will that stop his brain from relishing every new thing they do? Absolutely not.

He hates it - but he loves it.

The knowledge that you're so innocent to the suggestions he comes up with makes him hate that primal part of him that longs to see you vulnerable, splayed out beneath him with every last inch of you bared to his gaze. He hates the beast in him that relishes your blushes and moans, every delicious gasp and cry as he introduces both you and himself to yet another new pleasure (or pain, sometimes even both at once).

But he loves being able to pleasure you so thoroughly. Loves the way you give every last ounce of trust to him as he ties your arms back for the first time, the deep affection in your eyes something he thought he'd never be willing to accept, hadn't thought he deserved, and yet drinks up with desperation whenever you offer it to him.

He especially loves the way the rope leaves elegant lattices of red all over your body once he removes it.

The struggle is in his own lack of varied experience, but he makes up for it with discreet, secretive research, afternoons in the library hiding his presence as he reads literature steamy enough to make his face threaten to turn red permanently. He harasses Reeve to teach him the art of navigating the net, and forces himself to purchase one of the newer models of phone that lets him browse the web to further his knowledge of the diverse realm of pleasure... how times have changed. Who knew the drive to try out just about anything he could with you would actually force him to acquaint himself with modern technology?

He hates when something new hurts you enough to make you cry, but he loves kissing the tears off your cheeks, tasting the salt on his lips as he murmurs his apologies and promises to make it better afterward. Every time the guilt claws at his guts, he tells himself he can enjoy these things because you want him to.

Pleasing you means more to him than any of his self-loathing.

[bluejeanstrash]

tags: 626 words, seungcheol x reader, angst, infidelity, break ups

‘no, i won’t do it’ seungcheol stands in front of the door, blocking your only exit ‘i won’t break up, i refuse’

you’re so tired ‘get out of the way’ you say weakly, just wanting to go back home.

‘please’ his voice falters ‘please baby, it was just one kiss. one. it meant absolutely nothing. please you have to believe me’ he’s crying now, gripping your shoulder as he shakes you desperately.

just one kiss — the story of just one kiss with famous k-pop idol had started as another post on an anonymous gossip site. user cherry0912 had written she’d kissed celebrity S at a nightclub.

“when he realised we were fans he paid for all our drinks!!! and then somehow we started dancing together and then…we kissed. everyone, kissing a celebrity really is everything you can imagine”

first brushed off as a delusional fan, the details in every follow up post had started to get very specific; then she posted that picture — the one your friend takes as proof when you’re kissing a famous idol in a club. everything was blurry and dim and most said you couldn’t tell it was him but you knew immediately. call it a woman’s intuition. guilt-ridden, he had confessed thinking you would forgive him. after all, it was just one kiss. the only silver lining — if you could even call it that — was your relationship was not public. so at least you’d been spared that humiliation.

‘let me go’ he loosens his grip, dropping his hands ‘and get out of my way’

seungcheol knows, he knows once you walk out that door he’ll never see you again.

‘please don’t do this’

your fatigue is suddenly consumed by a fit of rage ‘YOU DID THIS!’ you scream ‘YOU! you ruined it. not me. how could you-’ your voice breaks ‘how could you do this to me’ you break down, falling to the floor and start crying, wailing like a little kid who doesn’t know how else to express their pain.

you cover your face with your hands and cry and cry until seungcheol slides down, pulling you into a familiar hug. you let him. it feels so safe and reassuring in his arms that you forget for a second that he’s the one causing you this pain.

‘i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’ll do anything’ he holds you so tight, trying to bridge the irreparable gap between you both. then he pulls away, holding your face in his hands, his eyes filled with a sudden resolve ‘i’ll fix it. i can fix it, i promise. just- just don’t leave me’ he looks at you hopefully, desperate to get through to you. it doesn’t work, you just can’t look at him the same anymore. you start to stand up as he pulls you back down ‘no, no, no, don’t go. let’s talk about it’

‘there��s nothing left to talk about’ it was true. everything to say had already been said. you’d been arguing for hours now, going through all the motions — the screaming, the crying, the silence. ‘you hurt me, you intentionally hurt me’ you shake your head ‘i have nothing left to say to someone who could that me’

‘but, i- i don’t want to break up’ it sounds more like he’s telling him that.

‘well’ you push him off you, not able to stand his touch anymore ‘it’s not just up to you’ and get up. he just sits there, staring at nothing as you walk past him and head to the door. your hand shakes as you grab the handle.

‘please don’t leave me’ you hear his voice, soft and sincere ‘don’t leave..’ it almost pulls you back. the door clicks open and without even turning around to look at him one last time, you walk out.

‘please..’ he pleads to no one, realising what has just happened. he turns around, watching the door shut slowly, knowing your chapter too has closed with it.

[quitealotofsodapop]

[Once Mac learned that Wukong got possessed trying to take down LBD, the shadow monkey almost 99% decided that he wasn't going to lose his King to that bony biotch. And depeneding on how messy the Samadhi Fire ritual goes, the last thing Wukong says to Macaque is along the lines of "You ruined everything!", and Macaque doesn't want those to be the last words he hears his King say…] + [And soon Macaque started to remember how much him and Wukong discussed Having a family once the war on heaven was over, and how much they both wanted to be parents…]

he spent this whole time trying to put the... whole thing with Wukong on hold until he was free from LBD's control. keyword being trying, ofc. things don't really work like that when you're tasked with hunting the other monkey in question and his friends down, so he accidently made things worse and know he's trying to reign everything back in long enough to have even a chance to fix it.

[Its also around the time Macaque really has it sink in that; "Oh sh-t. I attacked the Monk and fought Wukong when he was pregnant. No wonder he killed me." He isn't sure how to build himself up to discussing this fact with Wukong yet, but he'll get there.]

it's probably something he decides to bring up shortly after the whole s4 debacle. Between the fight from right before ep 1 to the world almost ending again, he doesn't want to risk his death potentially being another surprise argument that gets out of hand or risk another world ending event getting in the way of any substantial healing again. he knows disagreements are normal and even healthy in any kind of relationship, lest the relationship be codependent, but he'd rather not fight about that.

[Red's hair is ruined with baby monkey drool by the time someone gets Yuebei off of him.] + [Nezha, angry flames flaring up: "You mean to tell me that you were "with Stone Egg" during the ritual to separate the Samadhi Fire!? She could have suffered the same fate as Ao Lie!" Wukong, guilt-ridden: "Yeah. Don't remind me. She kicked me non-stop for days afterwards."] + [Yuebei: *tries grabbing Nezha's skates to test the "spicyness"*]

Wukong is laughing at Red the whole time.

Ne Zha def feels a bit guilty about his first reaction being to bring up Ao Lie's death, probably knowing how Wukong feels about it.

and aww no, no I'm picturing Wukong so in pain from Yuebei's distress that he's basically bedridden. I imagine he'd spend this time resting with Ao Lie until they both recovered (atleast on the surface) while the other pilgrims fuss over both of them.

Ne zha can only squawk indignantly when Yuebei manages to get her mouth around one of his rings, immediately trying to pry it from her little jaws. with him and Wukong combined it takes 10 minutes and the promise of a lot of fruit to get her off. luckily the rings aren't perpetually on fire.

[And the dragon's last words to assure his friend that he never blamed him for the accident, nor his baby. Ao Lie was just sad that he'd never be able to meet the cub in this lifetime. He just wants Wukong to stop being so hard on himself for it. If only the dragon he tell him that in person.]

Scroll of memory! Ao Lie already broke the mold by interacting with Mei, he breaks it again when MK + Macaque are scroll diving for Wukong by telling him to pass on the message to the king that his stance on the matter hasn't changed.

[He def makes an awkward apology once they run into eachother at the start of S3. He refuses to let Wukong get into danger or exert himself tho - Nezha's a momma's boy at heart after all.]

Wukong insists it's fine, and that Ne Zha couldn't have known that he kept it from basically everyone, but Ne Zha still feels bad about everything regarding the ritual. he intends to make up for it by doing whatever he can to protect Wukong and his little one now (even if Wukong insists its not nessecary)

[Spider Queen hears the sounds of a thousand knuckles cracking and realises that she's looking at the person who might as well be the Monkey King's Mama. SQ ain't even mad by the end of it.] + [And although SQ kinda trusts the demon a little more, she's far more hesistant to step on the Monkey King's toes than before if his Mama's gonna respond. SQ is a lot more scheming for the rest of S2.]

I love the mental image of Guan Yin using their hundred hands to aid in their righteous beat down

Spoder Queen knows she kinda deserved this, she did put a heavily pregnant person who is practically made of magic in a magic draining web. she was basically asking for this.

she will take this loss with the dignity and grace of the queen (believes she) is and not bother Wukong again (yet) she promises- please don't punch her again.

[LBD almost in the same fashion it tried absorbing the Samadhi Fire so many years ago - guess his baby found the ancient demoness "less spicy".] + [BTW I love the art you did for this scene!! Stone Egg had enough of LBD's nonsense and was Hangry, and Bama had spoken some sense into Baba, and now Nom NOM NOMNOM.]

she is very icy!

and I'm glad you like the art!

[Oh gosh Macaque realising that the baby looking like him brings Wukong joy too would make him cry even harder. He almost cost his mate everything by risking the world over his own debt to the Bone demon. Mac would gladly have died all over again if it kept the baby safe.]

Macaque is an inconsolable sobbing mess of emotions for a while after first meeting Yuebei, for a lot of reasons. and imagine how hard he cries when Wukong first names her out loud officially calling her "Sun Yuebei Xing" for the first time, Yuebei being a moon inspired/adjacent name. he's practically wailing at one point.

[She plants a big kiss on Yuebei's forehead, forgetting that her lipstick stains. Her husband chuckles, still teary-eyed, at his wife's embarassment at planting a big kiss mark on the baby's head.] + [MK is having unknown instinctual urge to curl up with Yuebei (his honorary sister) next to the other monkeys. Pigsy laughs that MK did the same with his fave plushie for years.]

Wukong laughs at the befuddled chirp Yuebei makes when PIF kisses her.

he would also very much welcome MK into his nest with his sleepy little family.

[Also, Mac is def the kinda guy to use exaggerated versions of the Brotherhood's voices when narrating villain characters in Yuebei's books. The little raspberry noises (or "Boos" as Mac likens them to) she makes at the voices encourages him even further.]

I love this. He so would. Wukong would be laughing his tail off the first time he hears Macaque voicing a villain with an over exaggerated Peng voice, Wukong actively encourages him to do this as well.

[And considering Yellowtusk is the only one with the sense to feed and bathe the hostage infant, he's not surprised when she turns on Azure and Peng specifically.]

I'm now thinking of a scene where yellowtusk manages to get Yuebei away from the others long enough to give her bath, and she's fussy about it but baths with her Baba and Bama in the mountains hot springs were usually fun and calm and she felt better afterwards so she didn't put up much of a fight when Yellowtusk tried to get her into the water. anything that reminded her of her parents is comforting right now. but she's crying the whole time and chirping for her parents as she's very far from home and with no one she recognizes, but this elephant is giving her fruit and cleaning her as best he can, so maybe he's okay? she ends up clinging to his trunk like how'd she would cling around her parents neck, and thats how he got his sore trunk during Yuebei's "tantrum". it wasn't her getting mad at him the same way she got mad at Azure and Peng, she was just scared and clung to the first person she felt was safe with, her uncontrolled baby strength leaving it's mark despite him being the only one she didn't really feel threatened by.

kinda sad note on Yuebe missing her parents, but I feel like she'd have seperation anxiety after the s4 debacle. she needs at least one of her parents in the room with her at all times when she's awake or she's wailing at the top of her lungs.

[Some of Peng's feathers are stolen too (Yuebei had a mouthful of them) and Macaque and Sandy turned the feathers into a cat toy. Mo and Yuebei both adore it.]

this is amazing Macaque would so let Yuebei keep a "trophy" of her victory over Peng in the form of a baby appropriate toy. he also is def never letting Peng live down that they lost to a baby if they ever meet face to face again. hell, they day he got Yuebei back he was ragging on Peng for their loss before the bird could even be peeled off the ground

Sequel to this Slow Boiled au post.

[he spent this whole time trying to put the... whole thing with Wukong on hold until he was free from LBD's control. keyword being trying, ofc.]

Yeah, Macaque is having a not-so-fun time trying to get used to being alive again, being still in love with his former mate (who killed him), having his soul indebted to a omnicidal Bone Demon, his former mate having a baby etc...

After finding out about MK and the Stone Egg; Mac was sorta half-hoping that he could duck LBD enough to slowly absorb the whole Wukong situation, maybe meet up with some old allies, get some answers, that sort of thing. The Mayor kidnapping him really threw those plans out the window.

[it's probably something he decides to bring up shortly after the whole s4 debacle. Between the fight from right before ep 1 to the world almost ending again, he doesn't want to risk his death potentially being another surprise argument that gets out of hand or risk another world ending event getting in the way of any substantial healing again.]

It's def a super awkward thing to approach, especially with Yuebi literally just being born and stuff.

Wukong now knows that Mac knows, and is super guilty for not having told him back then. At the same time, Wukong is confused why Max seems so... ok with it suddenly??? Like;

Wukong: "Dude, I killed you." Mac: "Yeah, and I attacked you while you were carrying a baby. Lets call it even." Wukong: "You didn't *know* at the time!" Mac: "Don't matter. Lets just drop it ok?"

Mac does have his own super complex issues regarding the whole "being killed by your former mate"-thing, but in his mind - he really could have killed Wukong and Yuebei if he hadn't been careful. He also knows that in his heart-of-hearts, he wouldn't have even considered fighting Wukong had he known about the Stone Egg ahead of time. He ultimately doesnt want to open up any old wounds Wukong has from the incident since he's been living with the outcome of that fight far longer than Mac has.

Bumping around Wukong's memories in S4 really dredges Mac's buried resentment and confusion about the last fight to the surface. Questions like; Why was Wukong protecting the monk that hurt him? Why was Wukong going on this Journey and not returning to his throne? Why did he hide the Stone Egg from the world?

MK is politely trying his best to let Mac vent to him about what happened between him and Wukong, but ofc they quickly stumble into MK's shared history with the Monkey King.

Lots of hugs, peaches, and family counselling is required afterwards, not doubts about that.

[and aww no, no I'm picturing Wukong so in pain from Yuebei's distress that he's basically bedridden. I imagine he'd spend this time resting with Ao Lie until they both recovered (atleast on the surface) while the other pilgrims fuss over both of them.]

Ao Lie and Wukong are quickly panicking over eachother while their other bros are forcing them to rest after the Samadhi Fire Ritual. Wukong was in so much pain that he was convinced that he was going into labor, or that he even lost Yuebei as a result of joining in the Ritual. Eventually though, the Stone Egg calmed down. Ao Lie's pain did not.

[Ne zha can only squawk indignantly when Yuebei manages to get her mouth around one of his rings, immediately trying to pry it from her little jaws. with him and Wukong combined it takes 10 minutes and the promise of a lot of fruit to get her off. luckily the rings aren't perpetually on fire.]

Yuebei mistook the rings as chew toys and liked the shiny gold colour. It takes Nezha a solid minute of apologizing to Wukong for his past behavior to notice that the little monkey cub has clamped her mouth over one of his skates. Wukong is laughing hysterically, especially as Nezha tries his best to gently remove the ring from Yuebei's mouth without activating it. Luckily all it takes to distract the baby is for Experienced Dad™ Pigsy to pull the oldest trick in the book.

Pigsy: "Got your nose, mooncake!" Yuebei, drops ring: :O! Nezha, quickly picks it up: "How did you know to do that?" Pigsy, still holding Yuebei's "nose" as the baby grabs at him: "You'd swear MK was half-garbage disposal from how much stuff he tried to eat as a toddler. Stealing his nose always worked." Wukong, a little wistful: "Tell me more, please?" Pigsy: "Sure thing. Guess little monkeys aren't much different from little MKs." *gives Yuebei her nose back*

Nezha makes note of hiding anything flammable whenever he visits the monkeys.

[Scroll of memory! Ao Lie already broke the mold by interacting with Mei, he breaks it again when MK + Macaque are scroll diving for Wukong by telling him to pass on the message to the king that his stance on the matter hasn't changed.]

Oh gosh... Imagine this though... Wukong trapped in the Scroll, busting on through his memories. Suddenly he hears a familar voice...

Ao Lie: "Wow! She really did make us all wait, huh?" Wukong, frozen in his tracks: "What?" Wukong: (*slowly turns to see the memory of Ao Lie, far older/frailer than what Mei had seen, standing by and watching the memory of Yuebei's first day of life.*) Memory!Ao Lie, smiling: "She's a perfect little pup... Mei was right on the money when she called her a ball of cuteness! She really looks like you! The blue eyes are a little unexpected, but considering that your mate dragged himself out of Diyu to be there - I guess anything could have happened!" Wukong, lip quivering: "No... you're just that memory curse. Ao Lie never got to see her! You're not real!" Memory!Ao Lie, frowning: "Why are you so stubborn to admit that it wasn't your fault? I really truly never blamed you, or her." Wukong, crying: "Why were you so ok with it? Because of me, the Samadhi Fire it... hurt you." Memory!Ao Lie: "I would rather die protecting my family than live and let them be hurt in my stead." (*quietly moves to hug Wukong*) "That includes you and your pup, Wukong. Always has." Wukong: (*now sobbing, hugging Memory!Ao Lie tight*)

Eventually the Memory!Ao Lie has to remind Wukong that he has friends to reunite with in the present. Wukong hesistates to leave Ao Lie alone again - the memory reassures him that he'll be fine as long as his pilgrim brother lives his life without the weight of the Ritual upon his shoulders. And to make sure to spoil Yuebei in his stead.

[Wukong insists it's fine, and that Ne Zha couldn't have known that he kept it from basically everyone, but Ne Zha still feels bad about everything regarding the ritual. he intends to make up for it by doing whatever he can to protect Wukong and his little one now (even if Wukong insists its not nessecary)]

Ofc Nezha feels like garbage for treating Wukong's actions during the Ritual as a failing.

Wukong thinks he has it bad with DBK, PIF, and Pigsy forcing him to rest? Imagine how stubborn Nezha is when he's worried over the Monkey King.

[I love the mental image of Guan Yin using their hundred hands to aid in their righteous beat down] + [she will take this loss with the dignity and grace of the queen (believes she) is and not bother Wukong again (yet) she promises- please don't punch her again.]

Spider Queen isn't sure who she's afraid of more; the spooky ancient bone demon pretending to be a little girl, or the 1000 Armed Bodhisattva that just whooped her hard (but mercifully let her live) for hooking the Monkey King to the power-draining Spider Mech. Spider Queen makes sure not to directly target or interact with the Monkey King or his protege if she can for the rest of S2.

The Spider Gang has nightmares of Guanyin coming to beat the rest of them up like she's a Jojo stand.

[she is very icy! and I'm glad you like the art!]

It's really great art!!

Also LBD's soul probably tasted like shaved ice with a hint of chalk. Lots of it, but pretty bland. It filled up Yuebei at least!

[Macaque is an inconsolable sobbing mess of emotions for a while after first meeting Yuebei, for a lot of reasons. and imagine how hard he cries when Wukong first names her out loud officially calling her "Sun Yuebei Xing" for the first time, Yuebei being a moon inspired/adjacent name. he's practically wailing at one point.]

Aww ohoho! Macaque makes so many joyous squeaking/hooting sounds during Yuebei's arrival. To hear that Wukong has named her his little "Moon Comet Star" just makes him cry harder, especially with how casually Wukong names her. Like he'd had it it long before this moment, before he even knew that Macaque was back in his life.

I think in older Chinese traditions, the parents typically wait for the Man Yue (30 Days) celebration to publically announce the baby's name. But I bet Wukong is just so happy that he tells everyone Yuebei's name long before that time.

Nezha insisted on being at Yuebei's Man Yue to bless her, as that's his whole Patron God of Children thing.

[Wukong laughs at the befuddled chirp Yuebei makes when PIF kisses her. he would also very much welcome MK into his nest with his sleepy little family.]

There's def a bunch of photos of the incident with Yuebei looking at PIF with the most confused doe-eyed look ever, a huge red kiss mark on her head. The Princess looking embarassed and adoring all at once. It's PIF anf DBK's fave baby photo of Yuebei - besides the one where she tried eating Red Son's hair.

MK is very tired after the battle, so the gang has no problem just letting the kid rest in the nest with the monkeys. t

[I love this. He so would. Wukong would be laughing his tail off the first time he hears Macaque voicing a villain with an over exaggerated Peng voice, Wukong actively encourages him to do this as well.]

Heehee, Macaque finally agrees to read Yuebei a kids-friendly version of JTTW at MK's insistence, and when he gets to Camel Ridge, he pauses before looking towards Wukong for confirmation. At Wukong's excited nod, Macaque grins evily.

Macaque, narrating: "In the kingdom of Lion Camel Ridge, there lived three Great Demon Kings." Macaque, exaggerating the real voices: "Azure Lion! Yellow Tusked Elephant! And the Golden-Winged Peng!" Yuebei: *blows raspberry at the villains!* >:P! Macaque, normal voice: "Yeah, boo! These guys sucked!" Wukong: *laughing hysterically!* MK, sitting cross-legged on the floor: "Did they really sound like that?" Wukong, trying hard not to cry from laughter: "It's closer than you think!"

Macaque also deliberately exaggerates the voices of their allies like PIF and DBK so Yuebei doesn't accidentally associate their voices with the muddy past shown in the book.

[I'm now thinking of a scene where yellowtusk manages to get Yuebei away from the others long enough to give her bath, and she's fussy about it but baths with her Baba and Bama in the mountains hot springs were usually fun and calm and she felt better afterwards so she didn't put up much of a fight when Yellowtusk tried to get her into the water. anything that reminded her of her parents is comforting right now. but she's crying the whole time and chirping for her parents as she's very far from home and with no one she recognizes, but this elephant is giving her fruit and cleaning her as best he can, so maybe he's okay? she ends up clinging to his trunk like how'd she would cling around her parents neck, and thats how he got his sore trunk during Yuebei's "tantrum".]

Awwww..... :(

Yellow Tusk brings up the matter shortly after their takeover. Their former ally's cub is very fussy (especially since Azure has had her for about half a day now) and is starting to smell... ripe. Peng takes one sniff and recoils in disgust. Azure is clueless and isn't sure if monkey cubs work like lion cubs or not. Yellow Tusk has the sense to ask the remaining servants for help with tending to the infant - a group of seven brave orchard maidens stepped forward to run the baby a bath and prepare her a meal. Yellow Tusk is sure that he recognises them.

Baby monkeys instinctively cling to whatever is nearby - especially in situations where they feel scared or unsafe. So when the elephant gently put Yuebei in the warm bathwater and offered her mashed fruit, she instinctively clasped around his trunk like it was the arm of her parents, making sad hooing sounds as she sucked on her fingers. Yellow Tusk felt his heart break at the sight. He simply cannot fathom harming her in any sense of the word.

Azure must be mad to think that Sun Wukong won't kill them all to ensure this child's safety.

[kinda sad note on Yuebe missing her parents, but I feel like she'd have seperation anxiety after the s4 debacle. she needs at least one of her parents in the room with her at all times when she's awake or she's wailing at the top of her lungs.]

Absolutely.

Baby monkeys are already super clingy - the trauma of Yuebei's kidnapping during S4 only intensified this. She fears that if either of her parents leave the room, that they might not come back. Considering it was her parents arguing and "something" (aka the Scroll) taking her Baba away preceeded her kidnapping...

The first few times it happens, Wukong and Mac + the extended fam are terrified and aren't sure *why* Yuebei is so distressed. Eventually they figure out it's her anxiety, and are able to at least keep a clone posted to ease the worst of her worries when the others babysit. MK thankfully is one of the figures that Yuebei is calm around, and while she loves her uncles and aunts; Yuebei still starts wailing after a few minutes of realizing that she can't find her Baba or Bama.

It takes a long time for the baby monkey to be comfortable to not have her parents in sight. And considering how worried and overprotective that Wukong and Mac can be of her, they aren't in any rush to force her independance.

[this is amazing Macaque would so let Yuebei keep a "trophy" of her victory over Peng in the form of a baby appropriate toy. he also is def never letting Peng live down that they lost to a baby if they ever meet face to face again. hell, they day he got Yuebei back he was ragging on Peng for their loss before the bird could even be peeled off the ground]

Imagine the smug look on Macaque's face as he sees Peng reduced to a chicken burger on the ground by a *baby* with not even a tooth in her head. Mac would make a show of picking up his baby girl and kissing her all over while commenting in baby-talk; "Did you have fun with the birdy and kitty, moonlight? Yeah? Do you want Bama to take something to remember your little play date?"

And before Peng could make a snarking comment, they squawk! at the feeling of feathers being removed. They look up and see Yuebei playing with a handful of golden feathers. The Shadow Monkey grinning like a cat who's caught a mouse. The celestial bird faints from embarassment.

Macaque has one of the feathers preserved as a bookmark. It brings him great joy.

Again tysm for being so invested in this au!

[amethystina]

i still like your idea of the fanfic where, soohyun gets injured but doesn't die, and the rest is canon but gaon doesn't know yohan is alive... You put it in one of the chapters note (i forgot which chapter) i am a sucker for angst and i like to give myself sadness lol... I can imagine how broken and angst ridden gaon would be. It would be a devastating sight but also delicious.

It is a fascinating thought! But, admittedly, also the idea I'm the least likely to write out of all the ones I've come up with — for the very same reason why you like it x'D

I'm really not a fan of angst and sadness and, sometimes, I can look at a story idea and realise that it wouldn't be fun for me to write. And this one is, unfortunately, one of those. Because it would focus so much on Ga On's grief and his failing relationship with Soo Hyun and I just... don't want to write that?

Sure, it would be fascinating, but also way too depressing for me. Partly because I don't see an easy solution. Like, even if Ga On eventually finds out that Yo Han is alive, just how bad would he feel? How bad would they both feel? And just how much more pain and anguish would they have to wade through? Would they even be willing to try?

Basically, now that I've had time to think about it further, I've realised that it just doesn't work. The math isn't mathing in this scenario, at least not for a fic written in my fairly realistic and down-to-earth style.

Because it would, quite frankly, be easier for them to just cut their losses and continue living their separate lives. I think the hurt would be too much for either of them to come to terms with and reconcile. So, on top of being a very depressing story overall, it wouldn't have a happy ending, either. Which means it immediately gets disqualified because I only want happy endings xD

I wouldn't be able to give it a happy ending with a clear conscience because, sure, we all know Yo Han is a vicious asshole and Ga On is good at forgiving him. But this?

Faking his own death for months, maybe years, and not telling Ga On about it, instead leaving him to grieve — on top of all the guilt he's already feeling? And for what? Because Yo Han was hurt? Because he was jealous of Soo Hyun? Because he wanted to punish Ga On?

Well, Yo Han would certainly achieve that.

Ga On would be an absolute wreck.

And, to be entirely honest with you, I think Ga On would be too broken after spending only god knows how long thinking Yo Han is dead because of him. Because, let's face it — that's what Ga On would believe.

I wouldn't know how to fix that. I don't want to fix it because if Yo Han truly did all that to Ga On — something so vindictive and cruel — I'd side with Soo Hyun and say that it's probably best for the two of them to stay apart. Because, clearly, they're going to destroy each other eventually. Especially since Ga On would most likely become suicidal again. And Yo Han must have predicted that might happen but still chose not to tell Ga On about being alive.

And, sure, I understand being hurt and angry — Yo Han has no obligation to forgive Ga On for the things he did. But to intentionally choose to put another person — someone you care about — in a situation where you know they might end up wanting to take their own life? Just to get revenge?

Unforgivable, in my opinion.

But that leads us to the part where we also have to ask if Yo Han truly would do that and, personally, I don't think so. Maybe that's me giving Yo Han too much grace, but I really don't think he'd be that cruel considering how much he cares about Ga On. Maybe he wants Ga On to suffer a bit, sure, but not die.

So, in the end, the whole thing is a bit of a moot point x'D

The scenario doesn't work with how I choose to interpret these characters.

I think a more likely outcome if Soo Hyun doesn't die is that Yo Han would still do all the things he does in the drama, including telling Ga On that he's alive, but then go radio silent. Like, go to Switzerland and just focus on himself and Elijah. But do it more firmly than in Who Holds the Devil when he always had plans to return. Here he wouldn't.

Which is painful, too, but not quite as bad as "I'm knowingly letting you think you had a hand in killing me." And Ga On would still wallow and he'd still realise that his relationship with Soo Hyun isn't what he thought it would be, but without the looming threat of Ga On's (in my opinion) likely suicide. They might actually be able to reconcile eventually.

But, even then, I'm not sure if this is a story I would want to write. At least not right now when I'm already struggling with both my physical and mental well-being. It just wouldn't be healthy for me and, most likely, not something I'd enjoy. Some people get a feeling of release and catharsis from writing about difficult things, but I'm not one of them. I just end up feeling worse because I have to immerse myself in the misery to a point where I just sink even deeper into it.

So while I agree that this is an interesting and quite dramatic scenario, I've realised it's just not for me. In more ways than one xD

But if someone else wants to write it, then go for it! :D

[johaerys-writes]

I have come to clasp your knees in supplication.

*deep breath*

Menelaus succeeds at saving Pat from Hector and drags his ass back to camp like in all the renaissance sculptures but he’s super injured and #traumatized. So achilles come screeching out of his tent and does some #angst. He’s literally so angry but also eaten alive with guilt. But he’s gotta keep it together because Pat needs his love because of #hurt/comfort and the #wounds are so serious he needs much #protectiveness.

Will you do this for me? I implore you by the cute, teeny tiny feet of Hera.

Thank you so much for sending this prompt! This has been sitting in my inbox for so long, I hope you like what I did with it <3

Words: ~2,700, angst, hurt/comfort

Achilles restlessly paces the camp. Hours pass as the sun dips towards the west, its light choked by the indigo death-roes of the sweltering day.

Patroclus, before he’d ridden away to battle, had vowed to return soon. Achilles waits for him.

He spots the polished gold of his own chariot in the distance. The horses kick up a cloud of dust as Automedon pulls taut their reins, as soon as they’re in view of the Myrmidon camp. 

Something’s not right. 

Achilles can tell right away. He’s always had keen senses, that animal instinct that warns one of a storm when not a cloud can be seen on the horizon, of a fire when neither smoke nor flame is present. There’s something in the air; he can see it plain as day. 

He crosses the camp in a few quick strides. Automedon hops off the chariot to meet him. He is pale, his eyes hollow beneath the shadows of his helmet. 

“My lord—”

“Where is Patroclus?” Achilles asks. The man peers at him wordlessly, until Achilles grabs him by the shoulders. “Where is he?”

The man’s lips part uselessly, for no sound comes out. Before Achilles has the chance to shake the answer out of him, the clatter of another chariot distracts him. It is Menelaus, riding swiftly into the camp. He is holding something. Someone. 

Achilles’ blood runs cold. 

The chariot is drawn to a stop. Menelaus descends, slow and encumbered under the weight of the body he’s holding. The limbs are mangled, bloody, the curly hair stiff with sweat and mud.

“Hector,” Menelaus says breathlessly, his neck and arms shiny with sweat and blood. “He— got to him. I only barely managed to whisk him away. Ajax kept the Trojans off for as long as he could and held the battle while I ran.” He glances down at Patroclus’ limp form in his arms. He is almost unrecognisable, his once smooth olive skin now a mixture of browns and reds as deep and dark as grapes crushed for wine. 

“The armour,” Menelaus says mournfully. “I couldn’t save the armour. They’d already taken most of it.”

But Achilles isn’t listening. The words touch his ears but do not register as words: they’re merely sounds, lost in the threads that keep unravelling around him, the threads that stitch Achilles’ world together.  

Patroclus, a bloody heap, is laid at his feet. 

He doesn’t realise his knees have buckled until he crashes on the packed earth. A scream tears its way out of his throat; then another, and another. He cradles Patroclus in his arms, his body warm and pulsing as the blood that’s rushing out of his many wounds. 

I did this, Achilles thinks, choked by his own breath. I did this to you.

Hands descend upon him, try to pull him away. He grabs at someone’s wrist on instinct and pulls its owner down to the ground with him. It is Automedon, his trusted charioteer, who has driven Achilles to hundreds of battles and returned him to camp after each one. Returning him, safe and sound, to Patroclus. 

Achilles squeezes the man’s wrist until the bones creak beneath his fingers, blind through the tears. “I ordered you to bring him back to me unharmed.”

Automedon only peers at him, guilty and wordless, waiting for whatever punishment Achilles sees fit. 

The anger is quickly replaced by worry when Patroclus heaves a pained breath. Achilles lets the man go, then turns all of his attention to Patroclus. He lifts him off of the ground gently, afraid to injure him further.

“Bring me vinegar and warm water,” he tells whoever is following him towards his tent. “Bandages and needles and horse tail hair. Then leave me with him.”

“My lord, we should call the healers—”

“Leave me.” He barks the order without even turning his head as he lays Patroclus down on the bed.

Through the haze of tears and anguish, all Achilles can see is the dirt that clings onto Patroclus’ face, his neck, his arm, the blood that keeps oozing sluggishly from the gush in the centre of his chest. 

It’s like Achilles’ heart has been torn out of his chest and trampled into the dust, like Patroclus was. 

When everything he asked for is brought to him, he doesn’t waste a moment. He orders the door of his tent to be sealed shut, to be left in peace. His focus is singular and absolute. 

It’s been months since he’s had to use the skills he learned at Chiron’s side. He pours water and vinegar on Patroclus wounds to clean them, then starts meticulously picking out every speck of dust, every sliver of metal from the crushed remains of the armour. He sprinkles dried yarrow root to stem the bleeding, then stitches the torn skin back together. His fingers work ceaselessly to undo the damage that’s been done, to mend it. After the larger wounds have been taken care of, with a damp cloth he cleans the smaller ones, all the cuts and the scratches and the bruises, the scraped palms of Patroclus’ hands and his torn fingers. Each of them he cleans tenderly, careful not to cause him any pain, any more than he has to. 

Achilles does not know how much time has passed when the last of Patroclus’ wounds have been bound. With the clean water that he has left in the bowl, he brushes a wet sponge through Patroclus’ curls, wipes the dried blood and dirt from his cheeks and brow, revealing the lovely features, calm and tensionless as if in sleep.

When Achilles finally sets the healing implements aside, his hands tremble with weariness. He lies down on the bed they’ve shared for years and curls up in a ball beside Patroclus. He lets the tears come, lets them fall.

Don’t leave me, he whispers into the crook of Patroclus’ neck, breathing in his familiar scent through the astringent smell of strong vinegar and the thick sweetness of the crushed yarrow flowers. Don’t leave me here. 

Patroclus’ eyelids do not stir; only his ribs expand slightly with each shallow, laboured breath. 

~~

Consciousness is a blur of pain when Patroclus crawls from the murky bottoms up to the surface. 

His throat is parched. Each breath hurts, and his body feels cold. 

It takes him a moment to realise what it is that dragged him out of that heavy stupor. He’s in his tent, he knows this, the tent he shares with Achilles. He can tell by the colour of the light around him, the smell of the bed beneath him, the feel of the furs against his skin. The air is thick, stale. 

There’s a body beside him. A head bent over him, hands clasping his own. A cascade of golden hair on his stomach, but he can’t feel the soft strands on his skin for all the bandages that cover it. Achilles’ shoulders quake, and Patroclus thinks he can make out the quiet, sniffling sobs he tries to stifle. 

His hand, when Patroclus raises it, is heavy as tempered iron. He touches Achilles’ head. 

“It's alright,” he mumbles. The words an unintelligible slur through his cracked lips, but his need to comfort Achilles in his distress pushes him to try again. “It’s alright, love.” 

Achilles lifts his face to look at him. His cheeks gleam with tears, old and new. He must have been crying for hours, Patroclus thinks, for days, his eyes as red as they are green. It’s like Patroclus is gazing at him through water, or a veil of thin gauze; he can’t make out the high cheekbones, the drawn eyebrows, the curl of the lip. He tries to speak again — don’t cry, dear heart, dry your eyes— but the air sticks to his throat, and he coughs weakly, painfully. 

“Shh, don’t speak,” Achilles urges. He disappears for a moment, then a cup is pressed to his lips. The liquid is pleasantly warm, and it tastes bitter when it hits his tongue. Dried yarrow and linden flower, Patroclus registers dimly, as he swallows a mouthful, then another. Achilles gently, as if he’s cradling an injured bird, lays down Patroclus’ head on the pillow. 

“What happened?” Patroclus asks, after he’s caught his breath. Even this slight movement has agony shooting through every limb, every fibre. 

Achilles simply stares at him. “You don’t remember?” When Patroclus doesn’t respond for a long moment, more tears start coursing down Achilles’ cheeks. 

“You almost died, Patroclus,” Achilles says in a trembling voice. He sounds hoarse, exhausted. He must have been by Patroclus’ bedside for days; Patroclus has never seen him in such a state. “Hector’s spear missed your heart only by a hair. Had it not been for Menelaus and Ajax to drag you away…” 

The battlefield flashes before Patroclus’ eyes. A bright light searing his eyes; then the arrows, the swords, the spears. The dying clamour of horses and men all around him, then Hector. There was no pain, not really; this, Patroclus remembers. Only this depthless feeling of loss, of desolation; the knowledge that he would never see Achilles again. The sudden realisation that it was Patroclus, after all, that sealed both of their fates.

Such cruel games the gods play. 

“When I sent you out into battle, in my own armour, I never thought it would be Hector you’d be challenging,” Achilles continues. “You were to strike fear into the hearts of the Trojans, drive them back towards their walls, then come back to me. I told you to come back to me. I told you—” 

Achilles’ mouth sets in a hard line, but it isn’t cruelty or pride that makes his tone sharp and essential like the edge of a knife. It is fear. That bone deep fear that Patroclus can feel in his own marrow. “Patroclus, how could you do this to me?”

How could he, indeed. Patroclus has no ready answer. He only remembers Troy’s walls, high and impenetrable like the gates of Hades. He remembers gazing at them from the chariot, and thinking how easy it would be to storm the city now that the men are off fighting, their blood high with battle lust. How easy it would be to simply end the war, so that they could leave those gods-forsaken plains behind, along with the prophecies that circle them like carrion birds. With their ships heavy with gold and slaves and Troy’s treasures, the Achaeans would all return to the kingdoms satisfied— not even greedy Agamemnon would say no to this. Achilles would return to Phthia, and spend the rest of his days ruling over the lands his father left him, until his skin was as leathery and his hair as golden-grey as Peleus’ must be now.

A life of obscurity, Thetis had said, an eternity of their names forgotten, but would that be so bad? If this senseless war was finally over, if they both could finally live, would that be so terrible a fate?

What childish fancies those thoughts seem to him now. He turns his head away, unable to meet Achilles' red, tired eyes. All this time, he’d been silently begging and pleading with whatever higher power there is to let him stay by Achilles’ side, for a little while longer, for as long as he could. And yet it was he, in the end, who threw himself into the glowing embers, praying only that Achilles wouldn’t be caught in the flames. 

And yet, it never occurred to him that by doing so, he’d be condemning Achilles to the same life Patroclus had been dreading. A lifetime alone.

“I just wanted it to be over,” he whispers, regret welling up inside him like the dark banks of an overflowing river. “I wanted it all to be over.” 

Achilles stares at him for a moment in disbelief, then pushes himself up to his feet and starts pacing across the tent. He rakes his fingers through his hair; the usually lustrous locks are now tangled and messy, as if Achilles hasn’t combed them in days. 

“You promised me. You promised that after I was — gone—” he pauses for a heartbeat on the word, “that you would perform the burial rites for me. You, and no one else. And that if my son was still living, you would take him from Scyros and return to Phthia with him, and show him all my property, my bondsmen, the kingdom he is to inherit — for Peleus would surely be an old man by then, or struck by grief upon tidings of my death. You promised—” 

“Do you really think I’d have the strength to make it to the end of this war with you gone?” Patroclus whispers. There are tears in his eyes, he realises distantly; the breathless, bitter chuckle that leaves his lips is dry and brittle like autumn leaves. “Philtatos, you know me better than this.”

He doesn’t need to look back at Achilles to know the pain that crosses his beautiful features. He stands motionless for a long moment, silent and distant, as if gazing at Patroclus across a great gulf. His footsteps are silent on the fur rug— then, Achilles’ warm forehead touches Patroclus’. He leans over him, trembling, and kisses his cheeks, his eyes, his lips. Patroclus can do nothing but push through the lingering haze of pain and exhaustion, clawing at the edges, to stay with him. To stay.  

“Never go far from me,” Achilles pleads quietly, solemnly into their kiss. “Not even for a day. Not even for a moment. Do you hear me, Patroclus?”

His fingers are soft when they trace Patroclus’ cheek, the stubble that has grown there over the days he’s spent unconscious. There is persistent demand in the way he touches him, that still cutting edge of desperation. 

“Don’t leave me behind.” 

"I won't," Patroclus murmurs, and though every part of him hurts, he still lifts his arms to hold Achilles, to pull him close, to let him curl against him and take whatever comfort he needs from his battered body. 

He brings Achilles hand to his lips and kisses the sword-calloused palm of it, sealing the promise he's given him time and again: 

Always. Together always, in life, in death, in oblivion and dust and the dark tears in the fabric of remembrance. Always, the two of them despite the world. 

The light wanes, and still they lie there, drifting in and out of troubled sleep, and for once Patroclus dares to dream of a distant future. 

~~

The fires burn high today, smoke billowing over Troy’s battlefields. Mount Ida's peaks shimmer in the distance, the great city’s walls barely visible beneath it. 

From atop the deck of their ship, Patroclus gazes at the place that has been his home for ten years. The Achaean camp and the dark ships dragged up the beach as far as they eye can see, and all the Greeks, people amongst them that Patroclus came to know as friends, small figures milling restlessly like ants. 

The life he led in the shadow of a war that tore the world they knew asunder. 

Agamemnon had come again, pleading with Achilles to fight in the war, bearing rich gifts. Achilles had denied each one, and had bided his time long enough until Patroclus could stand on his own two feet and survive the long journey back to Phthia. 

"My lord," Automedon says behind them. Achilles turns to look at him, his features hard with determination. "The wind is favourable. The men are ready." 

"Lower the sails," Achilles commands. He sets his hand on Patroclus' shoulder as the beach gets further and further from them with each beat of the oars. They both watch, hidden in the great shadows that the Myrmidon sails cast upon them.

They both know they're leaving the Achaeans there to die. 

Though it stings to leave them all behind, friend and foe; though he knows Achilles' name might be tarnished by it before it is forgotten for good, Patroclus can't bring himself to regret this. 

"Think Peleus will be glad to see us?" Achilles whispers in his ear. "Or will he turns us away like defectors?" 

Patroclus smiles, because the answer, for once, is easy. 

"He must already be preparing the welcoming feast. Thetis will have surely told him." 

Achilles grins, and against the backdrop of the soot-grey sky and wine-dark sea he's bright like a young flame. He winds his arm around Patroclus' waist and holds him close as the great walls of Troy become but a white-yellow speck in the distance. 

"Let the winds take us home, then."

Thank you so much for reading! Like and reblog if you enjoyed this— it really means a lot :)

[alightbuthappypen]

whumptober what-we-could-have-won

I never got round to doing anything for @whumptober in advance because September was a washout creativity-wise, and now I'm ill with a cold and feeling very sorry for myself, so I brainstormed what I would have written for the first six days if this were a more organised, healthier timeline:

#1 Race against the clock/search party/panic attack

During the 16 years Lan Wangji accompanies SIzhui on his first night hunt, along with a bunch of other juniors; Sizhui goes missing and during the panicked search Lan Wangji about loses his mind with fear/guilt/torturous neuroses related to losing other people he loved

#2 Trust issues

At Qiongqi Path Lan Wangji is more persistent at trying to get Wei Wuxian to stop from fleeing with the Wen; torn, Wei Wuxian allows himself to be delayed by their angst-ridden conversation...long enough for Jin reinforcements, dispatched unbeknownst to Lan Wangji, to arrive

#3 Set up for failure/Wrongfully arrested/"I warned you"

At Wen Indoctrination Camp both Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are taken down to the dungeon; with adjoining cells, they are each forced to helplessly witness the other's torture

#4 Hallucinations/"you're still alive in my head"

In the Cold Pond Cave after his punishment, Lan Wangji hallucinates Wei Wuxian's presence and multiple guilt-ridden conversations; despite knowing it isn't real, when it's eventually time for him to leave he wishes he could stay (imaginary Wei Wuxian is better than no Wei Wuxian)

#5 Sunburn/heatstroke

During a post-canon diplomatic visit to Lotus Pier, an overworked, over-stressed Lan Wangji collapses with heatstroke; Wei Wuxian provides emergency treatment, hovers worriedly at his bedside, etc. Bonus: they're not yet together, Wei Wuxian's relationship with Jiang Cheng is still very brittle for extra angst

#6 Not realising they're injured

During Lan Wangji's visit to the Burial Mounds, Wei Wuxian gets injured in the chaos following Wen Ning's waking up, but is so used to being in constant pain/distracted by the circumstances he doesn't notice until it's all over and - you guessed it - collapses bloodily into Lan Wangji's arms

[heyidkyay]

I guess I'll take this pain, instead of your name |

Part Eleven

A/n: Didnt get much sleep, kept thinking about this fic and so I spent most of last night writing and decided to finish it up once I got home this eveninggg, hope it's up to standard x

Summary: In life, things changed. The boys you'd once grown up with were men now, and famous ones at that. The type that toured the world and had millions of adoring fans.

The five of you shared a shit ton of history. But you also shared a lot of mixed emotions for one of them in particular, a certain drummer.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, food, touch of angst but when is there not with these two?

Masterlist

--

I was guilt ridden.

I couldn’t help it. The sight of George leaving practically had me wanting to jump out of my seat simply to chase after him. I felt like such a bitch for even entertaining the idea of Sam, with him being sat right there beside me. Especially with us only just having reconnected.

I felt my heart shrivel up more and more the longer he was gone.

Matty’s giant huff retrieved me from my pool of culpability after a while, his eyes drifting between us. 

“Guess, I’ll go talk to him then.” He murmured as he pushed up out of the booth. He was gone before anyone else could even think to make an offer. Leaving only Ross and I to remain.

I chewed on the inside of my mouth, unable to do much else as a pair of claws dug their way into my mind. Ross took the moment to slide into George’s empty seat across from me, falling into my direct line of sight.

“You ever been broken up with?” I found myself asking him just as a few more people entered the restaurant. They created a little more noise which drowned out our conversation to anyone sat close by.

Ross pressed his lips together, clasped hands coming to rest on the tabletop between us. “Yeah? Think you’ve even been witness to a few.”

He quirked a smile over at me, probably in hopes to ebb some of the lingering tension, and I really tried to mimic it. If only to placate him.

I let go of the breath I'd been holding on to, looking at him properly now. “Alright, have you ever had a relationship like G and I's?”

Ross seemed to come up short at that and I watched him tilt his head ever so slightly to the left whilst he thought the unexpected question over.

After a moment he shook it, jutting his lip out as he shrugged at me. “Can’t say that I have. Seen it though, like with my mum and dad, Hann and Carls.”

I dipped my chin, gaze falling down to where my fingers were playing with a groove indented in the stained wood table. 

“I remember when I first met him, you know. G. He really didn’t like Matty.” I chuckled under my breath, recalling it all so vividly. “And Matt he’d been my best friend for ages, we’d always been proper close. And with something like that, there always comes this unspoken sort of code. Like there's a written rule that you automatically have to hate someone if they didn’t like your best mate. That sort of thing.”

Ross was nodding away at me, listening quietly.

“But George.” I sighed, “I couldn’t help but admire him you know? Matty’s always been this trapped ball of energy, and back then he’d always been looking for some sort of argument to start. It eased those nerves that were always there, I think. But G, he was gentle but so unafraid. He didn’t care that Matty was ‘Matty’, popular and well liked by everyone. He reckoned he was a proper twat and called him on it.”

Both Ross and I laughed then, probably both thinking back on the past. On the early days, before the band had properly formed.

“And when Matty roped him in as a drummer, I let myself become more aware of his presence. And we got close. Especially when Matty realised that girls had tits and would probably let him touch them if he was funny or charmin' enough. George was much less interested in all that. He was quiet, stoic. Mysterious. But I’d been quick in deducing him. I reckon he liked that, someone who didn’t comment on his silence, or call him out for being shy. ‘Cause he wasn’t.

“And looking back, I can see now that G was always more aware of things than what he made it seem. Like with my life at home- how he’d only ever be allowed over when mum was out, or how I always made you lot wait for me at the bottom of the road before school instead of knocking. He was smart like that, perceptive, I ‘spose. And so he spent more and more time hanging around me, a bit like an annoying fly at first. I used to get proper miffed over it. Complain to Matty constantly, but he’d always just laugh me off and claim that George was just an admirer. Harmless. And so I stopped talking to him about it and just let G tag along when and where he pleased.

“Don’t know when, but a little while after that I started to lean on him a bit. More than I should've. Reckon I wasn’t even aware of it though 'til it was too late. 'Til I realised how I felt. I depended on him always being there. And in the time we’d been together- and yes, I'm definitely counting the days when we used to run circles around each other, too scared to say anything- he’d just become my person, you know? He was my truth in a world full of lies.”

I exhaled slowly, the sound as heavy as it felt. Ross was watching me again, I don’t think he’d actually looked away in the time I’d spent talking, and so when he took my hands in his I sent a teary smile his way. Sniffing and unable to help myself.

“When he ended things.” I had to shake my head, still finding it hard to talk about even months later. “I questioned everything. Just kept on asking myself what'd happened, agonising over what I’d done wrong. Why he’d just leave out of nowhere. ‘Cause that’s honestly how it felt. One day we were fine, laughing, kissing,  just happy. And then the next… he was telling me he couldn’t do it anymore, that he was headed out to LA to work on the next album and wanted to explore his options.”

I had to pause then, breath hitching. Ross’s grip tightened, as though he could sense all the hurt I was holding back at having to utter the next words I was about to say. 

“He claimed he loved me, just that- he wasn’t in love with me. Not anymore.”

The choked sob that slipped from my lips was followed by a self depreciating chuckle and I had to pull away from Ross’s hold to wipe at my eyes.

“God, I’m sorry.” I sniffed to him, trying to smile even though my heart was well and truly broken.

Ross shook his head, leaning in closer to reassure me. “No need to be sorry. Just wish I’d’ve known how much it messed you up.”

His voice was small, soothing. I focused on it, on him. Just breathing. In and out. 

“Honestly?" He continued on, "I’d always figured that it’d been mutual. That you’d both sort of wanted to take a bit of a break, see what you’d missed out on having been together so long. But, this… if I’d known, I swear would’ve-”

Ross clenched his teeth, his hands fisted, and I had to laugh, because if I didn't I'd cry. I reached out to lay a hand over his.

“It’s fine, Ross.” I told him sincerely, “Well, it isn’t. But things happen, don’t they? And soon enough, I’ll be fine too.”

—MATTY’S POV—

Stepping out into the evening chill, Matty’s eyes were immediately drawn to the hunched figure that sat on the curb. He drew his cigarette pack from his coat pocket as he made his way on over, noting how George seemed to be toggling with his lighter.

“Thought you came out here for a fag?” Matty commented, making an ‘ah’ sort of sound when he perched down beside the drummer, both legs pulled in towards his chest. He plucked a cigarette from his own carton, tucking it behind his ear, and then took another between his fingers, letting it dangle there from the hand he’d rested on the jut of his knee. Just on the seams of George’s peripheral. 

George didn’t say much. Merely flicked his lighter closed. It was an old metal one he’d had since forever, one Matty often saw him fiddling with, whether it was on the bus, before a set, or alone in his bunk. In recent months it’d made more of an appearance.

Matty made a small movement of his wrist and that was all it took before George was taking the offered cigarette from him. The drummer raised it to his lips and lit it with an expert sort of ease. Matty followed and the two of them allowed the driving cars to pass them by.

On an inhale, Matty had finally had enough of the silence. But he supposed that with George he’d sort of just gotten used to it, to them communicating with the odd smile or pained expression. This wasn’t one of those times.

“You gonna say summat then? Or you just gonna keep being miserable?” He pushed, rolling his head over towards his mate. He wasn't about to let the whole thing go. Not without a reason. “‘Cause, if I remember rightly, you’re the one who wanted to tag along. I told you she’d be here, didn’t I? Said it'd be hard, awkward. But you still came-”

He was cut off then.

“Yeah, I know.” George interrupted, though he seemed to be doing an awful lot of that tonight. “Thanks for the reminder, yeah? But if you’re just gonna bitch, can you do it elsewhere?”

Matty made a face. He’d almost forgotten how much of a moody git the bastard could be. “Nah, fine here, thanks. Wanna know what that was all about though, in there.”

George went for another drag, continuing the staring competition he’d started with the off-licence opposite.

“G, come on, man. Why you acting like such an arse? Nothing even happened.”

George scoffed. “Hm, didn’t seem that way.”

Matty fought the urge to clap the twat on the back of his head. “Mate, you ended things with her. Not the other way round. You ain’t got the right to act all pissy about some lad flirting with her.”

“You think I don’t know that?” George spat back, smoke clouding him, hazing in the frigid air around them. “Still fucking hurts though.”

There was a long pause then as Matty took his words in. Confused, he stubbed out his butt on the curb's edge and pivoted towards him.

“What’s that meant to mean?”

George’s eyes closed and he released a drawn out breath. Matty observed him, seeing the tension that lined his jaw and hunched his shoulders, the slight hollow of his face that gave way to the fact that he was chewing on the insides of his cheeks, the way his fingers twitched and a frail ember fluttered towards the ground, dying on the roadside.

Matty realised how much of a prat he'd been. Wondered how he hadn't seen it sooner.

“You still love her.” Matty breathed out into the unanswered silence, his surprise evident.

George turned his face away.

“You still love her, don’t you?” He pressed further, forearms now on his knees to brace himself as he leant in closer. “G. Answer me.”

George’s free hand shot up to rub at his eyes, then at the bridge of his nose. He flicked the remnants of his cigarette away and hastily made his way to his feet. Matty was quick to follow, frowning as the two of them got caught in a standstill. He grabbed hold of George’s arm just before the drummer could turn away from him. Shut him out again, like he’d been doing so effortlessly for the past few months.

“Don’t swan away like nothing’s happened. Answer me, man. Do you or do you not still love her?”

George’s eyes were shining under the streetlamp, his emotions only further illuminated by the oncoming headlights of a string of cars. His face said it all, but Matty had to know, to hear him say it.

“Of course I fucking do.” George laughed pitifully, shaking his head before he glanced up towards the sky. “How could I not?”

—

Matty returned a short while later, alone. I peered over his approaching shoulder for any signs of the moody drummer but was left unfulfilled.

Thankfully Ross was the one to ask the burning question I was dying to know.

“Where’s G?”

An explosive sigh fell from Matty’s lips as he resettled himself in the booth. “Went home. Wanted an early night.”

My heart plummeted. Shattering on the floor by my feet once more, after having been held by the one and only George Daniel again.

“Oh yeah?” Ross hummed conspiratorially, but Matty was saved from his probing the minute dessert arrived, alongside Sam.

“A sundae and tiramisu for the bearded fella. Then for the artsy bloke, one hot chocolate.” Sam charmed as he handed out our order. His eyes fell on me next, his grin warm as he passed me my plate. “And a sweet brownie for the sweetheart in black.”

I smiled and thanked him softly. Blushing lightly at the comment, which was new for me.

After I’d plopped the plate down, I caught sight of Matty’s slight scowl when his flicking of the sugar sachets drew my attention. Ross thanked Sam profusely for the sweet treats and the man merely chuckled at him in amusement.

“Cheers. Can we get the bill now?” Matty said offhandedly, not even sparing Sam the courtesy of a glance and only further drowning the mood by acting all pissy.

“Um," Sam mumbled out, hesitant, but then he carried on like nothing was a bother. "No worries, mate. I’ll send it on over now.” He looked at me once more before he backed away.

“What’s with you?” I asked Matty quietly, Ross lost to his tray of desserts.

“Just tired.” Was all he said, shrugging the question off, “You alright?”

Matty seemed to perk up a little then, swivelling in his chair to better see me.

I didn’t really know how to answer him so instead I toyed with one of the serviettes.

“Is there any real way to answer that?” I laughed defeatedly, “I mean, I don’t know, Matty. Why'd you even bring him with you in the first place?”

“He’s our mate.” Matty quipped in a strange defensive tone, one I reeled back from slightly, and he must’ve noticed because he slumped away too, opting to swirl the marshmallow’s floating in his drink around. “Just, he’s having a hard time of it too.”

I scoffed, turning away.

“No really.” Matty was quick to iterate to me, I shrugged off the hand that came to rest on my shoulder. 

“What’s he got to feel crap about? I bet he’s been living it up large out in LA, fucking models, dating other musicians. Free from the likes of me.”

Matty frowned but it was Ross who jerked a long spoon over at me. I raised a brow.

“You keep mentioning LA, but… G’s not been to LA once since the split. Tour’s been in Europe and before that, he’d been kipping on my sofa.”

I blinked. Suddenly baffled.

“What?”

Ross just nodded though, seemingly unaware of my frail state. “Yeah, was gonna ask earlier but well, you know. Then you said it again and I had to ask.”

“Hang on, wait a sec. What has he been doing the last six months then if he's not been in LA?” 

I pitted the question towards the both of them. They were his bandmates, they were all extremely close with one another in the very weirdest but best sort of way. If anyone knew what George had been up to, it’d be them.

“Well?”

Matty and Ross appeared to share a look between them but before I could intercept it, Matty answered me.

“I think this is a conversation best left for him, love.”

My mouth worked to say a word or two, to argue, but I could only stare at him.

My entire world had been thrown off balance. Six months had been and gone, and the entire time George had been living just around the corner. LA had been a lie, moving on had been a lie, I couldn’t fathom it. He’d actually lied to me. The only person I’d ever counted on to tell me the truth without fail. And he’d lied, right to my face. 

I sat back in the booth. Head reeling.

I had to ask myself, what else had he been lying about?

—

I don’t know how or why. But for some reason or other, I’d ended up outside a house I didn’t recognise.

It was just on the outskirts of Hampstead, a two-storey town house with a small gated front garden and a white stoop. I blinked up at it, unsure on whether the directions Ross had given me were even right. But no, here I was stood outside number 12. And I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this.

Before I could lose my nerve I quickly slipped past the iron wrought gate and up the steps. Berating myself all the while, but unable to stop my feet. 

One of the upstairs lights were on, so I could only assume that someone had to be home, which only fuelled my nerves. But I swallowed thickly and let my fingertips reach out to grasp the knocker, letting it ring out twice.

I had to take a step back. Actually, I’d almost jumped back in my haste to do so, and was quick to save myself from falling down the flight I’d just climbed, breathing heavily at the sudden scare.

I knew my anxiety was palpable, so much so I was actually starting to feel hot even in the cold, but I chose to wrap my arms further around myself anyway to keep the wind from nipping at my skin and to hopefully ground myself some more.

Nervous was the farthest thing from how I felt, as a matter of fact I don’t think anyone had yet to come up with an adjective to describe the torment I was internally facing. And as I waited, it only seemed to grow. Festering beneath the surface.

I startled slightly at the sound of the door’s hinges and my eyes snapped up to meet his in the dim light. Thankfully, George only looked surprised to see me, but I wasn’t too sure how long that would last. 

He stepped a tad out to cast a glance down at the rest of the street before his gaze zeroed in on me again. “How're you even here?”

“Ross.” I shrugged, toeing the tiles outside his front door in my highly strung state.

George huffed out a small, very subtle chuckle. I watched him for a moment, seeing how he’d propped himself up in the doorway, eyes moving as he thought things over for a second.

I swallowed again and cleared my throat, bringing him back to the present. Seeing as I was still stuck outside and it was still freezing. “Um, can I come in then?”

He seemed to remember himself, blinking before he hurried to wave me inside. “Yeah, yeah ‘course.”

I dipped my head at him and gave him a tiny brief smile as I stepped over the threshold. Somewhat grateful for the warmth the hallway gave me when he shut the door behind us.

I felt rather out of place in that next moment. As though I was overstepping, trespassing into the life he’d built without me. Still, I let my eyes wander, taking in the narrow hallway.

A tall coat cupboard was kept opposite, and he had a pretty trinket bowl on top of the radiator cover he seemed to be using as an entrance side-table. A couple pairs of shoes littered the wooden floors just before the staircase and I could just make out the beginnings of a kitchen table at the end of the walkway even in the dark.

George spoke first, “You can hang your coat up if you want.”

Apparently, he was just as bad at hiding how he felt about all this too. Nervous and unsure as he nodded over towards the cupboard. I followed his suggestion and slipped my jacket off, leaving me in the thin long-sleeved tee I’d thrown on that morning. I silently prayed that it had no noticeable stains or anything, unable to remember on whether or not I’d picked it up out of the clean pile of washing. I tugged at my sleeve.

“Um, you just caught me rolling.” George then mentioned, gesturing upwards. “You wanna follow me up?”

I hurried to nod at the question and kicked off my boots, then up we went, the stairs creaking beneath our shared weight.

The house was mostly empty. I noticed that only a sparse number of pictures littered the place, all of them simply standing instead of mounted to the walls. I saw myself in one or two, but those were just of the five of us, or other group photos. None of just him and I. There were also no posters in sight. Though George had a few ornaments to offer his guests, most of which I recognised, but even then they were placed wherever; a giraffe wearing sunglasses waited at the top of the stairs and a couple of awards took up space on the landing’s shelf as we made our way past.

There were four doors up here, two of which were closed, one that revealed a spacious bathroom, and the last that George led me into. I supposed to most it would’ve been used as another bedroom or an office of sorts, but George had turned it into a studio. 

The walls had been padded with soundproof squares and it housed a large table that had been crammed with a deck as well as other essentials such as a mixing board and a dozen other things I couldn’t begin to name.

A sofa took up the far wall, softened by a bundle of blankets and pillows that reminded me of mornings when I’d wake up to find George fast asleep on the settee after he’d been up producing all night. 

His trusty laptop was on the end of it, alongside a pair of headphones, newer than the last one’s I’d seen him with. He had a fridge up here too and I didn’t even need to open it to know what it was stocked with. 

In the centre of the room though, there was a square coffee table. It appeared sort of antique, mid-century maybe what with the tiled top and dark wood. It was pretty, very George. It was also very much like George to be using it to roll his joints. I withheld a snort.

“Um, you can just sit anywhere.” The man who plagued my thoughts said then, picking up an empty cider can and tossing it into the bin before he moved to fix the sofa up for me. 

So that’s where I ended up, on the end just by the window whilst George shuffled his things around so that he could roll and talk to me at the same time. He ended up tossing a cushion onto the rug covered floor beside the coffee table a foot away from my socked feet. I pulled them up under me to give him more space.

“You left.” I said to fill the quiet which had enveloped us, but my words sounded loaded even to my own ears. So I hurried to explain, “I just, I mean- you left without saying goodbye is all.”

George’s eyes were on his papers and the small bag he held but I knew that his attention was on me. He licked at his lower lip, then nodded once. “Was tired, long day and that.”

I hummed, fiddling with the cushion I’d since pulled into my lap. “Matty mentioned that you wanted an early night. Wasn’t sure if I’d be waking you to be honest.”

I was laying out a trap and we both knew it.

“You know how I get. Got in and sleep felt like the last thing on my mind.” George shrugged, crumbling away now as he lined the paper.

I narrowed my eyes at him, not that he was aware of it. “So it wasn’t ‘cause of the bad mood you were in?”

He pursed his lips, he didn’t like being called out so blatantly. Even so he still wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Didn’t think you’d even notice to be honest.” 

I knew then that he was talking about the waiter and had to bite back the sarky response that poisoned the tip of my tongue.

“Pretty hard no to.” I murmured instead, glancing down towards the cushion to avoid seeing him look so unbothered by me.

I took the second to calm myself, lessening the hurricane my mind often span itself into before I took a deep breath and chanced a look back up at him. His joint had since been rolled and I berated myself for having missed it, it was one of my favourite pastimes, watching him roll.

George though, he held it in his lap now, waiting to be lit whilst he set his eyes on me.

My heart started to pound and I was honestly left feeling a tad worried for it, seeing as it’d really been through the wringer these last few days. But his eyes were on me and how could it not react to that?

“What about that other lad?”

I raised my eyebrows over at him, “What, Sam?”

He turned away, nose wrinkling somewhat as he reached across the table for his lighter. It was the metal one I’d gifted him more than a decade ago now. One that had formally belonged to my dad. A massive part of me wanted to reach out for it, to touch and make sure it was the very same. But I didn’t dare. I was just surprised to note that he’d kept it this long, let alone after the split. 

I hadn’t thought about it in forever.

I swallowed past the many feelings the sight of the lighter had roused, and formed another reply for him. One that might get him to answer me.

“He was just that, George. Another lad.” I looked down at him, watched as he sparked the lighter to start a flame and brought it to his lips.

“Seemed pretty keen.”

I wanted to groan at his indifferent responses. Had he always been this difficult? This dense?

“Yeah well, you seem pretty jealous for someone who supposedly doesn't care.” I sniped back, unable to help that one.

George’s jaw tightened but he inhaled and it loosened a fraction as a breath of smoke pooled from his mouth. He didn’t offer me a reply.

I huffed. Then moved from my seated position, reaching out across the room to steal the joint from between his lips. It was his next movement that stopped me short, he took hold of my wrist and dragged me closer. My eyes widened and I wondered if he was even aware of the proximity he’d created. 

“What’s this?” His brow had fallen into a deep furrow now as he looked my injured finger over, resting the lit joint in a nearby ashtray just as I slowly brought myself down to my knees.

I was a little startled by the change in pace, to be truthful. And so I didn’t have many words to give him. I seemed to snap out of it though when his dark eyes darted up to meet mine. He raised a brow. 

“Work.” I told him quietly, “Pair of scissors, it was an accident.”

“Deep?” George questioned me, I shrugged. “You take care of it?” I nodded at him. “Properly?”

I forced out a depleted chuckle, “Yes. Delia did. Cleaned it up nice and proper for me. Reckoned it didn’t even need stitches.”

He was already picking at the plaster before he even asked, “Can I take a look?”

I attempted to pull my hand away, but he just held on tighter and deadened his expression, not entirely pleased. How had we gone from walking on eggshells around each other to this?

“Why? I told you it’s fine!” I reasoned with him, but he merely blinked back at me. I sighed. “Alright, but only if you have something to cover it back up with. Blood makes me-”

“Squirmy.” George finished for me and I shivered at the thought. He shook his head but I was sure I’d seen the tiniest of smirks. “And I do. A box of plasters from where I sliced up my hand the other week.”

He released my hand just as my face fell into a pensive frown and went to stand.

“How’d you slice your hand?” I asked him, raising my voice so that he could hear me better as he puttered out of the room and towards the bathroom I’d seen.

“Cooking!” George called back and my frown only deepened.

“Cooking?” I murmured to myself, baffled or bewildered I wasn’t sure. In all the time I’d known George not once had I been witness to him in the kitchen. He could hardly even brew a semi-decent tea!

I listened to him moving things around in his search for the plasters, but he was back before I knew it. Only, he seemed to pause for a split second at the sight of me sat near the coffee table, as though he’d forgotten where he’d left me.

“Found ‘em?”

My question set him back in motion and he gave a jerky nod, though he was more warier of his movements when he retook his previous position on the cushion. He motioned for me to hold out my hand and I did so, lips pursing as he peeled away the previous tape.

“Ooh, that’s a pretty sight.” George hissed quietly through his teeth, looking the wound over.

I only stretched to glance at it briefly when he said that, having been rather content with turning the other cheek whilst he got a proper look at it. It was grim to say the least. The middle still clotted with dry blood, its edges white and pale.

“Oh! Fuck.” I grimaced at the sight, darting my eyes away quick as I could. “Is it really that bad?”

George’s light titter danced around the room, I felt his thumb brush against the skin near the cut and had to withhold another shiver. “It’s a bit deep but you were right about not needing any stitches. Though, if you’d’ve gone to A&E they’d’ve probably glued it shut.”

“So it'll scar?” I found myself asking and George’s hesitant pause gave me my answer. “It’s fine," I said, "not as though I’ve not got any others.”

The sound of the box drew my attention back over to him, though I was mindful to keep my eyes from looking at my finger again. He was fiddling with the box now, trying to release a plaster with his free hand instead of just making things easier for himself and simply letting go of my hand to grab at it. I didn’t comment on it though, letting him do as he pleased whilst I angled myself closer to reach for his smouldering joint.

His gaze found mine just as I brought it to my lips, inhaling slowly. I gave him an impish grin when I caught him, “Waste not want not, right? Besides it’ll help keep my mind off of the pain.”

George snorted, still watching me thought he’d gotten a plaster free. “What pain? You big baby.”

I narrowed my eyes and took another drag, holding it out towards him once he’d ripped the plaster from its seal by using his teeth. He appeared grateful for it.

“What’s sanitary about that?” I asked.

He merely chuckled in retort, eyes honed in on my cut now. His hold on my hand was firm but careful, and he was so very gentle with me, especially when he dragged his thumb across the back of the plaster to adhere it.

I put the joint back in the ashtray then, scared I’d do something stupid like drop it on George’s nice rug or choke on my next inhale. Even more so when my breathing stuttered the moment he brought his lips to my hand to kiss its palm.

“Alright, you're good to go.” George told me quietly, glancing up at me then through dark lashes. I struggled to regulate my heartbeat. Christ, the poor thing.

I swallowed instead, pulling my hand away when he dropped his stare and started to round up the plaster’s scraps. 

Coughing faintly into the back of my wrist, I went to move back to where I’d been sat previously, the sofa looking much larger now that I knew I’d be sitting on it alone again.

“Erm, forgot to ask if you wanted anything. A drink maybe?” George mentioned, breaking the silence.

I looked about the space, not sure why but perhaps simply for something to do. “Yeah, uh sure. What’ve you got?”

George’s mouth quirked to one side and I watched as he moved over towards the fridge to pull a can out of its bottom drawer. I shook my head at the familiar sight of a Diet Coke in his hand.

“Ta.” I chuckled, taking it from him when he extended an arm out towards me.

“Always have ‘em in there. Not sure why, no one really drinks them. Force of habit maybe.”

He shrugged it off like it was nothing but I couldn’t do the same, for some reason he still bought my favourite drink to fill his fridge with.

It made me wonder what else he might still pick up whilst shopping, if he ever thought of us arguing over the types of milk when he walked through the dairy aisle. Or if he stopped by the strawberries on the way in, debating over whether or not to pick them up seeing as I was the only one who ever seemed to eat them. Though, he claimed they were his favourite.

I realised that I’d been looking at the can for far too long, the chill from the fridge causing it to perspire and produce water droplets which clung to my hand.

“You still with me, Birdie?” George mocked, stubbing out whatever remained of his joint, though I did note the faint waft of smoke that now lingered around him.

“Yeah.” I answered, shaking away my thoughts and went to return to the sofa. Only, I couldn’t bring myself to.

George’s face changed when I dropped back to the floor, though it was only for a moment, and then he was padding over to join me, tossing another cushion my way. It was a silent gesture but one that had me smiling.

“So, why’re you here really?”

I hadn’t expected him to be so blunt about it, but he’d reclaimed his seat, arms wrapped around the knee he’d since pulled into his chest, and was surveying my reaction.

I shrugged. “Truth?”

The look on his face was well worth the sting of the icy knife that pierced its way through my chest from using that word.

Liar. My heart wanted to scream. My mouth struggling not to accuse him of all the things I’d learnt tonight.

“Truth.” George whispered back to me.

“I want to know what really happened.”

George’s brow pinched, he inclined his head. “What do you mean? When what happened?”

My eyes met his straight on. There was no worming our way out of this.

“The night you finished with me. I want to know what really happened.”

Part twelve>

[dont-f-with-moogles]

Attack on Titan AU Valentine's Day Headcanons

Here we go - Valentine’s Day Headcanons for the main cast of AoT. Enjoy!

Armin - (the friend that is always single but the eternal advice-giver to those in relationships)

Armin - Armin has become more and more frustrated by the slow, painful progression of his best friends’ relationship. Everyone is aware that Eren and Mikasa have feelings for each other except for Eren and Mikasa. The tension is putting everyone on edge and Armin has had as much as he can take. As Valentine’s Day approaches, he decides on a scheme that will prompt Eren into confessing. 

Armin’s first move is to drop a lie into his conversation with Eren; that allegedly Mikasa has Valentine’s Day plans with Jean and a few of the others. Eren is taken aback by his exclusion from the fictional social gathering. Later, his surprise turns to fury when Sasha and Connie deny their involvement and assume that the gathering only consists of Jean and Mikasa. Armin had hoped that Eren’s jealousy would fuel him to speak to Mikasa. Instead, in a wild temper, Eren confronts Jean. It is Mikasa’s anger, however, which eclipses Eren’s own. Disappointed with their childish in-fighting, she decides to avoid both Jean and Eren until after the holiday. Momentarily, Armin is guilt-ridden at the result of his endeavour. That is, until Eren approaches Mikasa. They speak about the source of Eren’s anger and insecurity concerning her and Jean. Eventually he finds the words to ask the question -  “what am I to you?” And this time, Mikasa doesn’t say family. 

It’s all in a day’s work for Armin Arlet, that ostensibly innocent, diabolical mastermind. Happy for his friends at last, he spends Valentine’s Day curled up beside his cat with a good book. His phone sits on the table next to him, ready to reply to anyone who needs his advice. 

Eren x Mikasa 

Eren - when asked about his Valentine’s Day plans, Eren declares that Mikasa has shown no interest in the holiday. “She’s not like other girls. She’s cool,” he smugly assures his friends. Unaware of their ridiculing, Armin takes him to one side and tells him that this might not entirely be the case. He translates Mikasa’s ‘girl speak’ for Eren, convincing him that Mikasa is in fact expecting him to organise some form of celebration to mark the occasion. Whilst Eren disagrees at first, he soon realises that Armin is right. Then the second and far more pressing problem presents itself; Eren has no idea where to take her. Again, Armin comes to his rescue. He suggests that Eren and Mikasa take a long walk across the Ackermans’ farmland and into the beautiful woods that lay at the edge of their field. It’s a personal place for Mikasa, filled with childhood memories. He tells Eren to pack a picnic and spend the afternoon with her; for Mikasa loves nothing more than the peace and solitude of the woods, other than his company.

Mikasa - If the Valentine’s Day arrangements were left up to Mikasa, then she would ensure that Eren’s day would consist of his two favourite things: destroying titans and cheeseburgers. She would book day passes to the new Titan-themed amusement park which has recently opened up outside of town. The centre has high ropes, zip wires and a rifle range so Eren would be in his element. Afterwards, they would grab burgers at a mid-range restaurant (nowhere too fancy as they’re still students!)

Sasha x Niccolo (and Connie)

Niccolo - Niccolo knows that Sasha would never be interested in traditional Valentine’s gifts such as flowers or jewellery, but they have been dating for a few months and he wants to get her a gift. Consequently, he ambushes her after school one afternoon with a bouquet. Sasha is shocked by his sudden appearance whilst Connie finds the whole situation hilarious. When Sasha looks more closely, she sees that Niccolo has actually purchased her a chicken nugget bouquet. It is her wildest dream come true. (I saw this on Facebook and immediately thought of Sasha!)

Niccolo (Modern AU) - Sasha goes out for dinner at Nico’s restaurant. Connie and Jean accompany her and the three of them enjoy the best meal they have ever had. Sasha stays behind after the other two have  left. She enters the kitchen, where Niccolo is busy wiping down the surfaces. Sasha wraps her arms around Nico's waist and kisses him softly on the neck. At the sound of her whispered “thank you,” he turns around and takes her face in his hands…

Sasha - Niccolo’s culinary skills and restaurant recommendations are usually the inspiration for their dates. However, on this particular Valentine’s Day, Sasha decides to return the favour and cook him a mouth-watering dinner. The only issue is that she can never rid her house of her parents and siblings. Luckily Niccolo’s parents are going out for Valentine’s Day, leaving them with a free house at last. Sasha is thrilled to take over the kitchen and show Niccolo that she can cook too, whilst Niccolo has something else planned for dessert (wink wink).

Connie - Niccolo has Sasha all to himself on Valentine's Day so it is only fair that Connie gets his best friend back on the 15th February. All the unsold Valentine’s Day chocolates are half price in the shops so the pair sprint into town with empty backpacks. This year is much like any other; both of them eat until they are sick.

Jean - Jean is heartlessly mocked by his friends for not having a date on Valentine’s Day. Angered, Jean contradicts them, insisting that he has just started seeing someone. When asked for details, Jean only divulges that the mysterious girl is “cute” and goes to another school. When posed with further questions, Jean explains that the school would not be known to them as it is in another town. Soon his friends’ questions turn to demands for proof. Jean continues to defend his position, claiming that his new girlfriend isn’t on social media and he hasn’t taken any photos of them together on his phone yet. He almost has the others convinced when Connie asks for the girl’s name. Jean hesitates for a second too long, before storming off to a chorus of cruel laughter. 

Marco - is single and without a date for Valentine’s Day. His friends are outraged on his behalf  and Marco feigns his disappointment. In reality, he is secretly content to be by himself as there is no one he is currently interested in. (I headcanon Jean as straight and Marco as gay. I imagine that Jean didn’t realise this about Marco straightaway and when he found out he maintained his distance, incorrectly assuming that Marco’s friendliness was due to his interest in him. Hurt and shocked by Jean’s narrow-minded reaction, Marco confronted him. It took a while for the two to make up but eventually they did. Now Marco just brings the whole episode up occasionally to annoy Jean).

Historia/Christa x Ymir (and Reiner)

Reiner - Reiner has put considerable time into preparing for this moment. He has been on the receiving end of Christa’s smiles and flirtatious small talk enough times to consider himself eligible for a date with her. Today is the day. Reiner has practised his words (which even Bertolt seemed taken in by), and he has put on his best shirt. As the bell announces break time, he slinks by the lockers. Christa is speaking to Ymir. Reiner approaches slowly, pausing to withdraw a comb from his pocket to smooth back his hair. Ymir is partially blocking his view of Christa. This girl is emotionally and physically getting in his way; for Reiner is forced to angle around a passerby just to keep his eyes on Christa. Reiner continues and Ymir leans forward a little more. Then, just before Reiner can open his mouth, she kisses her! Reiner stands there, frozen. This is certainly not how he and Bert rehearsed it. (Or was it? ;) - Stolen from HIMYM but it just fits them perfectly!)

Historia - As Ymir has taken the lead on so many relationship-defining moments (the confession, first kiss, first date, first-), Historia wants to plan a Valentine’s Day that she will never forget. Historia has saved up every pay cheque from her weekend job at Shingeki coffee so she can take Ymir out for a night in the city. However she only manages to afford their train fare; nothing else. Still, the pair walk around the capital with hands clasped, despite the judgemental whispers of the bourgeoisie. Giggling at their ridiculous top hats, frock coats and fine feathers, Historia and Ymir run towards the city centre. They window shop, stare up at impressive landmarks and gaze hungrily into fine dining establishments. Historia and Ymir end their date by grabbing takeout at the station before devouring it on the train ride home. People stare; they don’t care.

Ymir - takes Historia out to her favourite dessert restaurant. Over a plate of crepes and strawberries, Ymir tells Historia that she is in love with her. Historia is astonished and only manages a weak “thank you.” Despite the sting of her lukewarm response, Ymir insists that Historia must have known how she felt and is content to wait until she is ready to say it back (“however long it takes.”)

Bertolt x Annie (and Reiner again, lol)

Bertolto - Bertolt cherishes his friendship with Reiner but he often finds it difficult to make himself heard when in his presence. Despite his assurances to Reiner that he is content enough to remain as Annie’s friend and content enough to receive monosyllabic replies from her during conversations, Reiner refuses to listen. Bert really doesn’t want to admit his true feelings for Annie but, unfortunately, his best friend has other ideas. He coaches Bertolt on everything from his clothing, to the manner in which he should approach her, to the precise wording of his confession. 

As Valentine’s Day looms ever closer, Reiner gives a heartening pep talk for Bertolt’s benefit before all but marching him over to where Annie is retrieving her bag and shoes from her locker. She glances up, frowning at Reiner’s grandiose greeting. His head turns and he catches Bert not walking but running away. Annie is speechless.

Levi x Hange

Levi - Levi would be filled with trepidation as Valentine’s Day approaches. In the two weeks since he and Hange kissed unexpectedly in his apartment, he has found himself quietly irritated at her carelessly cheerful demeanour. He had imagined that the pair would talk about the situation at least but Hange has said nothing on the subject. This has left Levi to brood over the implications of the kiss, whilst Hange has been strolling around the school quite oblivious to his internal conflict. Alone, he cannot figure out how to move forward, ideally to securing a date. 

A mixture of frustration and anxiety eventually pushes him over the edge. One day, as Hange is walking buoyantly down the corridor, Levi steps out and seizes her by the collar. Possibly he had imagined his gesture to be a romantic one, but in reality it amounts to a stream of half-shouted shit-themed insults culminating in a threat. Based on the 16,000 yen that she still owes him, Levi demands that she buys him dinner that Saturday. Startled at first, Hange slowly manages a sly grin, leaving Levi in wide-eyed disbelief that she would ever say yes to an emotionally-constipated asshole like him. Then again, when has Hange ever reacted to anyone or anything appropriately? 

Levi - (Modern AU) - As someone who favours being outdoors, Levi would make an effort to organise a scenic and entertaining date. Whether this involves a museum visit, a hike, horseback riding or a long walk through the city streets, he would ensure that it is enough to impress. Sophisticated dining would follow, either upon a building terrace with a panoramic view or his favourite tea salon. When in a more established relationship, he would favour home dates; cleaning his place until it is spotless before cooking a nice meal from scratch.

Hange - (Modern AU) - Hange knows exactly what Levi likes. She cleans their apartment until it is positively gleaming before setting up the rice cooker for his favourite meal; plain rice with no garnish. Levi arrives home from work and is stunned by the shining countertops. He turns to the doorway where Hange is standing, hair still dripping from her bath. His heart is racing but his look of disdain gives nothing away. 

“You’re wasting your time with all this cleaning, Four Eyes.” Levi approaches her, hands loosening his tie. “You see, things are about to get real dirty…”

(Special thanks: youre-ackermine; wanderlust-queen-writes; sixpennydame)

[univvrse]

the coven (chapter 17)

reader x bakugou x shinsou x kaminari x kirishima

Coven- a formation of at least three or more vampires

He told you they were dangerous- why didn't you believe him?

previous parts can be found on my masterlist

on my ao3 if you'd prefer

1.1k words

You opened your eyes. The burning pain had disappeared and left a strange tingling in it’s wake. You felt energised enough to run a marathon, but your body felt so lead-heavy you worried for a split moment that the bed beneath you would collapse, and you would be sent crashing through the floor. Regardless, the relief that came with the realisation of the pain being gone had the muscles in your face tugging at the corners of your mouth. It was a faint ghost of a smile, more like a tight-lipped grimace, the sensation was foreign after so long in agony. You don’t even know how long you must’ve spent lying there in Katsuki’s bed, could’ve been days or weeks or even months- though probably not the latter judging by fact that your muscles haven’t atrophied.

You remembered Katsuki sinking his vampiric teeth into the skin of your neck- the agonising moments that followed- the pure nothing afterwards. And there was no other way of looking at it; there was not a single doubt in your mind; you were a vampire. Fuck. You weren’t angry- not at all. You had gotten yourself into this situation, in fact it was your fault Katsuki had the chance to bite you; you had heard what happened to Denki and-

“Someone’s awaake,” Eijiro practically sung from the doorway. You sat up immediately in surprise at his voice; you had been so caught up in your own head that your senses hadn’t picked up the noise of him coming up the stairs.

“Shit I- what happened?”

He practically laughed, he walked across the room and sat down on the bed beside you.

“Do you not remember?” He asked- making complete eye contact with you.

“I think so, unless that was a crazy fever dream?” You still weren’t sure on the details of what happened.

“Okay so basically- Katsuki turned you- he’s super sorry, anyway you’re like a vampire now our bad.” He explained.

“And I can’t change back?”

“Fuck- no I’m sorry sweetheart- don’t blame Katsuki he’s already blaming himself and shit, he says he’s gonna leave; to be honest there’s no coven without Katsuki.”

“Oh my god- no its not Katsuki’s fault at all he shouldn’t leave. I’m not mad to be honest I’ve kinda wanted to be a vampire since I met you guys.”

 “Well- tell him that for me. He’s really mad at himself for doing that to you,” he paused for a moment, “also quick question- can you hear our thoughts now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hang on- sorry you don’t just hear them you kinda have to concentrate wait I’ll stop talking and just think.” He paused for a moment, furrowing his brow as if he was concentrating.

“How about now?” His words almost made you jump. It was just as if he was speaking and yet this time you could almost feel the vibration of his words in your head.

You tried to concentrate on hearing the thoughts of the fellow vampires downstairs; sure enough, you could hear them, yet you didn’t drown in them. You had previously thought hearing the thoughts of four men at once would be overwhelming, but it somehow wasn’t.

The two of you could hear Katsuki’s steps- he was in his way to the bedroom- there was no need to listen to his thoughts, you knew where he was going.

You almost felt guilty, if you hadn’t been so eager to whore around with these vampires, you wouldn’t be here, and Katsuki wouldn’t be trying to leave the coven he started. It wasn’t really his fault, you had been warned he had a hard time controlling himself, Denki was even walking proof of this fact. Your recklessness had destroyed the (after)lives of these vampires. You had forced Katsuki into his own guilt ridden spiral through your greed and impulse, and you would have to spend the rest of eternity knowing this. You stopped thinking- they could hear everything you were thinking- shit. Every thought you would have for the rest of forever would be heard by them.

The door opened- cutting you off from your train of thought. Katsuki emerged from the doorway- there were obviously creases on his brow from frowning and you were immediately ashamed to have been the one to do this to him.

“Hey- Y/N I’m really fucking sorry, I’ll understand if-” He started but you cut him off quickly so he wouldn’t have the chance to finish.

“Don’t be sorry- totally my fault- please don’t leave cause of me,” you paused for a moment- as if to take a breath before realising you no longer could, “I’d rather leave than tear you guys apart.”

“Okay so it’s settled then,” Eijiro cut in, “No one’s leaving, we’re fine right?”

You paused as you processed what Eijiro had said.

“No one? so I’m staying here? With all you guys?”

Both boys faces distorted to confusion.

Eijiro broke the stunned silence, “Duh? What did you think was gonna happen? We were just gonna turn you and kick you out? We may be vampires, but we aren’t monsters, goddamn.”

You were in disbelief. You hadn’t really had enough time to think over what would happen now you were a vampire. You’d assumed they’d turned others before without inviting them to join. What made you so special?

“I’ll tell you what makes you special,” Katsuki tilted your chin upwards, so your gaze met, “We’ve only known you for- how long? Two weeks at most? And you’ve already earned our trust, we’re fucking smitten and everyone was distraught all week. You’ve basically been one of us since we first met. That’s not normal. For any of us.”

It was nearly disgusting how close to tears you were. An anvil of exhaustion weighed down on you, but you weren’t tired in the slightest. There were no words to honestly capture how you felt in the moment, but then again, you didn’t need words. These guys could read your mind! They were probably listening to everything you were thinking right now.

“We are, by the way.” Eijiro smirked at you, “Okay, rest up, you’ve had an insane week. We’ll continue when you’re stronger, yeah? This can be pretty insane stuff. When you’re ready we can start on your room.”

You could only smile up at him, before your body gave in and you flopped down onto your back. You didn’t feel like sleeping, probably because vampires don’t sleep, so you simply curled up into the cushioning of Katsuki’s bed and let your thoughts drift. How did you get so lucky?

[winniewings]

On your lap

At night, Bucky is seated shirtless on the edge of your bed wearing his blue jeans after a long tiring day. He was staring at his vibranium arm, with flashes of his horrendous past flooding in his head. He did not even notice you entering the room, wearing a short pink floral dress, until you stood right in front of him and his eyes fell on your legs, following their length until his gaze reached your face, finally locking his eyes with yours. He smiled shyly seeing you knowing in his heart that you had already understood why he was sitting there lost in his unpleasant thoughts. It broke your heart to see him surrounded by his terrible past, to see him guilt-ridden again. Without breaking your eye lock, you sat on his lap sideways, grabbing his metal arm for support while you were adjusting yourself on his legs. His eyes cherished your body being so close to his and he held you by your waist. You let go of his arm when you realise that his hand ,which was on your waist ,won’t let you fall and he then places his metallic hand on the silky smooth skin of your thigh. You began caressing tenderly his prosthetic arm, specially where his skin and the vibranium was merging. Slowly you leaned in where your hands were and you pressed your lips on his shoulder, right where his artificial arm was attached feeling the pain Bucky would have gone through when Hydra first attached the titanium arm on his body torturing him. When you lifted your lips from his skin, you stared at the scars on his shoulder, feeling them with your fingertips and wishing that you could brush them away with your hands. This was not the first time you were looking at his silver scars, you have spent hours in bed staring at his painful marks while Bucky was asleep beside you in bed. This arm will never hurt anyone, I know. You said brushing your hand on his stubbly cheek before kissing him on his lips gently. When you pulled apart, he was left with her desire of more. So he pulled your face closer to his with his metallic hand and kissed you, moving his lips much more ardently on yours. You moaned his name in pleasure against his lips, making his mind to go dizzy and he continued kissing losing himself in you. His metallic arm found its way to your upper legs, desperately wanting to feel your soft skin, but he couldn’t feel anything. Heartbroken he broke the kiss and rising his hand, he stared at it mentally cursing it. Wanting to distract him, you moved your hands on his muscular naked chest, stopping right above his widely beating heart. After lowering his eyes to look at your hand resting on his heart he looked back at you. “You live here” Bucky said smiling faintly at you, grateful to have you by his side.

[loki-is-my-god-of-mischief]

Puppy Love (Draco x Male!Reader)

Draco Malfoy was sat in the Great Hall eating his dinner whilst trying to hide the fact that he is observing the Gryffindors. He was told to recruit someone from that house so that his Lord could get close information on Potter. He has been observing the house for three months now and has noticed and unusual pattern in one of the students. There was a boy, (L/N) I think, who wasn't always at the meals or in classes. This was enough to pique his interest so he decided that he would start to follow him.

After months of following him around, he noticed that he always went to the infirmary before he disappears for a little while. After a while his curiosity gets too much and he eavesdrops one time when he is in the infirmary. "Back again dear?"

"Of course, Madam Pomfrey. Do you have the potion for me?"

"Yes. Here you are, one Wolfsbane Potion. Would you like me to lead you to the forest this time or will you be going yourself again?"

"It is too risky for you to come with me Madam Pomfrey. I will be fine going on my own."

"If you're sure dear." The rest of the conversation wasn't heard by Draco as he had already left and heading for the owlery. A werewolf... in the school. His father has to hear of this.

It was a few days later that he got a letter back from his father. His father had told his Lord about the werewolf and Greyback came forward and told him he was the one to bite him and wanted him back in his pack. The Dark Lord agreed and now Draco has to befriend him to get him to join their side...Great.

______________________________________________________________

Draco tries for the next few weeks to befriend him but each time he refuses to even acknowledge him. He ends up going to his Godfather. "I just need your help talking to him."

"Why are you so interested in him talking to you?"

"I...maybe sort of...like him...a little. But he won't even acknowledge me to give me a chance. Please Severus, a chance is all I'm asking." He lied. He must have looked desperate enough though as his Godfather seemed to believe him.

"Alright, I shall pair you up in potions as you are two of the top students."

"Thank you Severus, that’s all I ask."

______________________________________________________________

Turns out the task that they were paired for in potions was a rest of the year thing. So now he was stuck with him. However, as the months start to pass he realised he has more in common with him than he thought and werewolf or not, he wasn't that bad. He knew though, that when he admitted to him that he was a werewolf, that he was more attached to him than he should be. He has connected with him over the pain they both feel. His pain came from the world not accepting him and the preconceptions about how he is meant to be a viscous killer every month. His own pain came from him not wanting to be a Death Eater and the preconceptions that he will become his father and a viscous killer every day. He's fallen for him...he's screwed.

He knows he has to come clean; he would rather lose him than have him hate him and belonging to Greyback. So, during one of their study sessions in the Room of Requirements he tells him. "You…what?"

"I was told to pretend to be your friend to get you to join the Dark Lord, Oh God I am so sorry. I don't want that for you, really I don't. I don't even want it for me."

"Draco..." (Y/N)'s voice is filled with so much pain and sorrow but not for himself but for the guilt ridden boy in front of him.

"You must tell Dumbledore."

"Are you insane?!?! He will expel me and then the Dark Lord will kill my mother."

"He would never turn away someone who so desperately needs his help. As for your mother, I'm sure he will come up with something to keep her safe. Please Draco."

"...ok."

______________________________________________________________

After an eventful meeting with Dumbledore, it was decided that Draco would become another spy for him and to protect his mother, (Y/N) would become one to so Draco can 'fulfil' his task. It was during the initiation of the 'Junior Death Eaters' that (Y/N) showed his Slytherin side in convincing the Dark Lord not to mark him. "Mr (L/N) please step forward." Said person walk toward his 'Lord' and bows deeply.

"Before you mark me, may I say a few words my Lord? This will be of importance."

"If it is indeed important then yes, if not you will be punished."

"Of course, my Lord. It's just, as you know I am a werewolf and Dumbledore is also aware of this fact. This means that after my transformation every month I spend a few days in the infirmary where Madam Pomfrey does an extensive medical check on me. Do you really think she would not notice your Mark on my person?"

"That is indeed a good point, what would you suggest then?"

"If I may be so bold as to suggest a delay on when I am marked, to after graduation and I am no longer required to stay in Hogwarts infirmary."

"Crucio." (Y/N) drops to the floor and screams at the unexpected torture. Once the spell has stopped the Dark Lord continues. "That was for refusing my Mark however delayed it may come. However, you have a point and your Mark will be delayed. As soon as you Graduate, you WILL be marked. Dismissed."

______________________________________________________________

The next few months have gone smoothly, well as smoothly as spying on the Dark Lord can go. A werewolf is a natural Occlumens and Severus has been teaching Draco it since he was a child so it went smoothly than most they supposed. However, after one meeting Draco ended up in the infirmary at Hogwarts for being under a Cruciatus curse for a long time, not too long but long enough that he still feels it and is twitching. Throughout his time in the Infirmary (Y/N) does not leave his side. Not even for classes. After a while though Draco asks why he looks so nervous. "It's just, seeing you under the curse made me realise a few things."

"Like what?"

"Well...That I like you and I never want you under that pain ever again."

"I like you too."

"No Draco, I mean as more than a friend."

"I know." At this (Y/N) looked confused until what he said sunk in.

"Does that mean when you said-" Draco cuts him off by pressing a chaste kiss on his lips. (Y/N) breaks out into a grin and says, "You call that a kiss?" Draco leans in again and fully captures his lips and takes his breath away. Neither notice Albus Dumbledore and his annoying twinkle enter the infirmary until he speaks causing them to jump apart.

"Ah, I do believe muggles would call this Puppy Love."

[firefly-in-darkness]

Separation, Connection - [1/2]

Pairing →Bucky Barnes x Reader

Characters → Marvel Characters

Summary → Your friendship with Bucky deterioates when you catch him in a compromising position with a fellow agent.

Word Count → 2.3k

SSB2021 Square Fill → “God I hate you” - @star-spangled-bingo

AFG Square Fill  → “What the fuck am I seeing?” @anyfandomgoesbingo

Warnings → 18+. Angst, Heartbreak, Jealousy, Swearing

Betas → @kalesrebellion // all mistakes are my own.

A/N → This one was sitting in my WIPs folder for ages, and after brainstorming with @writethelifeyouwant, this 2 parter was finished! Ps. I know I haven’t updated Worst Idea Ever in a while and I’m sorry - I’m just very stuck with it atm, the plot and majority of the story is planned out, I just can’t seem to fill in the blanks.

Firefly’s Masterlist

You and Bucky were close, and there was that little thin line between friendship and something more. Nothing had happened but, god, you had wanted it to. The secret crush you harboured for your teammate, your friend, had only grown over the years. Everyone thought you would be good together, commenting on how well you got along, that friendship was an important part of a relationship. Both of you rolling your eyes and laughing at their comments.

When you finally gathered the courage to tell him how you felt, you saw him with someone else. They were at the back of the training facility; the team were in a simulation of a terrorist attack on Paris and once the time on the training session was called, you stumbled across them.

They were just out of sight, hidden in a dark corner. And it wasn’t just a casual embrace. They were having sex, he was fucking her, hard, up against a wall. You froze at the sight of his bare bottom clenching with each thrust and the blissed-out look on her face. What the fuck am I seeing?! Heart shattered, you fled from the room without a sound, not wanting to disturb them or for anyone to see you crying.

It hurt too much to be as close to him after that, you consciously decided to withdraw from the friendship. Not going straight to him when entering a room or staying in bed instead of heading to the rooftop where you’d usually wander at five in the morning to talk with Bucky, putting the world to right.

And of course, Bucky noticed. It had been a week since you had joined him for a midnight chat in the kitchen. He was missing his best friend. He wanted to share his life with her, and she was nowhere to be seen unless someone else was in the room. 

Bucky knew it was a bad sign when you chose to sit next to Wanda, not sandwiched between him and Nat, on movie night. He felt alone in a room full of friends, as they watched a film about a love triangle set in England. It was supposed to be funny, but Bucky didn’t hear the jokes, let alone the punchlines. 

Nat had realised something was wrong too. She saw the dark circles under your eyes when you drained the coffee from the cup in the morning and the puffy redness from crying in the middle of the day. She had detested the way you and Bucky were before, it was like a pair of magnets drawn together, a connected ribbon, a gravitational pull. But now? Well, you were repelling within a few meters of one another, and she hated that even more.

“What did you do, Barnes?” Nat whispered harshly, eyes still on the film.

“Nothing.” Bucky looked over to you, sleeping with your head resting on Wanda’s lap.

“So why is Wanda looking at you like that?” She raised an eyebrow.

Bucky lifted his gaze, saw the fiery red eyes staring back at him as she stroked your hair, a soft red mist falling over you. He frowned at the Sokovian and tried to talk telepathically but she shook her head and looked back at the television.

On autopilot, you ran from your room to his bedroom door, knocking until the screams died down. Long ago, you’d learnt to not enter the room until he’d settled down, had the bruises to your neck and dealt with the guilt-ridden expression on Bucky’s face for weeks.

Pressing your ear to the door, you could hear Bucky moving about and slowly pushed it open so as not to startle him. A soft glow from the lamp at his bedside welcomed you in, he'd stacked his pillows against the headboard with his knees drawn up and resting his head in his hands.

“Hi, Buck. It’s me.” You spoke softly, his head and eyes shot up to meet yours.

You walked over and sat at the end of the bed, averting your eyes to the floor and fingers fiddling with the edge of a blanket, waiting for him to respond.

“What did I do doll?” He croaked, fingers running through his hair, his knees dropping down.

Your heart raced and you were certain he could hear the harsh thumps, but your voice remained steady, “It's nothing, just need a little time to process some things.”

“You normally come to me. What's different?” His voice was strained, thick with distress.

Standing up, you walked towards the window, arms wrapped tightly around your torso. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you remained focused on the navy sky fading to blues and oranges with the sunrise.

“I can't this time Buck, I need space. I need space from you.” With each word, your heart fractured along the lines you’d attempted to piece together with being away from him.

“Get out then, just leave me alone.” His tone was now harsh, stronger than before.

“God, I hate you.” Without a final glance, you left the room. Your heart in tatters once more.

Once in the safety of your room, the sob heaved out of you. Bucky had disregarded you so easily, he let you go without a second thought. And you didn’t know what was worse; what you saw a week ago or what he just said.

Bucky finished his 76th lap when someone caught his eye. It was you. His best friend. The one he stupidly let go of. It had been three months since he'd told you to leave, and you hadn't gone back on his word.

Of course, Bucky was just as stubborn and hadn't approached you unless it was work-related. But there was something different about you. His eyes focused on the man you were standing with, and how you glowed, and Bucky just couldn't stand that you were feeling that way about a random recruit and not him.

“She used to look at you that way.” Wanda’s voice echoed in his head.

He scanned the field and found her figure leaning against a tree, shading herself from the summer sun and a book in hand. Bucky grabbed the small towel and wiped away the sweat, swigging his water bottle, then joined her on the grass.

“What are you talking about? She’s never looked at me like that.” He gestured towards you and the agent.

Wanda chuckled and shook her head, “You're not blind, or stupid, Bucky, she adored you. Still does, even though I wish she would get over you.”

His brow creased. “She wanted space, ended our friendship.” 

Wanda’s eyes flashed red, “And you broke her heart.” 

“Show me.” Bucky held out his hand, pleading with her, “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“I can’t Bucky. It's private, she would never forgive me.” Wanda shook her head and placed her book in her lap, “I've seen what she's done to you, I'm not going to lose her too.”

Bucky sprang to his feet and kicked at the grass. “Then just tell me what you know. Just something?” He turned to face you, hands on his hips as he tried to think of what he’d done.

“Paris terrorist simulation,” Wanda stated without emotion.

Bucky turned around, seeing nothing but a neutral expression on her face. The simulation had been a success, the whole team had done well but he hadn’t seen you at the debriefing. Steve said you were exhausted and needed to rest. 

“What about it?” asked Bucky.

“Don't deny it. I saw it, I felt it. She had no chance of blocking me from that pain.” Wanda stood up, eyes flickering red, “you and that agent. I thought you were better than that Bucky.”

“Shit.” 

Bucky knew exactly what Wanda had meant before she explained. Shame coursed through him; he'd broken your trust by not telling you about the agent he’d been hooking up with. Honestly, he didn't want you to know, didn't want you to judge him for the flings he had. Subconsciously, he knew that was what your distancing was about because he hadn't seen her again or hooked up with anyone since.

All he wanted was you back in his life; he was going to make it happen.

Wanda smirked, shaking her head before walking ahead of him, “Best get a move on Barnes, she’s not thinking of him in a platonic way.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched and he strutted towards you, determined to get you back.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder and he could only hope you still felt the same way.

You couldn’t believe Bucky dared to pull rank on you in front of another agent. That he had the gall to do such a thing after he told you to leave him alone, how he betrayed your trust as a friend and unknowingly broke your heart.

You stormed down the blurry corridors as anger took the form of tears. Your whole body tense and determined to get away from the assassin on your tail. People parted like the sea as they saw your strut and scowl, you scoffed at their reaction and thought, this must be what it’s like to be Bucky on a mission. Using it to your advantage, you managed to pull someone by the arm and into the path of the Winter Soldier.

While you sprinted away, you glanced back and spotted Bucky helping the woman to her feet, apologising profusely and then realising it was the agent you had caught him with. Your blood boiled as you pushed through the door to the stairwell, it slammed against the wall and probably damaged it, but you didn’t care anymore.

It wasn’t until the breeze hit your face that you realised where you were. You’d come to the rooftop, the exact spot that you’d air all your worries with Bucky. It was the place you’d first bonded outside of the team. 

A hand dragged down your face and your shoulders slumped. You spun on your heel, ready to escape when you stopped short. There he was, blocking the doorway. You groaned, of course, he knew exactly where you’d go even before you did.

“I just want to talk.” Bucky quietly spoke, a hint of a question in his tone but a statement all the same.

“I’ll scale down the side of this building if I have to.” You stepped back towards the edge.

Bucky growled and walked towards you, “would you quit being so stubborn and dramatic for one second?”

“Just leave me alone.” You threw his own words back at him, stopping him in his tracks.

At that moment, you could see that Bucky realised how hurtful those words were, but you weren’t going to console him anytime soon. He should suffer for how he spoke to you and for never attempting to speak to you until now.

Bucky slowly circled you towards the edge, his eyes focused on you while you turned in tandem following his moves. He reached the railing then settled down into a seated position, legs hanging over the side, his chest against the metal pole.

“Are you going to join me?” Bucky’s gaze now on the horizon.

With a roll of your eyes, you sat beside him, but at least a metre apart, you couldn’t get that close to him. He was too intoxicating, and your emotions were incredibly high, even if they were full of anger and hurt, and you didn’t trust yourself not to succumb to his charm.

“Are you going to talk then?” You sassed back at him.

“I’m sorry for what you saw. You shouldn’t have seen that.” Bucky didn’t hold back, “I was going to tell you, I just thought you’d judge me.”

“I’d judge you. For sleeping with a colleague. In the middle of a training simulation?” You scoffed, “You didn’t tell me about her. Or anyone else for that matter. Natasha filled me in on all your little late night rendezvous when I was on missions.”

“I didn’t mean to.” Bucky knew he’d not win this conversation and scrambled to bring it back onto his side, “you were away, and I needed something, someone.”

“So, you used them and used me too?” You glared at him.

“That’s not what I said,” Bucky seethed, annoyed at the way you were twisting his words but not surprised with the pain you felt. 

You continued, ignoring his comment, unable to stop the words falling from your lips, “I gave you emotional support. Watched you cry yourself to sleep after a nightmare, held your hand when you had a panic attack during a mission.” You shook your head at him, “I just wasn’t good enough for the sex part.”

Bucky held your chin and pulled your face to look at him, “You mean more to me than that. I just didn’t know how you felt. If I’d had known-”

You jerked away from his touch, it felt too nice, it felt like home, but you weren’t ready to fall back into this friendship. He knew how you felt, and you weren’t ready for his rejection. You still needed your space.

Swiftly, you returned to your feet, brushing down your trousers and hands, “Thank you for your apology, but I can’t forgive you.”

Bucky stood up and watched you begin to leave, “I’ll do my best to make you see how much you mean to me.”

You paused in the doorway, but you had to be strong, to carry on walking away, you couldn’t let him hurt you again. It was time to move on.

Continue Here...

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