#c: ficlet

[jolteonwrites]

journal entry of john o'callaghan, aged 23, circa 2012. several days before the events of 24 floors.

will someone just come and take my heart? set it down in front of moving cars.

It would hurt less.

I see my life in flashes and phases. Happiness, sadness, disappointment, loneliness, excitement, fear, shame. The joyful moments are so fleeting but the sadness stretches on forever, reaching an eternity that fills me with guilty, awful dread. I know I should feel grateful. My life has worked out so magically special, I have the best job in the world. I am grateful for this, I am.

Why isn't it enough?

My family loves me. I tour the world with my best friends. We have fans across oceans. Some of them don't even speak much English. They adore what we create anyway. Music transcends all barriers.

And it's not enough to break this curse attached to me. The joy is temporary, the sadness is everlasting.

It might be my own fault.

I seem to carry death with me in my pocket.

I know it's there because it's very heavy and it gives my soul a dull, constant ache to drag it wherever I go.

Life is not how I thought it would be as a child. And that is not to say it's not a magical gift every day, to be here, to feel, to be. It's mostly pensive and blurs together. But when it's painful, it rakes through like the most jagged blade, slow and deliberate and forceful and so fucking terrible.

And it's lonely.

Oh my God, it's fucking lonely.

I want to be okay with alone but I yearn and it takes up a space in my throat and I can't speak.

I'm not sure my friends 'get' it. Their brains don't work the same. When I find someone that does... they don't stay for long.

What does that mean? I think it was my fault.

I think it was all my fault.

Who am I? Where am I going?

I think I've been asking the wrong questions my whole life. And my pockets are heavy.

This life feels like a living death.

I don't think I want to be here any more.

[riality-check]

The eagerly awaited part 2 of the DILF!Steve concert saga is here!! Part 1, in case you missed it.

"You're not going."

"Come on! I haven't thrown up in an hour!"

"The drive to the venue is an hour and a half."

"Steve-"

"And if you throw up in my car-"

"Oh my God-"

"I'll kill you."

Steve doesn't need to see Dustin's eye roll in order to feel the full force of it through the phone.

"I'll just kill you. You'll have a headstone within the week that says Here Lies Dustin Henderson: Rightfully Murdered for Puking in Steve Harrington's Car," he continues as he packs Capri-Suns into the cooler for the car ride.

He doesn't remember ever being that thirsty as a kid, but if Anna wants strawberry kiwi, Anna gets strawberry kiwi. It helps that it's Steve's favorite flavor, too.

"I'd need a big ass headstone to fit all of that," Dustin snaps.

"Your big-ass ego would demand no less, shithead," Steve shoots back.

"Swear jar, Daddy!" Anna calls from her room, across the house because while she doesn't listen to Steve when he's right in front of her, she can hear him break the swear jar rule from halfway across the world.

He zips up the cooler, fishes a quarter out of his pocket, and throws it into the half-full soup can next to the stove.

(A quarter doesn't mean much, but Anna doesn't know that. The day Steve teaches that kid about inflation is the day his pockets become permanently empty.)

"Did she just swear jar you?" Dustin asks from over the phone.

"You baited me into it."

"I did no such thing."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You're not coming, though, are you?"

Dustin sighs, and, for all his teasing, Steve does genuinely feel bad. "I still feel like if I breathe wrong, I'll hurl, so, no. I don't think I'll manage the car ride, nevermind the actual show."

"Sorry dude."

"Don't be. Some dickhead will live stream the whole thing on Instagram, anyway. I'll live vicariously through them."

Steve snorts and picks up the cooler. He got Anna dressed beforehand, so it's just a matter of getting her to stop playing with whatever toy she dug up - Play-Doh has been the fixation of the week - in her room so they can go.

"Besides," Dustin continues, and Steve hates where this is going. "Anna loved the show, and you've got a reason-"

"Nope," Steve says, knocking on Anna's door. "Don't finish that sentence."

"All I'm saying-"

"I know what you're gong to say, which means you know my answer. I don't date."

Anna opens her door. From the little Steve can see inside, there are at least three containers of Play-Doh open and strewn across the floor. He thinks her Barbies are involved in it somehow.

"Time to go," Steve says, and he thinks, Please don't let there be Play-Doh in the Barbie hair.

"Five more minutes," Anna tries.

"Nope. Clean up and roll out."

"Hi, Anna," Dustin says through the phone.

"Uncle Dusty!" Anna shrieks, and she starts jumping up and down. "Are you comin', too?"

Dustin sighs, and Steve can't tell if it's at the nickname or if he's still cursing the universe. "No, but you and your dad have a great time, okay?"

"Can you, can you tell Daddy I should get five more minutes?"

Steve raises his eyebrows at her. Anna, to her credit, ignores him wonderfully.

"If you clean up," Dustin says, because he's actually Steve's favorite person right now, "you get to do more headbanging at the concert."

Anna gasps like Steve didn't already tell her that earlier today, and she gets to work on putting her toys away. Steve helps, of course, and he finds that there is, in fact, Play-Doh in two of her Barbies' hair.

Fun. They're going to turn into Buzzcut Barbies when Anna goes to sleep because he can already tell that they are the furthest thing from salvageable.

But that doesn't matter right now. What matters is getting Anna in the car, deploying the first two of many strawberry kiwi Capri Suns from the cooler, and making the drive to the venue, which Steve does with minimal road rage and accompanied by the Disney radio station.

Success by all metrics, really.

Dinner might as well be now, so Steve shells out a truly disgusting amount of money for overpriced chicken nuggets and fries at the venue. Anna will only eat half her portion but say she's hungry later, but that's what the snacks and water Steve smuggled in via his jacket are for.

They get to their seats, dinner finished up, just as the lights go down for the first opener. Steve looks to his left, half-expecting Eddie and his friends to be there before remembering that they won't be.

He tries not to feel too disappointed. He fails miserably.

The seat next to him, however, isn't empty. There's a note taped to the back of it, one addressed to Steve and Miss Anna, so Steve feels alright taking and opening it.

At the top, there's a messily scrawled phone number. Underneath, it says:

Here's my number. Probably a bad idea to call with all the noise. Texting works, though you should do that after the show. I'll be a little busy until then.

-Eddie

Steve puts the note in his pocket, puts Anna's ear defenders on, puts his own earplugs in, and looks at the stage, where-

Hang on.

He squints at the stage, where four guys have started playing a song that, frankly, sounds too much like literally all the music Steve listened to yesterday for him to care about all that much. The drummer is pretty small, with wild, curly hair. The bassist looks familiar. The lead singer, who is very talented but not to Steve's personal taste, also looks familiar. And the guitarist-

No way. No way in hell.

It's a total coincidence. Lots of guys have long, curly hair and heavy jewelry and big eyes and are wearing formal wear, for some reason, and catch Steve's eye, and-

"Thank you for such a great welcome!" the guitarist says, and his smile totally isn't doing anything to Steve, thanks very much.

Anna stops moving, where she's standing next to Steve, and climbs up into his lap to get a better look at the stage. She looks out, then back at Steve, then out, then back at Steve, making a face as confused as Steve feels.

Some days, he thinks he ended up with a clone, not a kid.

"I'll get off the mic in a second. I only do the talking because Jeff," the guitarist points at the lead singer, who ducks his head, "is really shy."

Jeff. That name is definitely relevant, but Steve is a permanent resident of denial.

"We fought about what song we were going to include next in our set list, so much so that we didn't decide until yesterday and had to consult a tiebreaker."

Okay, maybe Steve is a less permanent resident of denial than he thought.

"So, thank you to Miss Anna, who did great at headbanging for her first time-"

Anna whips around so fast, her forehead nearly collides with Steve's jaw.

"And to Steve, who's a big fan of American Psycho."

At the song name, the crowd loses their minds, and if Anna wasn't sitting right in front of him, Steve would join them.

Because what the fuck is happening right now?

His question isn't answered. In fact, about five more questions pop up in its stead when, during the bridge of the song, Jeff puts on a clear rain jacket and picks up a prop axe.

Please, God, don't let this traumatize my kid, Steve thinks.

Anna, thankfully, doesn't get scared. When Jeff brings the axe down, again and again, Steve's weirdo daughter fucking smiles. And giggles. It's kind of cute, actually.

When the song ends, she turns back to Steve.

"That's Eddie onstage," Steve says, and saying it, somehow, makes it real.

"I thought so!" Anna says, and she turns back to watch the show. Steve puts an arm around her waist so she doesn't fall off his lap when she bangs her head to the music.

The rest of the songs, in Steve's opinion, are better than the opening song. They're more melodic, which Steve can definitely get behind, and each of them has a gimmick onstage, all based off of various horror movies. It's ridiculous, but also really, really cool.

And Eddie, onstage, because it is the same guy who flirted with him and was so sweet to Anna yesterday, is really, really hot.

Steve has never had a thing for guitarists before. He's never had a thing for musicians before. Hell, until a year ago, he didn't realize he had a thing for men.

Eddie is. Uh. Yeah. Really doing it for him.

Steve doesn't know whether it's his enthusiasm, or the way he moves, or seeing his hair tied up, or the fucking dress pants and suspenders, or just his hands, but he does know he has to get himself in check because this is an all ages show and he's here with his daughter.

He already knows he can't add these songs to his grading playlist, not when they're accompanied by visuals of Eddie playing his guitar.

Sweet Jesus.

"Alright, that's our set!" Eddie says. "Thanks, y'all, for sticking around for us, and let's give it up for the next act!"

The crowd, including Anna and Steve, cheer as they exit and the lights go up.

Steve fishes his phone out of his pocket, fully intending to add Eddie's number to his contacts, and is greeted by not one, not two, but sixteen missed calls from Dustin Henderson.

Naturally, Steve calls him back. "Who died?"

"What the fuck?" Dustin yells, and Steve just puts the phone on speaker to save the rest of his hearing. "Did Eddie fucking Munson just personally thank you from the stage?"

"Swear jar, Uncle Dusty!" Anna says.

"Sorry," Dustin says. "But Steve. Answers. Now."

"How do you even-"

"Instagram live. Is Eddie the guy you were telling me about yesterday?"

Steve takes his phone off speaker. Prior experience tells him that this conversation has a less than zero chance of staying PG, nevermind PG-13.

"Yeah," Steve says. "He is."

"The one who flirted with you, and you forgot to ask for his number."

"Well, I have it now."

"What?" Dustin shrieks, and Steve is incredibly thankful that he didn't take his earplugs out.

"He left me his number on the seat."

"Text him."

"I was going to, until I saw that you called me sixteen times."

"Jesus Christ, Eddie Munson was flirting with you."

Steve rolls his eyes and hands a pack of gummy bears to Anna when she taps his arm. "He could have just been nice. I don't even know if he's into guys."

"Have you looked at him?"

"Wow, Dustybuns, I didn't know you were homophobic."

"I think it's the complete opposite of homophobic to try to get you laid."

"Hanging up!" Steve shouts because a part of him will never see Dustin as any older than thirteen, and no thirteen year old should ever say that.

"Text-"

Steve hangs up the call. "Can I have a gummy bear?"

"No," Anna says, mouth full, in her seat, legs swinging.

"I bought them."

She shrugs. "You gave them to me. Mine now."

Steve stares. She stares right back.

He sighs and opens a new pack of gummy bears.

With his mouth full of sweet Haribo corpses, Steve takes out the note and adds Eddie to his contacts. Before he can overthink it, he sends him a message:

I guess I don't have to ask you what you do for a living. Just so we're even on that front, I'm a teacher, and Anna's full time job is preschool.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket and focuses on making this a good experience for Anna, who somehow wormed her way into a conversation with the intimidating-looking couple sitting next to her.

Because it's totally not like a literal rockstar is going to text him back. Right?

Part 3!!

[angeldreamsoffanfic]

“So how did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Y’know, how did you know.”

“Dingus, I’m gonna need you to spell it out for me here, the Russians did a number on how many of my braincells are actually working.”

“How did you know that you liked girls?”

Robin Buckley immediately pushed herself up so she was resting on her elbows, head tilted to catch Steve Harrington’s eyes in the low light of their hospital room.

They weren’t originally even going to go to the hospital, if Robin was being honest. They had just wanted to slip away back to their respective homes, but then Melissa and Richard Buckley caught wind that Robin was hurt. Then the both of them realized that Steve’s parents (if Robin has to use that term to describe them) had less than zero intention of sending anyone to pick up Steve.

Then EMS made the light suggestion of both of them probably needing to go to Hawkins General Hospital… and well, while Melissa and Richard did tend to lead toward more natural remedies… one couldn’t fix a concussion or a drugging with an unknown substance with essential oils and hope.

“Robbie? Did you OD over there?” Steve had himself up on his elbows, easily mimicking Robin. That’s the thing that makes the inside of Robin ache, that he’s so like her. She knows that she’s an only child, knows that, but sometimes Steve’ll just… do something and it makes her question it. Makes her wonder how she spent so long without him, without another brain and two legs and arms and so much hair. “Robbie?”

“No, I am still alive.” Robin slowly spoke, before she let out a soft sigh. “Why do you ask?”

“Like-” Steve huffed as he shook his head from side to side, before he used the one hand that was free from the pulse monitor and saline drip to card through his hair. It’s sleep ruffled, and if he uses product (Robin is sure he does), it’s for sure gone. Steve looks up though, and his eyes are so earnest that it causes something to hurt inside of Robin. “never mind just ignore- fuck - just ignore me.”

“I couldn’t ignore you if I tried, you idiot.” Robin let out a huff, and she winced as the PICC line in her arm shifted as tilted to be able to fully face Steve on her side. “But I just, dingus, this is out of left field for even you.”

“How so?”

“Did you even know that, that people like me even existed until a couple of hours ago?” Robin kept her voice soft, especially as Steve huffed out an indignant sounding sigh. Robin sighs though, and then she cards her own hand through her hair, and forges onward. “I think I’ve just… always known.”

“Always?”

“Yeah like-” Robin shrugged, a careful movement of her shoulders. “When I was like, eight? My uh, parents sent me to this camp thing- like summer camp kind of like what Dustin went to? But with, y’know, with the swimming and archery and dude I was fucking awful at it.” Steve let out a soft and watery laugh at Robin’s rambling, and that gave Robin enough power to continue. “But we uh, had these like songs we had to learn? And there was this uh, girl counselor there that had to teach me because you know, that was her job.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and uh. She couldn’t have been older than I am now but man…” Robin let out a slow whistle, and allowed herself to fully melt into the hospital cot she’s laid up on. “All I could think was that I just wanted to be with her. Like not even kissing because I thought kissing was gross then, still do now kinda but anyway- I wanted to like, hold her hand and shit. Do the cheesy stuff I’d seen in the movies, y’know?”

Steve huffed out his own laugh, and he tilted his head to lean against his pillows instead of facing Robin. Robin watched though, quiet for once, as Steve swallowed once and then twice- before he cleared his throat.

“I knew it existed before you.”

“What?”

“It.”

“Dingus-”

“Girls liking girls.” Steve’s voice is barely above a whisper, even as Robin can hear him gulp in a lungful of air. “And boys liking boys.”

“You did?” Robin kept her voice quiet, gentle, as coaxing as she could- especially when she could see Steve’s throat bob. “Dingus?”

“I…” Steve doesn’t continue, and that’s enough.

Enough to Robin that she pushed herself up, and ignored the pain that ricocheted down her spine like needles. Ignored Steve’s hurried ‘what are-’, as she stumbled out of her hospital bed and right to Steve’s. She made sure to drag her IV pole and the monitor with her, situating it as best as she could next to Steve’s. Robin huffed quietly as the pain trickled down her spine, and she couldn’t help but smile as Steve curled his hand carefully around her wrist and tugged.

Robin got comfortable, let Steve fret over her as best as he could, his fingers only ever-so slightly trembling as he made sure that the line in her arm wasn’t kinked up. They were pressed close, side to side and hip to hip, and Robin tilted her head down until it was rested on Steve’s shoulder.

“Wanna keep going, Stevie?”

“No.”

“But?”

“I…” Steve huffed again, a small indignant noise that Robin mimicked.

They sat like that then, just the two of them for a moment, before Steve continued slowly.

“I’ve never, told anyone this- like I’ve told Tommy H. so much shit about me - but this is… Robin this is different.” Steve speaks in a hurried and stilted way, like he’s stringing together bits and pieces of sentences, and it shouldn’t work.

But it does because he’s Steve and she’s Robin.

And truthfully, Robin likes that. That they’re Steve and Robin. SteveandRobin. RobinandSteve. Likes that the two of them are so in tune that even her own mother didn’t want to separate them.

That had to mean something in the end, didn’t it?

“Tell me, whatever… whenever.” Robin murmured as she turned her head so she could press a soft kiss to Steve’s shoulder. The hospital gown is thin enough she can feel the heat of his skin from up under it, and that’s grounding. Grounding even as Steve drew in a shaky breath, audibly swallowing again. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here.”

“I didn’t uh, notice Tammy in Ms. Click’s class or uh, you for a reason.” Steve slowly spoke, eyes wet, and Robin can hear his sniffle as he tried to reign his emotions back. “Ms. Click made him sit uh, right by her desk at the front of the room.”

And oh.

Oh.

If that doesn’t immediately settle something that just usually writhes around in Robin’s chest.

“Him?” Robin is gentle, gentler than she thinks she’s ever been.

“Uh, yeah… Eddie Munson?” Steve huffed out an almost dry laugh, the only thing that he does that ever remotely reminds her of his time as his high school “King Steve” persona. “He uh, got this bat tattoo right before that year’s Thanksgiving break and all I could do was just… gawk at him.”

“And then what?” Robin knew she was pushing, searching for information, but she can’t help it. Not when Steve is right next to her, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. Not when he’s like her. In all the ways that matter.

“I went home and screamed into my pillow.”

Robin immediately smacked Steve’s thigh with the knuckles of her left hand- grinning in triumph when Steve let out a squawk of laughter.

“Eddie Munson?”

“What about him?”

“He’s… he’s a total dud!”

“No he’s not!”

“He stepped in my mashed potatoes once! That is totally total dud material!”

“No way!”

“He wants to be like, like a metal singer!”

“He has a band! Dreams!”

“Do you even know if he can hold a tune?”

“Well, no-”

“Total. Dud.”

Robin grinned wide as Steve launched into a very quick defense about Eddie, and she decides then and there that Steve and her? They’ll be just fine.

Especially if she can get Eddie to come into Steve and her’s orbit just a bit, to see if the crush is still there.

Because while Robin may not have all of the gay knowledge in the world, there is one thing for a complete certainty that she knows.

The black hanky that Eddie kept in his pocket?

Well…

Robin chuffed to herself, before she tilted so she could lay on her side- nose tucked into the place where Steve’s neck and shoulder met.

Right before she falls asleep though, Robin does a very important thing on a mental whiteboard.

You Rule: 1

You Suck: 0

hope you all enjoyed! truthfully think this is one of my favorite things i have written. love platonic stobin. <3

[jubilantmedusa]

Untitled Zukka Hurt/Comfort Ficlet #1 (because practicing drawing means I need to write little mini fics I guess...)

“You’re sick.” Sokka’s voice was as calm as the surface of water on a still night. Not a hint of accusation or contempt. No softness, no sting. Only observation. Reflection.

Zuko took a breath, deep to sooth his limbs that were threatening to shake. “I’m fine.”

Sokka frowned, and Zuko felt a knot form instantly in his stomach. His shivered, vision swimming as he saw the flash of another frown, superimposed. A different frown. Harsh. Sharp.

Sokka’s movements were calm. Fluid. Gentle as he raised his hand to Zuko’s forehead and pressed with just the right amount of pressure. “You have a fever.” Zuko felt his heartbeat pick up as Sokka’s lip began to curl, but as his expression settled Zuko realized that Sokka wasn’t angry, just concerned.

Zuko breathed deeply, pinning his arms to his sides before the other boy could notice that he was shaking now. Only, he must not have been fast enough because Sokka dropped his hand from Zuko’s forehead to grab Zuko’s trembling fingers. 

“Your hands are freezing.” Sokka hand tightened around Zuko’s as he pulled it upwards, pressing it against his mouth. Zuko couldn’t stop his hands from shaking even harder as Sokka’s breath warmed his skin.

—

“I can do that.” Zuko reached to grab his sleeping bag. “I’m fine.” Sokka lifted it over his head like they were kids playing keep away. Zuko huffed, crossing his arms, but let Sokka keep it.

“You’re not fine.” Sokka spread of the blanket. “How long have you been feeling sick?”

“Ugg.” Sokka paused. He looked up, holding  Zuko’s gaze until Zuko finally drawled, two days? maybe three.”

“Three days?!” Zuko felt his pulse quickening again, his shoulders bracing. “Why didn’t you say anything!” Even though Sokka’s voice voice was high he didn’t sound angry. In fact… Sokka’s eyebrows were scrunched, lips pressed thin. “You were training Aang this morning. Zuko, you shouldn’t be bending like that if you’re sick “ Sokka was worried.

“I’m fine.” How many times had Zuko said that now? “It’s just a fever. It’ll go away.”

“I mean, sure it will, if you rest. Can you, uh…” He gestured towards the sleeping bag, laid out and waiting.

“Oh.” It felt awkward to lower himself down when his legs felt so much like jelly, Zuko was sure it wasn’t graceful. But Sokka didn’t say anything, just stood there, eyebrow raised. Waiting. Zuko realized, then, that he was supposed to lay all the way down. So he did, somehow feeling boneless now that he wasn’t holding himself up. 

He blinked as Sokka settled a blanket over to his shoulders. It took Zuko and absurd number of seconds to realize that it was a blue blanket, one of Sokka’s own. Woven. Thick. Soft.

“Comfortable?” Sokka asked. When Zuko met his eyes he smiled.

It was nice, seeing Sokka smile. Zuko wanted to smile back, but he… there was a quivering in his stomach. Not sickness, just… waiting. “I’m fine,” Zukp said. When Sokka raised an eyebrow, he added, “I… feel fine.”

“I doubt that,” Sokka said.

“I do,” Zuko insisted. Yes, his body felt suddenly heavy. And his skin buzzed strange sensitivity that made event he gentlest touch feel like a scratch. But he was lying on his side, on something soft, and he was warm. “I… thank you.”

Sokka shrugged. “I didn’t do much,” he said. “Do you need anything else?”

Zuko thought for a moment. “Water?” He croaked.

“Coming right up, bud.”

Zuko let his eyes close for a moment, just listening to the sound of Sokka’s footsteps as he went back to the packs, the rustling of fabric as he was digging through something. Then there was a feeling, something hard brushing his fingers. Zuko opened his eyes to see a small, green glass. “A Ba Sing Se souvenir cup?”

“It was on sale,” Sokka said, chuckling. “Drink it. It’s medicine.”

“For what?” Zuko asked.

“The fever?” Sokka reminded him. “Do they… umm… not treat fevers in the Fire Nation or something?”

“Of course they do.” Zuko propped himself up just enough to tip the bitter liquid into his mouth before settling down again.

More sounds of shuffling as Sokka lowered himself, and then Zuko felt weight on his back as Sokka pressed into him, a hand settling itself onto his arm. Sokka’s touch was firm, but quiet. Soft. Sweet. “But not yours?” Sokka sounded sad.

Zuko swallowed. He remembered that feeling, tossing and turning as his skin crawled and his stomach churned. Waking up with a sweat drenched face but father still expected Zuko to do his katas. Run through his katas, go to school, sit up straight. There was punishment for slouching, even if he only slouched because he was shivering so hard he couldn’t mind his posture. “We were being trained to rule, Azula and I. Countries don’t stop because you have a cold.”

Sokka didn’t say anything, just started rubbing his arm. 

“You can rest now,” Sokka said after a while. “I can take care of you.”

Take care of him? Zuko tried to remember the last time someone had taken care of him. His Uncle had tried, of course, but Zuko had always pushed him away. He couldn’t let himself be seen that way - weak, sick. So he ignored the quiver in his Uncle’s voice when Iroh spoke to him from the other side of a metal door. And before that… before that his mother would, when father would let her. When Zuko was so sick that she’d block his bed with her body to keep father away, even if it cost her. Then sit with him and fuss his hair back with slender fingers.

“I’ll take good care of you,” Sokka said.

Zuko took a deep breath in. Not a sigh, just a breath, one to fill him up. He could feel his heart starting to race again, but... nicer this time, with Sokka so warm and solid against his back. He let the breath out. Slow. Controlled. Eyes still closed, he whispered, “Okay.”

[goosewizard]

it is the second time ranboo is hiding an eye from tubbo, and he forgot how terrible he is at it. they managed to keep it a secret for this long, though, so he can't stop now. they know his preferred eye size, managed to find out his preferred ring size without causing too much suspicion (they think), and today is the day. tubbo should be home any minute now.

oh, they're gonna throw up.

everything is going to be perfect, it has to be. he's rehearsed what he's going to say, how they're going to kneel, even practiced putting the ring on with michael (who is being the best little secret-keeper right now), so it's going to be fine. it's tubbo, how could it not be?

the door unlocks and ranboo promptly drops the box he'd been fiddling with.

he dives after it (quite heroically, one might say), forgetting that he is very tall and the floor is very far away. they land pretty hard on their shoulder but manage to keep the box from view of the door, which opens just in time for ranboo to gain some additional bodily harm as sweet michael all but tramples them to greet the man at the door.

scratch that. the bastard at the door.

because tubbo is doubled over cackling, wheezing something about family guy while he watches ranboo struggle to their feet. they should really reconsider marrying this guy. not even a ‘hello’, a ‘how are you’, an ‘are you ok’, this could be serious, tubbo could seriously be planning their demise. marriage is a lives-long commitment, ranboo can't just pick some guy who's gonna axe them for the insurance money. the guy in question scoops michael up and spins him around while the toddler shrieks in delight.

yeah, okay, plan’s still on.

speaking of, michael is whispering in tubbos ear prime dammit. ranboo suavely (read: panicking) plucks their kid out of tubbo's hands with a haha kids these days amirite and shoos michael off to play. they turn around and tubbo's smirking. aw man. he strolls up to them, grinning ear to ear saying darling, dearest, what is this plan that michael tells me about in that tone where he knows exactly what plan they have. ranboo groans as tubbo dances around them, going awww ranboo you like me so much you want to co-parent with me forever awww with that same shit-eating grin because he knows he's right. the situation would be more frustrating if ranboo wasn't head-over-heels for the man (literally, as of about a minute ago). they suppose he never explicitly said that the secret was to be kept from tubbo. hrm.

welp, cat's out of the bag and tubbo's not gonna get any less insufferable about it, so he may as well just do it. ranboo looks tubbo in his eyes (he's wearing one of the first ones they made for him) and steadily gets on one knee. tubbo's being very composed, but his little goat tail's going a mile a minute. it offers ranboo a sense of relief. its tubbo, and with any luck, it'll always be tubbo.

they begins their speech, only stumbling over their words a few times and keeping easy eye contact with tubbo for the duration. when they get to the part with the ring and almost drop the dang box again, tubbo laughs harder than is really necessary, giddy about the whole thing. they're both smiling hard when ranboo asks tubbo underscore, will you marry me? for real this time and opens the box.

not to brag, but they really knocked it out of the park. inside the box is a simple and sturdy copper ring with a honeycomb pattern etched in. there is also an eye, made of quartz and diamond with a netherite pupil shaped like a heart.

tubbo honest-to-prime squeals and drags ranboo in for one of those kisses where it’s all teeth because they can’t stop smiling. he says yes, of course. the ring is on in an instant and tubbo dashes to the nearest mirror to put the new eye in, asking a million questions about how much this cost and how’d they sculpted it like that and if he can have one of lapis or amethyst next. michael trots over to the commotion and is promptly scooped up by tubbo who tells him michael youre not going to be part of a broken home anymore. ranboo points out that the home in question was never broken in the first place, which his fiancee (!) ignores.

as he watches his husband-to-be show off his ring and eye to their son, ranboo thanks whoever is up there that this is who he gets to spend his days with. to have and to hold, to bicker over flowers and colors, in sickness and in health, in war and in peace, theyll be together, ranboo and tubbo, against the world.

part 1 | part 2

[gregorovitch-adler]

A Chemical Defect

The mild sunshine in the afternoon hit softly on Sherlock's face, lifting his mood quite a bit. He took in the fresh breeze as he kept walking along the pavement, with John by his side, towards 221, Baker Street.

"How would you define love?" John asked, carrying a grocery bag in his hand to their way home.

Sherlock was carrying the other bag.

The two of them had been out shopping, because it was time they went to the supermarket this week. And because it was a Sunday. Sherlock had oddly felt like accompanying John today, so he did.

They had been talking about what romantic attraction was like, how it felt, etc., when they were shopping. Though what had triggered that topic exactly, Sherlock had no idea.

Sherlock parted his lips and blinked, feeling thrown off by this sudden question. How should he respond?

"How would I know? I'm just a sociopath." He couldn't think of anything else to say.

John shook his head immediately at that. "No, that's not true at all. 'Sociopath' isn't even the correct term. And I know that you feel things." John let out a bitter laugh. "God knows I've personally witnessed you feel it."

They had arrived at their apartment building.

Sherlock turned to look at him with his eyebrows knitted and nose scrunched. "When?"

John turned around to face him too with disbelief in his expressive, blue eyes. "When? Seriously?" He shook his head again and opened the door to get in.

Sherlock followed him, and now they were both climbing the stairs leading to their flat.

Sherlock's hands were trembling, and his heart raced as his stomach churned in horror.

Did John know how Sherlock felt for him? Shit. Now what? How was Sherlock supposed to explain himself? Why did John bring this up today? Was this supposed to be a call-out? Oh no.

They both walked into their flat, closed the door, and John went straight to the kitchen with the bag in his hand.

Sherlock went to the kitchen too. It was dimly-lit with natural sunlight coming from the outside.

The table was a mess from Sherlock's latest experiment. Now John had also spread everything out that they had just bought, adding to the mess even more.

John was arranging everything properly in the fridge.

What was Sherlock to do now? Might as well out with the truth, he thought. It was time.

"Turns out I was in love. With you." Sherlock paused. "I still am," he added, as he set the bag of groceries on the kitchen table. He kept staring at John - whose back was facing him - holding his breath.

You were right, John. You always are.

John stopped in his tracks with a pack of yoghurt in his hand. "Come again?" John placed the pack in the fridge, closed it, and finally looked around at Sherlock.

They were both facing each other now.

"I won't repeat myself, John," he said briskly, bracing himself on the kitchen table, waiting for John's reaction.

"What about The Woman?"

Sherlock's initial reaction was to flinch in self defense. Disappointment followed through shortly.

Here he thought John was talking about the two of them.

The Woman. Why now?

Sherlock closed his eyes as a faint memory of a beautiful face with soft, feminine features showed up.

The violin tune that he had composed was playing in the background in his mind.

Sherlock shook his head and opened his eyes. He took a deep breath and swallowed. "Ancient history," he blurted out.

Truth meant a complete and accurate information about something. He was not going to hide anything from John.

"So, there was a history." John folded his arms across his chest.

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Doesn't matter now."

John slammed one of his hands on the kitchen table. "It matters to me, Sherlock! I've spent ages wondering why you looked so abnormally interested in her when she was practically a stranger - especially when you'd specified that you weren't interested in relationships - and more importantly, where I went wrong if you were interested in romantic entanglements, after all. So, yes. It does matter even now. Very much." His chest was heaving with his face flushed.

Sherlock felt his jaw drop. "John? I never thought you -"

"Yes, you idiot. I feel the same. Have been for ages. So tell me: did you or did you not feel for Irene Adler?"

"I did."

John's face fell and his eyes looked considerably sadder than before, so Sherlock continued hastily, "Doesn't mean I didn't care about you, then. Because I did. A lot.

"And now you're so important to me that if you were to leave this place, right now, I'd feel lost. In the middle of a barren desert." Sherlock swallowed. "I've felt this way about you for ridiculously long. I am in love with you. Is that clear enough, now?" His voice broke with desperation at the last sentence.

John quickly walked up close to Sherlock and grabbed his waist. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his shoulders and sighed. John rested his head against Sherlock's chest and they both fell silent for a few seconds.

John looked up at him with a soft gaze. The amount of sentiments in those eyes was unbelievable. Sherlock was looking at him in wonder.

"Yes, it is," said John, in a voice just above a whisper.

Sherlock placed a hand on John's cheek as he ducked to kiss him. John moved one of his hands from Sherlock's waist to his nape as he kissed him back with abandon.

Sherlock hoped that any feelings of jealousy, disappointment, etc., between him and John would fade away now.

They had each other by their sides. They knew they would handle their future lives better from now on.

*

Prompt: Jealousy by @calaisreno

Tags: @jamielovesjam , @peanitbear , @helloliriels , @topsyturvy-turtely , @gaylilsherlock , @totallysilvergirl , @lisbeth-kk , @keirgreeneyes , @nowiamcoveredinyou , etc.

Let me know if you want to be added/removed from the tags. :)

[thetarttfuldickhead]

And Jamie is getting better and better, isn’t he, getting closer and closer to being the best (not just of Richmond; not just of England; of the whole fucking world), and it’s all great, all fucking fantastic, only it gets into his head for a little bit, same way being the perfect team mate got into his head after his first call-up for England, and it starts to gnaw at him again, eat away at him again, every tiny little mistake (every tiny little thing that isn’t even a mistake, is just a thing that might have, possibly and in another world, been better), and he doesn’t let it show, doesn’t let it affect him, he works hard, chin up lad, gotta be good for his team, right, gotta be perfect for them, and mostly he really is all right, having the time of his life, yeah; on top of the fucking world because he very nearly is as good as they ever get, but eventually there’s an important game where he misses a pass or a penalty or a sitter and it happens to everybody, and everybody knows it happens to everybody, but it isn’t supposed to happen to him, is it, and what fucking good is he if—

And it’s the dressing room after and he doesn’t have even know how to fucking start but before he can say a word Isaac just fixes him with a stare, “No, bruv. We don’t wanna hear it.”

And in spite of everything that’s not fair, is it, ‘cause sure he made a mistake, “But—!“

And there’s Sam, who shakes his head and puts his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, eyes so very serious and sincere. “We are not your father, Jamie. We don’t stop loving you if you’re not perfect.”

[nimbusghoulette]

pro memoria

A little snippet that's been on my mind ever since I saw RHRN. Contains spoilers for the movie!

Copia sat silently in the darkness of the Ministry library, only the flickering flame of a candle illuminating the ancient scrolls in front of him. The silence was almost eerie; even the distant laughter of the ghouls down the hall had died down. He squinted at the text, the individual letters bleeding into unintelligible smudges. Taking a shaky breath, he rubbed at his tired eyes in a vain attempt to force himself to concentrate. His mind refused to cooperate, and so he leaned back in his chair, away from the warm candlelight that seemed to be dying out anyway. His face was soon enveloped by seemingly eternal darkness, his mind beginning to wander.

♪♫ don't you forget about dying ♫♪ He hasn't had the time to think in days. He busied himself with the preparations for his mother's memorial, there was so much to do and take care of that he barely had the time to sleep. While they tried, the ghouls weren't of much help, and he couldn't blame them. How were they supposed to know of such human procedures and how they worked? His responsibilities didn't give him the chance to grieve his loss. But now that he was alone with his own thoughts, the familiar ache in his chest made itself known with such force that it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.

♪♫ don't you forget about your friend death ♫♪ Perhaps if he wasn't so self-centered and worried about his own fate, he would've noticed what was going on, and then he could have at least tried to find a solution to Sister's condition, whatever it might have been. And if it turned out that not even him could help her, at least he could have been there for her in her final moments. The guilt hit him like a freight train and hot, bitter tears welled up in his eyes. What kind of a son was he to leave his mother die alone, surrounded by strangers instead of the last living member of her family?

♪♫ don't you forget that you will die ♫♪ As he sat there, simmering in his own pain and guilt and with tears silently rolling down his cheeks, a thought crossed his mind, one that he had never expected to even consider.

Perhaps it really should have been him.

[jolteonwrites]

𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘋𝘐𝘌𝘋 𝘋𝘐𝘋𝘕'𝘛 𝘚𝘛𝘈𝘠 𝘋𝘌𝘈𝘋

𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘋𝘐𝘌𝘋 𝘋𝘐𝘋𝘕'𝘛 𝘚𝘛𝘈𝘠 𝘋𝘌𝘈𝘋

𝘠𝘖𝘜'𝘙𝘌 𝘈𝘓𝘐𝘝𝘌, 𝘠𝘖𝘜'𝘙𝘌 𝘈𝘓𝘐𝘝𝘌 𝘐𝘕 𝘔𝘠 𝘏𝘌𝘈𝘋

happy birthday vanessa. also sorry vanessa. if this had ao3 tags: hurt/no comfort, author is actually deeply sorry even if it makes her seem sadistic asf, you know how you get fix-it fics? this is a ruin-it fic, and so on and so forth. additional pain brought to you from marjorie by taylor swift and visions by the maine.

It all begins across a Warped Tour parking lot. Little orange spark among rows and rows of buses. They didn't speak then, but John remembers how it punched the air out of his chest to see her wave at him, the movement of her plush, pink lips that he could see even from that distance speak, "That's The Maine," to Taylor beside her.

She stays on his mind and in the days that follow, they still don't speak, but he listens to their sets from afar and he waves when he sees them. Pat comes bouncing into the bus on day five and says he just chatted to 'Hayley fucking Williams' and John feels a pang of what he later understands to be jealousy. Should've been me.

He could speak to her himself. He could approach her. He knows that much. But, historically, his ability to speak to pretty girls is... poor at best. His two semesters at college hadn't exactly brought him any success in losing his virginity.

So he doesn't go to her, but she stays lighting up his brain like a struck match until the day he bumps into her trying to get back to the bus. He took it too far, had too much whiskey with a band older and cooler than his own and he just wants to go to fucking bed.

But she's there. Hayley. No make-up, hair tied back. She still knocks the wind out of him.

"Hi!" she says, surprised by his presence, but bright. Excited? Fuck. "Johno, right? I've been watching your sets, I've been trying to catch you to say hi, you guys are great."

"That's— that— thank you," John manages, voice tight.

"The Akon cover you did was such a great idea, it really made me laugh."

Even at night, her grin is sparkling. John's mouth waters and he realises she has a dimple in her cheek and her lips look soft and it's been so long since anybody kissed him.

He throws up ten feet from Paramore's bus door because that's about as far away as he could get before there were really no other options. Hayley pats his back and he wishes he could throw up in peace but it's nice to know she's not totally disgusted.

She probably is, but she hides it well enough.

"Party too hard, buddy?" she asks, soothing hand up and down his spine.

Buddy. Jesus.

He knows it's rhetorical but feels the need to nod anyway as he takes gasping breaths, nostrils burning. It fucking stinks and he really hopes she can't smell it. Not that it matters. Not that she'd be interested anyway. She's just another cute girl on a long, long list of cute girls that John would never seriously consider. On account of how cute they are. Normal.

He's pretty sure she has a boyfriend anyway.

She walks him the short distance back to his own bus and he thanks her without looking at her because his eyes are still watering and he's pretty sure there's snot on his face (or spit or puke or some other bodily fluid he could do with less people seeing). She stays standing there until he's closed the door and he's pretty sure he just lost a point in the upward battle to manhood for not being sober enough to walk her safely back to her bus.

Nil point, John. Nothing new.

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

It's embarrassing, but that's the ice-breaker.

Hayley still talks to him, still smiles at him all dazzling and dimpled, and John's able to laugh at himself—a skill much needed when one says as many moronic things as John manages to—and it makes it a little easier. He knows he's nothing more than a colleague and an acquaintance to her but if nothing else, it's good to make nice with other fellow baby bands on tours like this. Gets their name out there, makes connections, sets up working relationships that could lead to tours and collabs together. Opening for Paramore would be a dream. So that's what he tries to take from it, rather than, 'Hayley Williams saw me toss my cookies in a parking lot.'

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

They're all kind of friends, after that. The Maine and Paramore, though who 'Paramore' as an entity are is kind of hard to tell. They go through some shit, switching up members. The Maine stay the same and John's grateful for that.

She does have a boyfriend, because why wouldn't she have a boyfriend? But John's gotten pretty okay with not being in a relationship or even being someone's first choice fuck buddy.

They don't hang out, but when they cross paths on tours, it's easy. It's friendly. That goes for all of them, really, but John wonders if Hayley lingers in his bandmates' minds as much as she does in his.

She hangs around, bright little matchstick, not always red on the top any more but that doesn't even matter. Blonde, pink, blue, orange, yellow... whatever the colour, she's aglow on the back of John's brain.

He sees her sometimes with a guy from a band older and cooler than his own and they seem like a great fit.

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

Crossing paths turns into hanging out turns into trading numbers turns into texting sometimes turns into attending each other's shows when they pass through the other's hometown... or whatever state the other happens to be in at the time on their own tour.

They've never toured together, except on festivals like Warped, and they're so far from ever being in the realm of collaborating with one another, but there's a strong connection there. Any of The Maine are welcome to Paramore shows any time, VIP no questions asked, and vice versa.

John can talk to her when he knows there's nothing more to it. He can joke and laugh and charm and he never chokes up because it's not real. She's goofy as hell and it warms him up from the inside out. Little matchstick. He hopes to see Paramore's name every time they're on the bill for a big tour.

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

He spruces the wildflowers in the wire vase and lays out a single matchstick at the front of the headstone.

The sun's behind clouds, birds singing nearby. She's near trees, so she can hear them. John didn't like the idea of her not having a song to listen to somehow.

He touches the edge of the stone, soft like stroking her cheek. There's a notch in it like a dimple that makes him question if it would really be so strange to press his face to sandstone.

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

Hayley's divorce is ugly and public. Not in a huge way, but people in their corner of the industry know. You hear things and every other day, John sees some tweet about how she cried onstage playing this song or that song.

John listens to their new album, the aches of depression and a break-up hidden beneath pretty pastels and tinkling tunes, and he feels gutted by it even though he's never known a real love.

They see each other on tour again, and it's just like before, except that it isn't.

Her hair is bright blonde and she seems smaller than last time and there's a sadness around her that never seemed like it was there before and John's gut churns with butterflies and she's still burning up in his brain, white-hot flame.

He tries not to treat her any differently and he thinks it works because she leans into him and gives him a one-armed hug after he makes her laugh and they've never done that. That kind of casual contact.

It makes his breath catch in his chest and when she asks him a question, he chokes on his words.

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

He loves his beautiful Arizona, but he loves his half-empty girl more. Staying in Nashville fills her cup so that's where he moves to, and John's doing alright for himself, but she makes more money than he's ever seen. She buys them the kind of house that looks plucked from a fairytale, and neither of them are too bothered by things but they fill it with records and guitars and John's piano and their puppies and love and laughter and the smell of coffee in the morning and the sound of writing songs late into the night.

Sometimes John watches her take the dogs out beyond the trees, watches until her silver hair disappears. Straight out of a fairytale.

Sometimes John feels her watching him while he plays the piano, fingers dancing over keys in the morning over his coffee. Could be a song, could not be. She's dancing there in the back of his brain to every little tune, his favourite muse.

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

"I don't think it gets much better than this. I spent years scaling a mountain and I spent a lot of those years thinking I'd never see the valley. Back when I was really in the shit—sorry, Mom, sorry, ha—in the, uh, the thick of it... I met you on a tour. I made an ass of myself. Is anyone shocked? No? Jared's laughing, Jared knows. I'll spare you all the details but I drank too much alcohol, I drank— yeah, I wasn't twenty-one yet! I wasn't twenty-one. It's fine, come on, it's fine, we're in our thirties now. Um, you get the idea. But H didn't care. She was really nice to me, and eventually, when I was upchucking outside Paramore's bus, I managed to talk to her properly. For a long time after that, we were just friends. Maybe not entirely on my end, though. I looked for her in every crowd. Anyone with bright orange hair made my heart skip a beat, just in case. It took a while for us to go from friends on tour only to this. Anyone who knows me knows I was never very confident with girls. But we got there. I got there. Little matchstick lighting up the way for me. I've never felt so strongly about not wasting a second of the life I've been gifted than I do now, because now I get to do it with my wife. Hayley... I love you. I'm the luckiest bastard alive. Can we all raise our glasses? I know this is meant to be a toast for the both of us but I'd just like to toast her. Fuckin' dream come true, man. Ten times as smart as me and at least twenty times prettier too. So overjoyed to be Mr. fuckin' Williams— sorry! I know, sorry, children in the room. Freakin' Williams. Who wants cake?!"

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

John's sitting on the grass with his knees bent, arms around them as he talks. He doesn't think too hard about the fact he's sitting on her, above her. That she's somewhere down in the dirt. There had never been a formal decision on what to do with her body. She hadn't been old enough to consider picking yet. She had wanted to donate her organs so that's what they did, and what remained went into the ground. The gravesite was beautiful; John and her mother had spent a long time picking the perfect spot.

It still didn't make it any easier to think of her there in the cold. John tried to consider it like giving back to the Earth.

It's silly to even be upset about. She's not there. She doesn't feel cold, afraid or alone. John knows that, and yet, it kept him up for weeks. He spent sleepless nights in the parking lot near the cemetery just in case she was scared without him near.

Over a year on and it's not as hard as it was.

Over a year on and he knows it's ridiculous to lose sleep over keeping her company. She is not there.

Yet, he sits here at the stone and talks to her every week like she is. Talks to her like she's listening, pauses for laughter, gestures like he sees her eyes tracking his movements.

He combs his fingers through the grass like he's playing with her hair, and keeps talking.

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

It hits John like lightning one day.

They've been married four years now, together for seven. They make music, together and separately. They tour, tag along to each others' when they can. They visit Phoenix and stay with John's parents every year. They take Alf and Murphy on camping trips in the trailer John built himself. They cook together and read together and swim together and sleep together and make love in every room of their house (and beyond) and John's never known a connection as pure and golden and bright and burning hot as this.

It's one of their more relaxed evenings. They're in Arizona, but John's parents are gone for a couple days—had tickets to a concert a few hours away and they'd splashed out on a nice hotel for the weekend. It doesn't matter too much because he and Hayley will be here for a month so his childhood home is quaint and quiet, just the two of them, dogs sleeping. It's almost ten at night but Hayley's bustling around the kitchen, constantly opening cupboards and drawers because she's always forgetting where Jenny keeps everything (mostly because Jenny has rearranged the whole kitchen at least twice a year for John's entire life so no amount of good memory is helping anyone). She's making cupcakes, the mood just striking her. John's catching up with a baseball game he missed on TV earlier, but he finds his gaze wandering to his wife more than the screen.

She has flour on her shirt and over her forearm. Probably on her face and hair too but she's moving around too much for him to see. She's muttering things under her breath as she goes, interspersed with a song she's had stuck in her head. John can't even make out what it is—she's not even really singing the words, just mumbles and humming the tune, but it's like stardust sprinkled directly into his ears.

It's never a thought that's crossed his mind before that very second. A little girl on Hayley's hip while she bakes, tiny blonde braids, sticky cheeks from tasting the icing, toothy grin at her mama's song. Hayley grinning right back and kissing her head. Matching dimples.

John's stomach flips.

He's been overflowing his half-empty girl with love for so long that it feels like they're both too full to contain it any longer just between the two of them.

Maybe they need another cup.

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

"You remember that? The first time I said we should make a baby and you laughed?" he grins, like the stone might grin back. He plucks at the grass and then immediately regrets it, stroking it down gentle, an apology. "You thought I was being gross. I wish I'd filmed it, your face. When you realised."

There's so many moments he wishes he'd filmed, but he doesn't suppose it really matters. His mind is a rotating film reel of Hayley, every day, every hour, every second. He can't close his eyes without feeling the ghost of her hands on his waist and her lips on his shoulder. She died, but her memory never does.

John's grateful for it. And he hates it just as much.

"You were so happy. Jokin' about how when they were old enough, we'd put Paramore on one side of the room and The Maine on the other and see what band they wanted to join more."

He laughs and reaches out to trace the H of her name on the stone, then absently pats his chest over his heart; same letter tattooed there. The smile on his face wavers a little, but stays put even as his eyes grow glassy.

She's not here. She's not listening. He knows that. He knows.

"I'm not a spiritual man. But maybe we can do that all again sometime?" John's throat feels tight now. She's not here but maybe she could be. She could drop by again in another life. "Maybe we finish the journey next time, huh?"

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

John holds those euphoric few months they were trying close to his heart. They'd had a plan. John had pictured a baby girl, but neither of them would've cared about the gender, really. Paramore would take a little break so she could be home with the baby, and The Maine would work it out so they were off to write an album in Nashville so John could stay around as long as possible too.

All their favourite names started with I. Innes, Indiana, Ilo, Ivory, Iris. it felt like fate. H, I, J. It all just fit. They even got carried away thinking about another baby down the line, with a K name.

The house feels haunted with the pitter-patter of tiny feet they never got to make, and John sees blonde babies in his dreams most weeks. Hayley's voice isn't even an echo through the halls any more but he swears when he comes home sometimes, it's like she's about to pop out of the kitchen. Making cookies. Serenading him.

She's not here but she's always fucking here.

He'd move back to Arizona if it didn't feel like abandoning her. If it didn't feel like abandoning his wife, who is not here, but will always be here.

He's scared to go. He wants to be near his mom and dad again, wants to be free of all the things that won't fucking die with her. But he's too terrified to do it just in case she doesn't follow him.

John doesn't know what to call that. He can't bear to keep holding the match because it burns but no amount of knowing he has to drop it makes him loosen his grip.

His dad has had a pep-talk with him once already. That it's time he gets some help to sort through the house, maybe just take a few months away and think about selling it later. Just get out of there for a while. It's too isolated for him alone. His mother's worrying herself sick over the nights John calls at three in the morning, gasping, sweating, sobbing. He can move back in with them for a while. They'll help him.

John knows all of that.

He loathes the nights she walks through his dreams, gorgeous and untouchable. She can't die there, never will. Little matchstick burning bright, no way to put it out.

Going to bed is his favourite time of day.

Every time he wakes up feeling like his chest is caving in and he's calling his mom with shaking fingers, on the verge of begging them to fly out and help him box up his life and come home... he stops himself asking for it.

John wants and wants and wants to move on, savour his life the way he swore he would, but he's so scared. He's so scared of it all going dark. He's so scared she'll be angry that he gets to live and she never can. She's not here, she's not here any more, but what if she's so angry? So hurt? So lonely in the dirt?

He screams into his sheets about it and then remembers he lives in the middle of nowhere and he screams off the balcony into the dark and nobody screams in response but it feels like there's a hand on his lower back for all of a single moment.

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

The birds fly overhead and sing in the trees nearby, carried on a gentle breeze. They're none the wiser to the meaning of heartache. The sun's still behind the clouds but the air stays warm, by all accounts a perfect spring day.

John thuds his fist into the grass, other hand gripping the edge of the headstone, an anguished sob leaving him.

"Why won't you stay buried?"

𐕣 𐕣 𐕣

They dance around the kitchen in a power cut, match-lit candles burning on the counter. She's wearing one of his t-shirts, the baby pink lace underwear he's always claimed is his favourite (it's all his favourite on her) and socks that are falling down her calves. John spins her and Hayley's hair flies out all around her face.

He says something about how they don't need the candles. She'd make the room glow all on her own.

Her eyes are glittering as she laughs, dancing like she's always done on the back of his brain.

— Sylvia Plath, from The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath; "Three Women"

[riality-check]

Steve, realistically, shouldn’t even be at this show. He doesn’t care about the band, he didn’t want to make the drive, and he had to bring Anna along because he couldn’t find a babysitter.

But he was going to suck it up to go with Dustin, who immediately bought tickets to see his favorite band when they went on sale. Who called Steve this morning to inform him, somehow both solemnly and frantically, that he had the worst food poisoning known to man, and, that until he stopped puking and shitting at the same time, he could not leave the bathroom.

Steve very much did not need to know that.

With Dustin went the rest of the Babysitters’ Club, all of them having eaten the same shady pizza and suffering the consequences. The only exception was Mike, lactose intolerant but cursed to take care of his idiot friends.

He texted Steve to ask if he had extra bleach. Steve dropped it outside the house because no way in hell was he entering that building.

Dustin assured him, amidst too much detail and shockingly disgusting background noise, that both tickets shouldn’t go to waste, and with no one able to babysit Anna, Steve should take advantage of both.

So, here he is. Standing in the first level - Dustin couldn’t get floor tickets, thank God - of a show for a metal band he has no intention of ever listening to and holding his four-year-old daughter, who has bright pink ear defenders looped around her neck in preparation for when it gets really, really loud.

“When are they starting?” she asks for the fourth time in as many minutes, with a sigh too big for her little body.

“In a few minutes,” Steve says, keeping an eye on the stage, where he watches the crew set up. Mad respect for them hustling so hard. He could never.

The seats are slowly filling up, and Steve feels a little sad for the first opener, a little sad that they don’t have a full house for their set.

A group of four guys takes the seats right next to Steve, with a pale, long-haired, big-eyed guy right next to him. He’s got tattoos on his arms and rings on all his fingers and a silver bar through his upper ear.

And he’s arguing emphatically with his friend next to him.

“I’m telling you, American Psycho is more recognizable!” he says, hands flying. Steve discreetly makes sure he and Anna aren’t within striking distance. “Not to mention cheaper!”

“A prop chainsaw,” his friend - a short white guy with shorter but equally wild hair - says, “can’t possibly be that hard to find by tomorrow.”

“We already have the axe!”

“I’m with Eddie,” the big white guy at the end of their group says. “I’m a sucker for American Psycho.”

“Okay, but I’m the guy who has to use the props,” the fourth friend, a Black guy with short braids who looks annoyed at this conversation, like they’ve had it before. “And I think I’d have more fun with the chainsaw.”

Eddie - the guy with long hair and heavy jewelry and hands with a mind of their own - rolls his eyes. It’s a full body movement, one that has him spinning to face Steve. When he does, his face cycles through a myriad of emotions too fast for Steve to really track.

“Hi, pretty boy,” he says. His eyes then dart down to Anna, who stares at him with her head cocked to the side. “Pretty dad. Dad. Pretty. Hi.”

“Eddie,” the short guy cautions.

“Yeah, sorry, anyway, can you be a tiebreaker for us?”

“Sure,” Steve says. Anna squirms, so he lets her out of his lap to stand, holding her hand all the while. “What do you need?”

“American Psycho or Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” the big guy asks.

“You gotta give him context.”

“No, I don’t, Jeff.”

The guy who said he’d be using the props - whatever that means - rolls his eyes and stops fighting.

“What’s American Psycho?” Anna asks, choosing the best time to pay attention to the conversation, like always.

“A movie you’re too young to see,” Steve says. “And the one I’m picking out of those two.”

“Oh, thank you,” Eddie says, using a tone that better fits Steve saving his drowning dog or something. He then turns to the rest of his friends and says, “I fucking told you!”

Anna gasps. “You’re not s’posed to say that!”

Jeff smothers a laugh behind his hands, while the other three guys stare at Anna, half confused, half admiring.

Eddie clears his throat, looking significantly abashed. "Sorry, Miss-"

"Anna," she says.

"Anna," Eddie finishes. Then he turns to Steve. "And you are?"

"Steve. No Mister for me though. I might be a dad, but I'm not that old."

"You are old, Daddy," Anna says.

Steve frowns down at her, where she stands at his feet. She's smiling, mischievous like she always is when she says something along these lines. "I'm not that old."

"Yeah you are! You're like, you're like, like, fifteen."

Jeff gives up on hiding his laughter.

"I'm older than fifteen," Steve says gently, trying not to laugh.

Anna’s jaw drops. “You are?”

“Thank God for that,” Eddie mutters, then shuts his jaw with an audible click.

Steve tried to come up with an answer for that, but someone comes on a mic and starts playing the drums, so he moves the defenders over Anna’s ears and pays attention to the show instead.

It's... fun, he guesses. Fun if he were into it, maybe. The first opener has a lot of energy, even if the music isn't melodic enough for Steve's taste. He finds himself tapping along to the steady beat, moving slightly in his seat to the music.

It's nice background noise. He'd put this on while he grades papers. It's steady enough to fill his head but doesn't have a whole lot of lyrics he could get distracted by and sing along to.

Eddie and his friends, meanwhile, are having the time of their lives. The short guy - Gareth, Steve thinks his name is - mimes the drum part of each song with startling accuracy. Archie jumps up and down, Jeff absolutely screams along, and Eddie-

Anna stares up at Eddie, eyes wide and jaw slacked as she watches him bang his head to the music.

Steve almost snaps a picture of it, this little moment, before the second song ends and Eddie snaps out of his zone.

He shakes the hair out of his face, then looks down at Anna, who's still staring at him. "What?"

She cocks her head to the side in a mirror of his. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"The," she pauses, then starts shaking her head really hard, side to side. Steve puts a hand on her shoulder before she slams into the chairs in the row in front of them.

Eddie laughs. "The headbanging?"

"Yeah," Anna says, nodding.

"It's a way I move to the music," Eddie explains.

"Like dancing?"

"Sort of," Eddie says. "It's easier. I look stupid when I dance."

"You're not s'posed to say that," Anna tells him solemnly. "Right, Daddy?"

Steve meets Eddie's eyes. Even with the lights down, they're big and pretty and reflective, and Steve is going to kick himself so hard if he chickens out before he can get his number.

"Right," he says, still looking at Eddie. "We're not supposed to call ourselves stupid."

"Sorry," Eddie whispers.

"Don't be."

Anna tugs on Steve's hand, then Eddie's. "Teach me."

"Anna," Steve cautions.

"Can you please teach me?" she corrects.

Eddie glances down at Anna, then back up at Steve. "If it's-"

"Go ahead," Steve says because Eddie has more than passed the vibe check at this point.

Eddie crouches down as a new song starts up, and while Steve can't hear what he's telling her, he sees her smile, bright as day.

By the last song of the first opener, Anna is headbanging along with Eddie, off-beat in the say little kids always are but more than making up for it with effort.

Steve gives into the impulse to take a picture.

When the first opener finishes, Steve picks Anna back up and takes her ear defenders off.

"Woah," she says. "Can I keep them-"

"Nope," Steve says. "They stay on when the music is on. You heard it fine, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but you-"

"I have my earplugs in," Steve says, pointing at them.

"So do I," Eddie says, and when he moves his hair back, sure enough, there are black earplugs nestled in his ears.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to wear earplugs," Steve says.

"You don't seem like the kind of guy to come of a metal show," Eddie counters.

Anna climbs out of Steve's arms and onto his back, where she loops her arms around his shoulders and just hangs, like she does sometimes when she gets bored.

Weirdo kid, Steve thinks affectionately.

"That's because I'm not," Steve says. "I was supposed to come with a friend, but he got sick."

"Yikes," Eddie says. "You coming tomorrow, too?"

"I am," Steve says. "Are you?"

Eddie raises his eyebrows, like he didn't expect Steve to ask that. "Yeah, we'll be here. Not in these seats, though."

The lights go back down before Steve can ask what he means by that. He reaches behind him, scoops Anna back down on the ground, and puts her ear defenders on by the time the second opener strikes a scary-sounding opening chord.

Anna doesn't look scared at all. From the moment the music starts, she looks up at Eddie, and when he starts headbanging, she does, too.

Yup. Steve has effectively created a monster.

He contemplates, if Dustin is fine by tomorrow, skipping out on the show and giving his ticket to Anna, but that means not seeing Eddie again.

He really wants to see Eddie again, even if he won’t have the same seats.

Whatever that means.

Steve decides not to focus on that. He decides instead to focus on the moment. He listens to the music. He lets Anna take his hand and dance with it. He bops his head along with hers, but not too hard because he can’t risk aggravating his whiplash.

He enjoys the show, even if it’s not his cup of tea. It’s easy to enjoy the show, with Eddie next to him. It’s easy to enjoy his wild hair and pretty jewelry and big eyes and contagious enthusiasm.

It’s easy to see the way Eddie looks at him.

It’s also very easy, after the venue clears and Anna falls asleep in the car on the way home, to forget to ask for his number.

Shit.

(Part 2 is alive!!)

[mazza--mac]

I've decided my headcanon for this scene is Janeway and Chakotay still like to play Captain and Commander *ahem* late at night and old habits die hard in public

[blackjackkent]

58 for that kissing meme with whatever BG pair of your choosing bc I'm interested to see where you go with it

(Kiss prompts)

58. Moving Around While Kissing, Stumbling Over Things, Pushing Each Other Back Against The Wall/Onto The Bed

-----

I am resplendent.

For a hundred years I have been caged. My skin bears the golden marks of a thousand shatterings; I have broken as pottery breaks, and felt my pieces dragged back together, again and again, inexorable as tide beneath moonlight.

And with each reforging, I forged also another link in the great chain of grief as I remembered, yet again, that you were lost to me, my darling, my Isobel…

Surely I dream, now, to see you standing before me in the ruins of your father’s bastion, to know the brute is dead and you, long lost, draw breath in his stead. Surely I dream to feel my own wings at my back, the glow of my mother’s moonlight in my soul. I crave a thousand reassurances, a touch stolen between each word as we speak to the others, to prove that you live. 

That I live, and am free.

The one who pulled me from the darkness is a gentle one - like you. A monk of my mother’s faith, careful with each word he speaks. He understands, I think, when I can no longer turn my mind to any conversation.

Now, I tell him, you will leave us. We must take succor in one another’s bodies and words.

You laugh. It is like music, like bells. Aylin! you say - a chastisement that is a melody of silver and gossamer. Think me uncourteous if you will; I would brave even your displeasure, that you might again call my name…

The monk withdraws. The room is empty. Voices drift from beyond the door, but I have no care of them. You look up at me, and your lips part - not to speak, this time, but in a silent supplication. And I take you for my own.

You taste sweet, like the milk and honey of the rituals you have performed in my mother’s name. My lips capture yours and you mold yourself like water against me. It is easy as it ever was to find the places where you fit into me. I lift you into my arms and feel you lighter than you were, wasted with the grief and torment of resurrection, but this too matters not. For Dame Aylin holds you again, and she will see no further harm comes to you so long as she lives. And she will live forever. 

The room is still scattered with the detritus of battle. In my haste, I strike my boot on a fallen helmet, a broken sword. An overturned chair blocks my path; I let the moonlight rise around me and shatter it apart rather than slow my pace. Let it all burn, in truth; what good to leave any of this place intact? It has been the house of evil, and we will cleanse it with divine fire, with the purity of my love for you.

Your back strikes a pillar and you cry out - not with pain but with joy. My mouth swallows the sound and answers it back again in echo. Your legs wrap about my waist, that I might stand closer, and closer yet; there is a chill in you, my darling, my mate most high, and I will warm you though the cold be in your very heart.

Do not fear, my Isobel. We have bought the joy of the future out of our own bodies; the price is paid, and I will not be kept from the bliss we have purchased with such torment. Kiss me. Kiss me forever, and forever I shall be at your side.

[yllirya]

Red Blanket

[wriolette drabble of a gifted red blanket. see the full drabble collection here]

After Wriothesley becomes the administrator of the Fortress, and Neuvillette gets closer to him (for official matters first), one day, the Judge gifts him a very soft, fluffy, red blanket. 

Neuvillette feels embarrassed but he explains – he feels after Wriothesley's hard days, this could be comfort.

He thinks it’s a silly action, but it was something like a winter bazaar in Fontaine. And when he strolled there on his way back to the Palais, his eyes got caught up on that blanket. 

At this point, Wriothesley is only the head of Meropide for a short time, and when he becomes that, Neuvillette helps him to settle the new arrangement with the overworld. He voted to trust him and put faith in the young man. As all prisoners stood behind him, it would have been a riot to remove him anyway, even if some governors would have wanted that. Anyhow, Wriothesley takes over Meropide, and Neuvillette offers him help to settle the correct paperwork regarding some changes - all by the laws.

They spend some time together but Wriothesley also has to make order by his gauntlets to shut down riots at their core. Neuvillette can see him halfway beaten up during their meetings, sometimes before Sigewinne could heal him. They never speak any of this.

Wriothesley always just shakes it off as if it'd be nothing. But Neuvillette wonders when he got comfort - even if only in the sense of having a good night's rest. Because not on the streets. Not in a cell in Meropide under the old regime.

So when Neuvillette sees that red blanket, he just can't help but think of Wriothesley and he buys it. Do humans gift blankets? He does not know. He keeps a straight face while Wriothesley opens it, and he gets a rather neutral "Thank you" in return.

It's many years later that Neuvillette learns Wriothesley cried himself to sleep that night, alone, wrapped up in the blanket – and that he still has it and never intends to throw it away, ever. For his next birthday, Neuvillette buys him a new one – and he gets a warm hug in return this time.

[dndeceit]

(100 word drabble for the prompt: "pride")

Because Pride had become such an important part of Thomas's life, it was also a point of contention. Roman hadn't forgiven Janus for the years of secrecy before Thomas's coming out. To forgive, Roman would first have to understand. Roman was Thomas's ego, and he was strong enough for Thomas to love himself…most of the time. But he hadn't always been. Janus's lies had saved Roman and Thomas from taking numerous blows before they were ready—when they had been young, and still vulnerable enough to be crushed. (But what hero ever spared a thought for the wounds they hadn't suffered?)

[uldren-sov]

On the dotted line

just an idea that wouldn't leave me alone. getting THE TATTOO. naturally this got WAY AWAY FROM ME but their dynamic is just so fun to me at this stage so I had to really go for it you know. some pre-relationship Camy and Seven. ~2k words. Little @infamous-if fic Camy Rose is mine! The band and Seven are canon

Nerves that feel equal parts firecracker and fear light up her skin as Camy Rose is dragged along the dirty sidewalk. Maybe she should protest more, dig her heels in more, grab her best friend by the shoulders and shake him until he saw reason, but there was something about Seven Lawless that always keeps her along for the ride. So, instead of trying to sober up, trying to come to her senses, and trying to tell him this was his worst idea to date, she lets herself be dragged by the cuff of the leather jacket she stole from him toward a hole-in-the-wall tattoo parlor they saw a street away from their latest gig.

It was finally going to happen, and it was going to happen tonight.

Her fault, really, for years she's been saying that she always wanted a tattoo and with the success of their latest show Seven concluded that this was the best time to get one. When she shot that down, he doubled down to sweeten the deal: if she got one, then so would he. "Design pending," he clarified. And after a few drinks, mixing and matching alcohol? Sure, why not make a decision she could regret for the rest of her life.

"Yeah, let's do it," she said. With a cheer and a tug on her wrist she was immediately dragged away. But that was back at the after-party and not on the way to the actual store. Whatever buzz of bravery she had because of the alcohol started to fade, replaced by those building nerves.

"I'm not letting you chicken out this time!" He says, his wild, glittering, gaze matched only by his grin. It's infectious and despite everything, she had to admit, it was a great night to do something stupid like this, so long as she shared it with him. It was a great show and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't down to celebrate. With this paycheck she could check off rent being paid, bills being paid, and still have some money left over to play with.

They're even invited back next week. She had no excuses left, no reasons left to worry.

"I'm not chickening out!" She says, deciding in that moment to just say fuck it and jump off that cliff along with him. Matching his step, his gait, his eyes, his energy, she slips her hand in his, clutching on tight. "So long as you're not."

Fingers lace with hers and she can't help but still feel tipsy as she spills with laughter, tugging him to a stop after hearing Jazzy calling out to them. Seven swings back to face her as she swings their hands between them, warmth racing up her arm at the gesture. A furrow of his brows and she knows what he'll say as he leans in. More and more he's pulled weird reactions from her even when they haven't acted any different. Like now, they close the distance between each other and that warmth burns into something hotter, something heavy that settles on her cheeks. It's so dumb! She blames the alcohol as she chuckles a little, trying to disperse the heat in her veins.

His bandana presses into the crown of her head as she tries to hold his bright gaze in the blurry space between them. "No way. We're doing this and when we look at this tattoo, we're going to remember that this was the night that everything changed," he vowed, giving her hand a squeeze.

Her heart betrays her as it stutters in her chest. It's not the first time she's caught between not wanting anything to change between herself and her friends, and desperately wanting a change just between the two of them. And the realization that maybe, just maybe, she's wanted that change for a long time now is terrifying. If she thinks too long about how it feels as they gently sway there, how the tip of his nose brushed over hers, how his breath hits her lips, she'll do something stupid, she knows, so instead she screws her face up and presses him back with her head. She burns pathetically now that there's some space between them and even in her tipsy state she starts to wrestle down those thoughts again.

"So dramatic," she rolls her eyes with a grin. "Or this is just going to be a normal tattoo, or like, our gateway tattoo to a bunch more and that's it." She nudges her shoulder into his side and he squirms.

"All I'm hearing is that I'm going to have the biggest 'I told you so' of my life when we're older and it turns out I was right," he says, hip checking her in retaliation. Stumbling away a step she bursts out laughing and lets go of his hand, shaking off the sparkling warmth in her fingertips before she waves over the rest of their friends who finally caught up.

---

A half-dozen bad ideas later and all six of them finally managed to pull away from all the designs hung on the walls of the cramped store. Since it was decided there was no way to perfectly represent this moment -- and we'd need way more time to design it out, or so Seven had said -- they both settled on something that felt simpler but somehow even more important: their friendship. They'd sign their initials on each others wrists, like they were sealing some kind of evil contract to always be together, through these moments and others.

Camy clocks the wary glance from the artist as they hand them both sharpies. She has the clarification, that, no, this isn't a couple thing, chambered on the tip of her tongue, but Rowan is quicker on the draw.

"Name a more iconic duo than you two and being mistaken for a couple," he says as Seven shakes his head with a scoff, already rolling up his sleeve.

"Iris and Devyn," she quips back as Jazzy aww's teasingly. She grins in the face of the bird Iris flips her way and Devyn's blush, before walking toward the actual station instead of the pseudo-waiting area at the front of the store. As she and Seven take their seats beside each other she idles a moment, staring after the artist setting up further back in the store, allowing the nerves settle in her gut again as she looks after the needle gun, the black ink.

"Hey," Seven's voice is in her ear as she draws her attention back. "Which arm are you sacrificing?" He smiles and it's magic how her nerves just seem to immediately burn off. She hunches closer to him.

"Right one." She nods.

"Really? Main hand?"

"Mic hand, too."

"Wow," he drawls, "this really is special to you, huh?" She snickers and nudges him.

"Big talk from the guy who jumped at the chance to have my name on his skin," she says, looking from under her eyelashes for effect. For a moment his back straightens, his eyes widen, and her heart stalls, waiting for ... something. As quickly as he reacted, it's gone, and in the next heartbeat she remembers how to breathe.

"Someone had to. It's not like other people are exactly lining up to make it happen, Camy," he shoots back with a smirk as her mouth drops open in faux outrage. "You're lucky I'm so generous and taking one for the team."

"First of all! Rude!" She scoffs into a laugh as he grins in her face. "I've had - so many dates, with so many people." He snorts, unimpressed as he rips the top off his sharpie.

"Your last girlfriend was when you started college and that lasted for roughly a month," he says without missing a beat. Weird.

"So what?"

"That was like 11 months ago."

"Well I have a full schedule: focusing on my studies and our band and my job."

"You're really going for the 'I'm focusing on my career' excuse?"

"And I've been on dates since then, by the way! It's not my fault they don't get me."

She meant it as a joke but as Seven presses her hand back at her wrist to start writing he suddenly cuts his gaze to her over his shoulder. There it is again, that stutter, that weight, that heat that blooms under her skin. Because she sees it, but she doesn't know if she really sees it or if she just wants it to be there, that look of his that seems to say 'but I do.'

She can't think about that now. No, she won't think about that now. Especially not when they're sitting so close, not when Seven can feel her pulse race under his fingertips, and not when he's looking at her like that. Like he sometimes does when waking up after a long night of songwriting and hanging out at her apartment, wrapped and tangled up in each other. That heat settles heavy on her skin again as she searches his suddenly dark green eyes.

She should ask him to be her roommate. No, she must still be tipsy. Would that be a bad idea? It seems like a bad idea.

Or the best, she thinks, glancing down to his mouth.

The sharpie cap clatters to the floor and she blinks out of it, pulling back -- when did she lean so far in? -- as she mirrors a sheepish grin from Seven.

"Yeah, well," he suddenly clears his throat, glancing to her and away quickly as he scoops up the sharpie top. "Guess you have to keep trying."

"Not that this is going to help," her smile is shaky in return as the vanishing heat leaves her winded and off balance, despite the alcohol. "How about you, what hand?"

"Left, my mic hand." A small but long-standing debate between them hanging in the background of his declaration.

"Our tattoos will even fit together if we hold hands." She gasps sarcastically as she smiles teasingly his way. An unimpressed narrow of his eyes and Seven suddenly crowds over her arm as she feels a pinpoint of pressure on her wrist.

"I changed my mind. I'm drawing a dick so that everyone knows what you are," he states. She yelps and fights her hand free from his hold amidst their chorus of laughs. A short back and forth and he reveals that the pressure on her skin was just the back of his pen. Seven crows over just how much she fell for it as she grudgingly scrapes together what dignity she has left.

They joke until they finish the draft of their tattoos. She lines their wrists up, black ink on olive and russet skin, the start of something permanent. If she were more sentimental like Seven the moment might mean something more. He might say something about the two of them literally making a mark on each other, or something like it's not only their names but their handwriting, something as unique as a fingerprint, and it's on each others skin.

CR SD

But she's not. She saves all that for him and for those moments where they write and sing in a way she doesn't dare to with anyone else. Instead, as the artist returns, she just says the truth in the simplest way she knows how:

"Forever?"

"Forever."

They hold their hands tight as the needle whirs to life.

[russellshaws]

Chenford + when did you fall for me?

"When did you fall for me?" He asks the question softly, knowing she'll hear it over the crackling of the fire and the intensity of her thoughts. It's quiet, almost like he doesn't want to ask, but he knows she'll hear his tone and know it's genuine.

She knows him in that way.

He hopes that for the most part, he knows her in that way, too.

Tim watches as Lucy chews on her lower lip in thought, his teeth pressing lightly into the skin of his own lip.

Something about the combination of the cool air, the wine she'd poured in his glass, and the way she's been smiling at him tonight have him buzzing beneath the surface – enough that he'd wanted to ask her this, enough that he wanted to hear the answer. They've been skirting around the reality of it: when did you realize we were oh-so-much-more, he assumes because she thinks it will derail them entirely, but more likely because...well, he's never actually asked.

It's been hard to wrap his mind around the idea that they're in this incredibly serious relationship when he doesn't remember any of it – and harder still to try and convince himself they shouldn't be. He knows what Lucy thinks: she thinks he doesn't understand, could never feel the way she feels, hasn't let himself drift into that mindset.

What he really feels is a hell of a lot more complicated, though. He gets it entirely, if not more because she's been actively loving him through this. He doesn't remember their relationship at all, and she's doing the work for both of them.

How could he not be hopelessly in love with her?

That's where it gets complicated, though – because he loves her for her, but he loves her for him, too. He needs to untangle that before he can let himself anywhere near her, truly – because she deserves a selfless love. She deserves someone who puts in the effort for her, who doesn't just love her because she loves them harder.

She lets out a soft laugh and pulls him back, raising her brow. "It's a bad answer," she offers, and Tim tips his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at her. "What? It is."

"Lay it on me," he shrugs, taking a slow sip of his wine. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

"It's a non-answer," she takes a sip from her glass, holding his gaze as she pulls it away from her mouth. "It wasn't one moment. I fell for you in a million little moments – hearing you call me Lucy after you handed me my final evaluation, offering me a ratty old pair of sweatpants when I stayed at your place after Jackson died," she offers him a sad, solemn smile. "Letting me talk my way into being your aide, inviting me to tear down your childhood home with your sister – god, even," she presses her hand to her face for a moment and he leans in closer, just wanting to be near her. "Even you calling me fucking goat whisperer in front of a date had me swooning. You don't even realize you're doing it, too – which is even more annoying. You just exist as this...wonderfully irritating version of yourself that I can't help but be ass over feet in love with."

Tim swallows, keeping his eyes focused on her. "If you had to pick one," he breathes, grinning as she rolls her eyes at him, visibly annoyed. "What? You said I was irritating, didn't you?"

Lucy bites on the rim of her wine glass, taking a sip and then setting it down. "Just one moment?" He nods, pressing his lips together. She sighs, tapping her fingers against her chin and then dropping them, humming over at him. "I think I really knew the first time you hugged me. That's cheesy and it's not really true, but I...we'd never," she pushes her hair off her face with a one-handed sweep and he wants to slide his hand over her cheek, bring her close, feel her breath on his skin. "We'd never touched like that before, and I didn't want you to let go. You...I stayed at your place," she has that expression she gets when she feels like she needs to fill in the gaps for him, and he nods slowly, hoping she'll breathe and calm down. "You invited me over after Jackson died, said I shouldn't be alone. You hugged me and I," she lets out a soft, hiccuping laugh, "I don't know, I didn't want you to stop. I didn't know what I was feeling then, but I know it now. You were keeping me still. You were grounding me," she shrugs. "Turns out, that's what we do for each other."

He lets out a slow, steady breath. "You knew you loved me, then?"

She hums in thought. "No," she laughs. "When I think about it now, I loved you something fierce, then. In the moment? I'd never been more confused about what I was feeling in my life. You were warm, and steady, and I could follow your heartbeat. You confused the absolute shit out me, but...somehow, a little less than everything else did," she smiles over at him softly. "So, everything you do now...just, unnamed."

Tim takes a sip from his glass, reaching over and grabbing her hand. He laces their fingers and squeezes them gently. "So what you're telling me is that we're on the same page," he murmurs, after setting his wine down. "Confused, but intrigued. Enamored, for some reason."

She raises her brows at him. "You're enamored with me, huh?"

He lets out a low, rough laugh. "I've been enamored with you for a long time I remember that much."

He's pretty sure Lucy's smile is enough to keep him asking her questions all night long.