#her pout of uncertainty in case it's false hope

[priscilla9993]

From the painful truth in the soft nearly whispered admission of “I don’t got nowhere else to go” to the happy go lucky acceptance and ease of “Yeah, I’d like that, very much (to come live with you AKA a home).” *wheezes* Cinnamon roll that has me in a tense chokehold. I want her to be protected and cared for so bad and I’m glad Rogers was there for her.

100 days of Alice Jones - Day 60

[bullet-and-brain]

here’s a rant abt dan heng’s rating pistol results and why they’re weird (bc they are. there’s no doubt that most of the numbers are pop culture/history/etc., but that’s not to say that they don’t have any significance). so if you’re interested uhh look under the cut (i hope i did that right)

there are currently six playable characters who, upon interacting with the rating pistol, are deemed ‘invalid’:

• acheron

• jing yuan

• feixiao

• luocha

• march

• sampo

it’s a pretty widely-accepted theory that these six characters are emanators, seeing as each one is either outright confirmed (acheron) or hinted at in some way, largely through innate connections with their respective paths.

seeing as herta, another confirmed emanator, isn’t on the list, it would seem as though this theory is false, right?

no!!!!! ! i’ve seen people claim that the pistol wouldn’t be able to give her playable form an accurate rating, due to the puppet body she occupies- it would make sense for the number to be misleading, because her true soul is, arguably, not present within the puppet, especially considering how many clones there are.

i don’t doubt this honestly. dan heng’s 5* form prompts a revelation from the pistol that it didn’t detect from his human form- albeit with the same number, but herta’s case is vastly different, as outlined above.

his 4* form is given 88 points (with a question mark at the end, though i truly don’t remember it being there during those first few patches..). this description is written in the standard format that’s used for most of the playable cast.

when you interact with the curio as imbibitor lunae, you get the exact same number- 88? - however, he is one of the few characters who has unique dialogue following the initial rating. here’s his:

The Rating Pistol gazed at Dan Heng: “88 points?” Feeling puzzled, it moved its eyeballs around and suddenly shut its eyes. It seemed to be sulking for being fooled.

> quickly note that the only other character whose rating is followed with ‘?’ is huohuo (& tail):

The Rating Pistol gazed at Huohuo: “0 points? 5 points?” It sized Huohuo up for a while before it looked away into the distance with a hopeless expression.

> it’s possible that the question marks are due to the uncertainty of there being two people to rate at once, but i doubt it- clara & svarog don’t have the question mark, nor does the pistol look hopeless lol

so, basically:

- the pistol is unsure of how huohuo should be rated for some reason, hence the question mark, and eventually gives up

- the pistol is also initially unsure of how to rate dhil, hence the question mark again. HOWEVER, instead of becoming hopeless, its eyeball moves around and suddenly shuts, and we’re told that it appears to be sulking due to being fooled. to me, this implies a realization that occurred after the 88 points were given, but before it closed its eye, presumably to pout.

that being said, i’d like to point out the similarities that dhil’s prompted dialogue has w/ the ‘invalid’ dialogue, as far-fetched as it may be:

“Rating invalid!” Its eyeball swivels around three times before suddenly widening. After a brief impasse, its eye shuts, wearily.

these are the only times that the pistol is said to move its eyeball and to shut its eye. which could very well mean absolutely nothing, but that + the fact that he is very unique in the origin of his powers (even among his own race, which descended from an aeon) makes me think it could be slightly important . even if unintentional, the hazy parallel to emanators is cool to me, considering that we don’t have a clear answer regarding the extent of his powers lorewise, either.

a lot of this is copium from a total drought of permanence lore ajajdh

anyways. even if this is totally dumb i needed to put it somewhere so i don’t go insane

[wkemeup]

Crawl Home to Her

summary: Stranded without coms, alone, and bleeding out in the middle of a Russian snow storm, Bucky is content to let nature take its course. Only you won’t seem to let him go.  pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8k warnings: passive suicidal thoughts, hallucinations, ghosts???, its all very confusing but humor me ok,  a/n: based on Work Song by Hozier ✨

No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

Laid amongst old wooden floors rotted in decades of weathering and the whistling brush of wind sweeping in steady drift of snow from the open doorway, Bucky wondered whether he might have preferred the coffin of ice Hydra once shoved him in for storage.  

The chill nestled deep into his bones and he tried not to focus on the small puff of breath as it touched over chapped, cracked lips. It was the only warmth he had left and that, too, was leaving him.  

It was getting hard to breath under the sting of freezing temperatures barreling into the cabin; sharp, like crystals had formed in his lungs and punctured into his chest from the inside. The fireplace long extinguished, his rifle laid in a heap amongst his tactical vest and gear too far out of reach. He was unprepared when the mercenaries barreled in through the windows, leaving shattered glass along the floor, safe house exposed to the elements of a Russian winter.

He’d stopped shaking an hour ago, which he knew was a bad sign. His body had given up on fabricating false heat through the tremors in his arm and legs, the twitches of his breaths, the chattering of his teeth. The serum only did so much before he was left with the frayed remnants of his humanity to cover the slack.  

Bucky’s fingers dipped down and glazed over a thick, warm pool at his stomach. He pulled his hand back to find an unsettling, deep red coating his skin. It was warm to the touch and it dripped down along his fingertips into his palms, soaking into the dried patches.  

A violent cough suddenly broke through his chest and Bucky’s head fell back to the floorboards, a dull ache in his stomach from the effort. He could taste copper on his tongue as a fuzziness began to take over, like he was floating on the edge of a cloud, somewhere high up in the sky. It was a pleasant feeling, he decided, a break from the world that had not shown him kindness in nearly a century.  

He stared up at the ceiling, at the blades of a fan lined in decades of dust, as it spun around and around and around and around and —

“What the hell are you doing?”

Bucky jolted awake, a sharp flinch through this nervous system like the current of electricity. Eyes wide open, he turned to find a figure sitting on the loveseat to his left. The fabric was torn in the trajectory of dozens of bullets, cotton lining oozing out the cushions and littered amongst the snow. It was too dark to see but the dim flicker of the swaying light in the kitchen illuminated the corner for only a second. It was enough to still his heart.  

“Y/n?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a scowl on your face as lips pursed together.  

“Hey Buck.”

No.

No. That—that can’t be right...

You were wearing a SHEILD crewneck with a rip on the hem of the sleeve, faded in color from the wash, and a pair of sleep shorts he’d seen you in dozens of times. The slight imprint of a pillow case fold on your cheek, your hair a little out of place in sleep, and cast in the glow of sunshine through his bedroom window despite the stars littering the night sky outside the cabin’s door.  

It was what you were wearing when he left on assignment two weeks prior. He knew because he memorized every moment he left you behind.  

There was always that uncertainty, that knowledge that every mission could be his last, so he took the time to bring you with him; a memory, an image, of you laying under rustled sheets, curled up against his pillow with that pout on your lips as you told him ‘five more minutes, baby’ when he was already ten late.

He held that memory close because he could feel himself slipping. The blood pooling at his stomach was seeping into the floor beneath him and he felt dizzy, the spin of the fan above him throwing him off balance even as he laid completely still. It was the last good thing he had left -- this image of you -- because he knew it was time to let go, time to let the universe make things right again, to take him from the time he never belonged in.  

There was a relief in that... almost.  

"You’re not giving up, are you?”

Bucky gritted his teeth as your voice pulled him back sharply from the edge of dreamless sleep. He glanced over to you and found there wasn’t a trace of goosebumps on your skin amongst the snow sliding along the floorboards by your feet. You were unbothered by the rush of wind barreling in through the open door though it picked up in the small wisps of your hair, carrying them away from your face before it settled again.

“This isn’t happening. You’re not real,” Bucky chanted under his breath, but the way you were looking at him—Jesus—he'd seen that look too many times before. The pinch of your brows, the slight tug of your cheek between your teeth, your eyes narrowing down on him from a distance, never in anger, but determination.  

Bucky closed his eyes, clenched his jaw real tight, but he could still hear as you push yourself up off the couch, the slight squeak of floorboards under your feet as you paced. Bucky dared to steal a glimpse and you were kneeling down over one of the mercenaries he was able to get a shot in before hell broke loose. You pursed your lips, tilted your head just so, and pulled off his helmet to get a better look. It rolled a good few feet before it hit a sudden stop against the edge of the couch.  

It was the wind, he told himself. His mind was playing tricks on him again.  

“Jesus, they make ‘em big around here,” you murmured to yourself before you pressed two fingers to the side of the man's neck. You started ruffling through his pockets for weapons and Bucky could hear the jingle of coins in his pockets, the swish of the fabric. He was certain he’d gone mad.  

“You need to get warm, Buck,” you told him and a coat dropped down on his left. “You’ll die if you don’t.”

“You’re not real,” he argued, keeping his eyes closed, hoping that you’d just disappear and let him die in peace. “You’re... you’re in my head.”

It was hard enough knowing he was going to die in Russia of all places before you ever knew he was in trouble, hard enough to imagine you crying over his body as his skin paled to blue and grey, hard enough that he’d already said his last goodbye, already had the last kiss from your lips…  

“It doesn’t matter if I’m in your head or not, Bucky,” you warned, though he was almost certain he could feel the warmth of your breath touch his skin as you leaned down next to him. “You’ll die if you stay here. Do you understand? You’ll die."

Your hand slid into his hair and he could feel the trace of your fingertips, your nails, on his scalp; combing through locks matted in blood and dirt and drawing shivers in his spine untouched by the cold.  

He whimpered, tears burning at the corner of his eyes, because you were right there and somehow not at all. He didn’t want to say goodbye but his energy was draining. It slipped from him in every breath, the pain becoming a tired memory and he knew his body was giving in.  

He’d spent so much time fighting in his life. He just wanted to rest. That’s all. Just some time to rest...

“Bucky!”

He snapped awake, heart beating frantically for a few minutes before it lulled again; his breaths too short, too far apart.  

You were hovering over him, hair falling down into your face and there was real fear in your eyes. Your hands settled on his chest, trying to draw his attention back to you and he was certain he could feel the pressure of it, the grip of your fingers to the fabric of his shirt. The touch of a ghost.  

“You need to get up. We’ve got to get you out of here,” you ordered, hands fumbling for the coat you dropped by his side and trying to drape it over him, but he pushed your hands away. You sat back on your heels, wide eyed, desperate.

“I’m already dying, sweetheart,” Bucky choked out, voice raspy and raw. “There's nothing left to do. Coms are out... nearest town is a dozen miles away... I’m-- fuck—I've got at least four bullets in me. This is it, honey. I’m-- I’m sorry...”

It hurt as he said it and he dared himself to meet your eye. Draped in sunlight and all that was ever good in his life, you were an ethereal wonder; a stunning image of the women he left behind, even if his mind was fading on the edge of insanity. It was nice, he thought, to see this memory of you one last time, to hold onto it tighter as the darkness gently carried him away from this world.  

His hand lifted slowly, wanting to touch you one last time, and he was surprised when it didn’t slip straight through you like a ghost, but instead, landed tenderly against your cheek. So tangible, warm to icy chill of his hand, he could feel the clench in your jaw, the strain of the muscle, the divot of a scar by your ear.  

A final blessing he didn’t deserve.  

“Bullshit.”  

He winced as you grabbed a firm hold of his wrist and pulled it from your face. Everything started to hurt again, in his chest, his stomach. He was falling apart.  

“I’m so sorry, honey, I’m—I’m not making it out of—”

“Bull. Shit.”  

You slammed your hands to the floor beside him and suddenly, you were up and rummaging through the kitchen, tossing old utensils around and making a mess of the withering cabinets. You tore them to shreds, emptied the drawers onto the floor, the shattering of glass and the crash of metal to tile in an unsettling scream.  

“You don’t get to do this. Do you hear me? Not after all you went through! Just to die in fucking Russia!”

Bucky swallowed though it tasted like bile. You tossed out the mugs from a cabinet with the swipe of your hand and the sound they made as they crashed to the floor skipped several beats in Bucky’s dimly beating heart.  

“Sweetheart,” Bucky tried again, voice falling on empty, a whisper, “no one’s comin’...”

“Then you fucking get up and get to a goddamn phone!”

You froze then, your hand curling around whatever you were looking for with a sigh of relief. As you stomped back over to him, Bucky looked down at your grasp to find two sets of hand towels and an ace bandage clutched in your grip.  

You were grumbling under your breath as you sank down to your knees. Hands shaking, you pushed up at the thin fabric of Bucky’s shirt. He didn’t even hiss as the cold air touched his skin. That wasn’t good.  

You pressed a towel to his open wounds, hard enough for Bucky to groan at the impact and he bit down hard on his tongue. There was no apology as you wiped away the pools of blood, tossing aside the soaked towel to the corner and pressing down a new one in its place. You were angry, furious even, and Bucky had only seen you like this once before.  

The Hydra base in Siberia. He was surrounded, ordering you to get back to the jet without him though he had no clear path to an exit. It was a diversion, one you saw through instantly, because he had no intention of leaving that warehouse, not as long as you made it out alive. You almost killed him yourself by the time the last Hydra agent fell to the floor. Panting, covered in blood, you had slapped him hard across the face before you gripped at his shoulders and kissed him.

The first kiss between you.  

The beginning of it all.  

Fitting it should end like this, too.  

“Sit up,” you demanded, pulling Bucky back from his memories.  

He sighed as he stared up at you, your teeth gritted as you pressed down harder to his wounds. Everything hurt. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.  

“Sit. Up.”

“I can’t,” he whimpered, voice breaking in the effort. “I-- I can't, honey. I’m sorry. Just—Just let me go. It’s time, Y/n. It’s okay…”

There was a silence, one that carried over the scream of the wind outside and the scratch of tree branches against the shattered windowpanes. Bucky’s own breaths were shallow, raw and wheezing through his lungs, and they sat in pained contrast to your silent, elongated inhales, the seconds you held them before you released it. He could have heard a pin drop even over the whistling wind and the mess in his chest.  

“No.”

Bucky swallowed back the dryness in his throat. “No?”

“No,” you gritted out, sinking back onto your heels. “No! You don’t get to just give up, Bucky. You don’t get to leave me behind!”

“You’re not even here...”

You clenched your teeth, biting on the inside of your cheek. “Maybe not. But you know exactly where I am back home, don’t you?”

Bucky’s jaw wired shut in an instant. It was what he’d been avoiding, why he clung so hard to the image of you as he left, the glow of the sunlight on your skin and the sleepy mess in your hair. The perfect memory to take when him as he died, but it was being ripped from him, torn away in an instant because as you knelt beside him, your ghost began to change.  

Dark circles colored under your eyes, a sunken look hollowing in at your cheeks and temples. Your hair fell down from the bun at your crown and braided down the side, a nervous habit you’d taken up to keep your hands busy when you were anxious. Lines formed on your lips, cracking along the center; broken skin now exposed on your knuckles from a restless night in the gym.  

Tear tracks burned down your cheeks; some old, some fresh, and your eyes were bloodshot red.  

“Please, stop,” he begged, trying to will his mind to give him the memory he had before.

“You know what this is doing to me,” you told him. “You missed your checkpoint eight hours ago, Bucky. We both know what that means. We both know I’m scared out of my mind for you. I’m panicking. I’m desperate to find you and you’re going to give up before I can.”

Bucky closed his eyes, choking back tears as he pictured you frantically pacing back and forth in the intel room next to Steve, waiting by the satellite phone, waiting on a call that would never come. His coms had been destroyed in the shootout, torn and shattered under the boot of a Russian enforcer. There was no way to get word to you, no way for you to track his location. He was entirely on his own.  

You would have figured that out by now, too.  

He could practically hear your voice as you shouted for an update every few minutes, biting the head off of an Agent who dared to give you any answer outside of Bucky being found safe and on his way home to you. He could see you clenching at your fists, digging your nails into flesh, and shrugging off Steve as he tried to ease your distress. You’d be terrified, with a deep kind of unsettling dread burning like a hole in your stomach. He knew, because it was how he felt when you were on assignment. It was agonizing.  

“Don’t do this, Bucky,” you said quietly, softer now, begging. “Don’t give up. Don’t—Don’t leave me.”

He could hardly keep his eyes open, every breath drawing him further away.  

“You’ll be okay,” he said slowly, achingly, though a flash of shock widened your eyes. “You’ll be okay without me.”

Bucky’s fingers crawled along the floor to you, nails digging through a mess of blood and splinters before the curled sweetly around the palm of your hand. He squeezed it gently, the most he could manage, and he watched with a fading smile as you stared down to where he held you.  

“How could you say that?” you whispered, gaze glued to blood stained hands. You swallowed, a tear slipping past your eye as you turned to find ocean blue. “How could you possibly think that would be true? You’re my life, Bucky. I need you. You can’t—Please, baby. You have to come home to me. You have to.”

“You’ll move on,” he exhaled, closing his eyes as the exhaustion started to pull him under. “It might take some time, but you’ll be fine, honey. You don’t need me. You never did.”

“That’s not true—”

“You were always too good for me,” he chuckled sadly to himself. “At least now you can find someone who really deserves you…”

“Dammit, Bucky!” you cried, hands gripping into the fabric of his shirt and shaking him until he opened his eyes again. “You don’t get to just throw your life away because you have some backwards, fucked up notion that you’re not good enough to love me because newsflash, you idiot, I don’t care! I love you! I love every goddamn part of you and there is not a person on this planet, or any other, that I want to love me the way that you do!”

There was a silence that followed. The whistling wind and the scratch of branches on exposed windows the only solace between you. Your features softened, your hands releasing from his shirt and you gently patted his shoulder, running your fingers along his neck to touch the side of his face. He leaned into the palm of your head, jaw quivering as he bit back tears.  

“Why are you here?” he whimpered, voice cracking as a sob crawled its way through his spine. “Why-- Why won’t you just let me go?”

Tears spilled out the corners of Bucky’s sides, sliding down along his temples and soaking into his hair. He was exhausted and aching and – god—he just wanted to sleep.

You smiled sweetly at him, brushed the hair from his eyes. “It’s you, Bucky, don’t you get that? I’m in your head, remember? I’m apart of you. Stop fighting yourself and come with me. Let me help you survive this. It’s why you brought me here in the first place.”

“No... that’s…” Bucky shook his head, heart racing a little faster, “that’s crazy.”

“Crazier than talking to yourself?” you chuckled light-heartedly. “It’s been you this whole time, Buck. Look.”

You gestured to the floor leading into the kitchen, and sure enough, there was a trail of bloody footprints in the size of his combat boots leading into the mess of shattered mugs and scattered utensils. His palms had tiny pieces of broken glass in them, colored in the paint of the kitchenware on the floor.  

Then, you showed him the wrapped bandage at his stomach, the one with his own bloody fingerprints at the clasp. He’d done it all himself.  

“Your imagination can’t do all that for you, baby,” you said, a soft smile on your face, though it faded to something solemn as he stared at you in shock. “You’re dying, Buck, really dying and I know you’re scared. I know you want to come home. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself.”

“I don’t--” he swallowed, though his throat was dry and it burned amongst the cold air, “I don’t understand…”

“The mind is a funny thing,” you shrugged. “It does what it has to, to keep you alive. This is what you needed, to be reminded of the love you have waiting for you back home when you survive this.”

You nodded to the edge of the cabin, and sure enough, there was Steve standing at the door. Hands tucked into his pockets, wearing the thin white shirt and suspenders from their youth, though it looked a little funny now on the man he was today. He was smiling, that hopeful kind of look in his eye that Bucky never quite learned how to replicate.  

Sam stood next to him, hand on Steve’s shoulder, smirk plastered across his face as he nodded at Bucky; the strange and varying brotherhood between the two of them full of bickering fights and unbridled loyalty.  

Natasha was on Sam’s left, arms folded, scowl present as her eyes flickered down to the mess of bodies littering the floor. She raised an eyebrow at the burly looking soldier you’d rummaged through the pocket of— or, or maybe it was Bucky, he was still trying to wrap his head around it – and nodded as if she were impressed.  

Then, there was Shuri and T’Challa. Lang and Barton. Wanda and Vision. Peter Parker sneaking his way in behind Steve, looking just damn excited to be standing in the presence of Captain America. Even Tony Stark stood in the corner of the cabin; arms crossed, sunglasses on, observing from a careful distance, but still present.  

“You’re not alone, Bucky,” you said quietly, drawing his attention back to you. “Not here. Not at home. Please don’t give up on your family. Don’t give up on all you’ve built. We’re waiting for you, honey. Come home.”

A blur in his vision, Bucky couldn’t quite focus on your silhouette, not until you tenderly brushed the tears from his eyes, droplets on the edges of long lashes. He clenched his jaw, searching for a stronger breath as you held his face. Your lips pressed down to his forehead and he found his strength again.  

“Okay.”

Bucky grabbed onto the edge of the couch and pulled until his muscles were at their limit. A scream tore threw him, his body raw and broken and falling apart at the seams. It burned in his throat, in his chest, and it echoed deep into the empty cabin. It was no louder than the wind outside.  

“Okay,” he repeated as he sat up with his back pressed against the couch. He clutched at his stomach, heavy breaths in his lungs. The bandages were holding up, with little leakage onto his palm in all the effort.  

When he looked back over to you, he found you smiling, proud, though your appearance had changed again.  

Your hair was pulled down to a bun at the nape of your neck, a few strands falling out the sides. Dressed in a large winter coat with a thick fur around the hood and mittens on your hands; the navy-blue jacket you’d worn in your mission in the Swiss Alps last year where you’d convinced Bucky to stick around a few extra days in the blizzarding cold. You’d told him then how much you loved the snow, the mountains, but mostly the hot chocolate, the fireplaces, the snuggling in close to him at night. It was a pleasant memory.  

Bucky smiled back at you, though it took most of his strength. He turned to look at Steve and the rest of his family, but they were gone, disappeared to thin air and his stomach lurched as he quickly shot his eyes back to you.  

“You ready, baby?” you asked him sweetly, nodding towards the door.  

“Stay with me. Please.” He felt childish as the words left him, talking to what amounted to nothing more than particles of snowfall and thin air, but it carried his whole world.  

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied, as if it was never a choice at all, and you offered your hand.  

Bucky nodded, stringing together all the strength he had left in his body and slipped his hand into yours. He tried not to think of the logistics of it all, how he was really getting up on his own because you weren’t here to tug him to his feet. It created a dull ache in the back of his head and he figured he better not mess with the remaining functioning pieces of himself. Let his mind get him through this, even if he felt absolutely insane.  

“Put the jacket on, honey,” you told him, bending down to grab the coat of the mercenary you’d swiped earlier. “It’ll be a long walk in the cold.”

“Y-yeah, okay.”  

The wind barreled in from the open door and it pushed at the little balance Bucky had left, leaving him to sway unsteadily, grunting at the pain that resulted in his stomach. He clutched at the wrapped bandages, relieved when fresh blood did not add to the stains on his fingers and palm.  

“Time to go,” you urged him, nodding to the door. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Bucky stared out into the blanket of darkness beyond the door, the snow falling and dancing amongst the violent sweeps of wind, illuminated by starlight untouched by the pollution of a city. He didn’t know where to go, but you promised you’d guide him; a piece of his subconscious that must have picked up on a sign along the road at some point, he figured.  

As he made his way to the brutal cold, shivers tremoring in his spine and his feet limping dragging along the floor, facing a journey across miles of exposed land, he was thankful he wasn’t alone.  

***

Bucky had never been so cold in his goddamn life; not even when Hydra would put him on ice.  

It had been a relief then, a dreamless sleep and safety away from his captures, but this – this was torture in itself. His boots dragged through two feet of snow, the winds picking up the further he trudged out into the darkness. He wrapped the scarf tighter around his face, trying to shield himself from the cold, though ice crystals had formed on his lashes.  

Everything hurt and each step was more painful than the last, but he kept moving.  

“You’re almost there!” you shouted over the scream of the wind in his ears. You were smiling, jogging out a few paces ahead. It was easier for his feet to carry him when it was you he was walking towards. “Come on, sweetheart. One more mile. That’s it.”

Bucky panted, his breaths far too labored, his head feeling quite fuzzy, but as he looked over your shoulder, he spotted a light in the distance. Blurred by the snowfall, but still clear as day. A gas station with half the letters missing in its name. His saving grace.

“I’m coming, baby,” he whispered and for the first time, he wasn’t talking to the mirage beside him, but the woman waiting thousands of miles away.  

Picking up in pace, Bucky pushed himself harder than he’d ever tested the limits of his body before. He knew that without the serum, he would have been dead before he even left the cabin. There were few moments Bucky was ever thankful for the hell he’d been through. This – giving him a second chance to get home to the love of his life – was one of them.  

“Careful,” you warned him, gesturing to the trail of red droplets in his wake; blood that had seeped out from the soaked bandages at his stomach and trailed down under his coat to the snow below, marking his path.  

Bucky nodded, determined as he finally broke through to solid ground, to dirt roads plowed just enough from the snow, and sprinted the rest of the way. You were on his heels, cheering him on like you did when he first got back on a treadmill after he broke his leg in New Mexico last year. He was smiling so wide it hurt his cheeks, laughing as artificial light illuminated his path.  

He shoved his shoulder to the door, winced at the sound of the bell above, and charged straight up to the counter.  

A man in a thick overcoat and a fur hat stood behind the counter, reading a newspaper quietly to himself, and paid no mind to the man frantically rushing up to him. He glanced up in Bucky’s direction, eyes flickering to the blood trailing in his wake, before turning back to his paper.  

“Phone,” Bucky panted. “I need a phone.”

The man didn’t respond.  

“Russian, Buck,” you reminded him quietly to his right.  

“фона,” Bucky tried again, slamming his hand down on the table.  

The man rolled his eyes and set the paper down. Stone cold expression, he took his time as he muddled around behind the counter, leaving Bucky on edge. You nodded at him, running a hand along his arm to keep him calm.  

Then, the man set a flip phone down on the counter. He didn’t say another word as he sat back onto his stool and picked up the paper again.  

Bucky grabbed the phone and quickly stumbled his way back to the far end of the convenience stores. Brushing up against rows of chips and shouldered a few to the ground, he was starting to lose his balance again. The dizziness was kicking in and it became evident as he tried to dial the SHEILD emergency call number and kept hitting the wrong numbers.  

“Breathe,” you said softly as Bucky started to panic. “Try again.”

Deep inhale in, Bucky typed the ten digits and held the phone to his ear. It rang three times.  

“Good morning,” a voice replied, deep and clinical, “this is Sandbox Bakery. What can I get for you?”

Bucky leaned his forehead to the glass of the freezers, cold compress on his skin touching a blaze of heat.  

When did he start sweating? When did it start to soak through his clothes?

There was a stickiness under his feet and Bucky glanced down to find blood dripping down from the edge of his coat and staining the dull-white of the plaster floors. Dark red seeping into the cracks between tiles, filtering through years of dirt and dust and muddied tracks. The outline of his boots in perfect pattern.  

“Good morning,” the voice said again, “this is Sandbox Bakery. What can I get for you?”

Bucky swallowed, trying to find his voice, but he was sure he’d left it behind in the cabin. He could hardly hold himself up, his hand slipping on the handle of the freezer doors, nearly taking him down to the ground amongst the blood and dirt.  

Under hooded, heavy eyes, Bucky glanced over at you as you nodded encouragingly at him, but there was two of you; swaying over one another, blurred, out of focus.

“Good morning, this is—”

“Baklava,” Bucky muttered the code word between labored breaths, the meaning of it sitting somewhere along the line of I shouldn’t be alive but I am – Fucking come get me. The dizziness was starting to take hold on his body and he leaned his shoulder against the freezer doors in search of the cold glass to offset the burning heat on his skin.  

A darkness started to tunnel at his vision, thick black rings closing in around him and he tried to grip at the handles on the doors, but he missed each time; his fingers too weak to grip onto the edge, his vision swaying and doubling over.

The agent on the other end of the phone was asking him questions, but they barely registered, like white noise no louder than the burrowing winds past the door. Bucky clutched at the handle, phone slipping from his grasp as it fell to the ground. He stumbled backwards, hitting a tower of plastic cups as they collapsed around him.  

“Bucky, lie down,” you warned gently as he struggled to hold himself up.  

“I’m—I’m okay,” he gasped, voice barely a whisper, unintelligible, before the darkness caved in completely and he met the floor.  

***

When Bucky came to again, it was to hands gripping harshly at his arms, at his legs, dragging his body onto a rock-hard surface that smelled of plastic and the sting of sterilizing alcohol. Pain ripped through his stomach at the sudden movement and he whimpered quietly, painful breaths in, lips quivering as he tried to bite down hard on the dried, cracked surface; the movement jarring enough to make him wish he was back in the cabin amongst the snow and broken glass.

But there was a hand encasing his. One that was soft, impossibly gentle, a slight squeeze, and Bucky realized there were voices around him. Muffled, barking orders, but they were distant, like an echo at the edge of a ravine. They were too far away for him to hear.  

All except one.  

“Stop it! Jesus, you’re hurting him,” one of the voices warned; soft and melodic, even within the tension, within the slight tremor of panic. It was a voice that called to him, as the grip on his forearm tightened, and Bucky forced his eyes open.  

He was seeing double, couldn’t quite focus on what was right in front of him, but he could see the three agents dressed in black combat vests huddled over him, strapping him on the stretcher while a petite Englishwoman with mousey brown hair and slender fingers worked to stabilize the mess at his stomach.  

Then, he focused on the voice to his left, the kind voice, the familiar voice – yours.  

“We’ve got to get him out of here, Simmons,” you urged, glancing back at the doors to the shop and the chaos of broken aisles in between. “God knows how long he’s been here like this...”

“I just need to stabilize him before we make a break for the jet,” the woman with the quiet English accent replied. She pressed down hard on Bucky’s stomach and he was surprised to find he didn’t feel a thing.  

Bucky swallowed back the dryness in his throat, trying to find his own voice, catch your attention in some way, but you didn’t seem to notice him watching you.

“It’s been ten hours since he missed the checkpoint. Ten hours,” you stressed, your free hand reaching up to brush back hairs from your face, tucking them behind your ear. It was then Bucky noticed the braid sitting over your shoulder, the dark tactical suit, and the discoloration under your eyes. There were marks in the shape of crescent moons on your hand from where you’d dug your nails to your skin. You looked tired, scared; it was different than how you appeared when Bucky collapsed.  

You gritted your teeth, brushing away tears Bucky so desperately wanted to reach to wipe away if he could only move.  

“We don’t know how much blood he’s lost or— or if he has internal bleeding or--”

You froze suddenly, words pulled right out of your mouth as Bucky’s hand twitched under your grip. Slowly, you turned to meet his eye with a kind of panicked shock and relief and an array of complex emotion.  

“Bucky?”

He nodded, a weak smile on his face.  

You nearly cried. “Oh, thank God you’re--”

“You stayed,” Bucky muttered, voice groggy and slurred. A tired smile etching up against broken lips.  

You blinked, biting back your tongue as your eyes shot over at Simmons. She shrugged, working quietly to reseal the bandages at Bucky’s stomach. There was a smile on Bucky’s lips, broken and cracked in dried blood, almost hazy, like he was floating high above in the clouds.  

“Honey, I’m here now,” you told him, voice a little cautious, but Bucky shook his head, though his vision was starting to leave him again, the comforting pull of darkness wrapping its arm around him.  

“You... you really stayed with me...” His voice was barley a whisper.  

Your eyes widened, a fear taking over and your quickly snapped your attention back to the agents surrounding him.  

"We need to get him out of here, now,” you ordered as Bucky’s eyes started to flutter closed again and he did not return the grip to your hand when you squeezed. Sudden movements and he was lifted into the air, though your grip on his hand did not leave him.

He fell back to the darkness before the cold air of Russian winter could touch his skin.  

***

The first thought Bucky registered was that he was warm. Not warm enough for sweat to form on his brow, but enough so that a chill didn’t press its way into his bones, enough that the thin layer of a freshly washed blanket draped over his legs chased away the goosebumps on his arms.  

He blinked his eyes open gently to take in the stream of light from the window to his left and the reflection held against bare, white walls. The room was not one he knew and quiet murmuring of strangers passing by outside in a language he couldn’t place didn’t help the rush of panic etching up through his veins.

Bucky turned to his left to see a monitor carrying his heartrate and the increasingly frantic rhythm of his pulse. There was a bruised mark on his right forearm around an IV that stemmed to a bag hanging over his head.  

Could be filled with anything, he reminded himself. Always on the defense. It was how he stayed alive.  

A hand settled against his stomach to find it wrapped in bandages, no longer searing in pain, but still sore; a dull ache left behind to remind him it was real, that he’d been shot and left for dead in the frozen wastelands of Russia, that he’d walked miles alone in a blizzard and found comfort in the ghost of –  

Bucky jolted upright, a hiss pulling swiftly from clenched teeth as a sharp pain reemerged at his stomach. He groaned, breaths coming in a little heavier now as he glanced around the empty room. Up at the open door ahead of him, he watched as stray physicians and nurses passed by in white lab coats talking quietly amongst themselves in... German, maybe? His brain was too foggy to register much of anything.  

“Y/n?” he called in search of your ghost, but his voice was too weak, he could barely hear it himself.  

Kicking the blankets away from his legs, Bucky felt a chill sweep up his spine. The pain was excruciating, but he’d been through worse. He ripped the IV from his arm. He kept his hands gripped tight to the mattress, setting his bare feet to the cold floor and wincing as the pain in his stomach worsened with every movement.  

But he needed to get out of here. He needed to get home to you. He’d promised.  

He set his stance to the ground, careful to hold himself up on the edge of the bedframe, but his legs were shaky under him, muscles unused and tired and so incredibly useless, his left hand started to warp the plastic of the railing in his frustration.  

“Bucky?”  

Wide eyes shot to the door to find you standing in its frame, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in your hand, lips parted in shock. Your hair was swept to the side in a long braid, dark circles hanging under your eyes, your clothes wrinkled with days of use.  

He tried to speak, but suddenly, his hold on the bed frame gave out. The smell of dark roasted coffee beans filled the air before he even met the ground and his skin touched the ice of tile flooring. Sharp pain in his hip and a heat of embarrassment in his cheeks, Bucky tried to find an ounce of his dignity on the ground.

You slid up on your knees beside him; coffee cup noticeably missing from your hands as it laid in a puddle by the door to his room.  

“Jesus, Buck, what were you thinking?” you gasped, hands roaming down over his arms, fingers warm to the touch from the coffee you’d held between your palms. A worry line creased in your forehead, lip tugged between your teeth as you grazed your touch over his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones and jawline in concentration as you inspected for damage.  

Bucky closed his eyes, a little lost in the feeling of it as he leaned into your touch, missing you and wondering how he could possibly feel that heat from your skin.  

“You’re lucky you didn’t reopen your stitches,” you murmured, hands touching gently at his wrapped bandaged around his waist. It was still white, at least, so that was something. The scowl on your face was a comfort, something familiar, and he was thankful to have it.  

But there were small differences he noticed as you tried to help him back up into the bed. Like how when the light from the window touched your skin, it reflected a little differently, got caught in your eyes and you’d have to squint away from it. Or how there was a new scratch on your jawline he hadn’t seen before. You huffed a hair away from your face as you struggled to life him back to his feet and it fell back into your line of sight almost instantly.  

“Give me a sec, I’ll be right back,” you told him before you pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, hands sinking into his hair. It felt so real, he almost convinced himself you were really there.  

When you came back into the room, a nurse was at your side, hands planted firmly on her lips.  

“I thought you were joking,” the nurse huffed in a thick German accent, exchanging a glance with you. You shrugged, scowl present but lips curved up in a smirk. The nurse groaned, sinking down to the floor to grab Bucky’s arm. “Why would I expect a man who’s been under for nearly a week to just up and walk out the room? Huh? I wouldn’t! No one is that foolish, Sergeant Barnes.”

You were laughing quietly beside her as you helped to guide Bucky back up into the bed. As he settled back into place, he found himself watching you intently as you conversed with the nurse. She told you keep your eyes on him, that he was a flight risk, and that she’d be back to check on him again soon. You nodded, thanking her for her time and quickly pulled up a chair beside his bed.  

“You've got terrible timing. You know that, right?” you chuckled, shaking your head. “I haven’t left this room for days, Buck, and the second I go to get coffee, you decide to wake up.”

“How long?” he asked quietly and the smile faded from your cheeks.

“Five days,” you told him. “Almost six.”

“Longer since I missed the checkpoint, then,” he reasoned, pinching at his brows. “We should get moving again. I’ve got to get home.”

“What? No,” you said quickly, leaning forward in your chair in an attempt to set your hand on him, but he pushed it away. It seemed to surprise you because you paused for a moment before you said, “Bucky, you’re still healing. You need time before we can—”

“I didn’t almost bleed out in a goddamn cabin in middle of Russia just to end up trapped in some hospital in Germany and still not make it home!”

Bucky threw the blanket off of him again, pushing himself to the edge.

You rushed forward, grabbed a hold of his shins before he could swing his legs off the side of the bed. Your grip was forceful, but not enough to hurt. You planted your hip down on the bed to block his path.  

“We’re staying here, Buck,” you pressed, a slight tremor in your voice. “You almost died.”

“Why are you arguing with me about this now?” Bucky groaned and the flash of confusion on your face went unnoticed. “You’re the one that convinced me I had get home, aren’t you? You’re the one who wouldn’t just let me die and made me walk into a fuckin’ blizzard while I was bleeding out! I have to get home to you, right? That’s what you said! I’m not giving up on her – or, or us – or... fuck it— on myself, ok? Whether you’re with me or not. I have to get home to her. Even if I have to fucking crawl.”

Through the frantic swelling in his chest, the heavy pants of his breath, and the dizziness forming back in his head, Bucky didn’t register how quiet you’d become until his eyes flickered over to you. Your body was rigid, lips parted just slightly, a semblance of shock in your eyes and Bucky’s stomach sank.  

“Is that... Is that what you meant when you said ‘I stayed with you’? Back in the gas station in Russia? Do you... Do you think you’re just imagining me here?” you asked slowly and a burning heat ached into his cheeks. Something like shame or embarrassment or guilt, but none of it stronger than the relief that coursed through his veins as your hand reached out for him, fingers encasing his. Smaller than his own, warmer, and so real he could feel the divots of your lifeline and old scars and the soothing trace of your nails. Tangible. Real.  

“I...” Bucky started, stealing a glance up at your eyes before they darted back down to your hands wrapped so tenderly around him. He exhaled a heavy breath. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, honey,” you sighed, bringing his hands up to your lips and kissing sweetly at his knuckles. You pressed the chill of his fist to your cheek and he could feel the warmth burning there. The way you watched him, with eyes so filled with the kind of love and adoration he’d longed for his entire life, it was enough to mend his heart whole.  

“I’m here, Bucky,” you whispered, another kiss to the tips of his fingers and it took the breath straight from his lungs. “I’m really here, honey. Your mind isn’t playing tricks on you anymore. You’re not alone.”

Bucky nodded, watching as you peppered kissed along his hands, over flesh and metal like they were one in the same.  

“It felt so real...” he murmured, sinking into the way your hand stretched up along his arm, rising over his neck like the crest of ocean waves, and rested to his cheek. He leaned further into the touch.  

“I know,” you soothed, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone. “But I’m here now, love. You found your way home.”

Bucky nodded, shifting in the bed just enough for you to crawl in beside him. The dull ache in his stomach lingered, but he didn’t mind, not when you curled up into the crook of his neck, your hand gliding down over the marred scarring on his shoulder, your breath warm against his collar.  

“Home,” he echoed, the word slipping from behind broken lips, a curve of a smile etching into his cheeks. He leaned his cheek to the crown of your head, eyes closing in a relief that spread through his chest and through the very ends of his body in a gentle kind of warmth he could only ever hope to find with you resting in his arms.  

He found his way home.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[bonnyskies]

come back to me [fourteen] ⇢ jjk

you’re willing to do anything to save your marriage, even if that meant you’d have to sacrifice your own happiness to do so.

pairing — husband!jungkook x malereader, ft. ceo!jaehyun

genre — angst, sexual themes, idol au, exes to lovers-ish au, open relationship au, marriage au, parents au

series warnings — infidelity (kinda?), swearing, bisexual!jungkook, jealous!jungkook, insecure!reader, unhealthy relationship, unrequited love-ish, slow burn, use of alcohol, mentions of divorce problems, (more could be added in future chapters)

word count — 2.1k

author’s note — this chapter is considered more as a filler than any other, introducing you to the main focus and getting you ready for the next one.

masterlist

Once again, Jungkook couldn’t sleep last night.

Throughout the night, until the sun rose up Jungkook found himself tossing and turning in his bed, slipping in and out consciousness.

Jungkook didn’t realize how long he spent trying to fall asleep until the blinding sight of the sun shining through his bedroom’s curtains came into his view. And when turning his head to glance at the clock resting on his nightstand, he then noticed that it was a quarter to eight already.

He must’ve only gotten only four hours of sleep—at least.

Jungkook sat up from his bed and stretched, groaning at the feeling of his strained muscles relaxing. He couldn’t help but wonder if you were already awake, expecting to hear the sound of you or Minho’s footsteps coming from the hallway. And yet, he heard nothing.

Standing up from his bed, Jungkook didn’t bother putting on a shirt before coming out his room, leaving him only in a pair of grey sweats.

Jungkook tiptoed and entered your room, eyes immediately falling upon your sleeping figure. His gaze then moved onto Minho, who was laying beside you, already awake and silently playing on your phone.

“Hey there, buddy.” Jungkook whispered quietly, and before his son had the chance to say anything back he raised his index finger up to his lips, hinting for him to be quiet. “Do you wanna to help appa make breakfast?”

Minho instantly nodded his head excitingly, turning off your phone and holding his arms out for Jungkook—which he gladly accepted, lifting his son up into arms and quietly tiptoeing out of your room. “What do you want for breakfast?” Jungkook asks the moment them two were out of your room.

“Can we have pancakes?”

“Pancakes again?” Jungkook questions, eyes squinting with uncertainty and a small pout shown on his lips. “Are you sure you don’t want anything else?”

Minho nodded again, more eagerly this time. “Yes please, appa.”

“Oh, alright.” Jungkook agreed, pinching his son’s chubby cheeks and grinning at him. “We’ll have pancakes again for breakfast since you want them so bad...”

“Thank you, appa!”

“You know I can’t ever say no to you, bubs.” Jungkook stated, carrying him into the kitchen and placing him onto the counter beside the stove but still kept a safe distance away from the burning appliance.

Jungkook started preparing breakfast instantly, the ingredients gathered by his side with Minho on his other side. While watching his father cook, Minho swung his legs idly back and forth with a wide, toothy grin on his face. “Appa, can you make the edges crunchy? I like it that way.”

“Anything for you, bubs.” Jungkook leaned over and pecked his son’s small nose, earning a small giggle from him. “When did you start eating them that way? You’ve always liked how I made before them, soft and squishy.”

“Appa started making them that way after you left.”

Jungkook’s heart instsntly clenched at his words, not knowing that Minho meant by him leaving for tour—not because of your guys’ relationship ending. “W-Well, that’s good then. But nobody can beat my pancakes though, right bubs?” His voice changing from a stuttering mess to a teasing tone in an instant.

“Don’t make me pick, appa.” Minho pouted.

Jungkook chuckled, shaking his head playfully and returning his focus back on the stove.

Not even ten minutes later, Minho spoke up. But this time was different. His voice was no longer playful and gentle, but more serious and sounded even hesitant. “Appa, can I ask you something?”

Jungkook hummed in reply, eyes never leaving the stove.

“Do you still love appa?”

“Of course,” Jungkook answered in an instant, eyes nearly bulging at his son’s question. “Why would you ask me that?”

The frown on Minho’s face only grew in size. “Why aren’t you two together then? Because appa also still loves you—very much.”

Jungkook sighed, lowering his head. For his age, Minho is quite intelligent, so Jungkook knew that this conversation would happen sooner or later. He just preferred the latter. “It’s...It’s just complicated right now, bubs.”

“But you and appa love each other, so why wouldn’t you be together?”

“It’s not that easy, buddy.” Jungkook replied, flipping one of the pancakes and releasing an ashamed sigh. “Let’s just say that appa made a really big mistake and it’s hard to just forgive and forget.”

“What did you do, appa?” Minho tilts his head curiously.

Again, Minho is considered smart for his age. He’s aware that Jungkook is the reason for your sudden change in behavior.

Jungkook just stared at the cooking batter. How do you tell your own son it’s your fault for everything that has been going wrong? “Just...something bad—but don’t worry,” Jungkook quickly added, noticing his son’s frown grow even more. “I’m trying to fix it.”

“How?” Minho continued to question.

“Doing everything in my power to earn your appa’s trust back and make him happy again.” Jungkook answered, briefly glancing at his son while moving one of the finished pancakes onto an empty plate. “Do you think that’s possible?”

Minho nodded instantly, “Appa loves you a lot, so yes, appa, you can do it. It should be easy.”

Jungkook chuckled, “I hope you’re right, bubs.”

“Now,” he then clapped his hands, replacing the small frown on his lips with a smile, trying to lighten his son’s downed mood. “Why don’t we finish making these pancakes, and then we can give these to appa while he’s in bed? I’m sure he’ll love breakfast in bed.”

The frown on Minho’s face instantly dropped and was replaced with a grin, nodding his head.

“Good morning, appa!”

You were barely awake, eyes squinting, when Minho came suddenly barging into your room with a wide smile on his lips. You were about to ask him what he wanted for breakfast but soon found yourself speechless when Jungkook also then stepped inside your room, trailing behind him with a tray in his hands, containing a plate full of pancakes and a cup of orange juice.

“W-What is this?” You mumbled out, glancing towards Jungkook who had small hints of blush on his cheeks.

“Me and appa made breakfast for you,” Minho answered for Jungkook.

“Thank you,” straightening yourself on the bed, you said while Jungkook placed the tray of food on your lap.

Watching you take your first bite of your food, Minho then said, “And it was appa’s idea to give your breakfast in bed.”

Glancing back up, you could see Jungkook’s cheeks become even more red. “T-Thank you,” you repeated again, taking another bite.

Jungkook hummed in reply, swallowing the anxious lump in the back of his throat.

“What about you two?” You asked, sharing a glance between Minho and Jungkook who both took a seat at the edge of your bed. “Have you two eaten yet?”

Jungkook nodded, “Yes, we ate.”

“Then why didn’t you two wake me up?”

“Appa said that you deserve some extra sleep.” Minho stated, turning to his father to see him confirm his words with nod.

You didn’t say anything, only continued to eat. And for the rest of the morning, Jungkook and Minho watched as you finished your breakfast in complete silence.

After finishing your breakfast, you were now in the kitchen cleaning the mess, which included washing the dishes—both yours and theirs, and cleaning up and putting away the ingredients.

Jungkook tried to argue, saying that you didn’t have to but you ignored his protests, telling him that it was the least you could do for him making the delicious breakfast for you.

As you washed the dishes, Jungkook stood behind you leaning against the counter while eating some cashews. “So, I was thinking we could go to the zoo today. You know, me, you and Minho can have a family day together.”

You froze.

“What do you think?” He then asks quietly, noticing your surprised state.

Your mouth opened but no words came out. There was a part of you that was screaming yes, let’s go out and have a family day. But there was also another part that was telling you that this was a bad idea and that you were only going to just hurt yourself again.

Yesterday was probably the best day you’ve had in a long time, despite it not starting it that way. The way you and Jungkook spoke to each other so smoothly, conversations filled with cheerful laughter and smiles.

But of course, your mind had to remind you that everything that happened last night was just for appearance. Seeing her name flashing on his phone’s screen reminded you that you two weren’t married anymore—let alone together, in the midst of finalizing a divorce and also, he’s in a relationship with someone else. The only reason you two were even on that date was just for your guys’ image.

Going out today, as a family would only cause more pain and mock you about how much you wanted a happy, healthy family that didn’t end up happening in the end. And as for Minho, it would only give him false hope that there’s a tiny chance that his two parents would get back together again—which is not the case.

Having a family day together is just a bad idea.

“I-I don’t know if that’s a good idea Jungkook,” you pointed out, heart aching at the frown that formed on his lips. “Going to the zoo together would just—”

“We’re going to the zoo?”

Both your heads whipped to where Minho stood in front of you two, eyes wide and mouth gaped open with excitement clear on his face.

“O-Oh,” you briefly glanced at Jungkook who shared the same unsure expression as you. “I’m not sure yet, pumpkin. Maybe we can—”

“No, please can we go, please appa!” Minho whined, running over and clinging onto your legs while flashing you his puppy dog eyes—and he knew you couldn’t resist. You attempted to turn away, but was only greeted by Jungkook who had the same expression, his wide doe eyes staring back at you with his lips pouting.

You couldn’t help but release your own whine, hopping on the heels of your feet while Minho continued to beg. “Okay, fine.” You gave in, sighing and rolling your eyes. ��We can go.”

At your answer, both Minho and Jungkook cheered and high-dived each other, smiles on their faces. “Alright, bubs. Why don’t we let appa finish cleaning while we get changed, okay?”

Minho nodded, arms wide open for Jungkook to lift him up and carry him to the bedroom.

You watched them until they were out of sight, and once you were alone you let out a long, much needed sigh.

Spending the entire day with your ex-husband? Oh, how great this will be.

At least Minho will be there to ease everything, you thought.

Cleaning up the rest of the mess and changing didn’t take as long as you thought it would.

With you and Jungkook already changed, he was still in the bedroom helping Minho get ready while you were waiting in the living room, practically shaking with anxiety.

Today is going to be different from yesterday. While you and Jungkook only spent a few hours together last night, today you’ll be with each other for the entire day. And even though Minho will be there accompanying you two this time, you can’t picture your son will be much help easing the awkward tension.

Suddenly, the sound of a phone ringing hit your ears. You instantly recognized the familiar tune of a baby crying, which led you to know the owner of the phone—Jungkook.

You stood up from the couch and walked over to the kitchen where his phone was resting on the counter. You knew you shouldn’t be nosy, but you couldn’t help but be curious and glance over to see who was calling him.

Your heart sunk when seeing who it was.

incoming call: yeonha

But that pained feeling was instantly replaced with confusion and curiosity.

Why wasn’t her name babygirl anymore?

don’t worry, you’ll learn what jungkook’s conversion with yeonha was about in the next chapter :)

TAGLIST:

@xworldwidecutieguyx​, @yoongis-soulmate​, @jikookvfans​, @heartfeltscribblings​, @blazedprince​, @btsfaris​, @sonderkook​, @angel-moni​, @http-je0n​, @magic-fox-555​, @moonfairyjoon​, @taozibun1​, @ephemeralkookie​, @thesquiglybumblebee​, @httpjazel​, @justqueerandhereforthetea​, @dreamer95​, @singabon-roll​, @its-your-dreamworld​, @fancykoos​, @galaxyeyedjungkook​, @nlnkm​, @you-need-namjesus​, @teuteusstuff​, @moon-asia​, @julia-pacheco-blog​, @0minabean0​, @pjmislovely​, @polly-wifu​, @jinsonaz​, @unsolvetheheckoutofit​

[mattzerella-sticks]

Lumped Together (9-1-1 fic, Hen/Karen. Chim/Maddie, and Eddie/Buck)

As an apology for keeping her thoughts about medical school secret from her wife and partner, Hen takes them (and Maddie) out for lunch. With the promise that it would only be them. And for the most part it was. Until Buck and Eddie strode in with every intention of eating Takoyaki.

Just not with them.

Armed with new information, what's a girl to do? Hen spends the next day fighting back the natural instinct to tease her friends about the wonderful step they've taken together in their relationship. Can she make it home without saying anything? Or will she give in?

           Hen presses her cheek right against her wife’s, smile wide for the camera. She waits for the telltale click before dropping into a more natural expression, rolling her eyes. “Is this one to your liking?”

           Karen squints at her phone, the device a scant few inches away from her face. Hen swallows a comment about needing glasses with another Takoyaki and relaxes when she sees a nod of approval. “The lighting was better in that direction.”

           “That’s what I was trying to tell you, Karen,” Chimney says, dipping a small ball in soy sauce and biting into it. “Where you were trying earlier, the shadows covered too much of our faces.”

           Maddie snorts around her drink, “I didn’t realize you knew so much about photography, Chim.”

           “When half your life was spent on dating websites and apps, you learn how to take a good photo.” They laugh, at his joke and Maddie’s retaliation. She shoves him gently, stealing one of his Takoyaki balls and eating it. “Hey!”

           “Consider this my reward,” Maddie tells him, “for saving you from all those website and apps.” Chimney sighs, laying his arm behind her chair and finishing off his own ball.

           Hen mirrors Chimney’s move, Karen leaning into her loose embrace. “Y’know,” Karen says, “I’m glad we did this. When is it that we can enjoy a meal together that’s just us?”

           The bell above the front entrance rings, drawing Hen’s gaze. She recognizes the newest diners and immediately deflates. “Never,” she sighs, “Because some people have codependency issues.” Her comment confuses everyone, so she nods over where the familiar faces of her coworkers wait for a server to greet them.

           Chimney sees them first. “Maddie,” he hisses, squeezing her shoulder, “I thought you didn’t tell Buck where we were going.”

           Maddie’s frown worsens, brows furrowed. “I didn’t,” she says, “I swear.” At a more pointed stare from the rest of the table, Maddie continues. “He couldn’t have followed me – he said he had his own plans plus he knows how I feel about those tracking apps.”

           A server finally welcomes them into the restaurant and grabs two menus for the pair. Hen straightens in her seat, “Well, however they found us doesn’t matter. Because here they come…”

           They never do. Instead the server sits Eddie and Buck at a small table near the door, takes their drink orders and leaves them with the menus.

           “Are they… not joining us?” Karen asks.

           Chimney shrugs, “I guess they’re not.”

           The fog of bewilderment won’t fade, actually growing stronger as more time passes. More time where Buck and Eddie sit at their own little table. Absorbed in their own little world, Buck grinning dopily at his friend and offering his menu when Eddie wants to point and share a few opinions that make him chuckle. Like Buck isn’t going to order the same thing he always does when he eats here.

           “Excuse me,” their waiter interrupts, startling everyone, “how’s everyone doing. Did you enjoy your meal?” Hen glances at her plate and sees nothing. She must have eaten absentmindedly while watching their friends. They all voice non-committal agreement. “Good,” he says, smile tight while he gathers the plates, “I can bring you all the check now if you want –“

           “Actually,” Chimney interrupts, “Can I get another order of Ponzu I – I can still go for more. What about the rest of you?”

           “Chim, what are you –“ he kicks her under the table, silently pleading for Hen to play along. She does. “Right,” Hen says, rubbing her stomach, “I could go for another round of those Wasabi Takoyaki. Please!”

           He nods, “No problem.”

           When he disappears behind the kitchen doors, she kicks Chimney back doubly hard. His yelp was unsatisfying. “What was that for?” she asks, “Now we gotta pay for food we’re not going to eat!”

           “Sorry,” Chimney tells her, pouting, “I figured staying where we are is for the best. Leaving now might spook the horses, if you catch my drift.” Hen understood perfectly, making his overexaggerated head tilt in their direction unnecessary.

           “Please, they wouldn’t follow us out of the restaurant.” She turns to Maddie, in a more panicked tone. “They wouldn’t follow us out of the restaurant, right?”

           Maddie nearly chokes on her drink. “No, no! I doubt Buck would even notice we left – sometimes he and Eddie get so wrapped up in whatever they’re doing they become completely oblivious. One time I saved Buck’s apartment from burning down because he left the iron on one of his shirts. He forgot because Eddie texted him some video and he ended up watching that instead!”

           “Well then do we ask the waiter to wrap it up?” Karen asks, “Divide the leftovers and hope they don’t notice us?”

           Hen holds the power of final call, the other three looking at her. Waiting for a decision. She flits her gaze over at Buck and Eddie once more, catching Buck showing Eddie something on his phone quickly as a waitress walks over. By the time she slides a strand of hair behind her ear, the boys are ready to order. Strangely ignoring the telltale stance of a woman about to flirt.

           Their waiter returns with the second course, placing it on their table. “Will that be all?”

           She still has to decide. “For now, yes. Thank you.” When he leaves, Hen rubs a tired hand across her brow. “I guess we’re here until an escape route opens up.”

           “If that’s the case…” Karen snags a piece of Takoyaki and pops it into her mouth. She pauses, mid-chew, when confronted with Hen’s frown. “What? We’re paying for them anyway. Might as well enjoy them.”

           “I don’t see what’s wrong with that,” Chimney chuckles, following her lead. Even Maddie nibbles into a ball, and Hen’s exhaustion breaks with a smile.

           “Force my hands why don’t you.”

           Conversation continues between them, not the same as before. Stilted in parts when someone turned their heads and spied on Buck and Eddie. Breaking the natural flow of the story and reporting on what they saw. Karen saw Buck nearly spill his drink after Eddie said something, a blush evident on the younger boy’s face. Chimney caught Buck dragging the waitress over, gesturing at a now shy Eddie while he displayed his phone. With how she swiped across the screen, she must be looking at pictures. Of Christopher, as Buck finds every excuse to show Eddie’s son off. Maddie, in the middle of telling her own story, trailed off when she spied Eddie shoving a Takoyaki into Buck’s mouth and then wiping a sauce smear off with his napkin. Half a minute passed while she regained her senses, idling in uncertainty.

           Hen, though, saw the most damning evidence.

           Buck stands from the table, saying something. He drops his hand on Eddie’s shoulder and squeezed. Eddie wastes no time, nuzzling at Buck’s fingers and then placing a chaste, innocent kiss on the knuckles. Grinning, Buck practically skips towards the bathrooms.

           “Shit.” Hen startled the others at her table, but she didn’t care. She raises her arm searching for the waiter. “Shit, we need to get out of here.”

           “Hen, baby,” Karen says, “what’s the matter?”

           Hen finally sees their waiter and gestures him over. “The problem,” she says, grimacing, “is we’ve stumbled onto their date – Hi! We’re ready to go.”

           The waiter blinks at her, the sudden onslaught of false cheer rattling him. “Uh, sure,” he says, fumbling for their check, “I’ll leave this with –“

           “Card,” Hen hands her credit card over, “Please, as quick as you can.” He nods, spinning on his heel and scurrying to the register. “Now,” she continues, slipping into her jacket, “we need to move fast. Chim, do you have a hat you can wear?”

           “Hold on,” Maddie stops her, grabbing for her wrist, “you still haven’t explained – who’s on a date?”

           “Buck and Eddie are.” Her face drops into objection, readying a discussion they cannot get into now. “Think about it,” Hen insists, meeting each of their stares, “think about how they’ve been acting the entire time they’ve been here.”

           Chimney immediately switches sides. “Oh my God, they’re on a date!”

           Then Maddie. “I can’t believe we’ve been spying on them this whole time!”

           “Exactly,” Hen says, tying her scarf over her head in a hurried manner, “Which is why the sooner we get out of here the better!” She motions for her wife, “Karen, I’m going to give you my glasses, you give me the shades you packed away in your purse.”

           “Wait a minute,” she slaps Hen’s hand, “I’m still… how is this surprising? Haven’t they been a couple this whole time?”

           “Buck? And Eddie?” Chimney asks, tugging his hoodie on overhead, “What gave you that idea?”

           Karen gestures at the other table, “Them.” Then at the three surrounding them. “You all… from how you talk about them –“

           “I mean, they were always pretty close for friends?” Maddie winces, squeezing a too-tight hair-tie over part of her hair for a loose curtain of a pigtail. “I’d tease Buck about him having a crush, but I figured it was one of those weird brothers-in-arms things.”

           “More like lovers in arms,” Chimney chuckles, trailing off when his flat joke turns up nothing but glares. “Yeah, I regretted saying it, too.” He squeezes the hoodie’s strings and half his face disappears behind a puckered hole.

           Karen quirks her lips, glancing at Hen again. “Whenever we talked about your co-workers, you lumped the two together. The fact that I almost always see them with Christopher…”

           Hen rubs a hand on her shoulder, “I did that because they were the only ones who weren’t paired off. I didn’t realize they had paired off… together?” Although she should have. Hen might have better radar for when a woman finds another woman attractive, but the looks are all the same. Reflecting on past memories there were so many moments where she wrote subtle hints and clues off as less than what they were. What they are. What they’ve always been?

           “Excuse me?” the waiter draws Hen’s attention from her thoughts. He hands back her card, a slip of a receipt, and a pen. “Thank you for dining with us today.”

           “Thanks for the meal.” Hen dashes a harried signature and hefty tip, standing. She hands her glasses off to Karen, “Can I have your -?”

           “Here you go.” Karen switches for Hen’s glasses, putting them on her face. She scowls, shaking her head. “When did you get a new prescription?”

           Hen slides the sunglasses over her eyes and grabs for Karen’s hands. “Close your eyes if it hurts, I’ll lead us out.” Although without glasses, Hen doesn’t trust her judgment much. Which is why she allows Maddie and Chimney the lead, trailing behind closely. She has Karen’s hand trapped in the crook of her arm, shielding her wife from Eddie. Luckily the other man seems absorbed in his phone waiting for Buck, the younger boy dawdling in the bathroom. They reach the exit and, like Orpheus, Hen looks behind.

           Buck returned, and she can see the joy in full bloom on Eddie’s face. Especially when Buck laces their fingers together on the table.

           Fearing recognition, Hen leaves the restaurant and joins Chimney and Maddie on the sidewalk, Karen at her side. They put some distance between them and the restaurant. Under the tall, red archway they rearrange themselves into something more presentable than their disguises.

           “Not how I was expecting this lunch to end,” Maddie says, staring at the restaurant. “I can’t believe Buck had a date with Eddie today and didn’t tell me.”

           Chimney scoffs, playing with his now uneven strings of his hoodie. “I can’t believe our luck that it was in the same place we were at for lunch.”

           “If this is as new as you think it is,” Karen says, hand still curled around Hen’s arm, “then maybe he was nervous. Maybe they both were. And they’d rather test the waters before taking as big a risk as telling anyone.” She smirks, gaze darting between Chimney and Hen. “Plus, I think they’d prefer at least some time with this before you tease them.”

           Hen huffs. “After all the trouble we went through to not be recognized… why would we blow it on a few jokes.”

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

           She really felt tempted to blow their cover with a few jokes. Walking into the station on the next day, Hen nearly slapped Eddie on the back and congratulated him for making an honest man out of their firehouse golden retriever. Instead she grunted a quick greeting and hurried into the locker rooms where Chimney waited for her.

           “This is going to be hard,” she mutters, shrugging off her jacket.

           He nods, slipping his t-shirt overhead. “I had to stop Maddie from texting him at least three different times last night. Instead she called Josh and I had to be an unwilling party to their gossip.”

           “Unwilling?” she scoffs, “As if you weren’t making a timeline.”

           Chimney shoves her, closing his locker door and leaving. Hen left soon after and immediately slammed into a passing Buck. Eddie, at his side, catches the younger man. She notices his hands land on Buck’s hips, quickly sliding up to his waist and then off like he was scolded.

           “You okay there Hen?” Buck asks, stepping out of Eddie’s aborted embrace, “I didn’t hit into you too hard?”

           Hen forces a tight smile onto her face, walking away. “Like knocking into a pillow,” she says, “just watch where you go next time, Buck!”

           “You weren't watching either…”

           She hurries up the steps and finds Chimney again. Hen leans close and whispers, “Very hard.”

           Chimney snorts and rolls his eyes, choosing an answer of silence. His response catches Bobby’s attention, however, and he raises a brow at the pair. “Is everything all right with you two?”

           Hen sighs, rubbing her jaw. “No complaints here, Bobby.”

           Bobby looks unconvinced but doesn’t press further. Instead he jerks a thumb at the refrigerator, “Help me throw together a quick breakfast?” The alarms flare and unfortunately shatters those plans. “Never mind,” Bobby say, running off, “we’ll eat later!”

           Emergencies should not inspire such gratefulness. Hen cannot stop feeling appreciative for the consecutive calls, though, lessening the amount of downtime in the station where she was liable of saying anything. She didn’t have to think about Buck and Eddie as a couple when on the job. They were her teammates. They were running into danger. They were dating, but that wasn’t important then. All that mattered was hers, theirs, and everyone else’s safety.

           Except danger can only distract for so long. The city began winding down. Their last assignment had them rushing onto the scene where a woman, thrown from a truck, ended up stuck in wire fencing. Her and Chimney drove the poor victim to the hospital with most of the fence still embedded in her, too close to vital organs. Instead of risking shredding them they clotted the leaks as best they could and left her in the capable hands of the doctors. Leaving them with a leisurely drive back.

           They park the ambulance between their firetrucks and wandered towards the common area. Hen spots Buck and Eddie sitting comfortably close, Buck practically resting his head on Eddie’s shoulder. When they see Chimney and Hen, Buck scoots a few inches away.

           Subtle. How was it never obvious?

           “Everything go smoothly during transport?” Eddie asks after they sit across from them, at a distance normal for friends.

           Hen and Chimney share a look. “She didn’t lose any more blood during the ride over,” he says, “so I’m betting she’s fine.”

           “Hope so,” Buck says, wincing in sympathy. “Poor lady kept going on about how she was supposed to get married in a few days… it’d suck if she had to reschedule because of this. I know I would hate to ruin an important date like that.”

           She bites her lip, dams up the rushing waters of sarcasm rushing in. Quells the urge to laugh and buries any retort deep in her stomach where she can vomit it up later in the safety of her home. Where Karen can help comfort her though the sickening ordeal of suffering with wasted teasing.

           As if sensing her woes, Hen’s phone vibrates in her pocket. She relaxes at the notification for Karen’s message. Almost forgot about sending this alongside a kissy-face emoji and a heart. Makes hers skip a beat.

           “What is it Hen?” Buck asks.

           “Text from Karen,” she tells the group, opening it. “I think it’s supposed to be a picture…” Hen trails off, recognizing the photo from yesterday. Staring at it brings up the scene in her mind, especially the boys a few tables away unknowingly being watched by the four happy faces in the photo.

           “A photo?” Buck continues, unaware of her inner turmoil, “what of? Ooh… is it naughty?” He snickers, gladly accepting the elbow blow from Eddie, retaliating by pressing his entire weight onto his side.

           Chimney’s gaze darts from the photo to Hen, frowning. “Hen, don’t…”

           She breaks.

           “Actually,” Hen says, “it’s a photo from yesterday. Me and Karen, Chim and Maddie… we all went out for lunch.”

           “What?” Buck turns on Chimney, “Maddie said you two were going on a date!” Too caught up in the betrayal, he keeps his hand glued to Eddie’s knee.

           Chimney shifts uncomfortably, squeezing his hands together. “We technically were… a double date.”

           “At that place we’ve been to. The one Chim loves,” Hen shows the others Karen’s picture, watching them. “Takoyaki? It was part date, part apology to Karen and Chimney. All my treat.” At the mention of their cuisine, the color drained from both men’s faces. Eddie swallowed exaggeratedly while Buck finally realized his position. He furthered the divide between him and Eddie.

           “Takoyaki?” Eddie asks, “Yesterday? Did you guys… enjoy it?”

           “It was interesting…” Hen smirks, leaning back in her seat. She leaves her answer dangling in front of them, pulling up Instagram on sliding different filters over the photo.

           Buck snaps, “Interesting good or interesting like you saw something?”

           Hen savors every second in an effort of making up for wasted potential earlier. “I think we did see something, right Chim?” she looks over at him, ignoring his shaking head. “What was it? Oh, yeah… this one man came in and ordered every single item off the menu, and then couldn’t even eat any of it he was crying so badly.”

           “What?”

           “What?”

           “What?” Chimney winces at her harried glare, “I mean… thanks, I almost blocked that from my memory. As if the… the nightmares weren’t bad enough?”

           “Crying?” Eddie asks, squinting, “What the… why was he crying?”

           “Well, he was with this woman – she was his therapist. And apparently, he has this fear of balls. So in some weird exposure therapy thing she made him go to the Takoyaki place as the first step. She explained this all in an apology after he caused this huge scene.” Hen snickers at the scenario she pulled straight from her ass. The others believe it, and she sees both of them relax slightly. “I felt really bad about laughing, but at least I was able to wait until after the therapist paid and left with him.”

           “Because slightly rude is better than fully rude,” Chimney mutters. Hen kicks him, accepting the retaliation with a smile.

           “Do you think that would be a good caption?” she shows them her phone again, Instagram active, the space where the caption goes blank. “We aren’t afraid of any balls #brave?”

           Buck chuckles, rocking in his seat. “How about – LA’s best and brightest, brave enough to put out fires and eat delicious balls?”

           “Or,” Eddie frowns at them, “leave the poor man alone and say – Good food, good friends #Takoyaki.”

           Pouting, Buck bats his eyes at Eddie. “You sound like such a grandpa. Stop reminding us why you barely use social media.”

           “Oh! I just got a good one!” Hen says, preemptively defusing the fight in its early stages by standing. She waits until all attention is on her, and then she continues. “I’ll write – The calm before the storm #whenyoufindoutyourcoworkersaredating. And I’ll tag all of us and you two, okay?”

           Hen barely resists the urge to snap a photo. Buck and Eddie gape at her, mouths wide in disbelief. Stunned into silence and inaction. She hears Chimney mutter under his breath as he leaves them.

           “Uh, that’s uh… that’s a pretty long hashtag,” Eddie says, glancing at Buck and hiding his hands under his thighs. “And, well the whole thing kinda…”

           “It doesn’t make any sense!” Buck blurts out with a strange laugh, “Like, why would you tag us? We weren’t there and… and dating? That’s uh – that’s… what makes you say that?”

           “Because we saw you two,” Hen shrugs, pocketing her phone. She lays a hand on both their shoulders, smiling. “And you’re both adorable. For dating and trying to hide it.”

           Eddie’s face scrunches at the accusation. “We were that bad?”

           “Once we found out the context, it became obvious.” She nods, letting go of them. “Congratulations you crazy kids. We all couldn’t be happier. Well, maybe if you told us?” Nothing left to say, Hen leaves them be. Trails up the stairs after Chimney and finds him sulking by the sink. Hen leans on the counter nearby. “I know, I’m awful.”

           “Was it really that hard doing nothing?” he asks.

           “In a moment of weakness, I couldn't take the pressure.” When his judgmental expression remains, she groans and softly taps his arm. “Come on, if Maddie had sent you the picture you would have done something similar if not the same.”

           “No I wouldn’t –“

           “Even you can admit not saying anything was torture!”

           Bobby shuffles towards them, sipping at his coffee. “What was torture?”

           Despite Chimney’s best efforts, he cannot stop Hen. She tells their captain, “Knowing about Buck and Eddie dating but not being able to say anything.”

           He tilts his head, glancing between the two. “Buck and Eddie are dating?”

           Hen winces, realizing her error. “Or, they were on a date? I mean we only found out about it yesterday, so we’ve been sitting on it for a day?”

           Bobby nods, draining the rest of his coffee. He steps between Hen and Chimney and drops it in the sink. Then he strides over to the railing and yells, “Buckley! Diaz! Can I see you two for a moment?” They climb the stairs, glancing between an impassive Bobby and a regretful Hen and Chimney. Bobby points in the direction of his unused office and trails behind them as they go.

           Now she feels bad.

           Chimney clears his throat. “Was it worth it?”

           She rubs at her eyes, groaning. “I really put my foot in it, didn’t I?”

           “Well I don’t think it’s my place to say,” Chimney chuckles, “but if Karen –“

           “Don’t you dare tell Karen.”

           “But I must. Otherwise how will you ever receive the correct punishment?”

           “I can handle that, too.” Hen already has an idea. She waits for them outside Bobby’s office, listening as he discusses the interpersonal relationship rules of the LAFD. About the many different forms they need to fill out and how dangerous it would have been if they carried on with a secret relationship while working together. How, at best, they work at different fire houses and worse case they lose their jobs. An hour later they leave with a healthy stack split between them held together by thin paper clips.

           Hen drags them into another aside, apologizing for telling Bobby. “I wasn’t thinking – I was talking to Chim and then he comes up and –“

           “Hen, it’s okay,” Eddie says, smiling, “we’re not mad about that. We figured Bobby oughta know about us and… well, it’s not like we figured we had a lot of time after you pulled the rug from under us. If we were as obvious as you said…”

           “Bobby even said he thought there was something going on.” Buck shrugs, a hand latched onto Eddie’s neck. Massaging it. “Actually, he said Athena thought she saw something at May’s graduation party.”

           “Which was impossible because we didn’t even think of each other like that then.”

           “Speak for yourself,” he laughs, “I think that’s when I put it all together…”

           Hen breathes easier, chuckling alongside him. “Well, if you’re all good –“

           “You’re not getting out of this that easily,” Buck smirks, cutting her off, “we’re not mad about the Bobby thing. The whole teasing us and making up that fake story about the balls guy… you still gotta pay for that.”

           She nods, crossing her arms. “I figured,” Hen sighs, “Which is why I had this idea… group date. Me and Karen, Chim and Maddie, you two – hell, we’ll even throw in Athena and Bobby. And your choice, my…” the words pain her, throat closing around it so tight she forces it out and scrapes the lining, “treat.”

           Apology accepted, Buck and Eddie leave her for the thrilling excitement of bureaucratic paperwork. Hen trudges towards the tables and collapses onto the first available seat. She runs her hands over her hair, back and forth, until the exhaustion seeps away into a bearable tiredness. Then she musters up the strength needed for telling her wife.

           There’s a message already waiting for her when she checks her phone. Blue light blinking ominously.

           You’re on the couch tonight.

           “…Chimney.”

[simplyclockwork]

Prompt Fic - irrational relationality

Prompt fill for @221beesplace

“Oh dear author could you write a ficlet like that but where Sherlock is needy and sad that John isn't paying him attention so Sherlock gets all clever somehow and gets John 's strong hands to yank and reel Sherlock's back to press hard against' John's front”

Not sure how 'clever' Sherlock was in this, but hopefully what I wrote works!

Read fic below the ‘see more’ or on my Ao3 account here 

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

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

As the day drew to an end, and the case he had been working on for just over two weeks drew to a close, solved at last, Sherlock felt a deep wave of satisfaction drop onto his shoulders. It had been a very trying scenario, fraught with complex paradigms and false leads, and he was pleased to finally present his conclusion to Lestrade.

Walking back to 221B, he found himself buzzing with a new energy, this one pleasant and soothing, sending thrills up his spine. He was looking forward to seeing John; to telling him about the case and how brilliant he had been in solving it. Feeling a pang in his chest, he realized he missed John—the case had kept them apart as Sherlock worked to solve the mystery presented to him. When he was busy with a case, John knew he was unavailable and, despite the newness of their relationship—4.3 months, to be exact—he seemed understanding.

Mostly.

Sherlock sighed, remembering a small row they’d had a week into the case, when John had tried to interrupt his thoughts with a kiss on the neck, amorous thoughts clearly on his mind, and Sherlock had all but bit his head off. Thinking back, Sherlock felt a little rueful—maybe a little guilty—for the reaction. And, as he mused over the incident, he realized he hadn’t seen or heard much from John in the time between then and now. Brow furrowed, turning the corner onto Baker Street, he tried to recall if John’s absence had been due to Sherlock mentally muting him, ignoring his presence in favour of work, or if John had actually stepped briefly out of their little life in anger.

Unable to pinpoint which was correct, his pace quickened and he all but jogged to the door of 221; pounded up the stairs and burst into the flat. John, sitting in his chair, jumped, almost tearing the open newspaper he held in his hands into pieces at the shock.

“Sod off, Sherlock!” He exclaimed, straightening the paper with slow hands. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Sherlock smirked. “Sorry, John.” He replied, shrugging off his coat. When he turned, John was once more reading the paper, a frown creasing the space between his brows. Sherlock strode over, dropping to a crouch beside the chair. Flattening his forearms upon the arm of the chair—pushing John’s elbow off in the process and earning himself a glare—he rested his chin atop the shelf they made. John cleared his throat, looking pointedly at the newspaper before him. Sherlock waited, received nothing for his patience, and pouted.

“I’ve solved the case, John.” He said finally, voice clearly expectant and deeply pleased. John’s lips quirked and the frown didn’t budge. Sherlock scowled and poked John’s shoulder. “John? Did you hear me? Have you gone momentarily deaf?”

With a mighty sigh, John folded the newspaper and settled it on the table. “I heard you, Sherlock.” He looked over at the detective, a strangely unimpressed look on his face. “What do you want?”

Taken aback by John’s roughness, Sherlock jerked back, eyes wide. He had not expected this response, and he desperately cast back into his memories of the past few weeks, trying once more to determine if John had been so mad the entire time. Because he was clearly mad now.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock schooled his face into an easy smile, settling back on his haunches, and letting his hands dangle loosely against his thighs. “I said I solved the case, John. Finally. It was very hard.” He smiled, preening a little at the impending praise he assumed John would bestow upon him; prepared himself to launch into a detailed outline of exactly how it all had gone down.

But John rolled his eyes. “Wow, great, good for you, Sherlock.” His voice dripped heavy with annoyance and sarcasm. “Shall I ring the Queen to arrange for your parade?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and he watched as John stood up, arms folded over his chest. “I’m going for a shower.” He said, turning abruptly and marching down the hall. Sherlock gaped after him, his shoulders slumping, proud chest deflating like a sad balloon.

The bathroom door closed with a hard click; shortly after, Sherlock heard the shower spray hitting against the tub. Perturbed, he got to his feet and sank into his own chair. Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, he stared thoughtfully at John’s empty chair before him, trying to sort out what had happened.

Clearly, John was upset with him. That much was evident, and he did not need to be a genius to see it. His memory was unhelpful when it came to pinpointing John’s mood during the case, so he had to assume it was because he had snapped at him when John attempted to initiate intimate contact between them.

Sherlock threw his hands up, exasperation bright in his face. Bloody relationships with their complicated social protocols! How was it his fault that John had taken it upon himself to bother Sherlock during a case? He knew the rules—work came first, full stop.

But, as he glared into the empty fireplace, he felt a ripple of uncertainty. Was it full stop? Was that still true, now that they had moved beyond friendship, into this confusing—yet brilliant—new chapter of coupling?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and scowled. This was infuriating. John was infuriating, and, worse, he was acting like a child.

The opening of the bathroom door jolted him from his thoughts, and he felt humidity flow into the air as steam drifted into the hall. John stepped out, and Sherlock offered a timid smile. But the other man did not look his way, just tightened the belt of his robe and mounted the stairs to his own room.

Sherlock frowned at that. John rarely used his old room anymore, not since they had begun sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, and he wondered how long it had been since John returned to his own room. He tried desperately to find an answer, but again was met with a blank recollection—he had not slept during the case, aside from passing out for twenty minutes on the sofa halfway through, so he wasn’t sure where John had slept.

However, hearing the hard, final way in which John closed the door to his room, Sherlock was fairly sure it hadn’t been in the bed they now shared. Exasperated and completely helpless in the grip of his own uncertainty, Sherlock stood and heaved a loud sigh. Without John in the vicinity to hear such a sound, his passive-aggressive gesture passed without reply.

Stalking into the kitchen, he began to bang cupboards and pots and pans, hoping the noise would draw John back downstairs to investigate the sudden noise. But, as he forcefully closed the fridge, the almost empty shelves rattling inside at the vigour, John did not emerge. Sherlock paused, listening; could just make out the sound of John walking across the floor above, but nothing more.

Gritting his teeth together, Sherlock bounded into the living room; plunked himself down on the couch and turned on the tv at an obnoxiously loud volume. He left it that way for a half hour, staring grimly at some comedy show, until Mrs. Hudson made her way up the stairs to complain, upon which he shut it off and shooed her away.

Rising to his feet, annoyance stiff in every line of his tall form, Sherlock walked resolutely to the stairs; stared up them and gritted his teeth. Finally, grabbing at the rail, he climbed to the second floor landing, eyes narrowed. Pausing outside the door to John’s room, he raised a hand to push the door open, then hesitated. Gauging potential protocols for an unfamiliar situation, he grudgingly knocked first. He rocked on his heels, folding his hands behind his back, and waited

Nothing.

Scowling, he knocked again, harder this time. When greeted with silence, he barked out: “John! I know you’re in there!” No answer came, and he raised a hand to his face, gripping the bridge of his nose. “John Hamish Watson!” He all but bellowed. “Do not ignore me!”

Exasperated at the continuing silence, he grabbed the door knob, prepared to launch into the room and confront his moody partner. However, when he tried to turn the handle, he found it locked and unmoving. Aghast, shock written across his face, Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out. When he at last spoke, it was in an impetuous whine, voice pitched high with disbelief.

“You’ve locked the door?” He declared, incredulous. Raising his fist, he banged resolutely on the door, a deep scowl on his face. “Really, John? Really?” He rattled the knob, balking at the irrationality of the move, before kicking at the bottom of the door with his toes. “John Watson, are you really going to ignore me like a sullen child?”

There was a soft sound from behind the door, a scuff and what might have been a quiet laugh, and Sherlock froze, face lighting up expectantly. But then silence stretched out and his brows drew down in a thunderous frown. He raised his hand again, prepared to break the damn door down if he had to, when it swung open, nearly hitting him where he stood. Stepping back in surprise, he found John standing in the doorway, still in his robe. Arms folded across his chest, he cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“Can I help you?” He asked, tilting his head as the detective seethed.

“You—!” Sherlock sputtered out, pointing an accusing finger in John’s amused face. “You were ignoring me!” He narrowed his eyes. John shrugged, a slow rise and fall of his shoulders, and made an expression that seemed to say ‘well—yeah’.

“Noticed that, did you?” John replied, leaning easily against the door frame. “I can’t imagine what that feels like. Being ignored by your partner?” His eyelashes fluttered in a parody of disbelief. “Gosh, must be absolutely awful.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open, and he snapped it shut with a hard click of teeth. Retracting his accusatory finger, his lips pushed out in a defiant pout.

“I see what you’re doing, John.” He said, and the other man quirked an eyebrow.

“Oh, you do? Thank god, I was so very worried it would fly right over your great big fat head.” John snapped, his arms tightening across his chest. Sherlock gaped at him, eyes wide and face incredulous.

“Fine, John.” He shot back. “I do not have to stay here and listen to this.” He spun around to stomp off, but John’s arm shot out, hand closing over Sherlock’s wrist. With a rough yanking motion, he reeled Sherlock backwards; anchored him in place against his chest with arms wrapped around the detective’s torso.

“Yes, Sherlock, you do.” John murmured, lips just brushing the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock quivered at the sensation, feeling the anger recede to faint annoyance at the feel of John’s solid chest against his back. He sighed; closed his eyes as John went on. “You don’t get to snap at me, ignore me for two bloody weeks, then decide everything is fine, just like that.” Sherlock squirmed in his arms.

“But John—” he began, falling silent when John squeezed him in his arms.

“No, Sherlock.” John said, linking his hands together in front of Sherlock’s waist. “You do not get to decide how our relationship works on just your terms. I get a say, too—that’s how this works. Okay?” Sherlock was silent and John gave him another squeeze. “Okay?”

Sherlock sighed and let the fight seep out of him, sinking into the warmth of John’s arms. “Yes, John.” He murmured, tilting his head to rest his cheek to the top of John’s head when the other man rested it on his shoulder. “Sorry.” He added, uncertainty creeping into his voice. John chuckled, a soft puff of air against Sherlock’s neck.

“I know you are, you absolute wanker.”

[pikapeppa]

Solavellan smut: Lift Your Voice High

More of my older Solavellan stuff that I never posted here in full! In short: Solas voice kink smut. Talk nerdy to me, Professor Fen’Harel.

Read on AO3 instead.

******************

The bed is cool where she expects it to be warm, and the unexpectedness of it wakes her up.

She shifts drowsily and pushes herself up onto one elbow. Her foot has strayed to his side of the bed and found it vacant. She brushes her messy bangs from her eyes and blinks owlishly into the dark. “Solas?”

His voice emanates from the corner where her desk is: “Here, vhenan.”

He sounds distracted, and Elia smiles in exasperation. Reading late again, she thinks fondly. As her eyes grow accustomed to the gloom, she picks out his shape in the dark; he’s hunched over her desk, and she hears the soft rustle of a page turning.

She slides out of bed and comes to stand behind him. She slides her palms up his naked back and around his shoulders to hug him from behind. He’s wearing only loose breeches, and his skin is cool to the touch, so she presses against him to warm him through her thin cotton shift. She brushes her lips against his temple.

“What are you reading?” she whispers.

He flips the book shut to show her the cover: Dalish Myths and Collected Truths Against. Elia huffs softly. “Written by a Chantry sister,” she murmurs. “I’m sure it’s entirely accurate and not biased in any way.”

Solas grumbles in acknowledgement. “The myths of one people can be the truths of another, but there’s no clarity to be found here. A case of the blind telling the deaf what to see by yelling at them.” He rubs his forehead tiredly.

Elia sits on the corner of the desk and strokes his chin with her thumb. “What are you searching for, exactly?”

He sighs, then leans his elbows on the table. “Those ancient artifacts. I wish to know what the Dalish know of them, but I’ve found nothing of value in this tome.”

Elia murmurs sympathetically. She’s already told him that she’d never encountered such artifacts before. “Remind me what you know about them?”

He runs a hand over his scalp. “It is as you already know: they measure the strength of the Veil, and activating them bolsters it. It may be possible to use them not only to measure, but to predict. To determine where rifts may appear, and to prevent them before they occur.” He shoots her a sidelong glance. “But I have told you this before. Do you truly wish to know more, or are you asking just to hear me speak?”

His expression is sly, and to Elia’s great pique, she blushes. She made the grave mistake yesterday of confessing to Solas how - well, stimulating - she found his voice to be, and he hasn’t let her forget it yet. She ducks her head shyly, hoping he can’t detect her flushed cheeks in the dim light.

“I do wish to know more,” she insists, and it’s true; everything he’s told her has nurtured the natural curiosity she always had about the Beyond. “The artifacts relate to the Fade, and I love knowing more about the Fade.” She folds her arms in satisfaction. “I still can’t believe we actually walked there. The shifting twists and turns, the surreality… It didn’t make sense, but somehow it did. Don’t you think?”

He leans back to look up at her, and though his face is calm, his eyes are bright with enthusiasm, all traces of weariness wiped from his posture. “Yes, indeed,” he agrees. “‘How does one pin down a dream? How can one control a thought so that it might travel always the same course from conception to completion? Only when I let go of my desires and humbled myself was the Fade opened to me.’”

Elia stares at him. He just recited one of those odd scraps of memory from the Fade perfectly verbatim. “Were you taking notes while we were trying to escape?” she asks incredulously.

He shakes his head and clasps his hands over his abdomen. “I have an excellent memory.”

She manages a smile in response, but her composure is slipping. His velveteen voice reeling off those academic words is unbalancing her more than she cares to admit. A breathless lifting feeling ripples just beneath her skin, languid but hungry, and she struggles to find an appropriate reply.

Another question, she thinks desperately. Solas enjoys questions, and she enjoys his answers. Learning is good.

His head is tilted slightly to the side, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips as he studies her. She resolutely ignores his smugness. “Have you ever made friends with a demon?” she asks.

He hesitates and pouts his lips slightly in thought, and Elia shamelessly eyes the plumpness of his mouth. “Remember, demons are spirits twisted from their purpose by the base intents of men. The Chantry believes them separate entities, but as you know, this is false.” He sighs. “That being said, it is… difficult to befriend a demon. They are spirits corrupted, and the communion they seek with the living is… not like that of a pure spirit. But I have helped demons before.” Solas reaches over and taps her fingers, which are resting lightly in her lap. “As you have done, Elia. A Chantry mage would see my friend destroyed, but you helped to set it free.”

Elia wilts slightly at the memory. “But it died. We couldn’t save it.”

Solas shakes his head. “It could not have asked a kinder fate. It was a gentle spirit, broken by cruel bindings. We set her free together.”

Elia meets his eyes. His face is serious but warm, and his hand has drifted from her fingers to her knee. His palm is hot through her shift, a comforting weight on her leg, and a fluttering of warm complicity lifts her heart, even as a ripple of excitement traces up her spine.

He gazes at her for a moment longer, then takes her hand again and rises from the chair. “Come, vhenan. Let us retire.”  

She lets him to lead her back to bed. He slips under the covers and flops down on his back with a contented sigh, and she slides in beside him and props her chin on her fist. She feels wide awake now, and she’s not finished asking questions. “Solas, you once said that blood magic makes it harder to enter the Fade. Why is that?”

He folds his arms comfortably behind his head, and Elia steals a glance at the pale expanse of his chest and the lean lines of his abs. “It starts with mana: the potential for magic,” he explains. “It is the strength of one’s mana that makes for a stronger mage, and it is mana that allows you to draw magic from the Fade. This power diminishes with heavy use of blood magic, like pulling from wind instead of water. Unfortunately, you cannot use heavily of both. Those who rely too much on blood magic will find their mana depleted. They may lose their ability entirely to connect with the Fade. It is a risk I would never dare take.”

His voice is soft and calm, like a spring river rolling over mossy stones. She forces herself to breathe normally as she listens to him talk. Solas is a wellspring of information, always with an answer or a suggestion for where to find one, yet Elia knows she’s the only one he truly permits to dip into his depths. She’s a moth to the flame of his intelligence, drawn inexorably into the glowing light of his knowledge.  

He continues to speak. “There is another difference between the two, from which the superstitions must surely have risen. True Fade magic requires patience, and a certain… oneness with the uncertainty of the Fade. An ability to balance two realities in a single hand. In the days of Elvhenan, some spells took years to cast. Echoes would linger for centuries, harmonizing with new magic in an unending symphony. Blood magic can be faster and more direct: a brief burst of power instead of a long-lasting pull. If one turns to blood magic in desperation or impatience, this is where the danger lies.”

His voice is like melted butter, basting the simmering warmth in her centre. His tone is serious and thoughtful, his words heavy with the weight of wisdom, and she swears she can feel them skimming over her skin like a hot summer breeze, lifting the fine hairs on her arms and at the back of her neck.

She nestles down beside him and skims her hand across his chest, and he curls his arm around her shoulders as he continues. “This, of course, is a simplification,” he says. “Magic obeys no strict dichotomies. Blood magic can manifest as a slow and gradual rise, just as Fade magic can erupt in raw surges like the stonefist spell. There are exceptions to every alleged rule that the Chantry tries to teach.”

Elia murmurs a preoccupied agreement. She’s pressed against his side, and his voice is vibrating through his chest and into her body, drawing a growing proportion of her attention.  “I see what you mean about a oneness with uncertainty,” she says.

“Mm,” he agrees lazily. “Nothing is ever certain about the Fade. That is what makes it so fascinating and beautiful, a study both academic and artistic.”

His voice is poetic and confident, and Elia presses herself subtly against the angle of his hip. The soft fabric of his breeches grazes her inner thigh, and she inhales slowly to try and calm herself, but the depth of her own breath betrays her, lifting her perversely higher into her own restless libido.

“Academia and art: your areas of expertise. No wonder you love the Fade,” she whispers.

He chuckles softly. The sound is deep and warm, emanating from low in his throat, and Elia bites her lip, wondering how long she’ll be able to hide her arousal from him. She does want to continue this discussion, she does, but she’s tumbled into the very trap he teased her about just a few short minutes ago: she wants him to keep talking, but her reasons are entirely lascivious now.

She has one more question for him, and it’s a question she would normally never ask, but her inhibitions are swiftly dissolving as her desire fans higher. The mere press of her own smallclothes between her legs is pleasurable, making her feel slightly reckless, and her wayward mouth opens of its own accord. “Solas… Do you remember when Blackwall asked you if you knew any spirits as more than friends?”

He turns his head to look at her with one eyebrow raised. “Will we be speaking of you past lovers next?”

Through the haze of her arousal, she feels a spike of triumph. Ah, confirmation, she thinks. He’d talked his way around answering Blackwall’s ribald query, but now she knows for sure: he’s had sex with spirits. “We can if you like,” she replies. “But I’m not trying to pry. I’m just curious. What is it like?”

“What is what like?” he murmurs. His stroking thumb on her shoulder grazes the edge of her collarbone. It’s a simple caress, inherently innocent and light, but in her current state, Elia almost moans at the touch.

She gulps back the sound and tries to control the cadence of her own voice. “Being intimate with spirits. Is it difficult? Or…? They don’t have bodies that we can touch, so how…?”

She trails off vaguely and closes her eyes as his fingers slide along the back of her neck and into the short tufts of her hair. “That’s neither entirely true nor false,” he says quietly. “Some demons can strike us physically. Their claws are as real and solid as any bear’s. Their form matches their purpose, which is to maim.”

Elia is listening; she is. But his voice is more resonant than thunder, rousing the slow and steady roar within her core. His fingers are a gentle fist at the nape of her neck, persuasive and sweet, and she cranes her head back into his grip and arches slightly into his chest. “That’s true,” she breathes.

“It is the same with sex,” Solas says, and a tiny whimper of longing finally slips from her throat. The mere word in his silken voice ignites the smouldering tinder of lust in her body, and she can’t help herself; she slides her leg over his, trapping the lean line of his thigh against her groin, and presses shamelessly against him.

Meanwhile, Solas continues to talk. “A spirit becomes more corporeal if this best suits their purpose. If the purpose is intimate and the partner is kind, a spirit can become quite solid indeed.”

His voice is pitched low and deep with secrets. His fist tightens in her hair, and she arches obediently against his chest. Her nipples are budded and hard, aching for his touch, and she silently curses the veil of her cotton shift for standing between them.

She rubs herself shamelessly against his thigh. She’s absolutely wet with desire, her smallclothes clinging to the apex of her thighs, but she’s beyond caring now. “I want to know more,” she breathes. “Tell me more.”

He releases her hair and strokes her neck lightly before acquiescing to her demand. “Courting a solid spirit is a simple matter, if your intentions are pure,” he says. “But intimacy with a noncorporeal spirit is possible too. It simply requires a different set of skills. A certain type of magic.”

Abruptly he rolls towards her and traps her between his forearms. His eyes flare with a brilliant blue glow for the briefest instant, and Elia gasps with surprise. Despite her shock, she lifts her hips eagerly to meet him, but he holds his hips torturously out of reach.

Solas lowers his mouth to her ear. “Shall I show you?”

His voice is rough, a feral growl of desire, and Elia arches towards him with desperation in every inch of her spine. “Yes,” she begs. “Show and tell?”

“Of course,” Solas purrs. He sits back on his heels.

Elia keens with distress and spreads her legs in a desperate bid to tempt him close. “Solas, please!”

“Patience, vhenan,” he says. His voice is a soothing command, sharp and soft in one. He pushes her shift up above her belly and rests his palm carefully on the flat on her abdomen. “Hold your mind in that liminal space between our worlds.”

Elia’s body is thrumming, wild with heat and desire, but she forces herself to breathe slowly and do as he taught her: with eyes closed tight and a few deep, careful breaths, she slips into the threshold of the Fade. The sheets are still tangled around her feet, the pillow pressing against her head, but she’s weightless at the same time, occupying a self slightly separate from her own.

His voice slides against her mind as his hands slide her smallclothes away. “The flavour is unique with different spirits, much like a tasting of wines. A spirit of curiosity seeks a different kind of lover than a spirit of pure desire.”

Gentle licks. Playful lapping. His magic brushes over her naked body, impish and flighty: a wisp between her toes, at the back of her knees, sliding over the hopeless moisture between her legs. She whimpers and arches into it, but it’s already moved along. It dips into her navel, slides up and over the puckered peaks of her breasts, curls into the hollow of her throat and through the strands of her hair.

His voice skims over her body, playful and light, yet sinking deep beneath her skin and coursing through the rivers of her veins. “A spirit of curiosity wants to explore,” he explains. “To touch and be touched. To discover what touching means. What areas make a lover gasp, and the meaning behind that very sound.”

Elia holds her breath in frenzied anticipation. Her fists are clenched in the sheets as the feathery fingers of his magic flit across her body. It skims across each of her ribs, slides into the hollow of her hips, then floats lightly over her heat.

She moans uninhibitedly, wanting to encourage him to stay in place. His palm is steady and grounding on her belly, but the flicker of his magic skips playfully away, then returns in a scintillating wash between her legs that makes her cry out.

The sensation finally comes to rest where it’s most desperately needed, and it’s unlike any she’s ever had before; it’s like the gentlest current she could imagine, buzzing ever-so-lightly against her clit. The buzz of magic expands in electric tendrils from her swollen bud up to the hardness of her nipples, and she arches her back like a bow and keens with rapture.

Solas speaks again, his voice both faraway and directly in her ear. “A spirit of curiosity is both patient and not. It may linger for time uncounted, or it may rush all at once towards the promise of pleasure. All you know for sure is that it will never play the same way twice.”

She’s buzzing, alive, electric and sparking; his magic flickers and vibrates against her, sculpting itself along the length of her cleft and possessively entrapping her clit, rippling over her breasts with a combination of sweetness and bite. The delicious buzzing between her legs is gentle yet firm, determined but patient, swirling and vibrating against the bud of her pleasure with the perfect combination of light and hard. She gasps for breath, then suddenly she comes with a burst of glory, her vision going white behind her closed eyelids.

She cries out, a pleading cry of pleasure, and Solas’s hand strokes the flat of her belly until she calms. Then he speaks again. “A spirit of pure desire calls for a different sort of touch. It is voracious, eager, and unrelenting. And yet it is a spirit, and it relies on its partner to provide the shape of its hunger.”

His voice is hotter and more intense than before, and somehow Elia knows just what to do; slowly but confidently, as though in a dream, she pushes herself to her knees and turns to face the head of the bed. She leans her forearms against the wall and arches her back, offering herself to her lover’s skillful hands.

But it is not his hands that he uses to please her; he remains sitting back on his knees, his palms resting peacefully on his thighs as he continues to talk. “A spirit of pure desire is rendered witless by a firm magical touch,” he tells her.

Suddenly Elia pounds the wall with her fists and lets out a guttural cry. A smooth spear of magic is filling her up, stretching and pulsing deep inside of her. His magic curls against her sweet spot, that tiny bundle of nerves, and she sobs with sudden pleasure and grips her hair with her fingers.

The magic inside of her swells and contracts hard and fast. Another spear of magic appears, sliding against the periphery of her clit with an equally single-minded focus. With every powerful pulse, pleasure courses through her veins to the tips of her fingers and toes, rendering them slightly numb with intolerable ecstasy.

As the pulsing in her core waxes and wanes, sinuous ropes of his magic twine around her wrists, stretching her arms against the wall and squeezing with a light pressure. Ropes of magic slide up her belly, over her breasts and around her throat, squeezing gently and carefully, and she mewls with unconcealed bliss. His magic both ties her and fills her, fulfilling fantasies she hadn’t yet had the chance to express aloud.

Faster than she could have imagined possible, her climax is upon her again, crashing over her like a Storm Coast tsunami, and she sobs unabashedly with pleasure. Through her mind-numbing rapture, she can hear his voice: “A spirit of pure desire can peak and crest in perpetuity, never stopping until their partner decides to go.”

His caramel-smooth voice is like a breeze against her sweat-dampened skin, and she suddenly bursts out a breathless laugh. Orgasms forever? she thinks, with a combination of bliss and hysteria. She’s already feeling boneless, and she gets the sense that Solas is only just getting started.

As though he’s read her mind, he speaks again, and his tone is slightly apologetic. “Unfortunately, vhenan, a man can only resist temptation for so long. Have I answered your questions to your satisfaction?”

“Yes,” she gasps.

When Solas replies, his voice is no longer completely controlled; it now holds a distinct thread of greedy need. “I would claim you now as only a mortal lover can, if you would have me.”

“Yes!” she wails.

Suddenly he presses against her, the heat and hardness of his chest flush to her back and his right palm flush to the back of her hand, his fingers twining with hers. He curls his left arm around her waist and slides the length of his cock to tease between her legs.

It’s too much, and not nearly enough. “Now, Solas,” she begs. “I want you now.”

“Ma nuvenin, vhenan,” he breathes. With one smooth thrust, he sheathes his cock inside of her to the hilt.

Elia cries out with shameless pleasure, and Solas groans against her ear. The broken sound of his pleasure is vulnerable and true, the unmistakable sound of a man coming home, and Elia’s eyes suddenly burn with tears. His magic was incredible, indescribable, a surging of pleasure the likes of which she’s never before experienced, but this - her tender and mysterious lover clutching her close, wrapping her in the shelter of his arms as he buries himself in her - this is something that no amount of magic can ever replace.

He thrusts into her slow and deep, his cock driving perfectly along her sensitive inner walls and peeling whimpers of pleasure from her throat. His lips braise her shoulder blade, a wash of kisses that travel along her shoulder to the nape of her neck. He tastes her neck with tongue and teeth, his fingers clenching slightly against her belly.

Elia pants breathlessly as his thrusting hips find a perfect driving rhythm. His fingers drift low to ghost ever-so-gently over the sensitive bud of her clit. He kisses her neck, then presses his lips to the pointed shell of her ear. “Ar nuvenal ma hima’mah elgar’lath, ar’an nuva saron elgar’vhenan bellanaris.”

His voice is breathy and tender, and a tear runs down her cheek even as a fresh wave of pleasure begins to build in her core. She couldn’t catch every word he said, but she heard ‘love’ and ‘the Fade’ and ‘forever’, and the melding of these words together takes her breath away.

Solas flexes his hips against her, his cock filling and stretching her in the most exquisite way as his fingers slide careful and light over the tenderness of her clit. “Come for me, vhenan,” he murmurs.

Her body surrenders to his command. She arches back against him and cries out, her fists clenching and her body spasming with helpless pleasure, and he squeezes the fingers of her right hand as she shudders against his chest.

As she grows calm and boneless again, his fingers slide away from the curls between her legs to cradle her breast. Slowly but surely, the driving of his hips picks up speed until he’s fucking her ferociously. He bites her neck, and she gasps with pain and pleasure and grips her hair in her fingers. She bucks back against him, eager to take every inch of him, to feel him reaching deep, deeper than his magic could ever hope to go. When he finally comes, his body shudders against her back with a comforting weight, and her name ghosts from his lips like a breathless benediction.

They remain frozen in a brilliant tableau of love as they recover. Solas’s lips brush her back as he pants for breath, his forehead pressed to her spine and his left arm tight around her waist. Eventually he pulls away, finally releasing her right hand, and gently tugs her into his arms as he settles back down in bed.

Elia snuggles happily against his side, relishing in the slight stickiness of their skin. She kisses the tendon in his neck, then licks the salt from her lips. “Solas, what did you say? During… when you were… you said something in Elvhen. What was it?”

He sighs heavily. “It was nothing. I should not have… It was a foolish man’s fancy.”

Elia frowns. He sounds suddenly weary, and not just with the night's exertions; he sounds tired down to his bones.

She opens her mouth to question him further, but he rolls slowly towards her and cups her face with one palm. He strokes his thumb over her vallaslin, wiping the lingering queries from her mind. His eyes are soft and deep, and Elia drowns in their granite depths before he shifts closer and kisses her.

She parts her lips dreamily as he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her flush to him. She slides her palm along the wiry strength of his arm and clasps his neck, her fingers stroking his jaw and the tip of his ear. His tongue slides against hers in a gentle dance before tracing delicately along her lower lip.

She tightens her fingers against his neck. “Ar lath ma,” she whispers.

“I love you,” he replies. His tone is unexpectedly fierce. “More than any other thing in this world.”

His arm is tense around her waist, clutching her close, and she strokes his neck soothingly, uncertain where his sudden tension is coming from. She kisses him sweetly until his muscles become smooth beneath her fingers.

Eventually her languidly closed eyelids refuse to stay open, and she nestles into his chest, tucking her head under his chin. “Good night, Solas,” she murmurs. “I’ll meet you in the Fade.”

He chuckles sleepily. “You haven’t yet tired of me?”

She wraps her leg over his and hugs him close. His tone is teasing, but her answer is serious. “Never,” she says. “I’ll never tire of you.”

He’s silent for a long time, and Elia’s mind drifts in and out like the lapping of low tide. The rise and fall of his chest is a soothing lullaby, his fingers in her hair like a gentle breeze.

She floats over Skyhold, skimming over the Hinterlands and the Emerald Graves and Val Royeaux. His voice is wise and calm, and it carries her like griffon’s wings.

Don't make such promises, vhenan. I could never hold you to them.

Elia smiles. Solas doesn’t have to hold her to anything. With the strength of his voice lifting her high, she’s completely free.

[erickadracula]

Uncertainty - Chapter II

   They had finished filling the last tube with that liquid that he had trouble ignoring, although it was true that for years he had domesticated his passion for blood, there were times, from time to time since Ericka had arrived, where that sweet essence made him to be curious and have an itching in his throat. He felt very guilty the first few times in which he had apologized to the blonde during a confession in which he felt like the worst of monsters and which she only found funny and also some excitement about those dark thoughts.

   "You crave it, right? Don’t deny it." She looked at him mischievously as she withdrew the arm in which they had just injected her.

   That joke took him out of those thoughts and he broke with seriousness that scene

   "I ... I ... Ericka! why do you say that and in front of the doctor?” He felt slightly embarrassed at that inquisition, his wife knew how to make macabre jokes.

   "I would say it's more like a statement, dear." giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek, while trying to calm him down, Drac looked like a mess, his impatience was reflected in his feet that repeatedly hit the ground and the sound of him grinding his teeth.

   The doctor gave one of the nurses the tray with the samples, hoping that they would not throw them away with one of her clumsy movements, while preparing to continue with the consultation.

   “Countess, there are some routine questions that I want to ask you to make your medical history, luckily you are in good health and had not had the opportunity to attend you.” He approached her with a notebook.

   "Excuse me, could I get up while you ask me your questions?, I'm tired of being here and it would be good for me to stand up a little bit." Feeling like a patient in a hospital did not help her at all and it was making her bad.

   "I would recommend that you do not, you could suffer dizziness, wait a bit to stabilize." He approached with a chair and started to fill out a pre-designed form.

   When she heard him, she remembered how a couple of days ago she'd felt sudden dizziness, but she had considered them insignificant enough to not have mentioned them before, it must have been something that had made her feel bad or some kind of decompensation. She wondered if it was reasonable to say it in front of Drac, who would probably start with a reproach full of exaggeration for not having said it before. The vampire was a being who cared for her continuously and she avoided feeding that behavior.

   “I felt dizzy ..." she turned to see him quickly and then returned the look again to his interlocutor "A few days ago"

   Gillman did not have to be a genius to guess what that could be about.

   "Excuse me Count, but what I'm going to ask your wife is necessary." The doctor could not deny that it really bothered him that Dracula was there, but what could he do, he was used to that behavior every time someone from the family came to consultation.

   Ericka saw this situation very strange, the doctor was afraid of Dracula and did not allow him to do his job well and she frankly wanted to finish all this as quickly as possible. So, she should interfere for the poor guy.

   "Dear, maybe it's better for you to wait outside and let me talk to him alone." The doctor seemed to thank her for that suggestion deeply.

   "But why?" he raised his voice surprised, "If I am the kindest and most attentive husband there is, I have behaved well..." crossing his arms and pouting, he did not understand why he could not be present, he was not doing anything bad, more than worrying about his beloved wife, like any normal husband would do.

   "Come on! in return I promise not to work overtime, yes?” Winking at him and hoping that would work, she had played her trump card, which she reserved for special occasions. With this, he could not say no, and it happened. The poor vampire had not realized that he had left Ericka's hand red because of all the nervousness that he had, he had kept it all this time firmly grasped.

   He left as if he were a punished child, slowly and with the eyes of a puppy, she felt certain tenderness to see him like that, but now she understood why Mavis and the others disappeared to go to the doctor without telling anyone, surely this was the reason.

   She had been sitting in a chair where she could be more comfortable, or at least that she believed so, because she did not deny that getting out of bed had been a very bad idea. Each of her joints had hurt at the time of getting up, but she would not simply recognize it. She did not want to stay in that place, she had never been in a hospital and she hated it.

   “Let the formalities outside please.” She tried to break the ice and tried to remove all those formalisms that she detested, even while being a captain and while having an education based on status, titles, rankings and positions, she had never got used to that.

   "I'm more comfortable like that, Countess. The series of questions I'm going to ask you will seem intrusive..."

   "Go ahead, I know you are just doing your job." She tried crossing her legs but immediately uncrossed them because of the pain.

   “Do you and your husband take any kind of precautions?” biting his tongue at that audacity, he thought it would have been a good idea that another doctor had attended her and who would not have been cornered by those fangs. He did not want to be on his skin right now.

   “Do you mean that if we are taking care of ourselves with some type of contraceptive? I understand what you are referring to Doctor.” She laughed a little at the shyness of someone who looked professional enough to have all the confidence of the Dracula family.

   "Yes, the dizziness and fainting make me believe that you could be..."

   "Pregnant? I don’t think so Doctor, Drac and I have talked about that and we have not considered it, it is not within my plans." That was ridiculous for her and for some reason it was making her get the creeps.

   “Countess, it is not that you consider it or not, I’ll ask you the question again: Do you and your husband take any kind of precautions, use contraceptives?”

   "Are you serious? No, vampires don’t use condoms, it's not like they could use them anyway, you should know." That was starting to irritate her, that possibility was not pleasing her at all and she was starting to feel terrified. “And as for me, I don’t take any kind of pills or hormones."

   "Please, keep it only as a possibility, it can also be anemia or something minor, do not get upset." He did not know how to handle things, he would only have to wait for the analysis to be ready so he could not be blamed for anything, that blonde woman also looked dangerous.

   Gillman and Ericka were aware of what the statistics on fertility among vampires said, which was much lower than that of humans and also the chances that she could get pregnant drastically decreased because of other factors: like her age. She knew that to at age 35, pregnancies could not only be riskier, they were less frequent and some did not come to an end. She had never cared about this topic, she had not really thought about motherhood and although her great-grandfather had once touched the subject by telling her that it was necessary to marry in order to procreate -- that it was an obligation and her duty to the Legacy, for her it had only been foolish words that had been ignored but that was before meeting Drac. Then, like any couple, they had spoken about it and he had been open to the possibility and had even told her some stories of when his wife was pregnant with Mavis. He sounded very happy with those memories and she could not deny that all this caused a little jealousy, doubts and many insecurities. What if he could never love her in that way? or worse, love their child as he loved her daughter? it hurt to think of those possibilities. He was a model father, she could see that, but she did not think it would be the same in her case, although it was true that Drac had previously joked that he was too old to have children and she was not exactly a young girl.

   A few months after having married, just returning from her honeymoon, she had missed a menstrual period, she had felt those nausea, everything pointed to that she could be pregnant. She did not want to say anything to the vampire to avoid any disappointment, she had decided to take a trip to a nearby city. She had entered a pharmacy and had bought with all the embarrassment in the world a pregnancy test. She had gone to the bathroom of a restaurant and having waited for the necessary minutes and with her hands trembling, she saw that result: negative. She decided to go buy two more, it could have been a mistake. She had to be sure that she had not gone there in vain. She tried the second one, she was afraid and when she looked at it she only saw a vertical line, a resounding no again, what if the third one the difference, what if two vertical lines appeared but sadly it was not like that ...

   Leaving the bathroom, with her eyes on the ground, on her cheek ran a single tear. Her face reflected sadness, she had murmured hundreds of times on the way there that should not be any hopes up, that it could be a false alarm and that they were not looking for it anyway.

   That memory came to Ericka as a whirlwind, suddenly reality hit her. She was sitting there, still in pain listening to the doctor's words, the last thing she understood was that he was recommending vitamins and that their sleep schedules to be more regular.

   "Thanks doctor, can I ask you one last thing?"

   "Yes of course whatever you like," he said while signing a recipe with some kind of scribbling that could not be distinguished well. “When your results are in, I will contact you.”

   She tried to choose her words and rubbed her hands nervously “Don’t tell my husband, I would prefer to tell him myself. Also, we have to see what the results say."

@hellodrerickarulzht3

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Drunk Confessions

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam

Word Count: 1,337

Warnings: Drunk!Reader, Annoyed!Dean, feelings confessed, fluffy Dean at the end

Request: Hey can u do a dean x reader where the boys go on a hunt and they come back to the reader blasting music, dancing on the table, with a bottle of Jack in her hand and she admits her feeling for him

Author’s Note: If you want to be a Queen or a Dean Bean, let me know and I’ll add you to the lists! So sorry this is out so late, I hope whoever requested it, that you like it!

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

Being alone in the Bunker was fun. It was big and spacious, giving you more than enough space to do the things you wanted to do without Sam or Dean bothering you. Ah, Dean Winchester. Him and his brother were out on a hunt right now but that didn’t stop you from thinking about him.

He was always on your mind, whether that be his voice, his body, his eyes, the way he cooked or cleaned, the way his fixed his car up, the way he held a gun or anything for that matter, the way he hustled people in pool, the way he drove, and especially the way he killed monsters.

He was just a hero to you but there was no way you’d be able to tell him your feelings. You haven’t been with the Winchesters long enough to really know Dean. You’ve heard stories about his past and you even spent a night or two talking with Sam about Dean.

Sam knew about your little crush with Dean and tried to tell you everything but there were some things that Dean needed to tell you himself. Which was fine, you didn’t need to know everything now but you got what you needed from Sam anyways.

Dean was a ladies’ man and he always went home with a different girl every night, leaving in the morning. He didn’t do feelings and you knew that if you came clean to him, you would make a fool out yourself and have to leave to save everyone from the awkwardness that would follow.

You tried to get him off your mind but that didn’t happen and you knew that if you added alcohol into the mix, there was a really good chance you would be going to be with your vibrator to spend the night in false bliss.

But, you were alone now and you were glad of that. The boys were due back for tomorrow morning, so you grabbed a bottle of Jack, turned the music up, climbed up on one of the tables in the library and danced your ass off.

You were glad they insisted you stay home on this case because you didn’t really feel like going. Song after song played but you never got tired of dancing. The bottle of Jack was full in the beginning and now, you were almost done with it.

You were so drunk, that you didn’t hear a door opening and closing, footsteps coming closer to you. You only acknowledged that someone was in the room when they turned off the music.

“Hey! Where did the music go?” You slurred, your eyes landing on a pissed off Dean and an amused Sam.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, setting down his bag by the door.

“Dancing! It’s so much fun up here! Hi Dean!” You said, looking at Dean, attempting to wink at him. All you did was blink.

“Okay, good luck, Dean. She’s all yours.” Sam booked it out of the library, not wanting to see the aftermath of this situation.

“Alright, sweetheart, come on, let’s get you to bed.” Dean said, sighing as he walked to the table.

“No! I want to dance some more!” You pouted and threw your hands up, letting go of the bottle of alcohol. You watched as it fell to the ground but not before Dean caught it before it could shatter.

“Okay, get down or I will get you down myself.” Dean said, putting the almost finished bottle on the other table.

“I guess you’re going to have to come get me then.” You said with a grin, backing up a little. Dean watched you and he sighed, nodding at this. He walked in the opposite direction, going around the table where he knew you would fall.

He was right, you tried to follow his movements but you were drunk and ended up stepping the wrong way, falling off the table. Dean easily caught you, giving you one of Sam’s famous bitch faces.

“Don’t look at me like that, Winchester.” You slurred, grinning as you stared at him.

“We’re going to get you to bed after you drink some water. Come on.” He put you on your feet but you knew you wouldn’t be able to walk on your own. Dean helped you to the kitchen and got you a glass of water, giving you some pills to take. You took them, not knowing what they were to begin with.

You yawned and fell against Dean as he chuckled. He picked you up bridal style and walked you to your room, laying you in bed.

“What are you doing home?” You asked, your mind finally catching up on its own.

“The case ended early. I need you to stay still. Come on, go to sleep.” Dean said, trying to get your squirming body to stop moving.

“No, Dean, I need one more thing.” You complained.

“What is it?” He asked, his face close to yours.

“A goodnight kiss from you. Come on.” You puckered your lips up and leaned forward, expecting to hit another pair of lips but they never came.

“No, what you need is some sleep.” Dean sighed and moved away. He would like to kiss you but now while you were this wasted. He wanted you to be sober for it.

“Come on, Dean, don’t you kiss the people you love? I love you and I want to kiss you.” You admitted your deep feelings for him. He froze, watching you lay back on the bed. Once your head hit the pillow, you were out like a light, already letting out some light snores.

This won’t be forgotten from him.

In the morning, you groaned, a headache starting to grow. You shifted in bed and saw Dean enter your room with a glass of water and some pills. You gratefully took the pills, swallowing them down in a big gulp.

“What happened last night?” You asked. You saw him staring at you with a certain expression you were too tired to figure out. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Did you mean it?” He asked.

“Did I mean what? All I remember was me grabbing the alcohol and turning on some music. Then you and Sam came home and you put me to bed. You tried to get to me to sleep but all I wanted to do was… Oh my God, I am so sorry, Dean.” You groaned, remembering last night. You tried to kiss him and he clearly didn’t want to.

“I’m not talking about you trying to kiss me.” Dean said. You looked at him, not knowing what this was about.

“What is it, then?”

“Do you love me?” He asked. Your eyes widened, suddenly remembering that you told him you loved him.

“Well, I mean, of course I love you, like a friend, I mean.” You stuttered. If Dean was dumb, he wouldn’t know you were lying. But he was smart and he knew immediately you were lying.

“That's bullshit.” He said, putting the glass of water on your nightstand.

“I can leave the Bunker if you want me to. I can force my feelings down or we can pretend this never happened.” You were cut off by his lips. You closed your eyes and kissed him back. But before the kiss could go any further, he pulled away.

“What?” That was all you could say.

“First things first, brush your teeth. You stink,” He said with a grin, getting up. You threw a pillow at him, smiling as well.

“Asshole.” You said playfully.

“Secondly, I’ll make breakfast so you can get some food in you.” He walked to the door and opened it, pausing before he left.

“And the third thing?” You asked.

“We’re going to go to my room and we can properly break in this new relationship with a good old fashioned make out.” He said with a wink, leaving the room.

Wait, did he say relationship?

The Queens:

@maddieburcham1 @ginamsmith @mogaruke @whit85-blog @inlovewithbja @spn67-sister @kdfrqqg @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @roxyspearing @supercalifragilistic26 @mishamigose @cobrakai1967 @essie1876 @wishedworld @crispychrissy @laqueus-ludovicus  @nostalgic-uncertainty @jerk-bitch-and-an-angel @potterhead1265 @starswirlblitz @untitled39887 @ta-n-ja @deans-fallen-angel-boy @scarletluvscas @notnaturalanahi @tahbehonest @stay-in--place @innernightwerewolf @dreaminofdean @posiemax @donnaintx @mikey1822 @alexandriajanae4 @li-ssu @just-another-winchester @obsessivecompulsivespn @emoryhemsworth @newtospnfandom 

The Dean Beans:

@akshi8278 @mega-mrs-dean-winchester @winchesterandpie @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @carribear31 @tacklesackles @oreosatmidnight @not-naturalfangirl  @missselinakitty @iam-a-cutiepie @kristendansmith @milo-winchester-4ever @jensenackesl @codyshany316  @pheonyxstorm @helllonearth

[abirdandabeast]

Ten Easy Steps to Mending a Broken Heart (Teaser)

Step One:

Love yourself.

It’s a good idea to remind yourself why you’re awesome, as it helps lift you up when you’re feeling down! Make a list if you have to, and take some time to reflect.

Raven’s body felt like lead as she followed her teammates back into the tower. Today had been a bit of a rough day, and she was really, really looking forward to a nice hot bath.

They’d just dragged Plasmus back to prison, again. Some idiot kept waking him up, despite their best efforts to coordinate with the prison and keep him under lock and key. As a result, each and every one of them got doused in Plasmus’s body goop and stank of trash. Plus, there was the resulting muscle cramps and strains that accompanied any strenuous battle.

So yeah. She really wanted that bath.

“Damn, that was rough,” Cyborg said. He stifled a yawn, the keys jingling in his hands as he turned and locked the T-car. “I’m gonna order some pizza. Y’all in?”

“Nah,” Beast Boy said. “I’m gonna just head to bed.”

His dispassionate voice snagged Raven’s attention, and she felt her chest tighten at the changeling’s drooped ears as he retreated to the elevator. Through her emphatic walls, a trickle of blue haze snaked in, tickling her senses.

This...change...in his demeanor had been the norm as of late. It had come to light as a result of Terra’s supposed reappearance, when he failed to bring her back to the Titans. Raven never learned of exactly what went down between them, but she got the gist of it.

Terra wanted nothing to do with them.

Beast Boy seemed to shrug it off, always mumbling something about her memory not being intact. Raven had no way of knowing if this was the case; honestly, her survival was as close to a miracle as she had ever witnessed. By all means, she should be dead.

She was dead, as far as Raven had known.

Raven remembered the short vigil vividly; her clenched fists as she stared at Terra’s statue, hoping, wishing, praying for a glimmer of light within the stone.

Only to feel nothing.

Despite her deep seated hatred for what the geomancer had done, Raven still couldn’t help but wish she could do something, anything, to make it all better. Memories of girls’ nights were burned into her mind, filled with movie marathons and laughter. They shared secrets. Hopes and dreams. They were friends.

Maybe that was why Terra’s betrayal had hurt so much.  

After the vigil, Raven had spent countless nights pouring over ancient documents and scripts, searching for any sort of spell or incantation that could potentially reverse Terra’s demise. She read so many cramped writings in ill-studied languages, that her eyes felt constantly sore.

The worst part; she came up empty.

Not that she was surprised. Raising the dead was always a magical no-go. Still, at least some part of Terra had become a part of their family, and Raven had to at least try. And when nothing came to light, she let it go. Her death was hard enough; there was no need to push false hope into the carnage.

In time, things had gotten better. At least, up until Beast Boy’s apparent relapse.

“Shall I make friend Beast Boy the pudding of sadness again?” Starfire asked, concern lacing her voice. Robin sighed heavily, shaking his head.

“No, Star, just let him be. He probably just needs some time.” The Titan leader struck out towards the elevator, Cyborg and Starfire both on his heels. Raven hung back, biting her lip. Her mind was ablaze with memories of Beast Boy following Terra’s death.

She never saw him outside of his room, missions and training aside. His skin had grown pale, his gaze hollow, and his shoulders drawn. He barely spoke and barely ate, and it showed. Raven remembered helping him up one time in battle, her powers almost bursting from the shock of how thin he was.  

It was bad.

Worse, yet, was that she could literally feel what he felt. She remembered slipping past his room that first night, her eyes widening as she was immediately sucked into the hurricane of despair tearing him apart. She grew dizzy, a sudden fear of drowning springing up in her mind. Raven had clung to the wall, barely managing to throw up her own barriers. She trembled with trepidation, unsure if what she’d experienced was even real.

After all, this was Beast Boy. Team clown. Funny guy.

But then the crushing reality of Terra’s death reared back into her mind, and Raven scurried to the safety of her room, tossing a lingering gaze at the shapeshifter’s door.

She’d wanted to help, and Raven remembered many a night staring at Beast Boy’s door, a hand raised as she reached forward to knock. Only, fear held her back, and Raven froze every time, her hand trembling as she gazed at the grey metal slate with mounting uncertainty.

What if she was overreacting? Did he really need her help?

Maybe she was overstepping her boundaries, impeding on his privacy. After all, he was mourning. Wasn’t that what she was supposed to do? Let him mourn in peace?

Ever so slowly, he moved on. At least, Raven thought he’d moved on. The smiles and cheesy jokes returned, as had his usual habit of bickering with her and playing video games. Not to mention he’d begun eating regularly again.

Raven was reluctant to admit it, but she was worried about him. She couldn’t watch him just spiral downward like that again, not after he was just starting to get better.

But what could she do?

With a sigh, she scurried to catch up with her teammates, her mind abuzz with thoughts of Beast Boy and the growing cloud of sadness curled around him.

“Oh, please let me ba-raid your hair!” Starfire cooed, clapping her hands together earnestly. Raven rolled her eyes, suppressing a huff.

“I don’t have any hair to braid!” she muttered. Starfire pouted, her eyes pooling as she begged. Raven muttered a curse at the sight. The Tamaranean princess was a master of what they all had dubbed ‘the face’, with Beast Boy bringing up a close second. There was no resisting when Starfire flashed that look, and Raven could do nothing more than heave a sigh and turn around.

“Fine.”

Starfire squeaked gleefully and clapped her hands. “Marvelous! I shall go collect my hair brushes!” She zoomed off before Raven could protest, leaving her alone on Starfire’s bed. Raven blinked, training her gaze at the now closed door.

“Okay, then.”

She let her gaze wander the room.  

Starfire’s room was a testament to the alien princess’s bubbly personality. The walls were a bright pink, with a variety of magazine clippings, pictures, and wall decor hanging across them. There was a dresser covered in an array of nick-nacks; statuettes, toys, and picture frames, among other things.

Her gaze lingered on a stack of magazines sitting idle on the edge of the bed, seemingly discarded upon being finished. Raven sighed. She hated those silly teen magazines. She’d read one, once. It was childishly written; pandering to a girl’s raging hormones and desire to fit in, something Raven never could do.

She was half demon, after all. That fact alone made fitting in a bit difficult to accomplish.

Her thoughts began to drift towards Beast Boy, and whether or not she should check on his emotional state, again. It had been a recurring thought, nibbling at the back of her mind, only making her worry for the shapeshifter grow.

Raven shook her head and reached for the magazine. She didn’t want to be absent-minded during girl time, right? Maybe the dumb magazine would distract her for a little while.

She flipped the flimsy book open, letting it land on whatever page it willed. Her gaze traced the page, and her lips tugged down into a frown.

Ten Easy Steps to Mending a Broken Heart!

Great. What a distraction. Raven chewed her lip in frustration, unable to tear her gaze away from the article. It was, as the title suggested, a list of ways to get over an ex. All compacted neatly into ten, fluidly written, and somewhat cheesy steps.

Raven read the first one.

Love yourself.

It’s a good idea to remind yourself why you’re awesome, as it helps lift you up when you’re feeling down! Make a list if you have to, and take some time to reflect.

She snickered. How silly. It was so painfully teeny-boppy, it made her cringe just from contact. And yet…

“I have returned!”

Raven glanced up right as Starfire marched into the room armed to the teeth with hair accessories and tools. She gulped, quickly jerking the magazine underneath her cloak. This was going to be fun. She kept her lips pressed into a tight line, quietly submitting herself to Starfire’s torture.

“I would most love to attempt a new style for you, Raven!” Starfire chirped, happily tugging a brush through her hair. Raven only hummed in response, the magazine article still churning in the back of her mind. An idea began to blossom there; a horrible, stupid, brash idea, that Raven was certain would only land her in trouble.

But at the thought of Beast Boy’s drooping shoulders and hollow eyes, her resolve solidified. She was going to do it.

She was going to help Beast Boy mend his broken heart.

So, this has been in my drafts for awhile, and since I’m sort of stuck with Beastly, I figured I’d post a teaser and see what you all think! I’m planning on this being only a few parts, but the chapters will be long-ish. Probably. I dunno, we’ll see. 

Just let me know if you like it! :D