#hopefully you enjoy

[obsessedwhyyes]

A Tale of Fools and Tricksters (2)

Chapter 2: Looking Glass

Summary: The lingering tendrils of Astarion's enchantment take Elysia firmly in their hold. His glances, his gestures - they must surely be signs laid out just for her. Determined, Elysia sets off to find the elusive ringmaster, but confrontation, mystery, and reflection await her instead.

Rating: M Chapter Word Count: 5134 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC Content: Alternative Universe (Circus), Ringmaster Astarion, mild horror elements, eventual smut, eventual romance, basically a big whimsical (slightly dark, slightly trippy) fairytale of an AU. Chapter 1 can be found here.

A/N: This is what I like to affectionately call, ‘The Delulu Chapter.’ She will only be insufferable for a little while, I promise. She’s just having her Alice in Wonderland phase - she’ll grow out of it.

A thousand breaths caught in perfect unison. 

A thousand hearts skipped the same beat.

Gasp. Cheer.

Sigh. Swoon.

The sounds rippled through the crowd in perfect synchronicity, rising and falling like the tide.

Elysia couldn’t recall sitting down, nor how she’d come to be in this seat, surrounded once more by the plush velvet and soft murmur of the audience.

Thoughts of the past felt, simply, weightless, drifting beyond her reach.

She was here now. And that was all that mattered.

The Ringmaster spoke, with sweeping gestures befitting a man of such grandiose.

"Now, while I'm captivating enough on my own..."

Elysia's lips curved upward. She hadn't chosen to smile.

"... I suppose I should share the stage with our other little wonders. Our family has prepared something special for you tonight.”

With a flourish, his cane conjured a shimmering curtain of starlight. The glowing veil parted to reveal the first performer.

“May I present… Aurelia, mistress of flames.”

A woman stepped forward, her crimson and gold costume gleaming like embers as hoops of fire encircled her body. The flames licked and coiled around her, alive, feral, yet completely under her control.

Elysia’s heart fluttered. Aurelia was extraordinary.

But she wasn't Astarion.

“... Leon, who gives weight to dreams.”

The strongman emerged next, the stage dimming as his large frame became the focal point. His arms, broad and powerful, lifted a shimmering, gilded ring that seemed impossibly heavy, its edges glimmering as it reflected the light of Aurelia’s fire.

Elysia’s pulse quickened. Leon was a marvel.

But he didn't wear the crowd’s adoration like Astarion wore his charm.

“... And Violet, who dances between stars.”

A silver hoop descended from above, and Violet with it. Suspended high in the air and wrapped with silks, she moved with an ethereal grace, her body twisting and arching as though weightless.

Elysia couldn't help but gasp. Violet was breathtaking.

But she didn't enchant like Astarion did.

He stood apart, just behind the performers, his cane in hand, mask gleaming faintly in the ethereal glow. He wasn't the one leaping or spinning or commanding the elements. Yet, he was the axis on which everything turned; the force that made the whole performance possible.

His eyes found hers in the crowd as she watched him.

Or did she imagine that?

Surely he saw her.

Surely he felt it too.

Elysia had often wondered if love at first sight truly existed.

Often, she told herself it was simply the fancy of poets and dreamers, a comforting illusion woven to make life feel fuller. No - to Elysia, love was something that grew slowly, like tending a garden through the seasons. Something that needed patience and time to truly take root.

Yet here, now, she had never been so certain of its existence.

Was it not love to hold a person the way Astarion held her? To pull her close, until her world narrowed to his smile, his lips, his gaze? He was like a vision from a dream half-remembered, and he held her there, suspended, bound by starlight and shadow, captivated.

Yes. Yes, this was surely love.

If it wasn't love, what else could it be?

The performers took their positions. At Astarion's signal, they began.

They moved as one, their acts weaving seamlessly together like threads in an intricate tapestry. Violet soared through the air on her silver hoop, her silks trailing in elegant arcs as Aurelia’s flaming rings spiralled around her, fire and starlight intertwining. Below, Leon’s gilded ring spun like a celestial anchor, catching and refracting the light as Violet leapt from her perch, her movements mirrored by the rise and fall of the flames. A dance of fire, silk, and shadow. Three acts became one impossible dance.

The stage was like a living dream. It compelled her to...

Rise. 

The audience stood. 

Lean forward. 

Their bodies tilted as one. 

Hold your breath. 

Elysia's lungs burned with the others'.

A thousand faces turned at once, a thousand smiles stretched in unison.

The finale built higher as a crescendo of daring and grace. Violet dove through a ring of flames, her silks igniting in a burst of golden light as Leon caught her descent.

Colours blurred. Sounds merged. 

Fire and shadow. Music and motion. 

How long had it been since Elysia felt this light? This free? The weight that normally pressed against her shoulders - responsibility, duty, the relentless presence of death - had dissolved like morning mist in the summer sun. Here, she felt as though nothing could touch her. Not grief, nor guilt.

Looking at the audience, she saw faces slack with wonder, eyes glazed with absolute adoration. They were gleeful in their rapture, yet none of them had danced with him as she had. None had felt his magic against their skin, the intimate press of starlight binding them together.

None of them had what Elysia had with Astarion. Of that much, she was certain.

Fire and starlight spiralled together as the performers created their final masterpiece of the night.

Then everything stopped.

Light itself seemed to hold its breath. Violet hung suspended between earth and sky, caught in Leon's impossible hold. Aurelia's flames froze mid-flicker, crystallising into fractals of burning light. For one eternal moment, reality balanced on a knife's edge.

At Astarion's gesture, the frozen tableau shattered into pure starlight. The performers emerged from the glittering cascade, moving in perfect synchronisation as they took their final bow. Above them, the last fragments of their magic rained down like falling stars.

The audience erupted in applause. 

Elysia’s hands moved to clap with them before she realised. 

She couldn’t resist. She would never want to resist.

“Thank you, thank you, dear souls.” Astarion held his hand to his chest, dipping his head once more in a theatrical bow that made the light catch in his silvery hair. “May your dreams find you, even as you find yourselves.”

His gaze swept the audience one last time. 

Elysia could have sworn his eyes rested on her for just a moment longer than the others.

The slight tilt of his head, the way his fingers traced the handle of his cane - they can't have been mere gestures.

They must have been a silent invitation. A promise.

Elysia could never miss such glaring signs, clearly made just for her.

The need to understand, to unravel the mystery surrounding him, pulled at her, stronger than the remnants of the spellbinding performance.

It wasn’t just curiosity - it was a hunger. To know him - to be near him - felt as necessary as breathing.

Astarion was leading. Elysia must follow.

As the lights dimmed, the audience, still humming with awe, began to drift toward the exit, their faces glazed with dreamlike adoration. But Elysia hung back for just a moment before beginning her descent towards the stage on subtle steps, her gaze fixed on the velvet curtain where Astarion and the performers had disappeared. Her breath caught as she saw them slip through, leaving a ripple in the fabric.

But what caught her attention was the faint, rhythmic chime that followed each figure as they passed through the curtain.

Her eyes narrowed. Bells. A line of small, silver bells was strung along the top of the curtain, barely visible unless you were looking for them. They swayed gently with each movement, their delicate chimes swallowed by the crowd’s applause. The purpose was clear: the faintest disturbance would alert those beyond.

Clever, she thought. But it was not enough to deter her.

Elysia’s heart could never be deterred.

She studied the curtain for a moment longer. The performers moved with such grace that the bells just barely sang as they passed. The key was clearly precision, not speed.

She waited until the crowd’s murmurs swelled, the noise rising like a tide. Then, as carefully as a surgeon threading a needle, she slipped forward. Her steps were deliberate, her movements measured. She placed her hands on the edge of the curtain, just below the bells, and pushed it aside with the lightest touch, letting the fabric shift naturally around her.

The bells quivered. Elysia froze, holding her breath. 

But no sound came.

She sighed in relief.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she eased herself through the opening, the dim light of the backstage area welcoming her into its shadows. She let the curtain fall back into place, the bells swaying gently above her head.

No one had noticed. Yet.

The backstage air was a stark contrast from the grand theatrics of the stage area - muted, cooler, dimly lit by flickering lanterns. The faint scent of smoke and incense tickled her nose as she pressed herself against the nearest wall. For a moment, she allowed herself a quiet breath, her heart still racing.

She made it in.

Now, she just had to find him.

Elysia moved deeper into the warren of corridors, each step careful and measured. This place felt like another world entirely - a place where magic shed its glamour and revealed its seams. Props leaned against walls like sleeping creatures. Costumes hung from hooks like shed skins, still holding the shape of their wearers.

Gaps in curtains revealed brief glimpses of the performers as she explored. There was something oddly intimate about seeing them outside the allure of their performance - like seeing a bird folding its wings after flight.

But then a familiar voice caught Elysia’s attention.

Following the sound, she found herself near an ornate door left slightly ajar, golden light spilling through the gap. She pressed herself against the wall beside it, drawn forward by the familiar cadence of his voice.

Astarion. She had found him.

Though, his voice was accompanied by another.

“... and there you go again.” This other voice - it too was familiar, though dripping with barely contained contempt. “Such pride from someone who–”

“Who actually holds their attention?” Astarion cut in. “Yes, how terribly proud of me. Tell me, Petras - how does it feel to be forgotten the moment I take the stage?”

Petras. The name stirred something within Elysia, but she couldn’t work out what. Had they met before?

"At least I know my place," Petras spat. "I don't delude myself with dreams of–"

"Delude myself?" Astarion's laugh held no humour. "How amusing, coming from someone who spends his nights rehearsing my routine. Tell me - has my shadow filed a complaint yet? Though I suppose it must be used to you chasing it by now.”

Elysia risked a glance through the gap and had to stifle a gasp.

The dressing room was filled with mirrors. They were everywhere: lining the walls, standing on ornate frames, creating an illusion of infinite space. Each reflection caught and multiplied the candlelight, creating a kaleidoscope effect that was both beautiful and disorienting. She caught a glimpse of the two men, and the contrast in them was uncanny. Petras’s simple gold mask seemed plain, almost crude, compared to the intricate filigree of Astarion's.

"You forget yourself," Petras said. "The master has schedules for a reason. And when you deviate–"

"The master," Astarion's voice took on a strange tone, "has more pressing concerns than your petty jealousies over a few minutes' delay, don’t you think? Or have you forgotten last month’s little incident?"

Silence as Petras’s words seemed to fail him momentarily.

This was it. This was Elysia’s chance.

"I’m sorry to intrude." she stepped forward tentatively as she spoke, her voice hopeful. "I hoped I might find you..."

Both men turned sharply in her direction.

Astarion’s fingers brushed the silver filigree at his throat before smoothing out the coif of his hair in one fluid motion. "My, my… aren't you the determined one?"

Petras appeared rather vindicated. "The master needs to hear about this.”

"Must he? And I suppose you'll explain how she got past your... what was it you called it? Your 'enhanced security measures'?"

The blond man stiffened. "I hardly think–"

“No, you so rarely do.” Astarion's smile didn't waver, but his eyes kept darting to the shadows behind Elysia. "Perhaps we should discuss your recent performance evaluations while we're at it?"

Something in the threat landed. Petras's eager reporting instinct warred visibly with self-preservation. After a moment of tense silence, he backed towards the door, pausing only to give Elysia a look that might even have been pity if it hadn’t looked so much like bitter indignation.

Elysia found herself quickly irked by him.

“This isn't over, Astarion,” Petras said as he slipped out the room, punctuated by the sound of the door latch clicking into place as he closed it.

Being alone with Astarion felt different than she'd imagined - more real somehow. Her heart fluttered against her chest like a trapped bird.

But she was nothing if not determined. She knew she was right where she needed to be.

His smile brightened, though there was a tightness to it that Elysia couldn't quite place. “Forgive the uncouth display, darling. Some people simply can't help but be tiresome.”

"I came as quickly as I could," Elysia said quickly, watching as his fingers drifted again to his collar, then to adjust his already-perfect hair. “I know I should’ve waited for a proper introduction, but sometimes…” She felt heat rise to her cheeks at her own boldness. “Sometimes the heart knows when something is important.”

"You know," he began, "most admirers content themselves with flowers. Or swooning. Swooning is traditional. But you had to make things interesting, didn't you?"

"I suppose I'm not very traditional." Elysia smiled, her heart fluttering as he approached. In the mirrors surrounding them, a thousand reflections of Astarion moved in perfect synchronisation. And Elysia’s reflection was there with him. 

They were a study in contrasts - Elysia in her simple dress and blouse seemed grounded and unadorned, like earth; Astarion, in his intricate attire, was otherworldly in his theatrical splendour. Yet somehow the juxtaposition felt right - as though her very plainness made his ethereal beauty more striking, while his presence lent her simplicity a kind of grace.

Her lips parted as the thought flitted through her mind: We look good together.

“Our dance earlier - I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

“Few have. The magic of the festival is rather unique, wouldn’t you say?”

"And the way you commanded the stage..." Elysia began, but something in his posture made her pause. Even in the mirrors, she could see the slight tension in his shoulders.

"Command?" His laugh was almost musical. “Darling, I merely... suggest. Guide. Though speaking of guidance..." His eyes darted again to the shadows behind her, quick as a heartbeat. "You realise, of course, that I'm being remarkably generous about this whole affair. Most who find their way backstage discover a far less..." Another touch of his collar. "...accommodating reception."

Elysia’s pulse steadied, her smile turning faintly knowing. Of course, he had to maintain this necessary pretence - charm wrapped in formality, words dipped in grace. It wasn’t for her benefit, not truly. After all, what would the others think if they knew he'd invited someone backstage? No, these little warnings were just another performance, meant for any eyes that might be watching. Beneath it all she could feel it - something unspoken.

"I know this is a little unconventional…” 

"Unconventional? What a delicate way to phrase it. You do have quite the gift for making impropriety sound almost charming."

Elysia’s smile faltered as she met his gaze. “I just thought…” Her voice softened, the words catching like a hesitant breath. “I thought you wanted me to find you. It– it felt like I had to.”

Why? The question rose sharp and sudden in her mind. The urgency that had drawn her here felt familiar somehow, like an old song played in a different key.

“And here I thought I was the one with a penchant for dramatics,” Astarion said. “You give me far too much credit, my dear.”

His words were laced with humour, yet, he hadn’t denied it. The pull she’d felt couldn’t have been imagined. It was too strong, too undeniable. Surely he had wanted her to find him. Surely he’d left some trace, some sign meant just for her.

Hadn’t he?

Her lips parted, but the words she wanted to say dissolved before they could take shape. She glanced away, her gaze catching on the mirrors around them. Her reflection stared back infinitely, as though mocking her uncertainty.

And Astarion… there was something tight in the way he held himself now, like a performer who'd spotted a crack in their stage.

"Come, darling. Let’s not tempt fate by lingering here any longer. You’ve already wandered somewhere terribly dangerous.”

He took a step closer, his presence commanding her attention as though he’d physically pulled her from her thoughts.

That silken voice. 

That perfect presence. 

He's so close.

Her thoughts - those pesky doubts - scattered like startled birds.

He offered her his arm, a gesture so effortlessly charming that it made her heart flutter. 

He was right. 

Of course, he was right. 

There was nothing for her here. 

Only him.

And so she followed.

She hesitated for only a moment before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. His closeness brought with it a scent she hadn't noticed before - herbal and bright, with citrus and the faintest hint of something darker, richer; elegant as everything else about him. The kind of scent that made you want to lean closer, to search for its source. It took all her composure not to do exactly that.

"Consider this a gift. My generosity in exchange for your… discretion.”

He paused at the room’s threshold, glancing as though expecting something to appear from the shadows. “Shall we? The night market is particularly enchanting at this hour. All manner of delights to distract from more... dangerous pursuits."

"The night market?" Something about his insistence made her heart beat faster. 

The dim lantern light flickered as he escorted her through winding corridors, throwing his silhouette into sharp relief against the shadows.

"Oh, the things you'll see there," he continued, speaking faster. "Delicacies that would make your finest confectioners weep. Treasures that would make merchants' hearts stop. All manner of pretty little diversions. Much more interesting than these tired old backrooms.”

His steps were swift. Hasty.

Elysia fought to keep pace.

“And of course,” he said suddenly, his voice carrying a cheerfulness that teetered on the edge of too bright, “there’s a spectacular display of silks at one of the stalls. Ah, you’d adore them - exquisite craftsmanship, really, though I must admit I’ve never been terribly partial to magenta myself.”

The sounds of laughter and music drew closer. 

He glanced at her briefly, his eyes catching the light before darting back ahead. “Oh, and Dalyria with her card readings, the truths she reveals are quite– ah, but did I mention the night market?”

“You did.”

“Well, it bears repeating,” he replied too quickly. “Because it truly is a marvel. So much to see. So much to enjoy.”

The cane in his free hand tapped out a rhythm that didn't quite match his steps.

“Perfectly harmless, of course,” he added, his gaze darting briefly to the shadows behind them, before he turned back to her with another dazzling smile.

They emerged from behind the heavy curtains into the festival proper, where the eternal twilight cast everything in soft, dreamy hues. Something about the change in lighting made the shadows under his eyes more pronounced – had those been there during the performance?

"There now," Astarion said. His fingers found his collar one final time before dropping away. "Isn't this better? All the wonder, none of the... complications. Though do remember, darling - you now owe me quite the favour."

"Will I see you again?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.

Astarion stilled for the briefest moment, his smile frozen in place. Then he laughed.

"Oh, darling, the festival has a way of bringing people together, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t fret too much about when or how."

His answer wasn’t what she wanted, and something in her bristled. "That’s not what I meant," she said. "I think… I think I need to see you again."

That made him pause, his eyes catching hers. There was something almost imperceptible in his gaze - whether it was curiosity or resignation, Elysia couldn’t tell.

"Need is such a dangerous word," he murmured, tilting his head just slightly. "You sound so certain, yet you hardly know me."

"But I do..."

Did she? The thought disappeared as quickly as it came.

"... I feel like I do," she continued, looking to her feet.

"Do you, now?" he asked, his voice soft, almost indulgent. “What is it you think you see in me?”

“I…”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he closed the space between them in an instant. He reached out, his fingers brushing her chin, tilting her head so she was forced to meet his gaze. Her breath caught, the world narrowing until there was only him.

He leaned in, his gaze holding her captive. “Or perhaps you don’t see at all. Perhaps there’s something else you want.” His hold on her jaw firmed for a moment. “Ah. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me?”

The words hit her like a physical blow. Her chest tightened, heat rising to her cheeks as she struggled to find her voice, but it was useless.

He held her gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

But then he sighed.

"I thought so," he said quietly, almost to himself. "They always do."

He stepped back, his hand falling away.

"You’re bold, love," Astarion said at last. "It’s a charming trait, truly. But sometimes boldness gets people hurt."

"I’m not afraid.” Elysia held his gaze as steadily as she could muster.

"Of course you’re not," he replied, his smile broadening slightly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Fear rarely has a place here. It’s part of the magic, you see. But magic is just smoke and mirrors, isn’t it? It’s the truth underneath that tends to cut."

She felt the weight of his words but couldn’t fully grasp their meaning. His presence seemed to drown out everything else.

"The festival is a place for dreams, my dear," he said, taking a step back and sweeping into a graceful bow. "Don’t waste yours chasing shadows."

And then he was gone. The ripple of velvet curtains was the only trace of his departure as he returned to the shadows of the Big Top.

Elysia was alone.

The festival’s brilliance seemed to dim in his absence, its colours muted, its magic just a little less potent.

The crowd moved around her, their faces alight with joy and wonder, yet, with the Ringmaster gone, she felt curiously untethered. She glanced up at the sky, expecting some shift in its eternal dusk, but it remained unchanged. The colours of twilight bled together seamlessly, the horizon a perpetual liminal space between day and night.

Just how much time had passed?

A flicker of movement at the edge of Elysia’s vision caught her attention. She turned her head - an elderly woman brushed past her, a golden locket swinging from her neck.

Elysia blinked, confusion blooming in her chest. She looked strangely familiar.

The realisation came slowly. She had seen this woman before - on the journey to the festival. In the carriage. But the details of that memory felt slippery, like trying to grasp water in her hands. The more she reached for it, the more it eluded her.

Her movements were strange, almost mechanical, as though her body remembered how to walk but her mind had forgotten why. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, and her lips moved soundlessly.

Elysia’s heart stirred with unease. She didn’t know why, but the sight of the woman set her teeth on edge. She couldn’t name the feeling, only that it was urgent and wrong. Her instincts flared, urging her to follow, even as another part of her hesitated.

It doesn’t matter. She’s not your concern.

No, Elysia thought. That’s not right, is it?

Elysia’s steps moved before she could think, her feet carrying her toward the woman. She didn’t know what she hoped to accomplish. But the woman needed help. Elysia didn’t know how she knew that - she didn’t know much of anything anymore - but the certainty burned fiercely in her chest.

“Excuse me! Miss?” she called. “Wait, please!”

The woman didn’t respond.

Elysia pushed through the thinning crowd. The further she followed, the harder it became to focus. It was like wading through molasses, her thoughts sticky and sluggish, her body pulling toward retreat.

The woman turned down a dim, narrow path that branched away from the bright stalls. Elysia froze at its threshold. The glow of the festival barely reached this place, its light casting weak, flickering shadows that clung to the walls like cobwebs. Something about this place felt hidden. Forbidden.

But the woman was already disappearing into its depths.

“Wait!” Elysia called again, stepping onto the path despite the gnawing unease in her chest.

Go back. It’s not your ti–

No. She’s unwell.

Her legs kept moving. Her pulse raced. It thrummed in her ears as she quickened her pace.

The path twisted unpredictably, narrowing with every turn. The vibrant energy of the festival dimmed further with each step, the laughter and music fading into a distant hum. The air smelled stale, yet sickly-sweet.

A glint caught Elysia’s eye.

The locket around the woman’s neck caught the light as it tumbled to the ground. She didn’t seem to notice.

Elysia bent to retrieve the locket, its metal surprisingly cold against her palm. When she looked up again, the woman was already disappearing down a narrow corridor she hadn't noticed before - a space between tents that seemed to fold in on itself, as though reality had developed a crease.

"Wait!" She started forward, locket clutched tight. "Please, your–"

The passage seemed to narrow as she followed, the walls of fabric pressing in until she had to turn sideways to continue. Each step forward made her heart beat faster, a creeping anxiety that whispered she should turn back, return to the lights and music and…

The thought slipped away as she caught sight of something ahead - not the woman, but a glint of light where there shouldn't be any. A broken mirror propped against what might have been a wall, its surface reflecting impossibly deep shadows. Something about its angle seemed wrong, as though it were reflecting a space that didn't exist.

She reached out, meaning only to steady herself against its frame.

But then her hand went through.

And then, she was tumbling.

The fall lasted both forever and no time at all.

Darkness rushed past her like silk against her skin. Stars wheeled overhead, though there was no sky - only the endless sensation of tumbling through space. The air grew thick, sweet, then suddenly thin, as though she were passing through layers of different worlds.

But then she landed as though caught by unseen hands, placed in a world that was eerily still.

When she stood, she found herself in a sprawling room filled with broken reflections. Mirrors upon mirrors. But they were broken, fractured, warped, split into jagged shards.

She moved through the space carefully, each step stirring motes of dust.

Around her lay forgotten remnants of the festival - tattered banners drooping limply from hooks and, scattered like silent witnesses, old stuffed animals. Two of them caught her eye. Two foxes, one bound tightly in rusted shackles. It seemed so small, its fur faded to a dull grey. The second fox lay unshackled, its chains broken and discarded at its feet. But it was no better off. Its seams were split, its stuffing spilling in soft piles onto the floor.

Her gaze flicked back to the rippling mirror she had stepped through. Unlike the others, it was untouched by age or damage, its liquid-like surface shimmering faintly in the dim light.

The air felt… different here. Clearer. Like breaking the surface after being underwater for too long - that first gasp that makes you realise how thick the water had been. Like waking from a dream you can't quite remember.

Like… shattering an illusion.

She took a step back. The clarity struck her like ice water. She could think here. The enormity of it made her stomach twist. What had been clouding her mind before? And why did the thought of returning to that haze terrify her as much as it tempted her?

Elysia pressed a hand to her heart, desperately trying to will away that ache that lingered in her chest.

Looking up, she saw her reflection watching her, the fractured edges of the mirrors around it splintering her image into countless fragments. Some stared back with clarity, others with a dazed, almost blissful expression. She reached out toward the nearest shard, then stopped herself, her hand trembling.

‘Lose yourself’…? She recalled Astarion’s words.

The foxes seemed to watch her in silence.

Astarion looked at his reflection in the mirror.

The Ringmaster stared back.

Isn't it funny how, with all these reflections, you can never truly see yourself?

He tilted his head slightly, studying the masked man before him. The sweep of his silver hair, the gleam of his skin, the curve of his lips - all perfect.

As they should be.

He sighed and allowed his gaze to drop, breaking the spell of his own stare.

He was alone. 

As he should be.

His eyes fell to his hands. They rested on the dressing table, pale fingers curling loosely around the carved wood. Such pretty lies they weaved tonight.

The silence of the room pressed against his ears, but he welcomed it.

It was better this way.

No expectations. No deceptions.

His hands tightened on the table.

The sound came softly at first. A faint jingling. Like the rattling of bones.

His stomach twisted.

No.

It wasn't his turn.

The sound grew louder, steady and deliberate. The delicate chime of something unnatural.

It can't be my turn.

Mist began to coil at his feet, swirling around his boots. The sickly-sweet scent of it clung to the air.

He'd done the right thing. He'd kept his smile, he’d played his part.

As he always should.

The jingling stopped.

He willed his face into stillness, smooth and unreadable.

A new sound emerged, sharp and distinct.

Tap.

Pause.

Tap.

Pause.

Claws against wood. They tapped slowly against the wooden door frame behind him.

Astarion raised his head slowly, forcing himself to meet his reflection once more.

The Ringmaster. Perfectly composed. Perfectly in control.

A thousand masks, a thousand lies, and somewhere beneath them all, a scream that never ended.

But, in his periphery, he saw him.

Standing in the doorway, motionless, bathed in shadow.

Watching him.

Smiling.

No Pressure Tag List: @roguishcat @davenswitcher @silverfangmarks @sparrowbard @chonkercatto @stokzr @trafalgarussy @asterordinary @bite-me-tonight @transparentkittenheart @hfxgamora @bg3-fanfic-reblogs

Masterlist can be found here!

[daffi-990]

Seven(ish) Sentence Sunday

Tagged by @diazsdimples @missmagooglie and @tizniz (I’m sorry if anyone else tagged me and I forgot .. it’s Sunday night for me and I’m tired 😴)

My brain is fried from a busy weekend away but I wanted to write something, and this is the result. Don’t know if it’s good or not but I’m posting it anyway.

From Rival Firefighters 🚒. Prev snippet here.

“We are going to do everything we can to find Buck, okay?” Bobby’s eyes bore into Eddie’s until he nods in agreement. “But right now,” the hand on his shoulder squeezes him firmly, “you need to be with Christopher.”

Christopher.

Eddie knows he needs to be with his son. He feels an overwhelming urge to rush to Chris and be by his side, to hold him close and assure him that everything will be okay. Knows that a part of him won’t feel settled until he sees with his own eyes that Chris is safe.

But Buck is missing and Eddie feels this desperate need to be out searching for him. Like Buck is out there just waiting for Eddie to find him.

It feels like he’s a fork in the road and whatever path he takes will lead him away from someone he loves. And it’s tearing him apart because Eddie already knows what path he’s going to take. It’s the same path every parent would.

Christopher comes first.

Always.

And Eddie knows that Buck would make the same choice if their roles were reversed. Knows that he wouldn’t place any ill feelings on Eddie. But as Bobby directs the zodiac to the trauma centre, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s abandoning Buck.

No pressure tagging: @wikiangela @hippolotamus @spotsandsocks @wildlife4life @king-buckley @puppyboybuckley @watchyourbuck @weewootruck @exhuastedpigeon @elvensorceress @eddiebabygirldiaz @epicbuddieficrecs @evanbegins @rainbow-nerdss @rewritetheending @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @athenagranted @steadfastsaturnsrings @thewolvesof1998 @try-set-me-on-fire @theotherbuckley @princessfbi @prettyboybuckley @devirnis @donationwayne @disasterbuckdiaz @fiona-fififi @fortheloveofbuddie @giddyupbuck @glorious-spoon @hoodie-buck @homerforsure @honestlydarkprincess @jeeyuns @jesuisici33 @lover-of-mine @ladydorian05 @loserdiaz @captain-hen @bekkachaos @spagheddiediaz @malewifediaz @nmcggg @monsterrae1 and anyone else who wants to share something ❤️

[obvious-bottom]

My Doll

A short story about an act of love from an owner to her doll. Some slight dubcon stuff and no actual sex, I mostly just wanted to write out a concept I came up with like two weeks ago because it seemed so perfect to me.

I slipped on the gloves, soft, medical latex, covering up to the wrist with a snap. My girlfriend shivered on the table, she was lying down, arms by her sides, she was flexing her hands repeatedly, she was nervous. I held her hand and squeezed tightly, reassuring her that it'd be fine, she nodded to me and I picked up a pot of a viscous blue liquid, silicone. I looked at her face, she slowly breathed through her nose and closed her eyes, I listened to her breathe, calmly, slowly, little hitches when her nerves picked up, she was focusing, her face was relaxed though, it needed to be. I picked up the flat wooden dowel and used it to pick up some of the blue silicone, slowly spreading a thin layer on her cheek, she stifled a giggle, trying to communicate that it was cold without moving her face too much. I shushed her and continued my work, making sure she was making the right face and continuing to spread the silicone, slowly covering every part of her face and a small line running under her jaw, with a thicker patch under her chin. The first layer was done and needed to dry, five minutes was enough to start the second layer so I spent that long praising and reassuring her. I could still see her skin since the first layer was thin and mixed with a release agent so it would eventually come off, she looked strange tinged with blue but still so beautiful, so worth the work to come. I broke out of my reverie long enough to mix the second cup of silicone, this one was thicker and I was able to apply it faster, spreading it over the first layer and waiting the same five minutes. My girlfriend had been lying on the table for 15 minutes now, trying her best not to move a muscle in her face, she had done so well so far, only two steps left and she would be free. I mixed and applied the final layer of silicone, this one would have the longest break, twenty minutes to let all the silicone fully dry and cure. I hoped she was alright, I spoke softly to her, I squeezed her hand and whispered, "squeeze back if you're okay", a soft gentle pressure came in response and I let out a small sigh of relief. I knew this was a lot to ask for but at the same time I knew it would all be worth it. I turned to the pile of plaster bandages and began soaking one in water, squeezed out the excess and placed it across the layers of silicone, I repeated the process, moving down her face from her forehead, once the bandages were fully applied it was another 20 minute wait, more worry, more reassurance from her to me and me to her. It had been over an hour now and I could finally remove the full cast, I couldn't wait to see her again, hear her again, even if it would just be complaining about the whole ordeal. I slowly and carefully prised the silicone and plaster layers up, they both released and I saw my beloved's eyes flutter open as I held the almost-removed cast, she stretched her jaw and I stared with deadly focus, like an animal researcher trying to figure out her behaviour, all unintentionally, I was too caught up in the work and she giggled when she caught my eyes, "you look so serious, did someone die in the last hour?" I stopped gritting my teeth and holding my breath, I had been doing both unconsciously for too long and finally exhaled. As I took a breath, she was flexing all the muscles she wasn't allowed to move during the casting and sitting up on the table, I set aside the cast carefully and finally spoke to her, chatting, laughing, holding each other and carefully washing her face of the mould release so I could kiss her again and feel the warmth well up inside me, the whole reason I was doing all of this.

The next week was spent feverishly working. I had taken the cast and made a two copies, the first was exact and left as is, the second was made and then coated with silicone repeatedly until it was thick enough to sand down the inside until the first fit inside with space. This was the base of the real mould. I took the hollow part and filled it with resin to the top, leaving that to cure until a hard layer around the outside was about 2 millimeters thick. I poured out most of the excess for later use and pressed the other part into the remaining resin. When it finally finished curing the real work began, I spent hours painting it, sanding it smooth, painting it again and sanding again, the repetition ended with a white coat and high-gloss finish, it was shiny and perfect, like glass or porcelain. The mask, her mask, was beautiful, it was almost finished. The last thing I did was cut out the eye holes and insert two black-tinted lenses, I pressed them into tiny slots I had cut and half filled with UV resin. It was finally done and absolutely perfect, she would love it, it was an act of love to make it.

That weekend she came home to a surprise, I had cleaned, I had made dinner, and I had set up the bedroom, though she didn't know that yet. We ate and laughed, we drank wine and I bathed in her glow, she was radiant to me, all the anxiety I had built setting up for this melted over dinner, every movement she made was angelic, her laugh, her smile, the way her hands moved when she excitedly told me about something she read. When dinner was over and I had cleared the table I carefully led her to the bedroom. Laid on the bed was the outfit I picked out for her, white latex dress, white heels, matching white cuffs for her ankles and wrists. She giggled "all this for me? You're too good" I hugged her from behind and said "I want to play with my doll tonight so I needed to treat you first" she laughed again and stripped down, getting my help to lube up and slip on the dress, sleeveless and short it wasn't too hard to get on. As she put on her cuffs and heels I shined up her dress and softly told her what a good doll she was, what a beautiful, perfect thing. She was my favourite toy and I needed her to know more than anything, I beamed at her as she stood in her outfit, my stomach was full of butterflies and I tried my best to calmly and coolly say "let's go to the bathroom and do your makeup sweetie". It was time, I clipped her wrist cuffs together, it was normal for us, I did my doll's makeup and she stood pretty for me. I couldn't suppress my smile as I took the bottle of spirit gum and painted lines on her face, one going around the edge and across her cheeks, she looked inquisitive, she didn't resist though, this wasn't part of my usual routine but maybe I was trying something new? "Close your eyes now doll" I whispered into her ear before kissing her and taking the box from under the sink. She dutifully shut her eyes and I opened the box, her face stared back at me in white and I felt the butterflies come into my throat as I raised it her face and pressed it down. This she was absolutely not expecting, she flinched slightly, resisting, but it was too late for that, ten seconds and it was over. I unclipped her cuffs and told her to open her eyes. She started shaking a bit, she reached up to her new face and touched it, her fingers recoiled before exploring further, feeling the smooth material and turning her head to see it fully in the mirror. I smiled so hard my face hurt, I laughed, it was beautiful, my doll was beautiful. She began to explore harder, she attempted to remove the mask and I heard a muffled squeal of pain. She was shaking more now, prodding the edges of the mask and looking panicked. I calmed her and held her head in my hands and turned her to face me "Don't worry doll, you can't take it off without hurting yourself, only I can take it off for you". She stared at me with those black eyes I carefully made by hand, and slowly nodded, I caressed the side of her face and felt my nails glide across it and kissed her on her cold, porcelain lips, my doll, my perfect, wonderful doll was complete.

[moths-in-hats]

🌹🌹🌹

After deciding the sleeping arrangements (Scott, Stiles, Lydia and Malia in the bedrooms and Mason, Corey, Liam and Theo downstairs), the pack spent some time in the nearby river but once back that evening, everybody was too tired from the swimming and the car journey for anything more exciting than a comfortable dinner and sleep. Liam flopped down onto the one he and Theo were sharing for the night with little regard to the fact Theo was already in it. "So… Theobald?" He asked. "It's Theodore," Theo replied, fully used to Liam's aggressive physicality by now. "And it's just Theo. Theodore is only used by doctors and disappointed parents." From the corner of his eye, Theo saw the cogs turning in Liam's mind. Liam replied, "Ted?" "No." Theo shut him down firmly. "Teddy?" "No." Theo shut him down even more firmly. "Dore?"  "What?" "Dory?" "Definitely not." "Hmm…" Theo rolled his eyes. “I’ll find a nickname for you by the end of the trip,” Liam promised. Theo turned away from Liam and pulled the blanket up. Liam huffed but let Theo try to fall asleep.

[connorsui]

Ghost: ight whatever the fuck u do ...don't wake up my dam wife..otherwise you can forget I ever invited u here

Jonny: oh yeah yeah su- 🧍‍♀️...u have a WIFE!?

BROO ALL HONESTLY I DO NOT BLAME SOAP FOR GETTING WHIPLASH OVER THE FACT GHOST HAS A WIFE 💀💀😭😭...I will be just like Jonny wondering: dam..he gotta live in a sewer somewhere right?...no no ..he gotta live in an empty house with ded bodies in the basement? ..nah he ain't that fucked up...hold up..why does this house smell like vanilla? 🧍‍♀️

⏬️⏬️⏬️Jonny in both situations 💀💀💀⏬️

U know it reminds me of that meme where a friend is inside the other friends car and it goes:

Soap: yeah yeah whatever ...wait hold up..why is this seat all the way back?

Ghost: *staring intently at the road*

Soap: and why does this CAR SMELL LIKE CHERRY BLOSSOM? ...WHO DID YOU FUCK IN HERE?

I SEE A PART 2 IMMA GO

Televangelism | Part 1

Part 2

pairing: Simon Riley x f!reader

genre: fluff, domestic!ghost, romance, no smut, no mention of y/n

word count: 3.4k

summary: after a hard mission, Simon Riley just wants to get home to his wife, but when he offers Soap a place to stay for the night, his work and personal lives clash in the most unceremonious of ways.

tl:dr: Ghost lets Soap sleep at his house for the night...his house where his wife and child live. Soap meets them for the first time. Fluff and domesticity ensue.

warnings: MINORS DNI!!!!! established marriage, pregnant!reader, female!reader, reader and Simon already have a daughter, very vague mentions of sex, mentions of emotional distress, excessive domesticity, Simon might be a little OOC, but allow it!

a/n: my first ever time writing on tumblr, lessgooo! I am not American, hence the spelling differences, I love COD, personally I am a Price girlie myself, but who doesn't love a bit of soft!Ghost? Very little beta, we die like the younglings. Will have part 2 up ASAP, but life's busy what can I say. Also I've been told before that I have a bit of an odd writing style, but if you like it, I'm glad! I don't even really know how to describe this, there's three pov's, and Soap does some serious self-reflection, I guess he's like...looking in and seeing ghost and reader, idk, it's something that's for sure lmaooo. Enjoy :) Also!!! yes televangelism as in the song by ethel cain, idk why either babes just a banger of a writing song xoxo

translations: Padre: British nickname for army chaplains, means 'father' civvies: civilian clothing, non-uniform clothing

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

It was done.

Another successful operation. A difficult operation.

The entire squad had returned with just minor scrapes and cuts, and more shit to compartmentalise. Not that there was much compartmentalisation these days, the missions just rolled into each other. Sometimes there was a week break in between, sometimes a few months. Never enough time for Soap regain his footing in civilian life. Never enough time to get past the 'disruption' phase of reintegration that the chaplains were always talking about.

Every time he flew back to base, he'd get the same bleeding rundown from a different Padre. Every. Time.

"Now, there are five stages of reintegration after deployment, Sergeant."

"I know that."

"Humour me."

He'd fight back the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes, he'd just do it. The chaplain would continue.

"Pre-entry, you've done that already, psych evals and such. You know the drill. Then, reunion, you'll see your family again-"

Shit. He needed to call his sister.

"-and take some time for yourself. Next is disruption, you'll realise not everything is the same as when you left it, people will have new routines, new hobbies, it's normal to feel resentful during this stage-"

And they'd go on. Tell him about communication, then normalcy. But he never got that far. He'd go home to his apartment, visit his mother, go to coffee with his sister (she worried about him, always did), and then he would be off on his next operation. He'd get a visit, or a call, and he'd be off, with little word to family. There was never enough time. Soap wondered why the task force needed the same spiel every time they returned, it wasn’t as if this was new. It was old. This runaround was old now: United Kingdom, to God-knew what forsaken country, to back home, with more memories and less connections. It was what he loved. But it was also what he despised. 

"Johnny."

Most of the squad had dispersed, each finishing psych evals and heading off to the on-base housing, or to their cars, or to the mess hall. He didn't actually know if the mess was open at this time of night, he supposed it was only 0146, but God-knew. Johnny had just finished his packing, and was heading towards the unremarkable block of small apartments on the far side of the base. It was a fair hike, but he'd do it. There wasn't another choice, but his flight wasn't until tomorrow, and he staunchly refused to stay awake all night. He'd sleep tonight, then go to debrief, then go the fuck home.

"Johnny."

It was Ghost, in civvies, hands in his jacket pockets. Mask gone. Johnny supposed that was just the way it ought to be, he couldn't wear it everywhere, and wearing it in civvies would certainly give any onlookers, soldiers or not, reason to be curious. Attention was not what men in their position needed. Still, seeing his face was…almost unsettling.

"Lt.?"

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

Simon hung up the phone and tucked it in his back pocket. He felt God-awful calling at this time of night, but he had to do it. He'd sworn to, every time he got back to base, he had to call. Johnny was staring out at the quiet base, the parade grounds just a few hundred metres away, still lit up in the night.

"Johnny."

He'd never really thought about where Johnny must go after operations, he didn't even assume anything, once they were back on the ground, once they were out of the shit, it wasn't any of his business, or any of his concern.

"You're allowed to like the men you work with, love." His wife's voice rang in the back of his mind.

He did…like them. They were good lads. Got the job done. Stitched each other up. Didn't leave each other behind. But liking them outside of work? Their job was far too dangerous to make close attachments like that. In his younger days, when he wasn't in the special forces, he'd made friends…no…'friends' wasn't the right word for it. He'd made…acquaintances with some of the soldiers on his unit, they'd go out for drinks, egg each other on in the pub, take each other home after a long night out. But the special forces was another world. Here, everything mattered. Every little thing mattered. And perhaps he was just older now, he'd matured more. Back then, he hadn't had anything to lose. Now, though-now he had everything to lose. A family, a home-a life.

But despite all of that, he had grown to appreciate Johnny. He was a good lad, in the shit, and out of it.

They'd talked a few times about their lives outside of the army. Nothing important, nothing below surface level. Soap had a mother who had health problems, and a sister who worked in a hospital (he hadn't told Simon what she did, or even told him her name), who worried about him constantly. Johnny joked that she would end up a patient one day if she kept stressing so much. Simon had told Soap that he lived far enough from the base that he wasn't constantly thinking about work, he'd told him that he played football as a kid; that was it. Not a lick more.

Johnny gave up far more information willingly than Simon ever could. But they got along. That was enough.

The Scot stood across from him, still staring out at nothing. 

"Johnny."

Soap turned his head.

"Lt.?"

"Going home?"

“Sleeping on base tonight, sir, then got a flight tomorrow night.”

On base? After that operation? Simon sighed inwardly and observed the bent hunch of his partner's shoulders. He knew that feeling. Finishing a mission alive, but with more red in his ledger. That was all good and well, but the final fucking straw was those damned prison cages that the military called bedrooms. It took a moment to debate, no longer.

"Mine’s 15 minutes from the airport.”

Soap’s eyebrows raised at the Lieutenant’s offer.

“It’s alright, sir, I’ll survive here.”

“After that shit? You need a real bed, Johnny.”

The sergeant ran a hand over his face and dropped his shoulders.

“Ye-yeah, alright, Lt. If that’s alright with you.”

“Let’s go,” Ghost turned on his heel and began towards the car park, taking out his phone to shoot off a quick text.

'One of the boys needs somewhere to stay. He's safe.'

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

'One of the boys needs somewhere to stay. He's safe.'

You groggily shot back a text.

'Get home safe, love you."

Simon had been due back for a few days now, but you'd been trying to get used to the unpredictability of his work schedule.

This was nothing new, though. You knew exactly what you were signing up for when you got into a relationship with him. He had sat you down when you had been together for a year or so, and showed you his will.

That had been an aggressive wake-up call. You knew how dangerous his job was. No one on the planet Earth was foolish enough to think that special forces meant 'safety.' You knew he could die every time he went away. But the long-term reality of that fact didn't set in until you sat beside him and scanned your eyes over that document. You didn't feel connected to your body. It was as if you were peering in on someone else's life, quietly staring through the looking glass to see some insane woman who was desperately in love with a man whose life meant very little up against the interests of international security. To your credit, you hadn't cried when he showed you. How badly you had wanted to. But you didn't. You grit your teeth and clenched your fists. He could die at any moment. So, you had better make the most of every second you had with him.

You'd told him as much and he had accused you of not taking his job seriously. A method of self-preservation you recognized from your years of being with him. You had told him he wasn't going to push you away so easily. He had left in a huff and came back the next day with an apology on his lips, and a ring in his hand.

There was no pomp about it, just simple, and practical. So very Simon Riley. 

Simon had never been a particularly romantic man, and God, was he difficult to read. But he loved you. He did. And you adored him. And you'd made it this far, a few years of marriage and almost two kids in, you'd done it. You would keep doing it until the day you dropped cold. So would he, he'd told you so hundreds of times. 

No, he was not romantic, but he showed you in other ways. He would rub your back when you were tired, he would open doors for you, or kiss you gently when you needed it. Simon Riley was a man of few words, but frequent action. You loved him for it.

The first time you'd met him, you'd nearly gone weak in the knees. Cliché. He teased you for it endlessly, you never should have admitted that to him. But how were you to help yourself? He was a handsome, well-muscled man with dirty blonde hair and a scowl that you found endearing. You still found that deep scowl endearing today, and on more than one occasion, you had gently pinched his cheek when he pulled that face. He would always chuckle and bat your hand away, biting the inside of his cheek so there was no looser skin for you to pinch again.

Simon Riley was, in your (biassed) opinion, the most handsome, most incredible, most loving man to ever live. And he was yours. Whenever he came shopping with you, or took you out somewhere, it was impossible to escape the stares that other women gave him. Part of you despised it, part of you basked in it. You'd lean in to whisper something in his ear, or pat him gently on the chest, anything to mark him as yours. See this man, he's mine. He'd swear other men did the same to you, but you didn't believe him. He certainly believed himself though, placing a hand on the small of your back or tucking a piece of hair behind your ear whenever he thought he saw eyes on you. It was sweet.

You two had this little…thing. This cocoon for just you two. The comfort and safety that flowed between the both of you had been years in the making, and had taken many, many arguments and discussions to solidify. And you had argued, sometimes into the night hours, going back and forth about trust and patience and understanding. You had often had to fight for his agreement, or for his trust, but you had never had to fight for his love. That had come without question, but you'd had to fight for him to show it to you, for him to allow himself one good thing in life. He was different now, all those years of being with you, and working on himself, and all the absolute hell that he had been through. He was different, and you loved the man he was, and the man he had become. No one at his job knew how gentle he could be, the softness he was capable of. No one.

Although, you supposed that was about to change. He was bringing 'one of the guys' to your house, to stay. You had told him before that you had absolutely no problem with him bringing his friends - he wasn't a fan of you calling them that - over. If they needed somewhere to stay, you were more than willing to house them, they were strong men facing down the worst of the world's threats, they deserved somewhere to feel safe, if only for one night. He'd told you he might - although you'd always suspected that he wouldn’t - allow one of his squad mates into his home, and you'd encouraged him to do so if it was necessary. Tonight was the night.

Simon had called you as soon as he could, like he always did.

"I've landed, love, I'll be heading home soon."

"Good. How are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"Hungry?"

"Just ate here."

"Alright, I'll be in bed, please wake me up."

"Will do. I love you."

"I love you too."

He sounded exhausted on the phone, nothing out of the ordinary though, he was always tired when he came home. You were ashamed to admit to yourself that you were tired too. You ran a hand over your stomach. It had swelled up in the time that Simon had been gone. What a difference just a few weeks made. You'd had to attend your scheduled scan alone and had the sonogram photos in the drawer next to your bed, ready to show Simon when he got home.

This baby had been something of a surprise. Not an enormous one, though. Simon and yourself had been significantly less careful in the months leading up to when you found out, and you'd talked about it: kids, the whole thing. He had been apprehensive to say the least, so you had waited without resentment. He needed time, and God knew, you needed time, so you had both taken time. It had taken a year or so of discussions, he was terrified to become his father. He would never be his father, never. He was nothing like him, nothing. But even so, you had a strong enough support system, that if anything ever happened - which, of course, it never would - you would be out of there in an instant. An instant. But he had come to his own decision. Being a father would be new, terrifying, different, but he put an ounce of faith in himself, and you'd stopped being so careful in bed.

And then your period came late.

You wished you could be like those women in movies who had no idea and had a whole revelation about being pregnant. But you were not stupid, you were practical, it was one of the things Simon often told you that he loved about you. So, practicality it was. You were sure you were pregnant. Three positive pregnancy tests later, and that sealed the deal.

Then you'd burst into tears in your bathroom.

God, who were you to think you could do this? He was due to leave for a three-week operation in two days. You'd be alone in your first few weeks.

You didn't hear Simon come home from his run, you'd hardly heard the jagged tone to his voice when he pushed the door open. What a sight it must have been for him. You, curled into the bathroom wall, crying hysterically and hugging yourself. He did well to hide his panic, the soldier in him must have taken over for a few seconds. He scanned the bathroom floor, then checked you over for injuries, asking what was wrong the whole time. Then he'd scanned the bathroom counter and found the three tests lined up. He knew what they were, but bless him, he didn't know if they were negative or positive, the lines meant nothing to him. All that knowledge of things so violent that they couldn't even be named, and of places he could barely pronounce, yet he was hopeless to understand what he was looking at. So, he took an educated guess.

"You're pregnant?"

You'd barely managed a nod, and to his absolute credit, he did not clam up. He did not shut his mouth, or grit his teeth, or sink back onto his heels. He had reassured you, pulled you into his lap on the floor and talked you out of your hysterics. He'd waited patiently until you could talk. And you had been fine. You loved him, he loved you, and you both loved this baby. You would be fine. It had never been so hard to say goodbye to him as he left for his next mission. You'd never been so panicked whilst he had been away. You had to call your friend to come and stay with you for the time he was away, so she could help you stay out of your thoughts.

But all of that panic always subsided when he came home, when he lay beside you and breathed quietly as he slept. Everything was better when he was there. And he would be there in an hour or two, so you allowed yourself to get some rest until you heard his tyres in the drive.

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

Every few seconds, the car was forced into the dull yellow shine of the streetlights. Soap wanted to ask how much longer they would be travelling, but for lack of better words than ‘are we there yet,’ he remained silent, watching identical rows of darkened townhouses amble by. It had been a long drive though, long enough that Johnny had glanced at the clock on the car's electronic display once or twice, just to make sure he wasn't losing his mind.

Suburbia was not quite what Soap had imagined when he thought of his lieutenant's home, although he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where he thought Ghost might live. 'Far from base' was all the information he had to guess from. Everyone has to stay somewhere, right? Guiltily, John realised he hadn’t much considered that Simon did in fact, live a civilian life. For weeks or months at a time. The task force wasn’t on duty 24/7, but Ghost, as a normal person? Someone you might see crossing the street? Carrying groceries? It hadn’t crossed his mind.

Strange.

Strange to think of such a deadly man in such a domestic sphere.

The low rumble of a flight path ahead served to calm Soap, used to noise as he winded down. Silence was deafening, silence was dangerous. Deep down, although he struggled to admit it, the long string of silence that met him in his own home terrified him. The emptiness, the void that greeted him when he first entered his flat, before the click of his fingers on the light switch, before he turned on the industrial fan beside his couch and before the kettle started to whistle. The silence would grip him around the neck, trying to pull him into his thoughts.

Close-knit housing soon dropped off into plots of land, with sparser houses and longer driveways. The expected pricing of these blocks didn’t escape the sergeant.

Another hour or so later, when the modern street lights had long since faded out into antiquated street lamps every hundred metres, the car began to slow.

“We’re here.” Ghost ripped the quiet in two with the gruff edge of his voice, turning off onto a lined driveway. In the dim light, the house stood modestly. Perfectly normal. Far enough away from other houses to be private, but close enough to be watchful of the neighbours. How fitting.

The ignition rumbled to a stop as Ghost turned the key and exited the car.

Boots hitting the stone, Soap immediately felt at odds with this house. It wasn’t his. It was Ghost’s, a man he knew very little about. It wasn't enemy territory, perhaps this was worse: friendly territory. Too friendly territory. A peaceful space, one that he shouldn't be encroaching on.

He followed said man to the door, crunching quietly up the drive and swinging his bag over his shoulder, a more comfortable hold for his exhausted muscles.

Ghost grunted quietly as he unlocked and pushed the door open, swearing and muttering something about getting it fixed.

“Boots off.” He spoke rather quietly and Soap responded immediately, shrugging out of his boots and sitting them next to a few others at the door. His first sign that something was…amiss, was that there were a few pairs of shoes far too small for Simon, stacked neatly on a wooden shelf next to the door.

He was greeted with a long hallway as he followed Simon through the quiet house. His second sign that something was amiss, was that this house smelled, to put it kindly, feminine. It did not smell like an empty house, nor one that was inhabited by a lone man. Unless of course, Simon Riley had a penchant for vanilla-scented candles. Soap suspected he did not.

A few photographs and decorations adorned the walls but they were impossible to make out in the dark. Soap’s fingers twitched towards his head a split second before he was pulled back to reality and realised that there were no night-vision goggles to help him out here. A stupid instinctual move that he found himself doing more and more these days.

Ghost pushed a door to his right open, it creaked quietly in the silent house.

“Spare room’s in here, bathrooms to the left-“

“Thanks, Lt.”

“Take a shower, but keep it down, the missus’ll be asleep.”

And as if he hadn’t just flash-banged Soap, Simon left, turning on his heel and heading further into the house. 

[katsinspats]

Thematically appropriate comic for Make a Terrible Comic Day!!

I saw the original post this morning and it made me get out of bed to make something, so thank u Pseudonym Jones mission accomplished

[aur0raaura]

Yknow what- you're so right...

[otaku553]

Fire (part 3)

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(Spade Pirate Sabo AU Masterpost)

[imissthestarswhenicry]

whos he texting?🤨

[electrozeistyking]

"She's Gone"

This bad boy was started on the third of November, and finished on the seventh. In total, there are thirty panels (all of which were drawn separately).

A good chunk of N's dialogue near the end came to me after I did some improv to figure out what he should say. I have since dubbed it "N's Failure Monologue."

[spacebubblehomebase]

"A New Day Will Dawn."

-Said some guy named Luke probably.

Welcome to my #HHStargazersAU! Stay Tuned~♡? -Bubbly💙

[florencebirdsong]

Healer Knows Best

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Healer AU - Chapter 1/3

Summary: you have a problem you can’t ignore anymore. The local healer, Agatha Harkness, is more than happy to help.

Tags: naive reader, virgin reader, first time, fingering, medical play, good girl, R is horny and doesn't have the words for it, no pronouns used for R, R is told it doesn’t counts as sex but does says yes to Agatha’s fingers so dubious consent, manipulation, corruption kink

masterlist | ao3

Authors note: dark grey Agatha my beloved

You knock on the healer’s door and wring your hands nervously as you wait for her to answer. Half of you hopes she isn’t home and the other hopes she is. Your problem is embarrassing but you know if she isn’t here now you won’t find the courage to return. Which means the feeling will only get worse.

She opens the door and you struggle to bury the relief and anxiety. Her beauty is startling and you curse your affliction for noticing. Her hair is braided back out of her face, a few strands escaping. The sunlight brings out the detail in her blue eyes.

“Healing or ingredients?” she asks.

You force yourself to look at the ground instead of staring.

“Healing please,” you say, forcing some strength into your voice.

“Very well,” she opens the door wider. “What seems to be the problem?” she asks as she leads you inside the small cottage. 

It’s every surface is crowded with materials and ingredients and tools. You look around nervously. This is the first time you’ve been to see the healer by yourself. You haven’t even been inside before. She doesn’t offer you a seat. She stops in front of the bench that has the most space on it, a mortar and pestle front and centre.

“It’s…um a bit embarrassing,” you say.

“Now, now, dear, I’ve been doing this for decades. There’s nothing I haven’t heard. Or seen,” she adds with a wink.

Something flutters in your stomach and it only makes the feeling worse. 

“It’s about,” you hesitate and then gesture vaguely to your lower stomach.

“Is something wrong with your monthly? Pain worse than usual?” She begins to move items around on the table.  

You cross your arms around yourself. You knew you’d have to explain it for her to be able to help but that doesn’t mean you were able to make yourself prepare for it. 

“It’s not that,” you say. “But it’s-it’s the same thing.”

The word is too vulgar. She turns back around.

“Thing? If it’s not your monthly then how can it be the same thing?”

“I mean,” you fluster, “It’s the same area.”

“You mean your cunt?” she asks bluntly. You gape at her. “This is a medical environment. Use the proper terms.”  You continue to gape at her but she doesn’t seem phased.  “What’s happening to your cunt?”

You gather yourself as best as you can.

“It-“

“My cunt,” she cuts you off. You look at her, lost. “Say it. I told you to use the proper terms. Say my cunt,” she makes a continue gesture.

“M-my cunt,” you force out and the smile she gives you in return warms you and makes that feeling grow, “feels…,” you hadn’t thought this far ahead, “weird.” You settle on.

“Weird how?” Her eyes trail down your form. “Itchy. Hot. Tingling. Wet?” 

She steps closer with every word. You swallow harshly and look anywhere but at her.

“Um, tingling. And the last one,” you say quickly. 

“Is there a colour to this wetness?” She asks, close enough to accidentally brush against. 

You shake your head.

“I see,” she says and her eyebrows furrow a little.

“You see?” your ask worriedly at her expression. “You see what?”

“It’s probably nothing,” she tries to wave you off.

It doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like you’re going to go crazy. 

“But if it isn’t nothing, then what would it be?” your hands twist anxiously in the skirt of your dress.

“I can’t be sure yet. Hop up,” she taps the empty batch. You hesitate before lifting yourself to sit on the edge. “Now, this can be a little awkward but I need to be sure.”

“What can be awkward?” you ask as she steps closer.

She taps the inside of your knees and you open them without really thinking. She steps between them and you stare up at her with wide eyes. She’s close. Close enough that she’s the only thing you can see. 

Her hand grasps the bottom of your dress and you stare up at her with wide eyes. She doesn’t look away as she lifts the skirt of your dress to your hips.

“What are you doing?” you ask, sounding breathless.

“I need to check for myself. There’s no point upsetting you if it’s nothing.”

“You’re going to…?” you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“I’m going to touch your cunt. Yes.”

You swallow harshly, your mouth suddenly dry. You don’t stop her when she pushes your legs further apart or when she begins to pull down your underwear. You try not to squirm. She’s a healer. Like she said, she’s seen everything. There’s nothing to be embarrassed or nervous about. It’s still hard not to be when she finally looks at you there. 

“There’s no visual indications, which is a good sign, but I won’t be able to know until I touch,” two fingers stop inches from where you’re dripping and she looks up at you, “May I?”

There’s a look on her face you don’t have the name for you. You nod and her fingers gently run through your soaking folds. You gasp at the unfamiliar feeling. You look up at the ceiling when you realise it feels good. You don’t want the healer to see it on your face. 

Her fingers run lower and your hips twitch as they run over that special spot you’re not meant to touch. She does it again with a bit more pressure and your hand flies to your mouth to stifle the embarrassing noise trying to escape it.

“Good,” she murmurs quietly to herself.

You think it’s over until she runs her finger higher and touches that thing. That sensitive something that you’ve only ever brushed. You can’t help gasping at the tingle it sparks. Agatha’s eyes lock onto you.

“Did that hurt?” she asks.

“No,” your voice cracks. “But it felt weird.”

“What about this?” Her finger circles and you cling to the table. “How does this feel?”

“I don’t-I don’t know. I-“ 

She presses down on that spot and the jolt it sends through you makes you close your legs. Her hips stop you. She sighs and pulls her hand away. You aren’t sure if you’re meant to be so upset about it.

“Did that make the feeling stronger?”

“Yes,” you manage to say.

“It’s not as bad as I thought.”

“It’s not?” you ask hopefully. 

“No pain crosses out a couple options. The treatment will be easier that way.”

You relax for the first time. An easy treatment means the thing happening to you will be over soon.

“Do I take something or is it a paste?” you ask, hoping you brought enough money. 

 “Have you ever been with someone, dear?” she asks, ignoring your question.

“Yes.” Of course you have, you aren’t a hermit. You have friends and there’s always those yearly family gatherings. You aren’t sure how a person can go through life without being with someone else. Wouldn’t you die as a baby?

Agatha raises an eyebrow and studies your expression. You shift uncomfortably.

“Let me put it a different way,” she says and her hands land on your thighs.  “Have you ever been fucked?”

“I-excuse me?” you stutter.

“It’s a simple question, dear. One I need answered as your healer.” 

“I’m not married,” you say.

“So? That doesn’t mean you’ve never snuck off with another girl and let her fool around under your skirts.”

You’re so embarrassed that you feel like you’re going to die.

“Only your spouse is allowed to touch you under there,” you murmur.  “And healers,” you quickly add on.  

The look she gives you is almost amused.

“So that’s a no?” she asks and you nod your head. “I didn’t think so,” she says.

You watch, confused, as she moves to the other side of the room and picks up a small purple jar. She returns to her spot between your thighs, you didn’t even think to close them. She takes off the lid and tilts the jar towards you.

You peer in curiously at the jar. The gel inside of it is clear and you can’t smell anything.

“You’ll need to apply this twice a day,” she says. When she doesn’t say where or how much you ask. “In your cunt, dear.”

“In?”

“It can be a little uncomfortable for someone who hasn’t been touched there before,” she says sympathetically.

She hands you the jar and you stare down at it with wide eyes.

“How far in?” Is the first thing you can think of. 

She snorts a little and you look up at her.

“All the way, dear.”

“How-how deep-“

She grasps your shaking hands. 

“How about I administer the first dose?”

Your stomach twists. The feeling that’s been haunting you grows.

“Yes, please,” you don’t want to do it wrong.

You watch, almost entranced, as she takes the jar and dips two fingers into the liquid. She swirls them around for a few moments before scooping some out. She runs her fingers over you the spot you aren’t allowed to touch and you gasp at the cool feeling. One finger gently circles your entrance.

“I’ll go easy on you,” she murmurs.

She begins to slowly push one finger inside of you and you cling desperately to the table. The feeling is new and strange and you feel a slight stretching sensation. You look up from the strange, exciting image of a finger entering you to find Agatha focused solely on your face, analysing your every reaction. Embarrassment runs through you but can’t bring yourself to look away. Your breathing is heavy and it’s hard to think about anything other than her.

She pulls out before she’s all the way inside of you and you whimper at the sudden empty feeling. You’re surprised at how heavily you’re breathing and how desperately you want her back inside of you. 

“You’re tighter than I thought,” Agatha says, her voice now has a rougher edge to it. “I’m going to need to use more fingers to properly coat your insides.” 

“More?” your voice cracks and you try to hide how eager you are.

“It’ll feel the same as before,” she reassures as her fingers return to your entrance. “Just a bit tighter.”

She doesn’t give you time to question, she pushes two wet fingers inside of you. She’s just as slow as the first time and you fight yourself to keep still as every inch makes that feeling inside of you grow.

“It’s making it worse,” you gasp. 

You thought the mixture was meant to stop this feeling inside of your cunt.

“Take it,” she says warningly and you whimper. “This won’t work if we can’t get it deep enough and you need to be wide open for me to do that.”

You don’t fight as she pushes deeper.  You cling to her shoulders and try to open your legs wider, hoping that will help with the stretch. You whimper when she gets to her second knuckle and you can feel the shiver that runs through her at the sound.

“Good girl, almost there,” she says. 

The name makes the tingling spread and you desperately hope she calls you it again.

Her fingers stop and you look down. They’re fully inside of you. It makes the feeling grow more and you have to focus on staying still to not embarrass yourself further.

“Is that it?” you ask, a slight whimper to your words.

“Not quite,” Agatha says, she’s got a smile on her face you haven’t seen before but it quickly transforms back into her professional mask. “We have to make sure it’s spread evenly.”

“How-”

She pulls her fingers half-way out before pushing back into you. A noise you’ve never made before escapes you. There’s a look on her face that you don’t have time to question as she does it again. And again and again. You try to count how many times she moves in and out of you to distract yourself from the wave of pleasure growing and growing inside of you. It doesn’t work. All you can concentrate on is the feeling of her fingers. How good it feels every time she thrusts back into you. How much you don’t want her to stop.

“I’m not deep enough,” she says and your confusion comes out in a whimper. It feels like she is. It feels like she’s reached the deepest part of you. “I’ll have to use another finger.”

“I-I can’t take that much,” you say with a slight whine.

Two fingers feel good, they feel so good but the idea of her adding another scares you. Two barely fit. Yet the memory of how the stretch turned into spine-tingling pleasure has you willing to take anything she gives you.

“You will,” she says and slips in her third finger without anymore warning. 

Your cry quickly turns to a moan as the feeling inside of you intensifies. Agatha makes a small sound when she looks down at her hand. She slows down and your hips buck in protest. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t feeling overwhelmingly good.

She curls her fingers and that feeling triples.

“Something’s happening,” you say in a high pitched voice.

“Let it,” Agatha says, the reassurance from before gone as she concentrates solely on her fingers. She curls them again and hits something deep inside of you. You throw your head back and moan as that feeling snaps and your body floods with pleasure. It pulses inside of you in a never ending loop.

 Agatha slows down but doesn’t stop until your exhausted body tilts forward and leans against her.

She gently pulls out and you make a protesting noise. The feeling of being so empty upsetting after being full for the first time. She chuckles quietly and wipes off her wet fingers on your thigh. 

She quietly lets you get your strength back. Hands firmly holding you but not caressing. Your breathing is steadier when you pull back but it hitches at the look on her face. Her pupils are blown and she almost seems to be drinking you in with her eyes.

“Good,” she says and steps back. You feel a little lost. Agatha wipes her hand on a clean rag before picking up the jar again. “Repeat every two days. Let’s say, six times.”

You nod mutely and take the jar. You don’t get up. You don’t think your legs can hold you just yet.

“What happened at the end…” you trail off hoping Agatha will fill in the rest. She doesn’t. “Was I-was it supposed to?”

Agatha huffs a laugh.

“Yes, dear,” she says, “You needed to for the mixture to take effect properly.”

“Oh,” the tight hold embarrassment has loosens. Then anxiety takes hold. “Does that mean I need to do that?”

“Yes,” Agatha says with a secret smile. 

You swallow nervously.

“Like how you did it?”

“There are a few other ways but I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

You nod and fiddle nervously with the jar as you try to imagine pushing your own fingers inside of you. The idea isn’t unpleasant. You’re more worried about someone discovering you. Will they believe that a healer has told you to? How are you meant to prove otherwise if they don’t? Drag them down to Agatha? If they really believe you’re breaking such a rule they won’t give you time to do so.

Agatha must see the look on your face.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Lock the door, pull up your dress. It shouldn’t take too long with how sensitive you are,” she says and you fluster at her crassness. “Don’t be afraid to come back if you need some help with applying the mixture.”

You nod meekly and take the jar.

“I will.”

[sergle]

My floral witches (previously a patreon reward) are now up as stickers in the shop!! 🌷SergleShop🌷

[zu-is-here]

Happy birthday to the boy who changed the fate★

Axel [10/29] & Eve by ari-cuno

Anko by groovygladiatorsheep

Crazy Lace by clownyclowns

Esther by orange-dreamzer

Flicker by bluepallilworld

[cjlouwho]

prompt: tommy's dad shows up at the 118 out of nowhere

heads up: Tommy's dad is a homophobic asshole here, and he acts as such. Also contains references to past child abuse (hit with a belt, and knocking a kid)

Bobby was in the middle of cooking dinner with Buck, the rest of the team hanging out on the sofa, when the newest probie, Jones, came walking up the stairs. “Uh, Cap? There's a man here who wanted to talk to you.”

The man followed closely behind Jones, who went right back downstairs to continue with whatever he had been up to.

Bobby wiped his hands off on a towel before walking over to the man. “I'm Captain Nash- Bobby,” he introduced, shaking the man's hand. “How can I help you?”

“Good to meet you, Bobby,” the man replied. His shake was firm, almost aggressive. “I'm actually here looking for my kid. Haven't heard from him in a while and last he told me, he was workin' here.”

As much as Buck was trying not to be obviously nosy, he couldn't help but keep glancing over at the guy. He looked so familiar, but Buck couldn't quite place him. When the man caught Buck's eyes, he quickly looked away and grabbed a nearby can, pretending to fiddle with it.

“I'll help how I can. What's his name?”

“Thomas Kinard. I'm his father, Richard.”

The can Buck was holding dropped onto the counter with a loud thud. Everyone's head whipped in his direction.

“S- Sorry. It, um, it slipped from my, uh, my hand.”

“Uh,” Bobby turned back to Richard, “I'm sorry Mr. Kinard, but Tommy hasn't worked here in about seven and a half years.”

“Figures.” Richard shook his head. “Damn kids'll screw you over every chance they get, won't they?”

Buck hurried over to introduce himself before Bobby could even manage a response.

“Mr. Kinard, hi,” he started, wiping his hand on his pants before reaching out for a shake. “I'm Buck. Evan, um, Evan Buckley. You can call me Evan, or Buck, whichever.”

Richard stared at him in a way that Buck wasn't exactly sure what he was thinking. “Buck's a strong name. I like strong names. We'll go with Buck.”

Buck nodded. “Sure. That- That's fine.”

“So, Buck, did you work with Tom before he left here?”

That's when it hit Buck. If this man didn't even know where Tommy worked, he definitely didn't know Buck was his boyfriend. He could feel himself begin to sweat. Could sense everyone's eyes on him. “Um, no, I- I mean, yes. I work with him, um, sometimes, but not- we didn't work together h- here. So, no.”

Richard snickered. “Cat got your tongue, Kiddo?”

“Why don't you go get your phone, Buck?” Bobby suggested. “Let Tommy know his dad is here.”

“Huh? Oh, um, yes. Yeah, I'll do that.” Buck hoped and prayed to God in that moment that Richard didn't notice the phone in his pocket.

“And while Buck does that, you can have a seat.” Bobby led him over to the table, where the rest of the team was now making their way over. “Once Tommy gets here we'll have lunch.”

*****

Buck skipped every other step as he went downstairs, hurrying outside to call Tommy.

He answered on the third ring. “Hey, Evan. What's up? Everything okay?”

They may have the same job, but it didn't stop them from worrying about one another when they were on shift.

“Hey! Everything's fine, but c- can you come down to the station?”

“You miss me that much?” Tommy joked. “You're off in like four hours, Babe.”

“No, I know. I mean, yes, I miss you, but no that's not why I need you here.”

“What's going on, Evan?” He sounded worried again.

“Your... Tommy, your dad came in looking for you. He's, um, he's waiting here.”

The silence lasted so long that Buck glanced at his phone to see if the call had dropped. “Are you there, Tommy?”

Finally, Buck heard the sounds of Tommy shuffling around. “I'm on my way,” he answered. Any lingering happiness in his voice was long gone. “And Evan?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sorry?” Buck asked. “Why're you-”

Tommy hung up before Buck could get out the question. He sighed, put the phone in his pocket, and headed back upstairs.

“-it looks like the damn United Nations in here.”

Buck's eyes met Eddie's. It was clear he'd walked in on the middle of a conversation that shouldn't be happening.

Eddie shook his head at Buck. A silent don't ask.

Buck sat down quietly, his leg shaking with nerves and his stomach filled with knots. Tommy wasn't even there, but he already felt terrible for him as Richard happily went into a very depressing story about Tommy crying after a girl kissed him when he was twelve years old.

*****

Tommy steeled himself before walking up the stairs at the station. It took everything he had in him to not turn around and go right back home.

He couldn't do that though. Couldn't leave his father with Evan, or anyone else up there. They didn't deserve that.

“Tom had half the girls in the school chasing after him, askin' him to prom, and he still went with the most unattractive looking thing you'd ever seen.”

“Missy was not unattractive, Dad,” Tommy said from the top of the staircase. Everyone turned in his direction. “She was sweet and my best friend at the time.”

“Girl had braces twice the size of her face.”

Richard made no effort to stand and greet his son, not that Tommy expected him to.

Tommy was met with apprehensive hello's from the team, and a look of nervous concern from Evan.

“Come sit with us,” Bobby said, motioning to the seat beside Buck. “We were about to eat when your dad came in, so I figured we could have lunch together.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

Tommy sat down stiffly, avoiding any physical contact with Evan. Not that Evan was trying anything either. He kept his hands firmly planted on his thighs.

“What are you doing here, Dad?” Tommy was purposefully avoiding eye contact with everyone else in the room. Maybe if he tried hard enough, they'd all disappear and not have to witness whatever was inevitably about to occur.

“Figured seven years was long enough to go by without seeing ya. Thought I'd stop by and see what you'd been up to.”

Bobby finished setting out the food and everyone began to pass around the dishes and fill up their plates.

“You know you could've come by my house, Dad.”

“Lost your address. You know I'm no good with computers. Plus, thought it'd be nice to see you in action.”

“Oh, well, I'm off for the next two days so... no action.”

“Where are you at now?”

“Harbor Station. I'm a pilot there, but I work ground ops sometimes too.”

“Back to flying, huh?” Richard sounded genuinely impressed. “Good. That's good. Got you a girl yet?”

The spoon Chimney had in his hand dropped loudly onto his plate as Buck choked on the bite of food in his mouth.

“Sorry,” Chimney muttered as Buck coughed.

He grabbed his water and took a couple sips. “Sorry. Sorry, uh, wrong pipe,” he explained, clearing his throat.

Tommy sighed. “Nope. No girl.”

“Well, soon. You're a good lookin' man. Get yourself out there, they'll come running.”

“Running so hard they injure their best friend,” Eddie mumbled, earning him a kick under the table from Hen.

Richard didn't seem to hear the comment, but Chimney spoke up anyway. “So, Mr. Kinard, what do you do?”

“Nothing now, but I did twenty years in the Marines, oil rigging after that. Retired about seven years now.”

“Tough work.” Hen regretted her words the second Richard puffed his chest at them.

“That's right. I always drilled into Tommy's head the importance of hard work.”

"More like knocked it in,” Tommy muttered.

The room quieted.

Richard took a sip of his drink, then opted for a subject change. “Shame I can't see where you're working now, Tom. Guess you were so busy talking about that other thing you failed to mention you were somewhere else.”

“That other thing?” Tommy repeated. “You mean me telling you I was gay and you laughing in my face? Is that the other thing you're talking about?”

“Well, it was all a load of crap, wasn't it? Just another way to disrespect your old man.” Richard looked around the room as he laughed, apparently not paying any attention to the fact that he was the only one laughing. “That was always Tom for ya. Shootin' off his mouth, causing trouble. I told him one day he'd take it too far.”

“Telling you he was gay was him taking it too far?” Hen wasn't even trying to hide the disgust on her face. Richard was too busy being an ass to notice.

“I just knew it wasn't true. He comes to my house all serious, sayin' he's got something he's gotta tell me. I thought maybe he was going back into the army, the reserves or something. Then he tells me he's a queer. I know the world is changing and all that crap, but I also know my son, and that's not my son.”

Tommy felt on the verge of tears now. He hadn't taken more than a couple bites of food, using his fork to swirl the rice and the peas. He wished more than anything he could make himself smaller. So small no one could see him. He was embarrassed and ashamed that all these people he cared about, all these people who were starting to really get to know him for all that he was, were now seeing the disgrace that was his father. That's all they'd be able to see when they looked at him, especially Evan.

Evan who somehow always looked at Tommy like he'd hung the moon and stars. Evan, who made Tommy feel so undeservingly cared for. Who had just swapped I love you's with Tommy a few weeks ago... Now, this is what he'd see. This is what he'd think about. And who could love that?

“Or maybe you just don't know your son.”

Tommy's head shot up and over at the sound of Evan's voice. He sounded angry. He looked angry. Tommy was pretty sure if he could shoot fire, the whole place would be up in flames right now.

“Excuse me?” Richard glared. “Who the hell are you to tell me whether or not I know my son?”

Before Buck even had a chance to make up some lie, Tommy was reaching over and taking his hand, squeezing tight. “He's my boyfriend,” he said.

Richard huffed out a laugh.

This time, he noticed that no one else was laughing. “You screwin' with me?”

“No. Just like I wasn't screwin' with you seven years ago, I'm not now.”

The way Richard shook his head made Tommy feel like he was seven years old again, about to get the belt for bringing a turtle in the house. “My buddy Vic told me his daughter saw you with some guy on Facebook. Called him an ass and an idiot and you're telling me he was right?”

“Is that why you really came here? To harass me and Evan?”

“I never looked at the picture!” Richard replied, his voice rising. “And I had no clue you weren't here anymore. I came here to see you, to get the truth.”

“Well, you got it.”

“That the real reason you quit the army then? So you could be a sissy?”

Tommy's eyes widened, the question catching him off guard. Out of all the ways this conversation could have gone, he didn't expect it to pivot that way. “You've got to be kidding me. Dad, I did not quit the army, I was discharged.”

“And the reasoning never really made sense to me, son, I gotta tell ya-”

“Well it doesn't have to make sense to you, it made sense to the military-”

“-because no son of mine would go crazy in the army. Absolutely ridiculous to-”

“-which is why I got to leave, and I did not go crazy I had a brief-”

“-make up some sort of excuse like that and think it would fly-”

“Okay! Okay!” Buck yelled over them, motioning for them to stop. “I think you proved whatever point you were trying to make, Richard. Let it go.”

Tommy quieted, but Richard couldn't hold his tongue.

“What?” he provoked. “That's what you said it was, didn't you? After some mission gone wrong, you didn't sleep for like a week or something. Went cuckoo so they let you leave? S'what you told me.”

“Okay,” Bobby spoke up, his voice deep and commanding. “Richard, I think you've been here long enough. You should go.”

“If my kid wants me gone he can tell me himself.”

Through his shame, Tommy managed to glare over at his dad. “I never wanted you here in the first place.” He was shaking, his heart racing, but his voice remained steady. He was grateful for that.

An eerie silence weighed heavily around the table. The two men stared each other down until Richard finally tossed his napkin onto the table and stood up, his chair screeching with the motion. “Don't have anything here for me anyway.”

That was Richard. Always had to get in the final word.

Once his dad had descended the staircase, Tommy released a deep breath. “Well, that was fun,” he said shakily, trying for a smile.

He couldn't quite seem to make one appear.

He couldn't look anyone in the eyes either. The silence was driving him insane. He knew they had to be watching him with pity.

His eyes were burning, his lip was trembling. He was so close to falling apart.

He really didn't want anyone see him, but he also knew he was too shaky to stand. He opted for planting his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands.

After a few quiet seconds, Tommy could hear everyone scooting out of their chairs.

A hand rested on his shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze. “Take your time up here,” Bobby said. “Don't worry if you hear the alarm.”

“You've got family with us, Man,” Eddie said as he passed by, giving Tommy a pat on the back.

Chimney was next with a, “Love ya, Bud.”

“Whatever you need,” Hen added as she passed by, “we've got you.”

The gentle touches and words of affirmation as each person went by was what broke him. He pressed his palms hard against his eyes as his shoulders began to shake.

There was another hand on him now. Rubbing his back in gentle, slow circles.

Evan.

“I'm here, Babe,” he said softly. “I'm here.”

The sob that escaped him at Evan's words sounded more like a whine. Tommy was sure he'd never heard himself make that noise before, but now he couldn't stop it.

Evan pulled him in, wrapping his arms around him tight. Tommy hid his face in the crook of Buck's neck, his hands loosely grabbing at Buck's waist as he continued to cry.

They stayed like that for minutes. Evan continued rubbing his back, holding him, letting him get out all the feelings he'd been holding in for years.

“I'm so sorry, Evan,” Tommy whimpered once he was able to find his voice.

Evan held him tighter. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I didn't...” his breath hitched. “That could've been me. That was... was almost me.”

“No,” Evan disagreed. “No, you're nothing like him.” He turned his head to press a kiss into Tommy's hair. “Can you look at me?”

Reluctantly, Tommy lifted his head and pulled back just enough to look Evan in the eyes.

He sniffed, his breathing starting to come back to normal. He was sure his face was puffy and red. He knew a stray tear or two was still falling too.

Evan reached up and wiped the tears away, his thumbs continuing to brush over Tommy's cheeks so he could keep his attention. “You are not and have never been that man. You understand me?”

“Evan.”

“No, I mean it, Tommy. You think Chimney and Hen would ever give him a chance?” He shook his head. “No way in hell.”

Tommy bit at his lip. “This is so stupid,” he said with a wet laugh. “Crying because my dad was mean to me, like I'm some baby or something.”

Evan ran his hands down Tommy's arms until he intertwined their hands on his lap. “Not stupid. Very reasonable, actually. Quite possibly an under-reaction.” He brought one of Tommy's hands up to his mouth and gave it a kiss. “There's only a few hours of my shift left. I'm sure Bobby wouldn't mind if I left a little early. I can drive you to your place, we'll relax with a movie. Sound good?”

Tommy knew he should say no. Knew he should tell Evan that he was a big boy and could handle a few hours alone until Evan got off work. Instead, what came out of his mouth was, “Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“What about my car?”

Evan shrugged. “We'll pick it up tomorrow.”

“Okay... Okay, yeah. I probably shouldn't be driving anyway.”

After wiping away another tear, Evan leaned in and pressed his lips against Tommy's in one of the softest, yet most loving kisses Tommy had ever felt in his life.

“I love you, Tommy.”

“I love you, Evan.”

“And Eddie's right, you know? Everyone here, including me of course,” he smiled, “we're your family. You know that right?”

Tommy nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

[theredviper]

ASTARION ANCUNIN BEING SASSY: 2/?