#i do wish o succeeded that would have been fire

[sirnica]

You are handling it as well as you can!

Thank you, friend. I assure you, the way I'm handing this is probably in the top five worst ways anyone has ever handled a break up (that didn't end up in the news).

But I appreciate your positivity ♥️

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Ten (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running? 

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. 

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list). 

Author’s note: Hope you like this next instalment! It’s a long one, and it’s a flashback, so it feels like a HUGE RISK to shove this in so far into the story. However, this memory of Santiago’s and reader’s is SO vivid in my mind I feel I could basically use it as a patronus charm. Therefore, if you’re at all invested in these two by now, I do feel like the payoff is worth it, and that it will set you up PERFECTLY for the next, concluding chapter! (Also: ooh, intrigue, as we get to see how they were with each other back in their youth, you know?). Anyway, as always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send my way. ILY :-*

P.s. there’s a timeline goof as a song mentioned in this, although recorded in ‘88, was not released until 2015. But we’re just gonna look past that, okay? 😝 In this world it was released early. 

AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!

Word count: 16.6k for this part. (SORRY!)

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

Many years earlier

Santiago is tired. Ready to crawl into the cocoon of his bed and draw the covers over his head, refusing to surface again until he’s dragged feet first outta there. Unfortunately for him though, sleep is not on the cards. 

Instead, he has a vitally important mission to attend to. And, in the face of a mission, this particular soldier never settles for anything less than completion. That doctrine is especially true - he has proven time and again - when it comes to taking care of you. 

Tonight, Santiago is tasked with making your birthday a memorable one; or, as memorable as he can muster with the $40 he currently has to his name. 

“Civilian aircraft, man. Where’s a goddamn helo when you need one?” you fruitlessly complain as he nods along in sympathy.

Evidently, sleep is the last thing on your mind. You’d been looking forward to cutting loose for weeks, with this night touted as “the birthday to end all birthdays”. Serendipitously, this was the first time your birthday had coincided with a period of leave since you signed up to serve and, thwarting all that, your connecting flight was grounded unexpectedly.

Santiago feels crushed - on your behalf - that the plans have gone so pear-shaped. 

“One o’ these days, getting shot for the Motherland will gain me some fucking privileges, huh?”

Santiago flinches at that particular addition. He doesn’t like to think about that day. That day’d had him waking up in frequent cold sweats going on a year now. He’d put himself on the line countless times - no problem- but almost losing you had been decidedly different. Had been the single most terrifying moment of his career (and his life) to date, all told. Which sure was saying something considering the hairy situations he routinely found himself in. 

Graciously, your present circumstances are considerably less dire. You’ve still been griping, of course. And, your complaints have not succeeded in changing a damn thing. It is now abundantly clear - if it wasn’t already - that the two of you are stranded for the night. So, here you are, holed up in a dingy and characterless airport motel in Philadelphia. 

It beats enemy fire, for sure… but even so, Santiago is acutely aware of how much you’ve been looking forward to this. To the rare chance to catch-up with your far flung squad mates, scattered every which way across the globe since graduating basic. He knows too, that the anticipation of this reunion had acted as your glue - had held you together - through what had been a particularly brutal deployment. 

“I haven’t seen Miller in months, man. I need to give that bastard some grief soon or I’m going to lose my damn mind.” 

“We can call that pendejo tomorrow,” Santiago soothes, popping a stick of gum and beginning to chew obnoxiously. “Hey. We can even pool our insults, huh? Really get him going.” 

You raise your palms, pressing the heels of your hands into your eye sockets. “Shit. I just miss the fucker, Santiago.” For the first time tonight he hears your voice break, your stoicism cracking apart and revealing your soft middle. 

“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

Santiago knows how crushed you are. And so, for whatever it’s worth, the man resolves to show you the best night he possibly can, all circumstances considered. 

“Come on,” he encourages, kneeling before you as your lower lip quivers. He plants a hand on your thigh and jostles your leg gently. Meanwhile, you sit slumped on the long edge of the lumpy motel bed, beginning to feel rather more sorry for yourself. “You and me, baby. I’ll make this night special, I swear. Just give me a chance, huh?” 

“How?” you sound, throwing your palms up and gesturing to your dismal surroundings. “This place is barely even a step-up from the barracks.” You eye a particularly suspect stain on the carpet with disdain. “Actually, I think it might even be a step down.”

Santiago’s face crumples obediently in a measured display of sympathy, but honestly, his first instinct is to chuckle. You look so forlorn in this moment, Santiago has to consciously suppress his smile. You are the most stubborn, ferocious, determined person he’s ever met. You are fucking tough. Hell, he’s seen Staff Sergeants buckle in a crisis before you’ve even come close to breaking - and yet here you are. Almost in tears because you can’t make your birthday party. It’s all a little incongruous to him that out of everything, this would be the thing to take you down. 

At the same time though, of course. He understands it perfectly. 

Santiago has understood for a long time now that you possess a (well-concealed) softer side. Knows it better than most others do, in fact. As you’ve gradually allowed him to sneak past your militia-guarded perimeter -only a soldier of his calibre capable of making it, he’d wager - he’s begun to catch more and more frequent glimpses of the achingly soft heart you guard within. If your tough exterior had initially magnetised him to you, it was your soft heart which ensured he’d stuck around.

Solemnly then, he pats your thigh in a consolatory gesture. Of course, Santiago gets it. He knows it isn’t the presents or the attention or fuss which you’ll miss tonight - though they would have gone over well too, he’s sure. He knows that it is your brothers (in arms, if not blood) that you are feeling the loss of. The squad mates you love dearly, and to whom you are loyal with a tenacity Santiago has rarely witnessed. A loyalty he too feels blessed -strictly in the lapsed Catholic sense - to be on the receiving end of. 

Valiantly fighting back glassy tears, you pop your lower lip in a display of petulance as he rubs reassuring circles into your knee. “Philly sucks ass.” 

This time, he can’t quite quash his smile all the way. 

“Philly sucks ass, huh?” he repeats, buying himself time to think. 

Santiago isn’t sure whether you know that for a fact. He isn’t even sure you’ve ever been to Philly before to assess how much ass it does or does not suck. But, he does know that, irregardless of facts, you seem altogether determined to wallow in your self-pity. 

Santiago has noticed this about you. How you always developed an inalienable picture in your head of how you hope things will end up. It’s inspirational at times - your ability to visualise victory, for example, even in the most dire of circumstances, has held missions together. Has held him together. At other times though, it only set you up for disappointment. How could it not, when, through no fault of your own, you cannot reliably manifest the various futures you set your heart on. 

It’s not as though you ever ask for a lot; but sometimes, in your profession, even asking for a little is asking far too much. 

Still, it is brave, Santiago thinks, to hope for things. For his part, he has learned the hard way not to hope for anything much. 

Your shoulders sag in time with his as he exhales a breath and, though your display is dejected, Santiago gathers a soft smile. You are stubborn, that’s for sure, but in him you’ve met your match - or so he likes to think. Santiago is perhaps the only person who could reasonably claim the title of being twice as stubborn as you are, and (while he realises deep down he probably shouldn’t wear that as a badge of honour) he has often pushed his theory to its limit. And so, stubbornly, refusing to give up, Santiago rises to standing. He fishes around in his jeans pocket, yanks out a fistful of dimes and small bills, and brandishes them victoriously. 

He waves them enticingly in front of your face then, but you forlornly swat them -and him- away. However, he knows from the dull, reluctant spark in your eyes when he makes his pitch that he is finally on to something. “I saw some peanut butter cups in the hallway vending machine,” he sing-songs, with a hopeful raise of his eyebrows. He knows fine well they’re your favourite, and he can’t believe he’d forgotten his secret weapon: chocolate. “We can clean them out, take a cab, find some shitty ass dive bar, and have ourselves a sweet ol’ time. Whaddya say?” 

Nothing else had worked, and so Santiago is eminently thankful when a smile finally twitches your mouth. Honestly, he’d been about one attempt away from offering to eat you out all night - and he hadn’t been sure whether that would’ve made you happy, or would’ve resulted in you verbally lambasting him.

On balance, he figured it was probably best that he didn’t risk either kind of tongue-wagging. 

“Fine,” you concede whilst swallowing a mischievous grin, not at all eager to let on that Santiago has finally cracked you. “But don’t you be expecting to muscle in on my Reese’s, understood?” 

Santiago chuckles warmly, slipping into Spanish. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Birthday Princess.”

You snort at your newly bestowed title, playfully adjusting an invisible crown on your head, and you extend your palm towards his to shake on it. The gesture, as Santiago’s palm over-enthusiastically clasps yours, causes dimes and bills to scatter chaotically to the floor. A shit-eating grin etches itself across his face and meanwhile, your boisterous laugh rings out through the tight space. “Shit, Pope. Don’t drop it on this grim-ass fucking carpet.”

“It’s been worse places, trust me.”

“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?” 

“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”

“And you don’t know where the hell he’s been?”

“The opposite. I shared a bunk with that hijo de puta, I know exactly where he’s been.”

With easy laughter eddying between you now, you both crouch, carefully gathering up the spoils of the latest Pope/Catfish wager to change hands. 

“I really need to meet that guy.” 

“Sweetie, you’ve met him.” 

Your hand brushes Santiago’s as you transfer him a mess of coins, sending a trail of goosebumps shivering up his arm. It always surprises him how soft you feel to the touch, accustomed as he has become to his own calloused hands - and to those of even rougher men than him. 

“Garcia. I swear to you I’ve never clapped eyes on the bastard.”

“You just don’t remember him.” 

“Shit. Well maybe he’s not very fucking memorable. Jog my memory. What did we talk about?” 

His shit-eating grin is back. “I dunno. But I bet you talked for the both of you.”

“Hey!” you protest, batting Santiago lightly -more or less- in the upper arm. 

“I just mean he’s quiet. Takes a while to warm up, that’s all. But he’s a good guy. You’ll like him, I promise.” 

“Okay.” You shove the remaining dime into Santiago’s palm.

“Okay?” 

“He’s clearly special to you, so he’s special to me too. Introduce me to him. Again.” 

Santiago smiles at you, gentle crinkles forming around his eyes. He’s already told Frankie so much about you, and he really thinks the two of you will get on. “Deal.” You both stand, and Santiago once again extends his cash-filled hand towards you. 

With a cheeky grin you chide him, not eager for a repeat calamity, but your tone is fond. “Don’t you dare shake on it, idiota.” 

Your smile digresses to your eyes. You extend your palm to pat him on his stubbled cheek - in a gesture weighing heavily with affection. Your lips animate, and Santiago wonders whether something sentimental might actually come to the fore. 

You whisper, low. “You have thirty seconds to get me my peanut butter cups.” 

He chortles and, for the first time (perhaps since imagining his head between your legs), Santiago is eminently excited to see where the night will lead him. 

Safe to say, he might be dog-tired… but he finally feels like staying awake. 

***

Despite your very vocal distaste for the music, and the clientele, and…well, just about everything in the first dive bar you and Santiago stumble across, the combination of cheap beers and even cheaper shots has succeeded in getting you efficiently merry. And, despite your earlier reticence, you now seem plenty eager to continue the party. 

Considering he could only afford cab fare from the motel to a dead neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city, it wasn’t going too badly, he thought. Though, Santiago had hastily steered you outta the first joint when a group of creeps had started leching on you. He knows you can handle yourself and he wouldda been happy to back you; but tonight especially, conflict is the last thing he wants for you. He figures you’ve had more than enough of that to last a lifetime. That you finally deserve a little peace. So, instead, he links your arm in his to keep your tipsy ass steady as he steers you down the main drag, desperately searching his mind - and scanning the unfamiliar streets - for what to do next. 

His mission, as it stands, is to satiate your threefold desire - for drinks, dancing, and good music. Tricky, given that he is already down to $10 dollars, give or take - and he’ll need that for the cab ride back to the crummy motel. 

Truth is, as he ambles with you for a few blocks, he is running out of ideas for how to show you a good time. What’s more, ever since he first entertained the idea, in his desperation, all his dumb ass can come up with is to offer to eat you out until morning. It’s pretty much becoming an intrusive thought at this point and, as the sordid image of you spread out for him further invades his mind, he quickly tries to blink it away. 

He doesn’t want to be that guy. You receive more than enough unwarranted attention as it is. And besides, Santiago would never want you to misinterpret that the reason he hangs around is to -eventually- get in your pants. 

You are so much more than that to him. Sometimes, he even has to keep his distance, so that in moments of weakness he doesn’t forget it. 

You’d held him at arms length for a while there too. 

Soldiers; not friends. 

He hadn’t won you over, he knew, because of his sparkling wit and charm. You’d been drawn to him because he was competent. Surprisingly level-headed for someone so baby-faced. You’d wanted people you could work with. People you could trust to get the job done; because you had to trust them with your life. 

The two of you have some undeniable chemistry, that’s for sure. At least, on his end, he’d felt something fierce and magnetic right out of the gate. Even so, from the outset, and even as your friendship had deepened, the two of you had seemed to quickly forge a tacit agreement. 

Friends; not lovers. 

You had made the assessment quickly, jointly, unconsciously. After all, under the rather intense circumstances in which you’d met? You’d each needed a friend - a genuine friend - far more than you’d needed a lay. For you especially, as he understood it, the former had been far more difficult to secure than the latter, especially as a woman in a highly-charged cesspit of toxic masculinity. And for him? Well, as talented as Santiago is at gaining connections, he doesn’t find all too many people he is willing to go deep with. To trust - and he trusts you with his life. 

When he’d found you then, he’d grabbed firmly on to you, and had resolved that nothing would get in the way of the friendship you’d forged. Not even - or perhaps especially not - his own… urges. 

Still. It’s not like he’s never thought about it. Not like you’ve never gotten him a tad… flustered. Indeed, as the rhythm of your steps marching in time beside him lulls him into calmness, feeling safe, his mind wanders in precisely that direction. 

So what though? He’s only human, right? Prone to fantasising; like he is now, he supposes, as he thinks vaguely about licking and kissing down your enticing, bare expanse of stomach. About popping the button on those low slung jeans. Shimmying them down over your hips just enough to sink his mouth over the mound of you and suck. 

Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something. 

He swallows then, feeling guilty for being such a horndog, and he turns to you. You seem to be perfectly content. To be enjoying the hit of fresh air, the apples of your cheeks sheened, with a subtle glow, from the exertion of your dance moves back in the dive bar. And honestly? Looking at you? As guilty as he feels for thinking about you like that, Santiago can’t muster a single better idea of what to do with you. 

He pushes it down, of course. Chalks it up to being just a tad pent-up following a seemingly endless deployment. That’s all it is, right? His dick is just looking for a little relief, and you are the closest, attractive body capable of providing him a warm welcome? 

Sure, he rationalises. That’s all it is. He can find a girl one night soon and take her home, like he’s done plenty of times before to work out his urges. Except for the fact that seeing you out of those (helpfully) modest fatigues is reminding him you are exactly his type. 

“You’ve gone quiet, Pope,” you frown as he -no doubt- looks at you dopily. “What are you plotting?” 

With your question, Santiago tears himself violently from his thoughts as you interrupt their increasingly feral trajectory. Still, in scrambling for a deflection, all he is able to land on is something else deep and wet. “The Mariana Trench,” he fumbles. 

Hell. Maybe he isn’t quite as smart as he gives himself credit for. Or, maybe all the blood is simply rushing to his crotch instead of his brain - for some reason. 

Even so. He urges himself to get his mind out of the gutter and to focus up. You deserve so much more than bearing the brunt of his accumulated sexual frustrations. So. Much. More. 

You laugh at his response though, oblivious as you are to his inner monologue, even linking your arm into his more tightly - as though he isn’t a huge perv. Your bright, infectious, beer-addled laugh bounces off of the surrounding asphalt and concrete. And, whilst it ricochets off of everything else, it sinks into him, mixing just a little more of you into his generic, rapidly dissolving fantasy. It offers a luminous gilding around the edges of his hazy desire, stirring in a vivid and more golden want than he has strength in this moment to acknowledge - never mind name. 

“Okay, weirdo. Sure. You’re thinking about the butt crack of the ocean? Miller been feeding you National Geographic documentaries again? You guys do know pay-per-view exists, right?” 

“Fine. You got me,” he confesses, your paces slowing as you gradually halt by the crosswalk, the two of you realising you have no particular destination in mind. “That was bullshit. I was actually thinking about what the hell I’m gonna do with you next.” 

Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly. 

Santiago looks you up and down where you stand, out of habit more than anything - a result of that now familiar “buddy up” system soldiers make use of to check each other for injuries. Sometimes, with the adrenaline and the shock, you don’t even know you’re bleeding out. This time, thankfully, the only ailment Santiago notices is the goose flesh prickling your skin, and he wishes that he had a jacket to offer you to keep you warm. 

“Oh?” You turn your body in to face him. Sway just a tad, eyes a little bleary, and Santiago instinctually plants his hands around your waist to keep you stable, touching on the smooth, bare skin where your ratty old band tee fails to meet your waistband - by approximately the width of four thick fingers. You shiver even though his touch must be warm. “Okay. Well what are you going to do with me, Santiago?” 

You blink at him then, your eyes wide and - dare he say - hopeful, one eyebrow arcing in idle curiosity. 

You are typically the decisive one. You are always clear on what you want. Tonight, however, it is evident that you are counting on him to lead you somewhere. 

Even though he doubts his ability to take the lead, rather fortuitously, Santiago does (miraculously) manage to stumble upon one single idea outside of the realm of cunnilingus… “Hey, come here,” he coaxes, taking your hands in his. “Close your eyes.” You oblige him, folding your grip around him, firm and sure. His heart swells a little at the instant, implicit trust you exhibit - no hesitation. “Do you hear that?” 

Santiago’s eyes remain open, observing you as your eyes blink clumsily shut. You slide your soft hands up his forearms, bracing yourself with a gentle “woah”, no doubt as the closing of your eyes makes your alcohol-saturated world sway and swirl just a little more intensely. “Listen, cariño,” he scolds good-naturedly, cupping his palms at your elbows. “Do you hear it?”

He can’t help but smile as your face scrunches in adorable contemplation. Then, he can’t help smiling even wider, as you begin to tap his arms and jump excitedly up and down on the spot. You hear it too then. The distant thud of music bouncing off of the tall buildings. 

“Music!” you exclaim excitedly, opening your eyes and grinning at him, still bouncing on the spot like an excited kid. 

The full beam of your unfiltered smile knocks him for six for second. It has been a while, honestly, since he’s seen it glow that bright. Turned all the way up. You’d gone through some shit on this deployment. Blood, horror, pain; rinse and repeat. Some of your spark had understandably dulled, and honestly, he had worried -in part, a little selfishly- that it might never come back to its full strength.

Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong. 

Santiago had quickly come to learn that you possess a singular combination of character traits - and not only the magical ability to piss him off more than anyone else could. No, in fact, he’d learned quickly that you possess a singular kind of zest for life. One which he’d feared was too pure to survive long in the dark. Honestly, he’d believed your optimism and your joy was naive at first. Something to be knocked out of you in boot camp. But he was wrong so far. At every turn you endure. At every turn, you shine. As he feels increasingly bogged down, saturated with inky, oily shadows, you are bright. His guiding light, always calling him home from the edge of the dark, shadow-coiled path he skirts. 

“Do we follow it?” you ask excitedly, the glint of adventure in your bright eyes, and in that moment he could swear he’d follow you anywhere. 

“Yeah. Of course we follow it. It’s our goddamn duty to follow it.” Santiago stomps his boot and waves his arm in a sloppy military salute - the kind that would earn him fifty push-ups back at base. You follow suit, even more sloppy, but entirely resolute in your faux seriousness. 

“Tonight, I swear my oath and pledge my allegiance to music, so help me God.” 

Santiago stomps emphatically again, for effect - an overblown, cheesy action-movie-style salute, his strong jaw set in an overly caricatured display. You beam again, a face-splitting grin, and he…

…realises he is having fun. 

In this moment, you are giddy. You are bright. Full of life, and Santiago briefly wonders if this is how things could be. If it could be like this all the time if only you could get out. If you could leave the military behind. God. You are the last person he wants to lose from his side, but a knot twists in his stomach at the thought you should get out while you still can. Before it drags you down like it is him. Before he drags you down with him, since you’ve seemingly tied your fates to his with red bloodied ribbons, wound between your bones and his. 

He doesn’t have much time to consider those things though. To let the blood seep into the edges like it always does; because you start running. You take Santiago’s hand in yours and run towards the distant thud of noise, leading him behind you and laughing and whooping as you do. Making a grey night in a grey part of town feel vibrant. Making him feel vibrant by association. He realises only then how numb he’s felt lately. How your buoyant smile had been the only thing to feed his own these past months. 

You are so much more than a throwaway fantasy to him. 

You truly are the friend he’s needed so desperately, and feels so, so lucky to have found. 

He runs with you, and he hopes, silently, selfishly, somewhere in the pit of him, that your paths never wind in different directions. 

He’ll follow you anywhere. 

***

After a few, giddy, chaotic minutes of tracing the ricocheting sounds, you find yourselves in the lobby of a seedy hotel, breaths sawing in and out of your lungs and mirthful, intermittent giggles spilling out of you. 

“I’m on the guest list!” you insist with a hiccough, trying your utmost to blag your way into the wedding party contained beyond the double doors; the established source of the music. 

Your assertion is much to the chagrin of the teenaged, stoner-looking kid on the front desk, who is clearly milking his new-found authority for all it’s worth. 

“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?” 

Santiago looks at you expectantly, his arm slung casually around your shoulders, his chest already shaking and nose scrunching with a mildly tipsy, sleep-deprived concoction of mischief. 

“The name’s Trench,” you deadpan, and the poor fellow actually begins to skim his index finger down the alphabetised list. “Mariana Trench.” 

Santiago eyeballs you. Honestly, half of him is awed by your balls, even as the other half is despairing of your chosen (and completely unnecessary) alias. Still, he sees the funny side, of course, and has to swallow a hearty laugh by faux coughing into his fist. 

There are not many factors helping your case here; especially the fact your body is already unconsciously bopping along to the music. Santiago has to physically encourage you back to your spot with his arm around your middle, and, as the rhythm continually beckons you forth, he hastily tucks you into his side in a fruitless attempt to subdue you. 

By the time Santiago’s gaze flicks back to the kid at the desk, he’s folded his arms over his chest like a stern math teacher, clearly enjoying his upper hand. “Dude,” the kid probes sceptically, perhaps sensing that Santiago is the more sensible (or at least more sober) of the two of you. “What are the names of the bride and groom?” 

“Nicole and Dio,” Santiago fires off smugly, causing you to first gasp and - second - to gawk at him like a fish (which is funny, because for all you know he’s made those up too). 

“How did you know that?” you hiss-whisper, thinking you are being oh so subtle, and Santiago elbows you discreetly in the ribs for your trouble. This time though, he is unable to stifle his laughter entirely, a throaty chuckle shaking out of him, and the crinkles around his eyes rehearsing deeper future furrows. 

Meanwhile, whilst the kid at the desk continues to eye him sceptically, he cannot refute Santiago’s knowledge. The soldier silently praises his undeniable powers of observation - and the fact the kid seems to have entirely forgotten about the huge fuck-off sign standing in the entrance lobby. 

“Yeah. Still no.” This kid is a tough nut. 

“Shit,” you plead. “Well can I at least use the restroom?” 

“I guess that’s fine,” the kid concedes with an eye roll, gesturing towards the left hand side of the lobby. 

You saunter off, beelining towards the door with such ferocity that you whack your hip off of the doorframe on the way in there. 

Santiago winces in time with your “ouch!”, but as you throw your arms in the air, triumphantly insisting you are fine, he turns his attention back to his mission; to get you whatever you want for your birthday. 

Sporting the friendliest smile he can muster in the full knowledge this kid behind the desk hates him already, Santiago mosies up to the counter. 

“Come on, buddy. Hook us up,” he reasons. “It’s a Tuesday night and everywhere else is closed by now.” 

“Dude, your attempts to get laid are not my issue.” 

“No. No, it’s… She’s my friend. It’s her birthday and-”

“-Then take her to a fucking Chilli’s, bro. Still not my problem.” 

Santiago huffs, still trying to keep his face neutral. Non-threatening. He needs to step things up before you return from the restroom. 

“Listen, buddy.” The kid scowls at him then as if to confirm - I’m emphatically not your buddy. “Do you know what it’s like to be shot in service of your country?” 

“What?!”

He nods behind him, in your general direction, his eyebrows pumping up towards his hairline (and reaching for a hasty explanation before the kid presses the under-desk alarm button). “Because she does.” Santiago rests his folded arms up on the counter. Leaning-in. Going all out with the eye contact. “When I tell you she’s had a shitty time of it? Lying on the ground, bleeding out. So, look, man. I just want to give her a good time tonight, alright? Would you please help me out, man? She’s fucking earned this.”

A gulp trails down the kid’s neck, and he tucks his long, straight blonde hair behind his ears. “You’re intense, bro. Anyone ever told you that?” 

Santiago opens his mouth again, wishing to further embellish his case; but before he can do so the kid caves, waving his palms in total surrender. “Fuck, man. Do what you want, but for the love of God, would you just stop talking to me?”

“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”

“Yep. Whatever. Don’t get paid enough for this shit, bro.”

Santiago hears the door swing behind him, and joins you just in time to lead you further into the building, pleased that he is able to report victory. He’s almost forgotten about the front desk already - until the kid calls after him, growing bolder the further you two retreat, apparently. “This is why I’m a pacifist, dude! You might wanna think about it.” 

“Sure thing,” he calls back over his shoulder. “I’ll give it some consideration.”

Then, Santiago gently ushers you into the corridor leading towards the party, taking a moment to celebrate his “smooth-talking”. Before he can even think about bragging though, you throw your arms up in the air in a tada gesture and exclaim “you are welcome!”. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you you’d had no part in getting past the gate, and so instead, he opts to finally vent his quashed laughter. The fact you’d name-dropped Mariana Trench, specifically, supplies a giggle hearty enough that it makes his abs ache.

“Oh. By the way. How do I look?” you question, when the two of you are just shy of making an entrance to the main hall. 

Santiago turns to you and looks you up and down. Notices the fresh application of smeared red over your plush mouth. Surveys your jeans and tee with approval, as though you are outfitted in a gown. “Good, chica.” 

“Good!” You step forward then, towards him, and lay your palms flat on his upper chest. “Now. You know what I wanna do?” For a split second, with your proximity, and the husky thrall of your voice, Santiago finds himself imagining what you might want to do to him - if he should be so lucky. “I wanna dance. Will you dance with meeee, Santiaaaaggooo?” 

Santiago feels a lump lodge itself in his throat. Tries hard to forget that… well… red lipstick and dancing? They are - more often than not -  your highly decipherable code for being horny. Shit - he wonders if you are as pent up as he is. 

“You got it!” he musters, getting himself quickly in check. Christ, he needs to prioritise getting laid  - just as soon as he is no longer wholly dedicated to your birthday. 

“Yay!” 

You lead him by the hand and, once again, Santiago does not complain. Then, swinging open one of two double doors, plastered with unsightly fire regulations, you enter the fray. 

The doors open on a busy room, bathed in beams of chaotic coloured light. In reality, the interior is drab. A sad, grey, carpeted room. A few busted ceiling tiles up top. The circular event tables are flanked by a sorry stage at one side - fronted by a sticky, modest square of dance floor - and a small bar at the other. Finally, the far wall is edged with a rather depleted buffet, and intermittent bowls of greying macaroni. Whilst the room itself is nothing to write home about, however, the jubilation inside makes it feel positively wonderful. 

Santiago feels only for a split second like he is intruding. Within moments, he is all wrapped-up in the buzz. Enveloped by it. The band’s amps are turned up far too loud. The dance floor is awash with couples gyrating on each other and groups of singles circling each other, looking for an in. Throngs of friends and family are grouped throughout the room, laughing and chatting, taking photos on disposable cameras and clinking glasses, and when the two of you enter, matching smiles plastered on your faces, no-one even bats an eye. 

“We’re really doing this?” Santiago raises his voice above the tremor of the music. “Crashing a fucking wedding?”

“Relax! It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever done, Garcia. It’s not even against the Geneva Convention.” 

“Jesus! I’m not a fucking war criminal!”

“Relax, Santiago,” you encourage, tone soothing and your hands massaging into his shoulders; and, finally, he lets himself. For once, he lets his guard down. So, as you travel deeper into the room, Santiago begins to move a little less like a soldier on patrol, and allows his gait to loosen up. Allows himself to approach the room not as a soldier on high alert, but simply as some guy with his buddy, looking for a good time. “Attaboy,” you encourage, seeing him visibly unclench - a rare thing. “We’re good, alright? Hey. I’ll even leave a pack of Reese’s on the table. That way, we even brought a gift.” 

“And you’ll keep a low profile, right?” 

“Of course!” You flash him a faux innocent grin, which he sees right through. 

Yeah, figures, he thinks. Honestly, he isn’t sure you are capable of blending in - stealth ops aside, of course. But here? Without your camo and a distinct lack of a gilly suit? Baby, look at you, you’re gonna be noticed. 

“Alright. We dance. Just keep it low key or-“

“-Sure, sure,” you dismiss, waving your hand through the air as though to erase his plea. “But first, tequilaaaa!” 

Evidently, you are ignoring him completely, and yet the beaming smile on your face is so utterly worth it that Santiago could care less. “Eh. Whatever you say, Princesa.” 

You wink at him. “Now you’re getting the idea.”

Santiago watches you skip gracelessly over to the bar, making zero attempt to blend into the crowd (unsurprising). You order up two shots, downing one instantly and handing the other to him with a jubilant, mildly devilish grin. At this stage, Santiago is deliberately a few drinks behind you, having wanted to remain sober enough to take care of you. So, he figures he has a little wiggle room remaining before he reaches the point of no return. Egged on by your encouraging nods, he tips it down the hatch. 

“Cheers!” you exclaim, clumsily clinking your little plastic shot glass against his. The remains of the amber liquid still glisten on your mouth, lending an appealing shine to your red lips. As you mop the drips away with the back of your hand, you slightly smear the shade towards your cheek. 

Before Santiago can rectify the situation for you though, you’ve once again taken his hand and trailed him behind you, clumsily weaving through the crowd as he interjects “sorry!” each time you bash - either your body or his - into someone else’s. Before long though, the two of you are safely tucked right in the midst of it all, adding to the messy, merry throng on the compact dance floor. The amateurish but jubilantly played rock covers from the band began to vibrate all the way through his chest as you position right next to the speakers. 

As the vibrations tickle through him, bass inflating like a balloon in his rib cage, drowning out his thoughts and his heartbeat, you dance. With his thoughts silenced - or, rather, out-volumed- he slips into his body as if it is his own again. As if it belongs to him, and not just to some notion of God and country. 

You, for your part, dance as if compelled to. As though, after living for so long with your body following orders, exercising control, being disciplined, staying in line, you can finally let it be free. Can finally let it express itself.  

You move well, Santiago notes as he allows his own body to limber, freeing up his arms and his hips and feeling the buzz of the music and the alcohol thrum pleasantly through his body. It all feels somewhat alien to him now, his body stiff and lacking muscle memory for such imprecise, unplanned movements. You though? You move with abandon. With joy, like you never forgot how to feel it, belting the lyrics right from your chest. Jumping and waving your arms when the guitar solo drops. 

It makes him deeply happy to see you like this. What’s more, amidst the dance floor of preened, deliberate women encircling your space, their movements seemingly contrived to be appealing, alluring, sexual, your reckless expression is far sexier to him. You feel freed, wild - and it almost feels dangerous to him. This clear absence of regiments and rules and barriers feels dangerous, even the barriers between your body and his disintegrating as you dance closer, the beat shaking you together like sand on a drum skin. 

Indeed, your bodies are pushed ever closer and closer as the surprisingly heaving crowd compresses you tighter and tighter in the minimal, sticky-floored maneuver room. And so, after you’ve suffered one too many bumps and restrictions from stray shoulders and elbows, you finally give in to it, looping your arms around his neck and choosing to dance with him. 

Instinctually, automatically, Santiago’s hands fall to your hips, gripping you there as your body sways and rolls in time to the music, the raw, dirty hard rock vocals moving through you and bedding down into your body. 

At first, when your body presses up against his and the hot breath of your laughter fans over his neck, Santiago thinks about adjusting. About sliding his hands back up to your waist, where -perhaps- the gesture may seem less intimate. May allow for a little more room and a little less contact. 

It isn’t as though the two of you are strangers to touching. You are both tactile people, and besides, you’re often in close quarters. You’ve slammed each other to the mat plenty of times. He’s had your sweaty, writhing body all over his. Your grunts of submission sounding in his ear. Huffs of exertion fanning against his neck. Thighs locked with his. His hips pinning you. But this? This is a little different. It isn’t precise, technical touch. It isn’t objective-driven. There are no clear rules, besides friends not lovers, and even that distinction is starting to feel a little blurry. 

No, this kinda touch is something else. It is raw. It is instinctual; and that scares him, in truth. 

However, it doesn’t scare him nearly enough to want to stop.

He does not move his hands from your rolling, swaying hips. Can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gives in to it. To the music. To the feeling. To you. And, when does, he finds himself surprised by how fluidly your bodies move together. Symbiotically. Like a team. Like you do in battle, sure. In the field. Like it is the most natural thing in the world; but this time, your combining is not at all driven by survival. It is driven by living, and Santiago could swear, in this moment, that he has never felt quite so alive. 

The room is getting hot. The undulating crowd of bodies surrounding you is only adding to it. Exertion is glowing on your skin. He can feel it up against him, your sweat bleeding through your damp t-shirt where your breasts press into him. Can feel it beneath his fingers, tacky and slick, as he wraps his hands around that bare flash of skin at your midriff. God, you are smooth, and soft, and slick, and he is momentarily transfixed by a bead of sweat sinking down the centre of your chest, disappearing beneath the “v” of your shirt. 

Someone else’s body briefly presses up against his in the crush and he cringes away from the feel of their slick skin… but you? Yours? You feel good to him. He doesn’t mind it. 

That scares him too; but still, not enough to stop. 

With a joyous, unfettered laugh you claim back some space, spinning Santiago underneath your arm, your dance moves growing increasingly outlandish. Of course, Santiago follows your lead. Always does. And, before long, the two of you can barely dance from laughing and can barely laugh from your insistence to keep dancing. 

It feels good. Good to push your respective bodies to their limit on your own terms for once. To be with each other, side by side, in a scenario which could not be further from life or death; but that feels a thousand times more vital and central to being alive. 

Seeing your smile strobe as the blue party lights slip and flash over the planes of your face, the beats and riffs pulsing through his body, Santiago feels giddy and he feels bright. With laughter bobbing in his throat and aching in his sides, he feels goddamn luminescent, and so he can’t help but wonder. Can’t help but wonder if this is how he would feel all the time. If he got out. If the two of you could just be people, instead of soldiers.

Santiago holds on to it. He holds on to you. To the feeling of freedom. Of pure, unfettered joy. Of this strange peace amidst the blurry, heavy noise. 

He holds on to it while he can. He smiles with you until his face hurts. Laughs with you until his breath wanes. Dances with you longer than he should, song after song. Dances until he is sweating through his t-shirt, a dark “v” of sweat trailing down his chest. Dances, long after that now familiar heat in his newly ailing knees has crossed into discomfort. Dances closer and closer to the speaker until the music is indistinguishable from him, beating through his chest and down into his bones, and still; the two of you move your bodies. The two of you cling to each other like your life depends on it - and perhaps, precisely because of all the times it has. 

When you lean forward, cupping his ear, your lips almost pressed right to his skin to be heard over the din, a warm snake travels down his spine. “See! We still haven’t been found out!” You draw back to flash him a mischievous grin, your eyes glinting with a spark far more warming than the heat which already slickens his skin. 

You are most definitely up to something. You dip forward again as he strains to hear you. “Wanna be a little bolder?” There is a dark and delicious lilt in your voice. A tempting thing, enticing him into trouble - as per usual. 

He does though. Wants to be a little bolder. 

He wants to kiss you, in fact. To test the limits of just how well your bodies can move together. But…  just like all the other times tonight he lets that desire atrophy. Pushes it outside of his body. You are so much more to him than the tingle in his dick. Offer him so much more than whatever parts of you he could seek out with his hands and his mouth, skin finding skin, finding deep, dark wetness. 

If you wanted it, hey, it’s not like he would say no. He isn’t that strong; but he’d decided long ago that when it came to crossing that line, he would simply follow your lead. 

“What did you have in mind?” Santiago asks, dipping his own lips towards your ear. 

Your response is not quite what he expects. You simply throw both arms up into the air, your eyebrows jumping up with them. “Karaokeeee!”

It is a pleasant surprise, to be honest. He loves to see you like this. To see you have fun. Chasing your whims. Getting to be damn silly. For so long, everything has been so grim and so serious.

However, even if your suggestion - at first - inspires a broad, nose-crinkling smile, Santiago looks up at the freestanding mic in horror next - when he realises exactly what you are about to do. “Shit. Sweetie. It’s not-” 

-It is already too late. You are already clambering up on stage and taking your position by the vacant mic spot. “…It’s not karaoke,” Santi mumbles under his breath, mentally readjusting his level on how wasted you are. 

“Come with me, Pope!” you shout down to him, making grabby hands towards him. Next, you commandeer the mic pole as the frontman - who had simply stepped out for brief swig of water - looks on in confusion. 

Santiago sighs and slides his palm over his face, for he knows, fine well, exactly what is about to go down. That, after all the times you’ve saved his skin, tended his wounds, and -damn- even been shot to keep him safe, he for sure isn’t about to let you make a fool of yourself. At least, not alone. 

Cringing already from the forceful embarrassment of commandeering an entire stage at a wedding he’s just crashed, Santiago sets his jaw in resignation and hops semi-gracefully up there, rising to stand right next to you. 

“What happens in Philadelphia…” he mumbles, before bracing himself and accepting his fate. 

He raises his arm as a shield against the intense spotlight, and can suddenly see that the whole party is looking by now, heads whipping around following your triumphant “woop” into the microphone. 

He makes a mental note to explain to you what the words “low profile” mean later, as clearly, you’ve completely failed to grasp that concept. 

Santiago gulps as he looks out across the confused sea of faces, his mouth suddenly bone dry as he prays that no-one will actually yell “who the fuck are you?” Then, not for the first time this evening, he desperately attempts to conjure up a plan of action. Once again, he is pretty sure that cunnilingus won’t quite cut it here either. 

His goal right now is two-fold. To enable you to sing on stage, like you want to, and to avoid being forcibly removed from the venue. It is unfortunate that the former goal seems to void the latter, but hey. He’s been in stickier situations. And, with luck, Santiago remembers one useful thing. The fact that -according to damn near everyone- he’s a charming little fucker. Now, he supposes, is as good a time as any to put that theory to the test. 

“Nicole and Dio.” He gestures to the bride, and motions to gesture towards the groom too. That is, before realising he has no idea who “Dio” is in the crowd, so instead, he lets his arm flop uselessly back to his side. Next, he takes what he feels is a well-earned moment to let the feedback from the microphone die, wincing slightly at the noise, and becoming acutely aware of the sizzle of nervous sweat burning off of his forehead. “I think it’s safe to say,” he ventures with a little more confidence, straining to remember his cousin’s wedding and every platitude he might repeat, “that a love like yours comes around once in a lifetime. I know I speak for both of us when we say we’d like to wish you a lifetime of happiness together to enjoy it.” You helpfully lean forward in that moment and give another celebratory woop. “Thanks for that, sweetie,” he deadpans, wiping his brow just as urgently as he scans the room, searching for something -anything- he can pull from to meet his twinned objectives. 

Suddenly though, against all odds, he actually spots his way out. Emphatically, triumphantly, he points towards the Irish flag proudly adorning the far wall, and dearly hopes he is on to something. “A million tiny things had to align for you two to come together. You could even say it was fate. So, in tribute to the miles travelled by your ancestors, here it is. This one is for the Irish-Americans in the house!” Firstly, he is relieved, to say the least, when that statement earns a hearty cheer from the crowd. “Let’s hear it for Metallica; Whiskey in the jar.” Secondly, he is relieved when that statement earns further cheers, particularly from you. 

Next, Santiago looks confidently to the band, deciding he will simply stare at them pointedly until the drums kick in. “For Nicole and Dio!” he adds with a flourish after an uncomfortably long moment of inaction; and, as the crowd gets behind Santiago, who on earth are they to deny him? 

“Everybody on the dance floor!” you add, with an enthusiasm so overblown it can’t fail to be infectious.

Still, when Santiago finally thinks he has it nailed, you turn to him with a sudden and pronounced wash of horror on your face. “Garcia. Shit. It’s not karaoke!” 

“Princesa,” he soothes as the band kicks in, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist to avert your knees buckling in fright. “If it’s not karaoke, why the shit do I have a mic and a backing track, huh?” You still look unsure. “Come on, sing it with me. You’re hot as hell up here, don’t go shy on me.” 

Santiago turns, forgetting the crowd entirely as his mission revolves wholly around you. 

He begins to sing to you, gaze soft and encouraging until you relax back into it, your broad, electric smile returning. He tugs you closer into him, snug and safe until you grow bold enough to sing along with him into your one shared mic, gradually letting go and -bolstered by him- giving it increasing amounts of gusto. 

The pool of guests at your feet are going surprisingly wild for it too, almost every one in the room having now descended on to the dance floor.

“Here,” he encourages, as soon as he feels you’re ready, handing the mic off to you for the remaining verses of the song. “You got this, sweetie.” 

He lets you have your moment in the spotlight, cheering you on from the sidelines as you sing and air-guitar your way through the final chorus. You aren’t necessarily singing at your best after belting out lyrics at top volume, but what you lack in vocal ability you sure make up for in spirit. You have bags of that, and you perform it with plenty of showmanship, throwing yourself all over the stage and making Santiago’s face split with joy as he whoops along with you, fist-pumping enthusiastically. 

You even end the song by taking a knee and exclaiming “Nicole and Dio!”, raising your mic arm triumphantly in the air like the rock star you are - which is a huge relief to Santiago, as it had looked for a moment like you were about to stage dive into the completely unsuspecting crowd. 

You wrap it up to what Santiago will later describe as rapturous applause. You milk it for all it's worth, before relinquishing the mic to the actual band and skipping over to your biggest fan. 

“Was I fucking amazing?” you ask, bundling him into an enclosing hug. 

“Holy shit. Felt like I was watching Kerrang.” 

You punch him playfully in the arm for his shit-eating grin. “Dickhead.”

“What’s next for the Birthday Princess?” Santi asks, hopping off of the stage and guiding you safely down too. 

He’s secretly praying you’ll say “back to the motel”, but it doesn’t surprise him at all when you throw your arms jubilantly into the air and yell: “more dancing!”. 

Santiago brings the pad of his thumb up to the corner of your mouth, finally smoothing away that damn lipstick smear he wishes he’d gotten to before your impromptu stage show. “Go for it, hermosa,” he insists fondly. “I’ll be with you in a sec, yeah? After pulling that shit, I don’t think we have long before we get busted. You gonna be ready to hustle soon?”

You nod, fist-bump him, and skitter off to the dance floor, your seemingly boundless energy carrying you right the way through towards dawn. 

Santiago will give this track a miss, he thinks. His knees need a goddamn time-out; but his eyes still linger on you, shining fondly as you are folded into the crowd. 

***

“Touching speech, lad,” a low-timbre voice sounds to Santiago’s left. “But who in the devil are ya?”

Santiago, who is sat blissfully nursing a glass of ice cold tap water, immediately swivels on his barstool. This puts him face-to-face with an older gentleman, of considerable stature. 

The man’s crinkled, bushy-eyebrowed face is stern; but not unkind, even as his chin juts up in challenge. Santiago rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. There is no point trying to wriggle out of this one, and he’s already sure of it. 

“Okay,” he responds, his voice slow and low and his palms raising defensively in the air. The man might be both older and frailer than Santiago, but he exudes a certain authority which trumps his own youthful confidence. In short, Santiago certainly doesn’t want to piss him off. “You got me. It’s a long story, and we weren’t technically invited… but we don’t mean any trouble, Sir. And, hey, we did bring a gift,” Santiago adds for good measure, not entirely convinced that the mushed up peanut butter cups in your jeans pocket will make any shade of difference now - but hoping. 

The man presses his lips together and hums, as if mulling over the guilty party’s fate. After a moment of contemplation though, the older gentleman unceremoniously releases some of the rigidity from his body, slumping down into Santiago’s neighbouring bar stool with a sense of resolution. A gulp trails down Santiago’s neck all the same. “You a military pair, kid?” the man asks casually, making-out like he’s thoroughly absorbed in rolling his cigarette papers, but his sharp eyes still finding time to needle Santiago incisively. “I know the type.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Hmm. Well.” The man licks along the long edge of cigarette paper with the tip of his tongue. “You came clean, I’ll keep quiet. Besides commandeering the stage(!), you two don’t seem like too much trouble.” 

“Thank you, Sir.”

“I’m Colin, by the way. Nicole’s granddaddy.” The man extends a hand and Santiago shakes it. 

“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.” 

Santiago would’ve allowed some of the tension to seep out of his own rigid body by now; except for the fact he can sense the man is not quite finished with him. He lights the tip of his cigarette with a battered-looking, engraved lighter, smoke swirling around him and becoming one with his white-gray, thinning hair. “Since I’ve been so generous, lad, how’s about you explain to me the circumstances that brought you to crash my granddaughter’s wedding?” 

From the man’s unwavering stare, Santiago knows fine well this is a demand and not a suggestion. He rubs his sweaty palms together, finding himself reluctant to spill but with little apparent choice in the matter. Still, as his gaze flicks back in the direction of you, he feels a softness overcome him. “It’s her birthday. We’re on leave. Had a big trip planned to reunite with some buddies but the airport-“

“-ah. All shut down.” Colin nods in partial understanding, taking a long drag on his smoke. 

“Yes, sir. So I, uh. Well, I had to improvise.” 

Colin’s eyes flutter briefly closed. Then, a small flicker of a smile appears, as he - apparently - achieves a fuller understanding than Santiago’s divulgence should have allowed. An understanding which Santiago isn’t sure he has attained himself, as it stands. Is he missing something? “I see. You wanted to show her a good time.”  

“Yeah. Yessir.” 

To Santiago’s utter surprise, the man’s hand clasps down on top of his closest shoulder, the cigarette still pinned precariously in between his forefingers, and the smoke tangling around Santiago’s curls like future grays attempting to stick. “What are you drinking, lad?”

“Uh. Water,” Santiago replies simply, recalling the glass sweating on the bar top. 

“Not any more.” Colin signals the bartender with a barely perceptible raise of his chin, and manages to convey his order simply by raising two of his fingers in the air.

Santiago watches as a bottle, sporting an affixed yellow post-it note, is grabbed-up from its secret hiding spot under the counter. Must be the good stuff. 

When served, Colin slides one glass over to Santiago with the back of his age-spotted palm. “You don’t have to drink it, o’ course - I’ll just think you’re a rude fecker if you don’t.”

“Thank you, sir.” The two men swivel on their stools to face the bar and Santiago takes a sip, doing his best to hide his reaction to the intensity of it. 

Colin guffaws. “Yeah. That’ll put hairs on yer chest.” 

Santiago splutters, attempting to quickly smooth himself. “Cheers. To Nicole.” He hoists his glass in the air. 

“Aye. Here’s to that.” 

Santiago smiles, clinking his glass with Colin’s and hoping against all odds that you might come and rescue him soon. 

You don’t, but mercifully the chat is suspended for a moment as the man coiffs his cigarette and his drink, and Santiago even suspects he has been forgotten entirely as another guest draws Colin into niceties and conversation. 

Therefore, after a few warming swigs have slipped down his throat, each one followed by a grimace, Santiago turns, realising it has been a minute since he’s had eyes on you. He quickly locates you on the dance floor, boogying with some tall, white guy. A guy who is - with your encouragement - getting rather handsy. Seeing this, all of Santiago’s muscles tighten and he feels the vague urge to leap up off of his bar stool - that is, until Colin interjects.

“Can I give you some advice?” 

Santiago’s initial thought is “no”; but he has a feeling Coilin may offer his unsolicited advice regardless. “Don’t crash weddings?” he jests half-heartedly, the lion’s share of his attention still on you and that guy’s damn hands. 

“Marry her.”

Santiago’s gaze flips immediately towards Colin, his face the picture of abject confusion. “Sorry. Who?” 

Colin chuckles to himself, evidently quite tickled, and nods his head gently in your direction. “Your lady friend.” 

Santiago saws his palm over the five-o-clock shadow adorning his jaw. A weak, throaty chuckle bobs in his throat. He finds it funny. Preposterous. “With respect, Sir. That’s not gonna happen.” It is knee-jerk. Santiago had sworn off marriage long ago. Had long ago given up on the prospect of any form of happy ending. Besides, you and him? He doesn’t think so. 

“Oh. Boyo,” Colin begins, his tone juuuust condescending enough to make Santiago stiffen. “You find someone who makes you as happy as that, you marry her. Trust me, lad.”

Santiago purses his lips. Tightens them into a thin line. “We’re not… together.” Not that it’s any of this guy’s business what you are to him; but he’s just not getting it. 

“You love her,” Colin says softly. Almost gently, as though he’s breaking bad news. 

”What?” Santiago shakes his head incredulously, blinking several times in succession. 

“I can barely see past my own arm these days, lad, but I can see that much.” 

There is that hand, clasping his shoulder again. This time it feels different. “You love her.” 

The first time Colin had spoken these words, Santiago had bristled. Felt provoked. He should feel similarly now too - he knows it - but upon hearing them for a second time, a sudden clarity settles over him. In fact, he’s never felt less confused by a statement in his life. 

He feels his mouth go dry. A sudden ringing in his ears. He could’ve sworn he had hands and feet earlier in the evening, but right now he can’t feel them. 

Of course he loves you, he thinks, reaching for logic. For rationalisations. But it’s not like that. That’s simply what happens when you go through so much together. You bond, intensely. That’s all it is. All it amounts to. 

Colin has this all wrong. 

Santiago looks at you then. Really looks at you, as you grab your dance partner by the shirt and shove your tongue in his mouth, pulling away from the kiss with a wolfish grin. Some kind of feeling he can’t hope to name tightens like a fist in his stomach when you do that. “She’s…” Santiago wants to protest. Wants to say that no, he doesn’t. But those aren’t quite the words which find their way out. Instead, he says quietly, like he’s delivering bad news now: “she’s my best friend.” 

“Ah,” Colin breathes, in a fresh tone of relief. As if satisfied. As if he has now achieved full understanding - even if Santiago has not. The older man stubs out his cig and downs the dregs of his whiskey, cheersing Santiago once more with a clink of his empty glass. “There you go then. Isn’t that the same thing?”

Isn’t that the same thing?

It is a blur from there. A blur as Colin once again outstretches his hand and Santiago obliges by shaking it, his arm feeling limp and useless like a bag of cotton-wool. It is a blur as Colin wishes him well with a jolly “take care, lad,” sauntering away with no concern for the destruction left in his wake. 

It is a blur as you sidle over, as though the volume in the room has been turned down all of a sudden. It becomes gradually louder again as you approach. 

You. 

You. 

You.

“Fuck, you okay, Garcia? You look like you’re about to puke.” 

There’s nothing here. 

Nothing with you. 

Nothing he could have with you. No way. 

“Seriously! You look queasy as hell.” You place your hand across his brow to see if he’s burning up.  

“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly. 

You nod, still looking sceptical but opting to buy what he’s selling. “You just tired? Too much dancing?”

”Heh. Something like that.” It is a struggle to push the words out, but he surprises himself. Gradually sinks himself back into the room. Back into his body. 

Santiago notices the brief spark of an idea fleet over your face as you regard him and, in the next moment, you dip forward to chastely kiss him on the cheek. He feels a deep, blooming heat develop under his skin, his cheeks darkening with a crimson flush, and he resists the urge to clamp his palm over the spot your lips touched. “What was that for?” 

A delicate smile dances on your mouth. “Thank you, butthead. I’m having a good birthday.”

It’s what you don’t say. It’s what your eyes are telling him. Your body language. Your touch. You’re telling him things you’ve been saying for a long time now. Things which, thanks to Colin, beg a whole load of new questions.

You slip your hand down his arm, grasping his hand in yours. For a moment he just stares, looking down at your hands clasped there together. He is vaguely aware of the track switching in the background, to a slower, more heartfelt tune, and, by the time he drags his eyes back-up to yours, he figures he’s got a head start already on what you’re about to ask. 

He makes it so you don’t even have to. “One more dance?” 

He stands, capturing your waist with his wrapped arm, leading you back towards the dance floor. The surprise and relief and glee on your face as he preempts you is almost too bright for him to look at. 

“You even know how to slow dance, Garcia?” you ask as he maneuvers the two of you into prime position, right in the beam of a sweeping purple spotlight, the dancefloor filling exclusively with swaying couples as the tender, swooping song resonates through the room. 

“Haven’t slow danced since prom,” he admits. “But I’ll follow your lead, Princesa.” 

“You a’ways do, asshat.” 

“You know? You’re not wrong. Now, come here.”

He holds his arms out and you step into his sturdy circumference, no hesitation. Trust implicit, your bodies moving in sync. You drape the loop of your arms gently around his shoulders, your twined fingers brushing the nape of his neck, sending a warm shudder through him. His hands hover helplessly for a moment, but he eventually settles them on your hips, drawing your body closer, tightening the space between you as you each sway together, cheek to cheek. 

“I - I can’t believe you did this for me, you know?” Your voice is lower, dropped in your throat. Heavy with solemnity as though you are thanking him for taking a bullet for you or something. “Tonight. The karaoke. Everything.” 

“Well,” he dismisses, against the shell of your ear. It’s not nearly enough.“You got shot for me, so...”

Your light, lilting laugh fans across his check. It isn’t funny at all, wasn’t a joke; except that it’s so tragic it kinda has to come full-circle, he supposes. “Fine,” you offer. “Call it even?” 

Even? 

It could never get close to even. 

Santiago feels a surge of emotion welling in him. Like suddenly there is a mechanism dredging all the settled silt back up to the surface. It rises all the way up - into his chest, into his throat. He pulls back slightly until you are face to face, his expression far more severe than the situation merits; but he can’t help it. It feels barbed, difficult, coming out of his mouth, but it needs to be said. “You have no idea what you’ve done for me, you know?” His eyes are glistening, a telltale softness nestled beneath his thick brows, and his thumbs unconsciously rubbing circles into the meat of your hips. “You’re…. I… I mean. You’re… my best friend.”

You gawp back at him for a moment, visibly caught off-guard by his emotional intensity. Then: “oh no,” you whisper-shout into the space between you, as though if you push too much sound out, the emotions might overspill along with it. “Don’t get all soppy on me, you hear? You’re the only fucker who knows I have emotions, and I damn sure wanna keep it that way.”

His gaze flits all over your face. “Secret’s safe with me, Princesa.” 

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

He smiles at you - a smile that only reaches his eyes. 

You nestle yourself back into the crook of his shoulder, your body pressed right up against his. One hand grasping at his back. The fingers of the other clasping his shorn head, dancing over the prickled hair of his army-issue buzzcut. 

He holds you, and in turn you hold him even tighter. You hold each other tightly until you are no longer even dancing. Until you are simply an island in a sea of undulating couples, holding on to each other for dear life. 

It scares him.

It scares him to his depths that he never wants to let you go; but not enough to stop.  

As he pulls you close to him, buries his face in your neck and embraces you tightly, he thinks about it. He thinks about whether he believes in happy endings. He thinks about whether his, if he could be so lucky, would involve you. 

Those thoughts are interrupted when he feels a wetness bloom on his shoulder. Feels you jerking and sniffing against him, and he experiences your sudden outpouring of pain as acutely as though it is his own. 

“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”

”I’m not sad, idiot.”

”No?”

”No. It’s…” You sniff. “It’s just been so hard lately. And, you know. Tonight has been so… It’s been so…” 

He thinks he knows what you mean. Thinks he understands you completely. “Perfect?” he ventures. 

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.” 

He holds you as you cry. And there’s not a chance in hell he’s letting you go. 

***

Considering your intoxication level, the sudden onset of tiredness, and your tears, Santiago figures it’s about time to head. He manages to get you in a cab back to the motel eventually - only after you’ve visited the ladies restroom, become fast friends with an equally drunken Nicole, bestowed her with peanut butter cups, and promised to meet-up next time you’re in the city. By this point, you are already dropping, and the soporific movements of the cab have you falling asleep draped over Santiago’s lap. 

He pays the driver when you arrive, stirring you with a warm hand smoothing up and down your back. He tries to be calm. Soothes you with his voice; because he knows all too well that for someone in the military, a rude awakening is no small thing. 

He walks you to the room and helps you sit down on the bed. Tugs your boots off for you as you opt to bury your nose deep in your own armpit and sniff. 

“Ew. I need a fucking shower.” 

“Fuck that. You can shower in the morning.” 

“I stink.” 

“Trust me. You’ve smelled much worse.” He smiles softly as his comment earns an indignant snort from you, but the ire in your face is quickly snuffed as he looks up to you a little too softly. “Let’s get you dressed for bed, alright, birthday girl?” 

“Mmm hmm. Okay then.” 

He swallows a smile at seeing you in this sleepy state. It’s not often that you allow anyone else to take care of you. In fact, Santiago feels a strange surge of honour - a glow within his chest -  that tonight, he is the one who has the privilege. 

You unabashedly begin to strip off your jeans and top next, and Santiago quickly scoops up an oversized t-shirt from the gaping mouth of your hold-all. “Here,” he says, swallowing the tremor in his voice as he gathers the fabric up and guides the garment gently over your head to cover you. Gingerly passes your arms through the right holes. “That’s it. Put this on, alright? Can you get your bra out from under there?” 

You maneuver the clasp and straps beneath the cover of the shirt until you are pulling the bra out from the confines of your tee, triumphantly flinging it across the room with a soft “woo!”, to which Santiago’s lips twitch in silent amusement. 

“Need to brush my teeth at least,” you argue, holding your arms up and out - making grabby hands to signal for his help. 

“Alright. Sure. Let’s go together.” Santiago helps you stand. Maneuvers and encourages you onwards. He wraps his closest arm around your waist, and his other hand catches the arm you throw out to him so he can keep you steady.  Then, steps in sync, you pad the short distance to the bathroom, Santiago lightly directing you away from bumping your hip on the doorframe (again) as you pass through it. “That’s it. Little off course there,” he chuckles. “Almost as bad as Ironhead’s God-awful driving.” 

You turn your head over your shoulder and scold him good-naturedly. “Ouch. Don’t remind me.” 

“Yikes, sorry. Too soon?” You’d teased Will for the unfortunate humvee training exercise that had put you in med bay, but Santiago guesses you aren’t quite ready to have him joke about it yet. 

“Never getting back in a car with that bastard in the driver’s seat, trust me. Fella takes off-road a little too literally, you know? Still have that goddamn tweak in my back too to prove it.” 

“You do, huh?” Shit, you’ve certainly hidden it well enough - had insisted you were unscathed, in fact, when sober - and so Santiago mentally logs that information for later.

With a little bit of wriggling around, you squeeze into the tight bathroom space. When you reach the bathroom sink, Santiago is still behind you, his hands now clamped on your hips and keeping you steady. When you turn on the faucet and bend enthusiastically towards the stream of water however - hinging at the hips and dipping to splash your face with cold water - Santi punches out a strangled note. Which is natural, he thinks, given that your panty-clad, half-bare ass is thrust further into his hands (and his crotch), with decidedly no room in the cramped space for him to back-up. “Woah, Jesus. Keep it vertical, would you?” 

“Shit, sorry. Liked that did you?” you mock, with a dirty, chaotic snigger. 

“I’m only a man, Princesa.”

With a nervous twist in his belly, Santiago flees to the more expansive space of the bedroom, leaving you to complete your task. Feeling somewhat claustrophobic, he throws open the window, thankful when the relative cool of the night air kisses his skin. The room has grown hot and sticky all of a sudden. Too close. Lord knows why. 

He perches himself inside the opened wooden square then, the flung-open frame an awkward perch. He rests with one leg hiked up on the ‘sill and one foot bracing him on the floor, his back reclining against the biting vertical edge. 

Only when you reenter does he reluctantly drag his eyes away from the black night and into the soft, shadowed shell of the dreary room. Despite this dimness, he can barely bring himself to look at you in this moment. It is as though you are too bright for him, and so he quickly -and uncharacteristically- averts his eyes. 

Still, you’re like a magnet, and his gaze quickly relocates you without much trouble. 

“Feel like staying awake a little longer?” 

Despite looking bleary-eyed - dead on your feet, even -  you nod in response to his proposition and, much unlike earlier, Santiago suddenly feels he wouldn’t dream of sleeping. You perch yourself on the edge of the bed and flick on the lamp, casting a sallow glow throughout the room. It makes you look at once dream-like and infinitely more real to him, as the glare highlights the goose flesh trailing up your arms and thighs. The tired circles under your eyes. He doesn’t know how you make such details attractive, but as far as he is concerned, there is no bad light to cast you in. 

You lay down, legs stretched out on the scratchy comforter, and torso propped against the stiff, unforgiving pillows. You make space for him to lie down alongside you, and yet Santiago opts to hover, not ready to relinquish his window seat. It’s as uncomfortable as it probably looks, however, and so he fumbles in his pocket for a smoke, figuring it as good an excuse as any to be sitting up there - instead of lying next to you. He stares out into the blackened parking lot with enough vigour to convince an onlooker it is entirely compelling - instead of looking at you. 

You are quiet for a moment following and Santiago lets it hang, exhaling twists of smoke from his mouth to the window. Flicking his spent ash down onto the asphalt below. Then, you expel a blustery sigh.

“Shit,” you grumble. You click your tongue. Santiago turns to see you lying flat on your back now, staring contemplatively up at the dusty, motionless ceiling fan, arms folded behind your head. “That guy I made out with.” 

Santiago takes an even deeper drag on his smoke; perhaps unconsciously hoping that if he is occupied long enough, he won’t be required to respond at all.

Your head lollops to the side, your gaze finding his. “Do me a favour and don’t tell Tommy I did that, okay?” 

Fuck. 

“Wait. Tommy?! You and Tommy?” The words are expelled faster than he would’ve wanted, almost making him choke on a cloak of hot smoke. “Tommy fucking Nelson?”

“Yeahhh. We’ve, um, sorta… been hooking-up lately.” 

Santiago quickly inhales another drag, smoke seething out of his nostrils as he flicks the used cigarette butt down to the asphalt below. He is grateful that the lungful gives him a second to think before he speaks - yet apparently, it is not quite long enough. “Shit. The guy’s so stacked I swear he must have abs on his dick.” 

You laugh; and Santiago decides that, based on the beauteous sound of it alone, Tommy fucking Nelson doesn’t even remotely deserve you. 

“I dunno about abs on his dick… but he’s got enough to work with, know what I mean?”

Santiago continues to peer out of the window, and so you don’t see his face crumple with a frown. “So he’s good, huh?” 

You scoff to yourself. “Oh. Fuck. Not really. He doesn’t do much of the work…” Your dirty laugh sounds out. “Fortunately, I’m a goddamn miracle worker when it comes to getting myself off.”

Strike two. Tommy Nelson definitely doesn’t deserve you. 

You giggle. Giggle like this is a girls’ fucking sleepover. Like you are revealing some - far more innocent - secret to a best friend. 

But… of course. Because that’s precisely what he is to you, right? Nothing more, nothing less. And that’s never bothered him before. Has never bothered him until precisely now. 

What exactly has gotten into him tonight, then? Why does some old guy have his head in a spin? Why is he delaying crawling onto his side of the bed? Why can’t he look at you? 

Further delaying the inevitable, Santiago pats down his pockets, hoping for another cigarette with which to prolong his diversion by the window. However, he comes up short. Has no other recourse left besides brushing his teeth, kicking off his shoes, stripping down to his boxers, and laying his body out alongside yours. The mattress dips as he settles on top of the covers, and you swivel on to your side to face him. 

“Hey.” You prod him in the pec. “What about you anyway?”

“What about me?”

You reach down. Snap the elastic hem of his boxers until it pings back against his toned stomach. “Been getting any lately?” 

He makes a vague, non-committal sound, hoping it will be enough; but, of course, you don’t stop there.  

“Your dream girl… Let’s see.” Your eyes spark, far too animated considering such a long night. “Wait. Don’t tell me. She’s… nude. Huge breasts.” Santiago had wanted to roll his eyes at you, honestly, but he finds he can’t quite quash his smile. “She’s… I know… draped in the American Flag.” His face splits with mirth. “Reciting the Fifth Amendment.” You prod him emphatically in the pec. “Plus she plays bass in a Pearl Jam cover band and gives next-level blow jobs.” His gaze sweeps over your shit-eating grin like a paintbrush over a canvas. Like fingers down a guitar fret. Like it belongs there. Like he belongs here. “Well?” you’d needled. “Am I warm yet?” 

“Wait, I think I know her.” Santiago snaps his fingers. “Hey. Yeah. Didn’t she hook-up with Benny last week?” 

You twist as chaotic laugh spills out of you, throwing your arm over him and dipping your head towards his bare chest. It is a small thing. A minute, unconscious action. A brief touch. A single moment. Except… the way it makes his stomach lurch makes it completely undeniable to him. Undeniable that the only girl doing it for him is you. 

He realises it all now though, as he looks at you. Realises he’s been seeing you in pieces. In fragments; because of course he has. Of course, because he’s been trying to survive, and if he’d dared to think, instead, about living? Well, then he’d have far too much to lose. 

“Come onnn,” you purr, jutting out your bottom lip, entirely oblivious to the way the ground is disappearing from beneath him as you remain curled into his side. “Give me some gossip. It’s my birthday!” 

He swallows. Tries to pull himself together. Tries to be exactly what you need him to be. 

“Christ.” He nervously scratches at the stubble sprouting along his jaw. “Well. Let’s see. First of all, I’ve spent so long without any action but my own goddamn fist that even Morales is starting to look appealing.” 

“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”  

“He should be so lucky. Anyway. He’s got a girl back home. High school kinda sweetheart deal.”

You scoff. “What? For real?”

“Mm hmm. He’s in it too. His eyes mightta wandered occasionally - but as far as I know his dick never has.” 

You pump your eyebrows like that surprises you. “Good for him.” And then: “It won’t last though.”

“Christ. You’re really that cynical already?”

“Something like that,” you smirk. “Guess it comes with the old age.” 

“Oh yeah. Speaking of birthdays…” Santiago pushes off his elbow and swivels, reaching to fumble a tiny, square parcel from his jeans pocket. He settles back into position with a grin on his face, extending his gift toward you. You eye it sceptically, but with casual intrigue. 

“Fuck me. Something else from your trousers that’s been manhandled to death, Santiago? You know how to treat a lady.” 

He can’t explain why he feels nervous as you weigh the package in your palm. “It’s… for protection.” 

“A fucking condom?”

“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?” 

You rise up, settling cross-legged on top of the covers, and Santiago shifts to mirror you, with a lopsided, self-conscious smile. You pause, looking between him and the package with a gentle, subdued glee. You gingerly peel the red tissue paper away, revealing the gift nestled within. As soon as you observe what is inside, however, the glee evaporates from your face. You look down at it, for once rendered speechless before you say his name, the sound as thin as the wisps of smoke still eddying up on the ceiling. “Santiago.” 

He swallows. Saws his hand across his stubble, suddenly worried that the gesture is all off. “It’s-” 

Your eyes snap up to his, your expression raw and soft. “-I know what it is.” 

You look back down to the gift now, warmly. Lift them up, a string of black rosary beads unfurling. The beads his mom had gifted him for protection the day before he’d shipped out, clamping her hands over his and reciting a prayer he didn’t believe in, but which he’d felt all the way down to his marrow. The beads that he’d kept on him ever since, usually nestled in the pocket of his tac vest. The beads which his mother had prayed would keep him safe. Would protect him, when it had turned out to be you who had answered her prayer. You who had protected him, at whatever cost. 

“But I can’t-“

Stupid. You’re stupid. Of course you can. 

“It’s no big deal. I’m just a cheapskate,” he minimises. 

You inhale, about to launch a protest, but you must read something altogether too earnest in his face, since any such argument is subdued as soon as you look at him. Instead then, you hold them up once more, your eyes glistening as you admire the cheap, plastic beads for far more than they are worth. 

“But won’t your mom-“

“Be mad I gave them away?” You let the beads pool in one palm, the red tissue paper now strewn over your lap like swatches of blood. Santiago clamps his hands over yours, nestling the beads safely within, in a gesture which mirrors his mother’s own plea a little too closely. He empathises with her then. With her fear of being left behind. With her fear for his soul and its fate. “Are you shitting me? You saved her angelito. She’d probably sign the goddamn house over to you. I mean, shit - she’s already been bugging me to bring her new hija over for tamales.” 

He hasn’t ever told you that before. Maybe that’s why you do it. Why you gently cup his face and dip to render a light, chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. When you draw back from him, you look almost as surprised by the gesture as he is.  

“Santiago.” Your eyes well-up. “It really means a lot.” 

He doesn’t have words for a moment. It does. It means a lot to him, and he’s struck with sentimentality when he realises that it means something to you too. He nods once, gaze gently dancing over your face. 

“I mean it,” you squeeze out through welling tears. “This is the sweetest thing-“

“-Shh. Oh no. No, no, no,” he captures your tears with the crook of his forefinger just as they spill over, motioning as though he is attempting to restore them to whence they came, a soft yet playful concern dancing over his face. “Quick sharp. Put these back,” he whisper-shouts, faux urgently. “No-one can know you feel things.” 

His remark causes you to laugh through your tears, as you hastily lift a balled fist to scrub them away. The sounds dissolve into a pleasant yet taut silence, leaving the two of you simply looking into each other’s eyes. 

You are the first to break it, dropping your gaze down towards your lap. 

“Listen. Thank you.” 

“It’s the least I could do.“

Your expression grows more troubled then, a divot notching in your brow and your head shaking softly side to side. “Santiago. I need to say this. You… you don’t owe me any debt. Okay? And… and don’t you even think -ever- about trying to repay it. You hear me?” 

He owes you everything, and he’ll repay it however he can; but he isn’t about to argue with you. Instead, he simply nods. Forces an even, concessionary smile, leaning into a swift topic change. “You tired yet?”

“Yeah. Exhausted.” 

“Let’s lie down then, alright?” 

“Mmm.” You set the beads down so carefully on your nightstand that it constricts his chest, arranging them in a nest of tissue paper. “It’s just… I…”

“What?” 

He flicks off the lamp and you lay down on your back, staring up at the ceiling fan, the room now illuminated only by the distant glow of the motel’s neon sign across the lot. It bathes the room in a purple-tinged dark. When your voice comes back, it is small. “It’s just that I… I don’t want this night to end.” 

Santiago lays himself out, right next to you. “Then let’s try and stay awake, huh?” 

“Yeah. Let’s do that.” You shiver; then, instead of crawling beneath the scratchy comforter like he expects, you curl into his side. Rest your head against his chest. Santiago’s arms hover over you for a moment, as though he doesn’t know what to do. In actual fact though, it comes far too naturally to him. 

He wraps you in his arms, and begins to smooth one hand up and down your back - of course, being careful not to venture too low, even as you torque your body into his touch. 

You exhale against him. Hum, up against his bare, tan skin. Drape your arm over him, and, reliably, there is that knot again. That fist, tightening inside his chest. 

“Hey,” he croaks, voice smaller than it needs to be. “Birthday princess?” 

“Mmm.”

“Do you…?” 

“Do I what?” 

He hesitates. Stares coldly and contemplatively up at the ceiling fan himself now even as he bundles the warmth of you in his arms. “Do you believe in happy endings?”

He feels your breathy expletive fan over his chest. “Fuck. That’s a big one.”

“Sorry. Forget it, you don’t have to-“

“-No. I do,” you say with certainty. “I do believe in them.”

Santiago hopes that you can’t feel his heart thundering beneath the shell of your ear. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Except… not for people like us.” 

His brow tightens, mouth turning down at the corners. “Why not?” 

“Well,” you muse, wriggling pointedly until his hand - stopped dead with suspense - resumes its ministrations over your back, his fingers obediently seeking out the knots and notches until your airy hum sounds again. “Because our hands are too bloody now to build anything good. Right?” 

It’s strange because, right now, caressing you like this, he could almost forget that his hands are blood-soaked. Your touch is the only reminder he’s had in some time that his hands can indeed be loving. In fact, the whole concept of war feels so entirely incongruous to him while he’s holding you. Like it could not be further away, even though -in your lives- it is only ever around the corner. He pushes his response out from the depths of his chest. “Don’t you think that’s just a little bleak?” 

“I dunno.” You shrug, and he doesn’t enjoy how sad your voice grows . How old you somehow sound all of a sudden. “It’s just… They told us we’d be heroes, Santi. But… When was the last time you felt like one?”

You’re my hero, he thinks loudly, in the achingly quiet room; but, he catches the words before they make it out of his throat. In the end, nothing more than a small, reined-in grunt manages to escape. 

“Why do you ask, anyway?” 

Because you deserve one. More so than anyone he’s ever met, you deserve one. 

His fingers and the heel of his hand continue to massage the dink in your back, rooting out every source of tension. Learning how to take the pain apart for you like a weapon in his palm. “Dunno,” he lies. “The wedding. All that.” 

“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.” 

“You’re fucking brutal, you know that?”  

“And you’re hilarious. Shit. Happy fucking endings? Man. At this point, I think I’d settle for a happy middle, you know? Before I go down in my inevitable blaze of glory.”

“Don’t say that,” Santiago scolds, his voice taut. “I hate when you talk like that.” 

He doesn’t blame you. For being cynical or pessimistic - not really. Doesn’t blame you one bit. Not after you’d legitimately looked death in the face. He understands well enough what that can do to a person. How it can change them. How, even someone like you, who always saw a clear, bright path ahead, could begin to doubt the clarity of that vision. 

Absent-mindedly, you circle the pad of your forefinger in the valley of his pecs. “What about you, then? Do you believe in all that stuff? Marriage? Happy endings?” 

“Meh. Not so much,” he answers honestly, fissures in his voice. Maybe it is his ingrained Catholic guilt talking, but he certainly doesn’t feel like he deserves a happy ending. Not after the things he’s done. Not after all that blood.

“Then how about this, Santiago Garcia,” you begin, tone much more playful, like you’ve had a bright idea. “Would you settle for a lifetime of trouble-making with your ride or die?” 

You extend your pinky towards him for the most sacred of all vows, and he curls his own little finger around yours.

He intends his response to feel light-hearted. Equally playful. He really does. But, when the words escape his lips they are heavy. Dripping and weighed with sentimentality. “With you, honestly, it doesn’t really feel like settling.” He suddenly feels like someone is sitting on his chest. Like the air is scarce and sharp with some incendiary cloud - about to ignite and burn everything he’s known to the ground. 

“Kiss ass,” you poke lightly, and a wistful smile briefly dances across his features. 

“It’s only what you’re due.” 

“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?” 

“Sure. Maybe you can get Tommy-abs-on-his-dick-Nelson right on that.” 

You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”

Santiago jostles you gently in his embrace. “Hey. Speaking of. Sorry you got lumbered with the sideshow tonight, by the way.”

“Fuck off, Pope,” you huff, like he’s just said something which causes deep offence. “Of all the chumps I couldda been stuck with, I’m glad it was you.” Santiago’s heart flutters, his chest blooming with a hazy, metered-out warmth when he hears you say those words. “Now. Wish me happy birthday one more time, and then sing me a damn lullaby, would you?” 

Santiago crushes his chin down to his chest to get a better look at you, having decided that you must surely be joking. “Huh?!” 

“We all knew about your guitar skills but you have a beautiful set of pipes too? Been holding out on me, Pope. Now, sing!” 

“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”

“It’s only what I’m due, right? Come on, I haven’t got all night, asshat!” Somehow, the derogatory term sounds imbued with a deep fondness somehow, and it blooms through him. 

“Alright. Alright. Keep your panties on.” Shit - you had better. 

“Thank you.” 

Santiago dips his chin so he can reach your hairline. Settles a chaste kiss there, which lingers a touch too long - but which he can’t possibly cut any shorter, his eyes closing as his lips brush your skin. “Happy birthday,” he breathes, completing part one of your demand. With any luck, he thinks, you might fall straight to sleep like this - before he even has to serenade you. 

He stills as your eyes flutter closed, listening out for the slowed pace of your breathing. That is, until you open one eye and whisper-hiss up at him. “Sing.” 

A resigned amusement twitches his plush lips and he finally obliges you. He begins softly speak-singing, hoping his soporific and sandy tones will lull you towards sweet dreams, his broad palm still sweeping up and down your back. 

“She gives me everything

And tenderly…” 

A soft smile graces your features as you note his song choice. “Cobain? You’re such an angsty little gremlin, you know that?” 

“I can stop at any time,” he threatens, teasingly. 

“No. No, please.” 

He clears his throat. Lets his voice grow a touch more full and resonant, despite it being scuffed by tiredness and smoke.

“The kiss my lover brings,

She brings to me-ee,

And I love her.” 

It is a little funny, at first. A little awkward; until suddenly, it isn’t . Until, suddenly, a weight settles in your brow. Until his voice begins to falter, cracking apart with emotion. 

He hadn’t been able to say it. Clearly not even to acknowledge it. 

He hadn’t been able to find the words to tell you what you mean to him. To explain the pit in him which had opened up when he’d almost lost you. Didn’t have the words to tell you you were the reason he’d prayed for the first time in ten years, pledging loyalty to a God he hadn’t believed in -hadn’t needed - until he was begging Him not to take you. He didn’t know how to describe the way it had felt for him to kneel by your bedside, his mother’s rosary beads clutched in his palm so tightly the cross has drawn blood - even as he’d openly cursed them for protecting him and not you, and had cursed you for the same. 

He swallows the hard, tight knot which has gnarled in his throat. Wonders if maybe he can stop, because singing feels like purging himself of far too much of the pain and love he has buried, and fuck, it hurts on the way out. 

He does consider stopping. That is, until your small, grief-laden voice sounds out as though it hurts you too; but that you need to hear what he is finally telling you. “Please. Don’t stop?” 

It is a question, this time, not a demand; and yet, Santiago couldn’t dream of denying you. 

And so, with a weight in his brow, he keeps on singing. 

“Bright are the stars that shine,

Dark is the sky. 

I know this love of mine,

Will never die.”

It is at this point his voice cracks wide open. It is at this point a single tear slips across the bridge of his nose as he sings it out loud. Something he’d known for a long time, in truth, but hadn’t quite found the words for:  

“And I love her.”

The room seems eerily still as you each hold your breath. He doesn’t know where to go from here - but luckily, you always seem to know the way forward. 

“You know,” you say softly, voice wet with emotion. “It’s a real shame. Because if you did believe in happy endings?” 

“Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper.  

“You’d look pretty good as somebody’s endgame, butthead.” 

An emotion Santiago can’t name twists through his middle, like he is being wrung out. Like his blood-soaked soul is finally being purged. It is no wonder then, that his words come out dripping red. Soaked in cynicism. With a disbelief that anything good -for him - is deserved. “Let’s get each other through the happy middle first,” he says, as hidden tears glitter on his long lashes. “Then maybe we’ll see about endings, huh?” 

You don’t speak for a moment. Simply swallow in the near-dark. But, it is not lost on him that you hold him just a shade tighter. Then, when he hears a gentle intake of breath from you, he knows your request before you even utter it. 

Please. 

He resumes his singing. Slower, more off tempo. Begins to repeat the lines, over and over, softer and softer, until your breathing is deep and soporific. Until your weight on him is heavier. Heavier from sleep, and heavier from this new knowledge he has gained. 

And, there it is. The end of the night, and yet Santiago cannot dream of sleeping. Not yet. Can only watch you, hold you, listen to your soft breathing, his heart full with a new understanding. And understanding he didn’t invite, but a welcome guest all the same. 

He resolves it then. Resolves that, even if he doesn’t deserve a happy ending, he will do everything in his power to make sure you get yours… 

Even if that means letting all hope of you -for him- go. 

So, as he cradles you in his arms and stares unsleeping up at the ugly ceiling fan, Santiago contemplates it. 

Contemplates in great detail the four days with you that irrevocably changed the course of his life. 

The day he met you.

The day he almost lost you. 

The day he realised he was in love with you. 

And the day he started running from that.

The first day had been two years ago, the second had been five months ago, the third had been today, and the fourth? 

The fourth will be tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, he will start running, because his feelings for you are far too deep and huge for him to handle. 

He doesn’t even pause to wonder whether he’ll ever allow himself to stop. After all, once Santiago Garcia has a mission, he accepts nothing less than completion. 

Maybe he’s no hero; but he always gets the job done. 

[jkl-fff]

One day, unprompted, as the sit beside the fire for some evening tea, Avatar Zuko says, "You would've liked my uncle. Iroh. He was ... He was also fun and kind and surprisingly wise. Like you."

"Hear that, Momo? Papa's *surprisingly* wise."

"He also spent a lot of time just trying to ... to make me relax. Breathe. Have fun. See the world itself and not just the four nations and my responsibility to them. I ... I miss him a lot. Wish I'd been smart enough to appreciate him. It hurts to think he died thinking I thought him an old fool ..."

Aang, in a rare moment of melancholy, replies, "He *never* stopped looking for you, you know. He was sure you were still out there, still needed him. He traveled the world trying to find you right up until he died."

"You ... You *knew* my Uncle Iroh, Sifu Aang?"

"Oh, yes. I'm still alive thanks to him, in fact. Me and the few other Airbenders from the Southern Temple who survived. He was at our temple when then Fire Nation suddenly attacked it, you see, seeking news of your whereabouts. He covered our escape by confusing the soldiers with his rank. 'Prince Iroh?' they all gasped, 'Here? Ordering us to stop? What are we supposed to do?' And when that stopped working ... he died defending us." Gazing back across nearly a centiry, he continues, "The others disappeared into the Earth Kingdom, disguised themselves and took up residence in secret locations, joined by a few rare and scattered survivors from the other temples. They've been keeping our people alive in secret. But I ..."

"Yes? What did you do?"

"I returned to the temple after a few weeks alone in the wilderness. Had trouble letting go of it, I suppose, since I was still so young--only 12 or so. And I found Iroh ... His body, I mean. Surrounded by dead soldiers, fallen before an alcove where the bodies of some acolytes had been left to rot after being murdered."

"... I'm sorry," Zuko whispers. Though if he's sorry for tragedy suffered or tragedy not prevented by the Avatar--by Zuko himself--he doesn't clarify.

A long moment of quiet falls over them. Broken when Aang states, "I performed the funerary rites for them. All our Air Nomad dead, and your uncle with them. Not the soldiers, though--which I regret now, but I was too upset to perform that duty at the time."

"Th-thank you for that." Zuko fights back tears as he imagines his uncle laid out on the pyre. His final, eternal rest.

"... He was at the temple for several weeks before it happened, you know. Recovering from his search for you, asking news of the nomads who came and went. And always so ... Heh! I remember thinking he wasn't one of us, and yet he was one of us in every way that mattered. A monk without the tattoos ... Then he died for us. He *deserved* to be honored with the others, his remains joining the wind so his spirit could be free. Perhaps to continue his search for you ..." Aang pauses to pour them some more tea. "During his funeral, I made two oaths which I swore I would fulfill no matter what."

"T-two?" Zuko drinks deep, not caring about the tea's scalding temperature (he is a Firebender first and foremost). And while the cup is held to his face, he discrertly wipes his eyes. "What were they?"

"That I would live as an Air Nomad. The others would keep our people alive in secret, but I would keep us alive *in the open*. The Fire Nation wanted to eliminate us, so I would be the constant reminder that they had failed; Iroh had died to save us, so I would be the constant reminder that he had succeeded. And here I am, the so-called and dreaded 'Last Airbender'. Ha! Won't they be in for a surprise when the others come out of hiding," he chuckles.

"And the other oath?"

"... That I would fulfill Iroh's quest," Aang replies, solemnly meeying Zuko's eyes. "No matter how long it took, I would find you, protect you, and teach you Airbending ... Never expected you would force me to use a net to fulfill it, though."

"I ... Thank you, Sifu Aang."

"More cake?"

Zuko's eyes narrow. "Old man, if you smear that in my face, I swear--"

With a casual wave, Aang airbends the dessert into Zuko's hand. "Always so suspicious and serious, you Firebenders."

Role swap au where Zuko was the Avatar who got frozen for a hundred years, so when he’s rescued from the ice instead of a goofy twelve year old Katara catches this mysterious teenager with long hair and a cool scar and a fucking DRAGON

Katara: BOY???? HOT BOY?????? HOT TEENAGE BOY?????????

Zuko: *speaks*

Katara: nevermind I hate him

[the-alexel-lucas]

God of Hearth's myth

I've been writing and have got a myth for the wilds (please note this is still in the zero draft, many many things are subject to change)

Long ago but far off from the origin the Goddess of Earth had taken interest in the many beasts the Goddess of Life had spread across the land she had cultivated. She took interest in how despite appearing the same they each had their own qualities, whereas the plants she grew chose or had no interest in diverging from the path she had set for them. Despite being one with all who walked her land a loneliness grew within her, she longed for companionship her fellow gods could not offer her. And so, in what the Goddess of Light would refer to as a mistake, she set herself to creating something new for the world from her most prized creation that earned nonending derision from the Goddess of Light; the cabbage.

It had taken much time and effort, consulting with the Goddess of Life and God of Death on the goal of her task, and looking within herself to understand her own nature more deeply. Finally, after much time and work she had succeeded, and through the effort herself changed, aged, no longer the same as the world entered it's first summer. Those mortals she cultivated flourished across the land, and as she desired became their own selves separate from her though always loyal. But these new mortals struggled, the gods guided them as they saw fit but that did not give them what they needed, as new gods appeared, disease, pain, and punishment, they could not endure even under the Goddess of Earth's protection. And then, quietly, a mortal who's mother was beloved by the God of Warmth took two stones and brought them together causing the Goddess of Light to appear in a fury.

"What is it you intend to do, I insist you tell me," The Origin stated, "I wish to remove all threats under the correct reasoning" "Threat?" the young mortal pondered, "we have no where to stay, I wish to make a place we could all be" "A place? Ungrateful creations, where else would you have if not your creator's own domain" "Our food is tough and never seems enough, I wish to make it better" "Food as well? Has your creator not supplied you bountifully? Are Life's beasts not plentiful enough?" "The beasts are dangerous, they harm and scatter what few of us can gather, I wish to make us safer" "And now safety, I would think you discontent with this world, all these wishes and yet you make no true effort"

The Goddess of Light grew more and more displeased with the mortal. She spoke no lies, the gods had provided and the beasts who harmed them were owed their own place on the land. Now the ruler of the gods had deemed him a threat for desiring more, she would permit a final response to determine his fate.

"The gods are great, yourself highest above them my Lady, but there are things you cannot provide," the mortal pleaded as the world stood unmoved, "I wish for companionship, a place for those like me, to tell stories, and pass on knowledge, to eat in comfort, to have a place to return to and rest. Do you gods have no such place?" "No" "Then allow me to be that place, this world is so vast, with so many beings, but so painfully separate. O Goddess of Light, I beg of you, grant me what I need to fill this emptiness in the world"

He spoke more than allowed, an unforgiveable offense to the one all had sprung from. What use did gods have of such frivolities? Or those beneath them? This mortal's desires would complicate the world even further, as easily as it could flourish more so could it whither. and who would appear amongst all this drama but the God of Fire.

"My Lady, you desire as we all do, to keep this world safe," so said this violent god, "but this child speaks no wrongs" "What would you have then? Him gather his people, ravage the land, and drive this world to ruin? I have had enough, they all must go" "You would break the heart of a fellow god? No, you would, as would I if needed. Then a compromise if nothing else" "You seek compromise? Then you would both accept my judgement under the terms of the mortals' survival?"

The goddess' patience had long run out, if she permitted their continued existence then she saw for them a use. But to be of use to a goddess is a terrible thing, more so the cruelest of them all. The appearance of choice and nothing more, for in this time before Darkness none could truly oppose Light, submit or perish; they had chosen as all and submitted.

"Child, you shall be guided in the ways of your father by the hand of his Lord. Create this place you seek, but go no further for you shall only know of ash and flame"

And so she left, leaving only mortal and Fire behind. The mortal was left confused and uncertain of his fate, the God of Fire took the mortal's hands, stones still clenched within, and brought them together. As did so long ago, from a spark of light flame came forth and with the god's teachings he protected and cultivated it. From that place more mortals gathered and while he had companionship and could pass on guidance the goddess' words were true and he could do no more. But in turn little more was needed of him, his efforts were recognized and celebrated, truly he had no want of anything. Truly, over time he had no want of anything, more so than his and others' needs being met he found those needs unnecessary for himself. And when at last he stood from the hearth he grew he found he could go no further than it's light, but he could reach other lights spread across the land. Not as a mortal, but as the God of Hearth.

[sserpente]

A/N: Requests from @watermelon1568, @lokisgirl5, @cocoamoonmalfoy and anon. This is so fluffy and maybe a little silly, but in a good way! Enjoy everyone and have a good Christmas Eve! ♥

Words: 2635 Warnings: so much fluff, mentions of blood, implied smut

Additional NSFW warning: This Imagine contains implied period sex, just in case this is something you are uncomfortable with.

Loki might be a tiny tad OOC in this one because the requests were just so fluffy but I did my best! Enjoy!

-

Loki sighed. There you were again, running around with a list in hand looking much like the one Santa Clause had been carrying in that Christmas film Thor had forced him to watch. For the past few days, weeks almost, actually, you had been collecting everyone’s Christmas wishes like a squirrel collecting nuts for the winter. Even he knew everyone’s Christmas wishes by now. You had truly asked everybody, even the cleaning women who came to tidy up the entire Avengers facility once a week.

Loki could not quite put his finger on what it was that fascinated him so much about you—all he did know was that he too wanted to get you a Christmas present, if only just to see the surprised look on your face. He almost snorted. It was disappointment he felt, disappointment and envy because he longed to be the one to put a smile on your face on Christmas Day—and he didn’t even celebrate Christmas, not really.

Furthermore, he had not failed to notice how you avoided his presence like you were playing cat and mouse. You had, much to his surprise, asked him for his Christmas wish too the other day, all timid and unable to look him in the eye and Loki had been so taken aback he had not known an answer. The God of Mischief was many things but he was not blind and not stupid—he was perceptive. Villain or not, you were into him—and he was going to get your confession.

Smirking to himself, and determined to put an end to playing tag, he followed you into the empty hallway on your way back to your room, pushed past you and then unceremoniously blocked your way.

“O-Oh… hey, Loki.” You chirped.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“I, uh, actually, um… n-no?”

“Well, you did ask me what I wanted for Christmas, did you not?”

“Oh!” Your face lit up. “Oh, yes! Yes, what would you like?”

Loki thought about it for a moment. He needed an answer fast to not look like a moron now.

His lips parted. “I do miss writing with a quill and ink. Could you acquire a set for me? Surely, they are still being used on Midgard.”

Geez! How had you not thought about that? Loki truly was a scholar with all those books in his room, and that was a marvellous idea. “Y-yes, of course!” You responded, nodding eagerly in the process. But when you moved forward, Loki, instead of letting you pass now, put his hand against the wall so you were trapped.

“Hmm… Is there a particular reason you always get so nervous in my presence?” He asked. Your eyes widened. Fuck.

“Y-you… you tried to… you almost took over t-the p-planet, you k-know.” You lied quickly.

“Ah, yes. Of course… that must be it.” He responded with a knowing smirk. Oh, fuck. Did he have to be so god damn gorgeous?

“You never said what it was you want for Christmas, my dear.” He said then, blue eyes locking with yours. Your heart skipped a beat—no, actually, you were wondering whether it was still beating at all. You did have a Christmas wish, of course and you wanted to do backflips all across the hallway that Loki of all people took an interest in what you’d like—or maybe he just wanted to make conversation. Keep calm.

“Oh… it’s silly. Not really possible.” You replied sheepishly, gasping when he hooked a finger under your chin to gently force you to look up at him. He was definitely going to be the death of you.

“Tell me.” He urged you on.

“The only thing I… I’ve always wanted to have a dog. A loyal non-human companion, someone to cuddle with when it’s cold and who will never judge me but love me just the way I am… and they are just so cute! But that’s not possible,” You repeated quickly. “Imagine an innocent little puppy when everything’s on fire and another alien race attacks the planet!”

Loki hummed. Dogs were not common on Asgard. He himself had had a pet snake growing but released it into the wild after Thor and his friends had repeatedly stolen it to play silly and dangerous games. He could see why you kept that wish to yourself. Living among the Avengers, a dog might get in the way during missions—he did not doubt it would be helpful and capable of tearing off their enemies’ faces but your worry for it would distract you from a fight.

Still… perhaps there was a way. A smirk grew on his lips and your flustered reaction to it pleased him, making it grow wider.

-

It was early Christmas morning when Loki returned. It had taken him all of his wit and cunningness to leave the Avengers facilities unattended and without anyone asking suspicious questions but he had succeeded. The wooden box he was carrying—with many holes in them so the little creature could breathe—Loki sneaked across the hallway and past your room to hide his present for you in his own, already imagining your priceless reaction… was he hoping for a hug? Oh, he was. When was the last time anyone had hugged him? Perhaps you would, upon receiving the fluffy little creature in the box.

The dog winced. “Shh! Quiet, you silly little creature, you are going to wake up your mother!”

It was then he heard an ear-piercing scream coming from your room. He nearly dropped the box, turning on his heel to storm into your room like a tornado annihilating everything in its path. Your bed was empty, the sheets ruffled. There was a small beam of light coming from your bathroom—the closer he came, the more he could make out the rustling of fabric.

“I bloody hate being a woman…” You murmured to yourself, making the God of Mischief frown. Alarmed, he stepped closer and entered the bathroom without knocking—he barely remembered to set the box aside to draw his daggers if need be.

You were sat on the toilet, your white Christmas pyjamas with candy canes and gingerbread men on them soiled with blood. Loki’s eyes widened. There was blood on the floor too… and on your fingers.

His fingers were itching to materialise his weapons, yet he could see no enemy who could have attacked you. You gasped when he barged into the room, concealing your nakedness from the waist down with some toilet paper.

“What in the nine happened to you?” The amount of blood was almost concerning for a mortal. Had someone surprised you in your sleep? Who had managed to break into the Avengers facilities in the first place?

“How did you get in here? No wait, you’re awake already? Umm… Merry Christmas?” You swallowed. Talk about embarrassing yourself in front of the God of Mischief.

“We need to get you to a healer… a doctor, that is what you call them here?” You stared at him for a moment.

The last thing he expected was for you to burst out laughing. The whole situation was so hilarious you even forgot to be nervous around him for once.

“Oh, Loki… I’m okay, I’m not dying, I promise. I got surprised by my period, is all.”

“Your… period? Your period… as in your menstruation cycle?”

“Yes. Do women on Asgard not have that?”

“They do but… not like this.” Heavens, he felt stupid. He had thought you were dying, openly shown his concern… and you had laughed.

“Loki…” It was like you had heard his thoughts. “Thank you for checking on me. I was just being frustrated but I promise I’m okay.” You had probably disturbed his sleep but the fact that Loki cared enough to come to your help, admitting that just perhaps… he actually liked you. “W-would you mind?” Loki raised his brows, his lips parting.

“Yes, of course.”

He turned around for you to get dressed again (never before had you been more grateful for the pile of more or less dirty laundry on the floor next to your toilet) and nodded, only realising now that he had indeed just proved that one way or another, he had taken a liking into you. It was then the dog winced again just outside the bathroom door.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. In fact, I shall leave you… how did you get out of that box?” Eager and curious, the puppy must have somehow knocked its wooden box over. When Loki looked behind him, he found the lid on the floor, the young dog hurtling towards you.

“Oh my god! Hey there, little guy! Where did you come from?” You giggled when the dog attempted to jump up on you. You picked it up, grinning when it licked your face. “Aren’t you adorable?”

Loki pursed his lips. Oh, great. Now he was getting the hug. He furrowed his brows. Heavens, this was an innocent little puppy. Against all reason, he already loved the little guy with all his heart himself, how could he possibly feel jealous?

“You were not supposed to see it yet. I was going to put the box under the Christmas tree.”

“R-really? You mean… he’s for me? Oh, Loki… but h-how? I mean… I love him. But how can I keep him safe here? Is that really a good idea?”

“Well… he is, in fact, not a normal dog.” Loki remarked.

Your eyes widened. “What does that mean?”

“Dogs are rare on Asgard but there are indeed a few traders who raise them. This unprepossessing creature has a life expectancy five times as high as Midgardian dogs—not to mention it is stronger, more intelligent and much like Thor and me, more resistant to pain and injury.”

“You’re a superdog then, aren’t you? Yes, you are, such a good boy. I need a name for him.” You announced. Loki raised his arms. That would be your decision. His pet snake had never had a name. “I’ll think of something.” Smiling, you stepped forward and kissed Loki on the cheek whose lips parted in surprise.

“Thank you so much. I didn’t think you would… why did you?” He said nothing in response. He couldn’t possibly tell you that he wanted a hug and that the only person he wanted it from was you. Your lips on his face had already felt like liquid fire, warming him from the inside out. Heavens, what was wrong with him? You were a mortal. He couldn’t possibly like you this much.

“You should go back to bed.” He said after a while, clearing his throat. “It is still early.” You nodded. He was right. Besides, you and your little puppy needed to get to know each other.

Needless to say, however, you couldn’t fall asleep again after you had gotten changed into new pyjamas and then cuddled with your new pet. Loki had gotten you a dog. Why? He owed you nothing, and quite on the contrary, you highly doubted Loki would even bother to get the rest of the Avengers a Christmas gift.

-

In the meantime, Loki himself returned to his room, shaking his head in the process. He was being ridiculous. The other day in the hallway, he had still managed to remain composed but the more time he spent around you, the softer he became for you.

He had been worried for you upon seeing all that blood and it had scared him. Love and affection weren’t exactly emotions he got to experience a lot and then for a human of all species…

He realised with a start just what it was that was happening to him. He was courting you, wasn’t he? He had not done anything alike in years, the last time for a beautiful Asgardian woman who had turned out to take more interest in Thor than him.

Loki was no expert on dating. He had never had the need for it… not until you. A growl escaped his lips. How dangerous for his already shattered heart would it be to give in to his desire and make you smile again? To feel your lips against his skin once more?

Another growl. He was addicted to you already. Jumping up from the bed, he left the facilities again, this time to head a few miles west. Frigga had always said that love goes through the stomach. He might as well try that strategy out.

-

About two hours later, there was a soft knock on your door. You stirred, eyes fluttering open. Your puppy—you had still not thought of a name for it—had curled up in your arms, still sleeping soundly.

“Yes?”

The door opened to reveal Loki. With a smirk, he produced something from behind his back—a box with the logo of your favourite pancake shop on it. Your jaw dropped.

“Merry Christmas.” He announced.

“Oh my goodness… Loki, you are so sweet.”

The God of Mischief raised an eyebrow. “Sweet is not exactly what I was hoping for.” He replied, albeit smiling.  You sat up carefully to not wake the puppy, accepting the pancakes all the while licking your lips hungrily. Now that was one way to start Christmas Day.

“How about considerate?” You tried again, smiling up at him sweetly. Loki smirked, hands clasped behind his back. He almost appeared a little… awkward.

You longed to ask him why he was doing all this but then again… you could think of only one answer. It couldn’t possibly be, no?

“Care to share? They are really good.”

“It appears so. The entire restaurant smelled like a sugar realm.”

“Is that a thing?”

“No.”

“Oh… pity.” He chuckled.

Twenty minutes in which you silently ate with relish went by, the puppy still sleeping peacefully in your bed, with you unable to stop petting it all the time. Once you had finished the very last bite, you simply dropped the empty takeaway-packaging on the floor.

“Thank you so much, Loki. I couldn’t have imagined better Christmas presents.”

He nodded, watching your every move as you moved in to give him another kiss on the cheek.

This time though, in just this moment, Loki turned his head to face you again, your lips landing on his instead. You gasped, even more so when he deepened the kiss, moving his mouth gently against yours, tongue slipping between your lips to taste you. Oh my god. Loki was kissing you. Loki was kissing you!

It felt like a demon from Muspelheim had set his body on fire, from the inside out. Loki was ablaze. Unable to stop himself, his arms came up to pull you closer into his body until you were straddling him, your fingers digging into his clothes. You both knew where this was going.

There was no doubt you were going to wake up the little dog when you pushed him back on the mattress, overcome with a sudden confidence and hunger that made you feel invincible. Loki did not object. The only reason you hesitated was the fact you remembered just then that you were on your period. Reluctantly, you pulled away.

“Loki… maybe we should do this… another time. My… period, remember?”

“A little bit of blood will not stop me from ravishing you, my dear.” Your heart skipped a beat.

“A-are you sure?”

Loki nodded slowly and intimately, his blue gaze never leaving yours.

Next thing you knew, the both of you lost all of your layers of clothing one by one. Scratch making a list for Christmas presents for your friends to make them happy… you couldn’t quite believe that Loki actually reciprocated your affection for him. This certainly was the most amazing Christmas yet.

-

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, I would appreciate it so much if you considered supporting me on Kofi! It’s either for caffeine or red wine, I’ll take both. ko-fi.com/sserpente ♥

[gumnut-logic]

Knit Five, Purl One (Knit Two)

Knit One | Knit Two

Here is Part Two of my Tag Secret Santa fic for @gaviiadastra​ :D I envision six parts in total as with the title and there is an outline, but as you can see from my earlier post today, control is an illusion and Knit Three is already as long as Parts 1 & 2 combined and still hasn’t hit the plot points it needs to. The boys just seem to be happy to banter and bitch about each other :D

Many, many thanks to @onereyofstarlight​ for all her amazing help on this, particularly on Sunday 19 Dec 2021 where I basically harassed her all day as I left starting this fic to the absolute last minute due to the chaos before Christmas ::hugs her tight:: Also thanks to @the-original-sineater​ @janetm74​ and @tsarinatorment​ who continue to support my crazy just about every day.

This fic is Kermadec AU and mentions characters from that universe.

I hope you enjoy it :D

-o-o-o-

Scott sighed as he walked through Two’s corridors towards her cockpit. Gordon hadn’t stopped yelling since they started this call out and while Scott fully understood, he was tired.

It had been a big job fighting the fire.

Without Virgil.

Of course, Virgil should be safe at home. He was still grounded after the scree slope incident. But this was a fire, Virgil’s speciality, and it was Te Hāwere-a-Maki Marine Centre.

John had actually sworn when he called it in. The Centre was a place particularly special to Gordon, and since the incident with the whales and the ongoing relationship with the Eddington Institute, the Centre had been a touch point for Virgil as well.

They had friends down here, just north of Auckland.

Long story short, there was no way in hell Virgil was going to sit this one out.

Scott and Gordon had taken Two the short hop and skip down to Aotearoa, module one loaded up and ready.

And Virgil sitting fuming in the back seat.

If Gordon hadn’t been so angry, Scott knew there would have been a comment on that.

Virgil may have accompanied them down, but the man could barely walk straight with the stitches in his thigh and that broken rib.

Scott had confined him to Two’s cabin.

There were words.

But the commander would only bend so far.

So not only did he have a fish spitting fire through the entire rescue, he had a frustrated Virgil fuming in the cockpit.

It hadn’t been a great day.

Except for the fact it had been a successful rescue.

Scott let his shoulders drop under his silver suit.

Because International Rescue had been able to respond fast enough, the fire had been controlled before it could reach the marine medical facilities and the injured wildlife nurtured there. The university campus had taken a bit of a hit and the tourist centre was little more than skeletal ash, but the core of the complex had been saved.

And injuries were minimal.

To listen to his brothers talking to the rescuees, people they knew, was a little painful.

And anger inspiring.

But IR had succeeded. There was damage, but it was recoverable.

Now he just had to manage his little brothers.

He had left Gordon talking to the director of the medical facilities, apparently checking on a few patients.

The Fish was finally calming down now the fire was out, turning to rectifying damages. Scott had no doubt some Tracy money would be involved in this. Hell, he would be happy to shovel some in this direction himself. It was a worthwhile cause…aw, hell…Mel was going to be so upset.

He made a note to drop in on Raoul as soon as possible.

But first Virgil…

His brother had been on comms throughout the rescue, playing overwatch to the fire, his expertise and frustration at not being able to physically help obvious.

Scott yanked the handle and pushed open the door at the back of Two’s cockpit. He stepped through to find Virgil sitting in his pilot’s seat. He had something in his hands and he was talking to a hologram of Mel.

“…whatever it takes, Melissa. I’m so sorry, this happened. I wish I could do more.”

“Hey, you’ve done what you can and we can’t be anything other than grateful. I’ll get onto this and get back to you as soon as possible.” She paused and frowned at Virgil. “It is perfect, Virgil, really. He’ll love it.”

“Yeah, well, I had planned to do it anyway-“ Virgil turned and caught Scott stepping quietly up behind him. “Hey, they have any leads on the cause yet?”

Mel’s eyes widened as he slipped into the hologram’s receptor range. “Hey, Commander.” She managed a small smile for him despite circumstances. “I hear we have to thank you yet again.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, Mel.”

“Hey, you saved what was important. The rest can be rebuilt.” She eyed him. “You look wrecked.” She ruminated a moment. “You’re welcome here for some TLC any time, you know that.”

One side of his mouth curled up. “Yeah, maybe tomorrow. Dinner?”

“Your favourite is already on the menu.”

“Great.” It was more sigh than word. “Speak to you then. I’ve got two brothers and a flying brick to get home first.” It was purely tactical.

“Hey!” Virgil took the bait.

The smirk that appeared on her face was worth his brother’s mock ire.

“See you then.” Her eyes flicked between the two brothers. “And thank you both.” Another moment. “Make sure Thunderfish speaks with Sam. He’s at the raving stage and Liam is running out of ideas to keep him here. Raoul out.”

The hologram disappeared, leaving the cockpit suddenly dark.

Virgil leant back in his seat with a sigh. “Any indications of cause yet?”

“John’s working on it with the local authorities.” He looked down at Virgil and discovered what was in his hands. “You’re knitting?”

“Well, you wouldn’t let me do anything else, would you?! Do you have any idea what it was like to sit here unable to do anything?” He held up the mass of yellow yarn. “This is mental health.”

Scott stared at him. “You were on overwatch.”

“I have no idea how John is still sane.”

Okay, noted for future reference should he need to deploy Virgil into orbit. The sudden image of Five full of knotted yarn, her gravity ring swamped with the stuff, came to mind.

His eyes tracked Virgil’s fingers as they click-clacked knitting needles in rhythm.

The yellow yarn was very bright.

“Merry Christmas to Gordon, I guess. You better put that away before he gets back.”

Virgil shrugged. “He’s under control.”

Scott eyed his brother. Virgil and Gordon’s relationship was…interesting at times.

“Whatever.” He waved his brother towards the passenger seat. “Out.”

That worked. His glare was positively on fire.

Virgil shuffled around, grabbing his knitting bag, and struggled to push himself to his feet. Scott leant him a hand, but was pushed away irritably. “I’m okay.”

Scott rolled his eyes and stepped back. But he stood ready anyway. His brother was on the mend, but he still had stitches in his thigh and a busted rib.

The stubborn idiot wobbled to the back seat folding into it with a grunt. He stuffed the knitting into the bag just in time as Gordon bounced into the cockpit. “Virg, Janine and Alex send their love and best wishes for getting better. I checked in on Ruby, but she wasn’t in today, thank god.”

There was something entirely wrong about Gordon in a fire suit. The silver should make him look more fish than ever, but it also just swallowed him whole.

The Fish should be free.

Okay, that was proof he was too tired for any of this.

“Launching in five, Four.”

Gordon frowned at Scott, but the commander ignored him and started pre-flight.

“Thanks, Gords. You both did great today. Sorry I couldn’t help.”

“Watch what you say, Virg. John is going to start feeling useless.”

“Thunderbird Four, I’m not that insecure.” Their orbiting brother’s voice cut through the chatter like a knife.

“Thunderbird Five, do you have a cause yet.” Scott was out of patience.

“Affirmative, Thunderbird One. The fire was deliberately lit.”

Oh, hell.

-o-o-o-

Knit Three

[chibimyumi]

Autopsy of Weston Arc

A few days ago I visited a beloved friend @sweetbunny8, and we were bitching about the Boarding School Arc together. That friend is so incredibly smart, she brought up amazing points I never thought about... and so we spent the afternoon facepalming, discussing how many missed potentials there were. The below are the 5 points we talked about, on FIRE🔥🔥🔥!

1. The Arc owes us a thorough Power Dynamic Swap

I think the biggest draw of Kuroshitsuji is the unusual power dynamic between our protagonists. It would have been amazing to see a thoroughly explored power dynamic swap between master and servant.

The manga did touch upon this swap, and it gave us a delicious appetiser of what this Arc could have been. I really would love loved to see more of how Sebas and O!Ciel would deal with their cognitive dissonance of role.

Our Ciel

O!Ciel was raised in a world where the roles of servant vs master are very distinct. To O!Ciel it must have been very weird to now suddenly be subordinate to his servant. I would have loved to see if O!Ciel found it uncomfortable, or just really fun to try something new without stakes, or how his habits would slip through. In the Circus Arc we saw very clearly how both Sebas and O!Ciel still succumbed to their habits, thereby accidentally drawing unwanted attention.

Doing so in the Weston Arc would not have been a carbon copy of the Circus Arc, because unlike at the circus now O!Ciel would be performing in a more familiar environment with people of comparable status. I really wish we could have seen more of that.

Sebastian

Sebas would also have been a blast to see in a likely unprecedented role for him. In this post I argued how Sebas was probably never given opportunity to interact for real with humans on close proximity, and how he was probably not ever considered more than a mass-destruction weapon. It would have been very interesting to see how Sebas would handle suddenly being surrounded by people who don’t just interact, but are also subordinate to him as a teacher!

I find it unlikely Sebas ever had the experience of playing a superiour role to his own master. Sebas loves testing his limits with his master, and it would have been a blessing to see how Sebas could now “legally” exploit his own position of power over his master. I’m sure he would have gotten a kink out of it.

2. Planning and Calculation???

It would have been logical and responsible if the Queen just told her Watchdog what House Derek was in for O!Ciel to investigate. A “P.S. He’s in Red House according to the latest information btw, loves - Vicky” would not be too much asked. She knows Derek’s parents, and I can’t imagine the March of Arden being secretive about what House the kid is in. But even if Victoria didn’t do the efficient thing, we still would have loved it if O!Ciel had to discuss with Sebas and strategically choose a House to get into, rather than him just being planted in Blue House.

My friend thought O!Ciel would have chosen Red House regardless of whether he knew for sure where he’d be, because as the nephew of the Queen, Derek being in Red was the most logical. As an actual Lorded Earl himself, O!Ciel would have a decent chance holding down a position in Red House. And considering how Redmond has a talent for choosing awful personalities for fag, O!Ciel would have fit in perfectly too!

Then O!Ciel’s goal could still have been to become a prefect’s fag, but then the showdown with Maurice would at least have direct, immediate conflict, rather than... whatever it was the manga did. Maurice had NO reason to neutralise O!Ciel as long as they’re in different Houses! Maurice you... boring, inefficient, redundant twat...

3. Yana... is Edward a joke to you?

Why didn’t O!Ciel/Yana capitalise more on Edward being at Weston?! It would have been a perfect chance to develop Edward further and show O!Ciel’s interaction with family! I love Lizzie, but it would have been amazing to see Edward interacting with our protagonist without his sister being the reason for interaction. UGH 💔

Also, the cricket drag could have been shortened dramatically if O!Ciel had thought of using Edward. Edward has been at the Weston for longer, and he is a prefect’s fag to boot.

Sure, O!Ciel didn’t know that at first, but he finds out BEFORE the cricket was set up. The moment O!Ciel would learn that he’d need to win cricket to meet the principal, he should have gambled on Edward. If O!Ciel explained to Edward that he is investigating the disappearance of the Queen’s relative, I can’t imagine Edward not being willing to help by winning cricket in becoming “the chosen one” through gentlemanly play. That’d be what Edward would be aspiring to become, anyway.

4. Why Cricket ANYWAY!?

Even IF Edward for some reason refused to help, the cricket would still entirely have been unnecessary. It wouldn’t matter at all who would win, because as the prefect’s fag, Edward had the privilege to attend the Midnight Tea Party ANYWAY. All four prefect fags are present, as we all can see. O!Ciel would only have needed to ask Edward to act as his agent, and tadaaa.

Besides, even IF Edward didn’t exist in the arc it’d still be entirely fine, because all the prefects would SURELY have access to the Party. That is known. O!Ciel only needed to tell Sebas to keep an eye on where the definitive participants would be going, and track them. When push comes to shove, Sebas could just barge in like he did anyway (and bring O!Ciel even if he’s uninvited), and the case would still have unfolded the way it did.

5. PLOT HOLE!?

My friend also brought up a humongous plot hole so large it became a space on its own that I didn’t even notice it was a hole. Why did the prefects react so differently to Agares and Derek being “alive” respectively?

So, my friend and I both watched the musical adaptation as the last thing, and in the musical the prefects were all being totally chill about Agares being around, but shocked shitless to see Derek back. All four prefects were present during the killing of Derek AND Agares, so they should all know both are dead. It had not been addressed in the musical that the prefects have knowledge of corpse reanimation, so they shouldn’t have been able to act so normal next to Agares, but freak out about seeing Derek. (This is yet another example of WHO IS YOUR TARGET AUDIENCE, KUROMY21!?)

In the manga it had been addressed that the prefects have knowledge that reanimation of the dead is possible. And it seems like Redmond arranged for the reanimation of at least Agares. But why didn’t they arrange for the reanimation of Derek too? (@chibmib​ Thanks sis, for checking this for me so I didn’t have to suffer through it again)

Derek is the Queen’s relative, his disappearance would really have invited suspicion, as it indeed did. The reason the P4 didn’t arrange for Derek’s reanimation can’t be because the they considered Derek too evil to bring back. Agares was namely arguably worse; he was an adult and the vice-principal! It was his literal job to be responsible.

The P4 couldn’t have decided to not reanimate Derek for fear of him ratting them out for assault. There are plenty witnesses of Derek’s crimes, and the P4 would be first-hand witnesses too of Derek’s lying. If Derek told the authorities he was assaulted, all witnesses could have helped testify for the P4 against Derek.

The only reason I can make sense of the double standard in the P4′s reaction is that Undertaker told the P4 he only succeeded in reanimating Agares and not Derek, because the technology is still very young; which would have been true too. BUT THEN THE MANGA SHOULD HAVE ADDRESSED IT.

Even if that’s what happened though, the P4′s reaction shouldn’t have been such horrified surprise. They should be relieved to see the Queen’s relative alive, because then they wouldn’t have ‘murder of Queen’s relative’ on their résumé. All they had to do instead then is explain why they attacked Derek in a moment of lost control at the sight of a future-prefect being a lowlife. And again, the victims could have helped testify...

And this all would only have happened if we momentarily accept the unlikeliness of Sebas coincidentally having a plugged nose and not smelling Agares’ corpse stench the entire Arc.

[tracle0]

Locate_words.mp3

Tagged by the wonderful @albatris thank you kindly thank you wonderfully thank you beautifully I hope you have a pleasent. Morning? Morning when you read this, probably. 

Gotta find fire, click, window and break

Fire

Light spells didn’t come from their god. The thought was quiet, watching the impossible display with objective consideration. Anyone who could conduct magic could conduct light. Perhaps the Firefly hadn’t given up on them. Perhaps it had heard them beg for help. Or perhaps they had been quick to assume their magic was gone, too cowardly to test their hypothesis.

Perhaps illusions still hummed in their bones.

A slight cheat but (: 

Click

They made a feeble attempt to reach the door from where they stood – a very clearly impossible feat, given that the bowl they were washing in was against the far wall. When the chair at the table finally scraped back, they tried not to let their grin grow too smug, watching as Olly heaved himself up and headed for the door, dark words muttered under his breath. “Love you.”

“You are the bane of my life.” They turned back to their job, smile turning soft, listening as he unlatched the lock and swung the door open, then clicked his tongue, “Speaking of which. What do you want?”

“Wow,” a dry, familiar voice said, and their hands froze, clutching the shirt tightly. “I come all this way to see you, and you greet me with what do you want? Hi to you too. I’m suddenly remembering why I stay away.”

O l i v e r !

Window

As if able to read the concern in the air, Sam started to point out the small signs of life, leading them for the last time. There – that chimney was smoking; someone had lit a fire inside. It smelt like pine wood was burning. There – listen! Someone was playing a whistle, their window open, the notes drifting into the street, cheerful despite the dark. There – a thin strip of light from behind a curtain, flashing as they passed. Possibly a servant to some god, trying to entertain themselves with the same lights that had recently saved their lives. There. There. There. Sonder was still alive. They had made it in time for the city to survive.

Hey look TSS wasn’t all for nothing! They succeeded!

Break

“Rigorously tested,” they picked out. “Right.”

“You weren’t?” She paused, met their eyes again. “Oh. Right. Self-addition.”

“And aren’t you glad I was there?”

“You were living with an infected person,” Andy said, intending the comment to be only for himself, then noticing the others glance his way. “Maybe you were carrying the spores the whole time. Maybe everywhere is going to have an outbreak and it’ll be your fault.”

“Isn’t that the dream?” No note of worry crept into their voice. “Civilisation bought to its knees by my hand. I wish.”

In which Atlas is highly irresponsible, and if I knew them irl, I would give them a good bap. But plot. 

Tagging mmm @joyful-soul-collector @petrolstationflowers @scmalarky @polyacery if you would like smile? to find beat, clasp, tremble and bloom

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap

A/N  I was driving down the highway today and saw the license plate “I PieGuy”.  By the time I got home, this story was half-born in my head.  I have no idea where it might go, but it’s taking up valuable shelf space in there, so I’m birthing it onto paper.  Modern AU.  Silly fluff.  Claire POV.  First person, which I never write, so watch out for stray pronouns.

The shriek of the fire alarm was the final straw.  I’d just stepped out of the kitchen for a minute, but that was all it took for calamity to strike.  Opening the oven door in a panic, billows of smoke engulfed me before I slammed it shut again.

“Shit.  Shitshitshit.  Shit!”

Waving a damp dish towel back and forth like a flag of surrender above my head caused the head-splitting siren to finally desist.  I blew a rogue curl off my sweaty brow and gave myself a pep talk.

“Time to woman up,” I sighed before donning the oven gloves and cautiously cracking the door once again.  More smoke escaped, smelling of burnt pastry and ruined hopes.  Once it cleared I could see the charred carcasses of what were supposed to be vol au vent shells.  I carefully extracted them from the oven and dropped the cooking sheet with a clatter onto the quartz countertop.

“Dinner is D.O.A, Doctor Beauchamp.  Now what the fuck am I going to do?”

***

Thirty minutes were spent cleaning the evidence of yet another cooking fiasco and ventilating our flat by opening every available window to let in the moist Edinburgh breeze.  I now had less than four hours before Frank and three other members of the university faculty would be descending, expecting a home-cooked meal and polite chitchat.  I was in no position to offer either.

In a last-ditch effort to salvage the evening, I typed “sophisticated home catering in Edinburgh” and started dialing.  The first four numbers yielded either an answering machine or the news (unsurprising) that at least two days’ advanced notice were required to book their services.  Nearly resigned to ordering in Italian and facing Frank’s wrath, a woman’s voice with a thick Scottish brogue picked up at the fifth business I called.

“Ye’ve reached Ginger Snap, this is Jenny speaking.  How may I help ye t’day?”

I poured out my tale of culinary woe, laying it on a bit thick, but I was truly desperate by this point.

“Aye, we’ve a chef available this afternoon.  What sort of menu were ye planning?” she asked.

“Really?  Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver!”

I gave Jenny the number of guests and a broad idea of what I’d hoped to serve, although I was in no position to be choosy.

“Never ye fear, Ms. Beauchamp.  We’ll pick up the necessary items and our chef will be at yer flat by four.  Tha’ should leave jus’ enough time tae have everything ready fer six.”

Thanking her profusely and not even inquiring about the charge, I stood triumphant in the middle of my immaculate yet useless kitchen.  Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?

***

The buzzer rang as I was re-arranging the decorative objects atop our sideboard.  I was aiming for the artless sophistication featured in Frank’s favourite design magazines, but instead I lined up each item in order of descending size, or grouped them by historical era.  A second buzz had me trotting to the intercom where a male voice crackled.

“This is James Fraser o’ Ginger Snap Catering.  Can ye let me in?”

I stuck my head into the hallway to find four organic cotton tote bags bursting with produce at my doorstep.  Footsteps pounded down the stairs, where I assumed the chef had retreated to collect more supplies.  I brought the first load into the kitchen where I began to unpack foodstuffs the likes of which I’d never seen.  Not knowing what else to do to be helpful, I began sorting them; green leafy things here, round crispy things there.

“Hallo?” the same voice called from where I’d left the door ajar.  Wiping my hands nervously against my slacks, I went to greet him.

Standing in the doorframe, almost filling it with his immense size, was a young man who seemed more suited to a stag hunt or a rugby pitch than haute cuisine.  He had loose tawny curls, two days’ worth of stubble and wore a faded grey henley, dark wash jeans that clung to his muscular legs and utilitarian workman’s boots.

“Claire Beauchamp?” he interrupted my visual inventory.

“Hmm? Oh, yes.  Sorry.  Pleased to meet you.”

Something funny happened when our hands met in a firm shake.  A tachycardic blip, my internal medicine professor would have called it.  There was no time to analyze this response, however, as he was already on the move.

“James Fraser, at yer service.  I’d normally spend more time getting to know ye and yer style of entertaining, but we’re short on time, so let’s get straight to it, aye?”

I gave the chef a hasty tour of our kitchen, stumbling over the names of various implements and opening the wrong cupboard when looking for my saucepans.  I blushed as he raised an expressive eyebrow, but shook it off.  I was paying for his cooking proficiency, not his opinion on my lack of domestic competence.

“I ken ye spoke tae Jenny about yer menu, but I took a few liberties at the market, based on what looked freshest.  I recommend starting with a simple salad o’ nettle and radish, garnished with a wee round of goat cheese and rye crumbs.  Loin o’ lamb with new potatoes and pancetta fer yer main.  An’ a simple rhubarb custard fer dessert.  There’s none with food allergies, aye?”

“Aye,” I replied, then corrected “umm, no, rather,” at his concerned look.  “Are you sure you can manage all that in only,” I glanced at my wristwatch “ninety minutes?   It seems like an awful lot of work.”

“Och, tis no’ much.  Lamb cooks swiftly, ye ken.  Tis why I choose it over pork or poultry.”

My saviour rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, preparing to wash his hands and get down to work.  There was probably something else I should be doing elsewhere in the flat to prepare, but I didn’t want to appear completely useless to this unflappable man.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He looked dubious and seemed prepared to politely decline, but then his expression shifted.

“Aye.  Ye can wash the tatties an’ chop the rhubarb while I dress the lamb, if ye dinna mind,” he suggested.

“Scrubbing in and wielding a knife happen to be two of the only transferrable job skills I bring to cooking,” I joked, taking my turn in front of the massive Belfast sink.

He emitted a low Scottish grunt of amusement before we each settled into companionable silence, focusing on our respective duties.  I glanced over at him surreptitiously, envying the ease with which he moved from task to task, lean and nimble hands working alchemy where I only succeeded in producing dross.

“Ye’re a doctor, then?” he asked after my chopped rhubarb had been set on the stovetop to stew and the lamb was marinating in a bath of lemon and fresh herbs.

“Umm, well, I was.  My partner and I moved here from Boston, where I trained as a surgeon.  I haven’t yet obtained my license to practice here in the UK, so I’m afraid I’m just a culinary liability for the moment.”

It was a current source of strife in my relationship with Frank.  He liked the idea of me keeping house, entertaining and eventually settling down to raise a family.  I chaffed at this unfamiliar routine.  But until I passed my licensing exams, it was rather a moot point.

“I’m sure ye’re far more than that,” he replied solemnly, before breaking into a sneaky grin.  “I’ve ne’er seen stalks of rhubarb cut quite sae... uniform.  Ye’d have a fine career in quality control, if ye wished.”

I faked throwing a dish towel at him while we both laughed.

“What about you, Mr. Fraser?  How did you get into the catering business?”  It wasn’t polite conversation.  I was really quite curious to know more about him.

“I’ll tell ye, but only if ye call me Jamie.”  At my nod, he continued, “twas my Mam.  She was always a great cook, but then my Da passed suddenly and she with three bairns under the age of ten tae raise. She needed tae work.  We moved tae Edinburgh an’ she laboured day and night tae save enough tae start her own catering business.  Since I was a lad, when I wasna in school I was in her kitchen, watching and learning all the while.”

His striking face took on a faraway expression, and I knew he was remembering those days with a mixture of wistfulness and love.  I recognized the look from my own reflection, when I thought about my dead parents.  Without realizing it, I lay my palm over his forearm where it had stilled above my butcher’s block.  His eyes were the same hue as midsummer blueberries, and they regarded me with silent inquiry.

A timer made us both jump, my hand falling to my side.  What was I thinking, touching this stranger who I was paying to cook dinner for my boyfriend’s guests?  I really needed to find a hobby, so my mind didn’t latch onto any feeble excuse for stimulation.

Brushing my hands against my thighs, I quickly excused myself and left to get properly dressed for dinner.  Only thirty minutes remained before Frank and his colleagues were due to arrive.  

I spent more time than was strictly necessary away from the kitchen, afraid I’d made things awkward with Jamie.  By the time I finally returned, he was plating the lamb and putting the custard in the refrigerator to set.  I tried to think of something to say that would re-establish the fluent rapport from earlier on.

“I’ve opened the wine tae let it breathe,” Jamie said without looking at me.  I wished there was a similar process for blundering Englishwomen.

“Jamie, I really don’t know how to...”

The sound of the front door opening interrupted me and Frank’s nasal voice rang out from the entryway.

“Claire, we’re here!”

“Fuck!” I exclaimed.  Jamie tipped his head sideways in question.  “I never had time to explain to my partner that I hired your services.  That’s the dean of his faculty out there, and...”  I broke off, looking frantically around the room as though a trap door would suddenly materialize.  Quick on his feet, Jamie understood the situation immediately.   The kitchen windows were still open after my earlier catastrophe.  With surprising grace for one so large, he slid through the opening and onto the fire escape.  

“Bon appetit, Claire Beauchamp,” the ginger chef wished from outside, a mischievous smirk lighting his whole countenance.

I stood, mouth open in shock, as he gave an abbreviated bow before scampering down the metal ladder just as Frank entered the kitchen behind me.

“This smells delicious, darling.  We really are going to make a chef out of you yet.”

[chrysalispen]

#6 - Avatar

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33640546/chapters/83854915

Despite his best efforts, they have overtaken him. The gunblade bullets strike true, once, twice, and even the indignant roar of the dragon within is no match for the stark fact of his mortality.

Estinien drops to one knee with a thickly muttered curse, spitting blood and unable to breathe. One bullet has struck his upper arm and exited through the meat- painful, but recoverable. The other, however, found his chest: high and to the right, nicking his lung, and that will be the strike that ultimately kills him. He will either spend the last of his aether fighting or die trying to staunch the flow.

His pursuers draw short and form ranks about him, just far enough out of range- no amateurs, this lot. If they know enough to be wary of his lance then it is like they have been debriefed on the skillsets of their opponents. Praetorian Guard or some other high-profile unit dedicated to special forces wetwork- Gaius explained the difference to him once before, and buggered if he can remember or care to mark the difference just now. Doesn't matter. They're here to kill him either way and they've probably just succeeded.

Above the high-pitched wail of the wind, there is a chorus of metallic clicking. Hammers on those infernal Garlean weapons poised to fall, and once they do the Azure Dragoon of Ishgard will be no more. He will die alone in a snow-covered wilderness as he had always assumed he would in his younger years, but in the frozen wastes of far northern Ilsabard, so like and yet unlike his home.

"Savage." This uttered through the flat and tinny blare of one of the officers' helmets. "Give us the Black Wolf and your death will be quick."

Gaius will know to continue south and east toward Ala Mhigo with the others if Estinien fails to show at their pre-designated meeting place. The longer Estinien can keep their attention on him, the better.

He can hear a whistling noise that he realizes, in a slow and detached way, is the sucking chest wound taking in air with his every attempt to breathe. Bloody froth bubbles at his lips and with as much deliberate disdain as he can muster, Estinien tilts his chin and spits a great mouthful of it into the snow. Crimson splatters across blinding white and is covered almost immediately by the bitter gale whipping his hair into his eyes.

"If 'tis information you want, then come and get it," he rasps. Swiving imperial whoresons. He'll take his pound of flesh with him as he goes.

Aether rattles about the length of his lance and spins down the shaft to power the blade as he prepares for one last blow that never comes.

A choked gurgle to his left presages the clatter of what is unmistakably a weapon falling to the ground; by some miracle, the shock does not cause it to fire. Estinien's trembling limbs tense, grip tightening upon his lance- and then he notices the imperials are looking too. He should take the opening but half-addled from blood loss he instead follows their gaze.

It is a gruesome sight: a man hangs suspended several ilms in the air like a pinned butterfly, booted feet kicking for purchase and a river of blood pattering to the frozen ground beneath his feet. His fingers pluck weakly at the thing which has killed him - a massive black steel blade, gleaming a pale and flickering blue like will-o-wisp light through torn flesh and carbonweave and pulverized bone - before he slumps forward with a groan. The corse slides only a few ilms before the blade's wielder does the rest, pitching down and violently left to dislodge its burden. It tumbles into the snow and permafrost and lies still.

Haloed in whirling ice and the starkness of sodium lamps from the magitek searchlights, a figure black as pitch lifts its weapon, and Estinien is not a farmer nor a botanist but he knows what a scythe looks like when he sees one.

"What in the seven swiving hells is that?" someone whispers.

The figure does not speak. The wickedly curving blade flashes in reply, with an almost superhuman speed that reminds him of Thancred of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, Thancred and his twin daggers. In its wake follows a splash of crimson and a wet ripping sound and an abruptly silenced scream. Then another, and another.

Realizing his men are - quite literally - being cut down like wheat sheaves, the shocked centurion finally shouts,

"Open fire! Kill him!"

They cannot raise their weapons fast enough. A few manage, and Estinien can see the flash of fire at the muzzles before they fall to that spinning disc of blue and black: some fantastical dervish that seems formed from the Void itself. As one, watching their comrades slaughtered with such horrifying ease, the line of armed and armored soldiers falter. Even in this poor visibility Estinien can see their centurion's hands fumbling, one for his gunblade and the other at his helm.

The transceiver, he realizes.

"He's calling for reinforcements!" Estinien shouts.

The black figure reacts swiftly, cutting another swathe through the ranks before it is flying through the air, its edges suddenly moving and fluttering- and Estinien can see now that it is neither a voidsent nor a spectre but someone as mortal as himself, dressed head to toe in black reinforced leather and carbonweave and cermet-plated steel.

It lands feet first in the snow with a soft crunch, scythe extended. The blade's curved tip now rests just at the wrist joint of the centurion's right gauntlet. "Drop your weapon," a smooth voice orders.

"You are interfering with a highly classified milita-"

"I don't give a swiving damn who sent you out here. Drop your weapon or I'm happy to see the task done for you."

Through his steadily growing haze, Estinien can hear a warning growl somewhere in his mind as another figure seems to materialize alongside the first: this one cloaked and indistinct save for the two spindly arms that wrap about its partner's shoulders like a lover's embrace. Be on your guard, Nidhogg warns. Something is sorely amiss with this mortal. There is a darkness about its aether that should not exist.

The gunblade tumbles from the centurion's suddenly limp fingers to the snow.

"Abomination," the Garlean spits through the speaker in his helm. "Reaper. You- I know who- what you are."

"Then you know what your next course of action should be," the figure replies. "And I suggest that you make all due haste. My friend is still very hungry."

He doesn't need to be told twice. The centurion staggers a few steps backward and once he is out of immediate range of the scythe, breaks into a sprint. It is all the impetus his underlings need to flee at his heels. The line folds and breaks and dissipates, fading into the blizzard and breaking apart like wet paper.

Now that he is alone, the last of Estinien's strength leaves him.

His lance clatters to the hard-packed ground as he slumps forward from his knees to his side, coughing and gagging on a mouthful of blood. Absurdly when he tries to think of Ishgard the first thing that comes to mind instead is that little teahouse down by the Kugane docks and the dried squid snacks available for purchase just beyond its doors. Dried squid. Fury's frozen cuntflaps, what a bleeding ridiculous godsdamned final wish.

At the blurred edges of his failing vision, he can see the slow approach of the black figure, the edge of a long cape whipping in the wind like a tattered battle-standard, massive scythe slung with an almost casual insolence over one shoulder.

Nidhogg is snarling and spitting, a posturing beast.

Beware. Beware-

He has just enough time to wonder if he is next before the world is lost to white.

[capri-ramblings]

Can I request headcanons for yandere Riddle,Vil and Kalim with a witch princess s/o that was engaged to them like shes trying to escape them only to fall in love with them while in 'time out?'(isolation) and she becomes more loving toward them afterwards? you dont have to do this if you dont want to I've just had this scenario in my head for a while

I'm sorry this took very long to complete,poisy 💖 the idea was a heavy one to do but I loved doing it!

Please Refer to Pinned Post!

Riddle Rosehearts

- "You thought you could step a single foot out of my grounds and I wouldn't notice?"

- The collar clamped around your neck weighed heavily on your shoulders and despite the fumes of defiance running through your veins, your knees buckled and you fell.

- Right at the feet of a red tyrant.

- "What a silly,rabbit."

- Riddle looked down at you with a mixture of anger and pity. The way the two emotions in his eyes spiraled against one another made you recoil with fear.

- You knew better than to have tried your luck at escaping his grasp, but the opportunity seemed rare and oh so tempting.

- And you were never the obedient type

- Not even when your parents demanded you to marry Riddle.

- Your magic affinity and his would lead to a string of perfectly bred mages after all. You couldn't say you didn't understand their enthusiasm and desperation.

- But Riddle was suffocating. Every little detail meant something to him and if you thought your governess was strict, he's proven you wrong.

- Maybe as an outsider you would've seen him as appealing. He was good looking after all, prettier than most of the girls you've ever seen in the village really, and he had his wits about him along with that snobbish intelligence.

- The colour of his hair was unique. Red like roses and eyes as grey as a silver bullet. Sharp as one too, and like a rose,he of course had his thorns.

- You wouldn't know it until you came to hold the bouquet in your hands. The way the thinness of it seeped into your flesh and only ever drew blood once it was pulled out. One wouldn't realize the stinging pain until they had it all over their bodies.

- You couldn't stand him.

- "Look at me when I'm talking" Riddle jerked your chin up roughly, the sweetness of his floral scent wafting through your senses.

- "Why? Are you expecting eyes to have ears now?"

- He scowled at that. Brows knitted furiously together as his eyes narrowed and his grip tightened.

- Snarky. Riddle wouldn't admit it but that fiery spark of yours set not only his temper but his entire being on fire. He didn't know if it was from the desire to tame you into obedience or that if he adores that fighting spirit of yours.

- You weren't the type to let others drive you around your own life, and maybe Riddle preferred that over a meek,young wife.

- Still,you attempted to run away from him and now you're being sharp tongued.

- Of course he was livid. Anger practically fumed out of him then, but surprisingly enough he kept it on a rather strained hold. Was it because he knew you'd try and run from your engagement to him? Or did he started having a soft spot for you? Who knows.

- It only made sense to him that he kept you alive. Your punishment would be in the dungeons.

- You objected. Obviously. Did he think you were some kind of animal?

- Ah,but then he leaned down to your ears and cooed ever so softly that if you refused this punishment,the next one would be at the cost of your family's life.

- That did well to shut you up.

- The isolation was what surprised you. You thought Riddle would've at least sent down people to break you if he didn't do it himself, but instead you were shoved into the dark cells. Food came by everyday,three meals each. You were given a bed and a small closed corner to clean yourself.

- And that was it.

- Riddle never once went down to check on you,no one did really and you began to wonder whether it was because he had his hold on you and that it made him confident you wouldn't try to run again or people had simply forgotten you.

- You didn't care for long though. You didn't need anyone checking in on you, especially not Riddle himself.

- Or so you thought.

- The silent walls of your prison began to sound like static and half the time you swore you'd hear whispers. Your appetite slowly declined as well and sleeping became a reluctance.

- The guard who watched over you said nothing when you asked him if Riddle planned to keep you here forever or if he was going to show up at all.

- As if his lips had been sewn shut.

- It was maddening really,to hear yet not be heard. As if you existed only in your own mind.

- One time you almost wanted to slam your head against the concrete, anything to keep that damned static sound out from your head.

- But then, the door of your confinement rattled opened and Riddle stood in the doorway.

- You had never ran towards someone as quick you did then and even Riddle barely caught you in his arms, as he was forced back by your embrace and almost stumbled on his own feet.

- He felt so real. So very vivid your skin almost felt like burning from the warmth he had.

- "Please...Please... Please...Take me with you.!" You cried, vision blurred by the sudden tears welling up in your eyes. Your hands fumbled to grip on him. Thoughts puddled.

- Riddle bit back the smile on his lips, wrapping his arms around your shivering body as he pulled you closer to him.

- How pathetic.

- You looked like you'd been deserted on an island. Had isolation really tamed that wild spirit of yours?

- Riddle wanted to laugh, to sneer in your face and ask you why a method to break dogs worked on you.

- But then again, it was adorable as well. Seeing how you clung to him so desperately.

- Riddle always did wanted you to submit to him after all.

- "Hm? Take you where?" He asked,voice slick and cruel like a whip, but his hands were gentle and endearing when it came up to caress your cheek, and his natural floral scent sent shivers down your spine.

- "Home." You pleaded, "Please take me home with you. I promise I'll never leave your side again,Riddle. Please."

- His lips curled into a smile then.

- "Of course,my lovebug."

Kalim Al-Asim

- The poor boy is heartbroken.

- How could you have thought to run away from him? Was he not treating you well enough? Did he made you angry? Upset even?

- The questions swirling in his head makes him want to vomit.

- Kalim is quick to have every one of his servants search for you, and with the aid of Jamil, he does it fairly well, finding out your runaway path and dragging you back into his arms within mere hours.

- He doesn't seem angry though, and the way he wraps his arms around your trembling body tells you that he's more grief-stricken rather than angered but there's this hazy look in his eyes that causes an unsettling churn in your stomach.

- When you try to pull him away, to let your defiance spark it's colours, Kalim's grip on you tightens and the painful sensation of his nails digging into your skin makes you cry out.

- He doesn't apologizes, instead he buries his head into your chest.

- "Why did you run?" He asks, voice cracked and dejected as he lifts his gaze to meet yours.

- "Why are you always running?"

- You want to tell him, but the way Kalim stares at you with such a yearning blandness then causes you to flinch, rendering you speechless as you stare up at him.

- He lets out a laugh then, a sound that sends chills down your spine.

- "You look so scared...I wonder why?"

- You wince when Kalim raises one had to tap on your cheek gently,the pad of his thumb cold once it settled on the top half of your lips.

- "It's like you're looking at a monster."

- You were, weren't you? Isn't that why you decided to run away? It has to be.

- Your escape and almost succeeding in it causes a wire to snap in Kalim's mind. The last shred of sanity he held doused in a fire that sets his delusions aflame.

- You've finally brought out the worst in him, and even then he still loves you. Still wishes to keep you in his arms. You should be grateful because if he had grown stale towards you, Kalim would've had you beheaded.

- He still punishes you though, that's a given since you made him worry and caused such a fuss in his home, it was only right for you to amend for your wrong doings.

- The fact that Kalim himself dragged you to the dungeons was something you thought you'd never see, and though he held you by your wrists rather than your hair, this was definitely not the Kalim you knew.

- "It's going to be cold here at nights and there aren't any servants near by but I'll make sure someone comes down to feed you and bring you some clean clothes while you're here." He says this so casually, as if throwing your would be wife in a dungeon deep beneath his family's palace was a normal occurrence.

- But you didn't dare talk back to him. A part of you felt that if you did, a fate worst than this would be your only option.

- So, you stood there, stiff and uncertain as Kalim watched you, head tilted to the side before he extended his hand to run his fingers through your hair.

- "You're so pretty. I hope this helps you to love me...I wouldn't want to hurt you, after all."

- Kalim locked the doors to your cage, the sound of the keys turning in its lock so hollow it almost seemed unreal. Detached from reality.

- "Rest well,okay?"

- That was the last time you saw Kalim, and perhaps you were exaggerating it, but it's been almost two months since you've seen or heard from anyone at all with the exception of the servants who come to give you your meals and spare clothing. And even they don't talk to you, acting as if you were some sort of taboo subject to even spare a glance to.

- The lack of social attention and connection was as infuriating as it was depressing.

- You were never much a socialite to begin with, but you enjoyed a fair share of conversations from time to time. It was only normal,of course. What living creature could live without the presence of others anyway?

- It came to a single point where you actually started yearning for Kalim's bright smile, the way he seems to always want to dote and pamper you

- Though it's true that you never indulged him in it when he was openly offering them to you, now it was a whole other story.

- It was so lonely,cooped up in this dungeon where not even light came through. Food started tasting bland and hard like cardboard and your clothes felt suffocating.

- If only Kalim would come by and visit you....

- The way you sprung up on your feet when Kalim did come visit, had you almost seem like an eager puppy wagging its tail at the sight of its owner's return.

- Kalim seemed pleased to see you too, the bland look in his eyes gone and instead filled with the exact warmth you've craved for months.

- It was almost laughable, really. How easily you came to succumb to your weakness.

- "Sunshine! I've missed you a lot!" Once he came near to the bars of the dungeons, you mustered all your strength to grab at him from inside, your eyes filled with tears and body trembling.

- "I missed you too, Kalim! I'm sorry for trying to leave you...I won't do it again..so please..."

- The rest of your words are slurred and incoherent but all the while you sputter them out, Kalim looks at you with all the fondness in the world and he tells you that it's fine, that he forgives you and he's going to take you back.

- You're already muddied by your broken thoughts, your set of your logics stirred away from all sort of common sense.

- Kalim feels bad that he kept you in a dungeon hexed with a mind break spell but it's all worth it isn't it?

- Now, you'll finally be the loving wife he knows you can be.

Vil Schoenheit

- Vil isn't having any of this disobedience.

- How dare you go around taking advantage of his fondness for you and try to run away from your engagement.

- You were promised to him by your parents. Your dishonour to it is an insult to him, and anyone who dares insult Vil will feel his full wrath.

- The fact that he decided to keep you alive is already another sign of his affection towards you, though you still choose to be stubborn. Throwing your harsh remarks as if he's the villain when really, the one who caused this whole mess was you yourself.

- Vil doesn't get you even throughout the years of growing up with you as your betrothed. While others envied your fate of being bound to him, you acted like it was some kind of chore.

- As if you had no choice and that being married to Vil was a fate worst than death.

- He hated you for that. Who did you think you are? Do you think he liked the notion of being married to a simpleton like you? A witch with no special entitlement?

- You should be grateful.

- And if you refused to even be that, then perhaps you ought to be disciplined. Beaten into submission.

- Vil doesn't mind really. He's been waiting for years for a time when you'd slip on that damned attitude of yours to give him an excuse to act as the wounded husband.

- And it works of course. Your parents are devastated by your little stunt, apologizing to Vil and begging him to forgive you.

- He plays the kind, understanding gentleman part so well, that when he turns to look at you, you almost believe he'll let you off easily.

- But once the audience disperses, Vil's true colours show themselves and you're suddenly engulfed in this sick punishment of his.

- A dance of waltz that leaves you breathless and worn.

- He's always been so suffocating and controlling. Thinking he owns you like some sort of accessory. It was why you were repulsed at the thought of marrying him.

- So, when he came to tell you the consequences of your actions, you laughed.

- Isolation? Was that the best he could come up with?

- Vil smiles at your reaction,his eyes raking in your figure as his fingers twirled around his magic pen. A look of haughtiness etched into his expression.

- The next morning when you wake up, head dazed and limbs sluggish, you're surprised to see that Vil isn't there with you, and once you got dressed and headed down to the dining room, you halted at the door. There was no one here too.

- You let the silence settle in, the unusual emptiness enveloping you like a poorly fit glove.

- You call out,not for anyone in particular yet still for someone. When no answer came, you did it again. And again. And again. And again.

- Until you have to stop yourself from running down the third flight of stairs to the fifth hallway you've entered, and freeze in front of the giant french window overlooking the serene view outside.

- Is this what Vil meant? This was his doing, wasn't it? You didn't know anyone else who could be so twisted after all.

- The sun doesn't even set yet you're already worn and as if summoned by your state of exhaustion, you're back in your room. A chill runs down your spine, and you decide to slip into bed even if you stayed awake the whole time.

- The next day and the day after are all repeats of your first day. Round and round it drives you to a corner and you're wondering why you're even continuing this chase. This game of Maze you found it impossible to win.

- He'd trapped you in some sort of spell, keeping you in a loop until your mind's gone hazy and the frustration of running and screaming turns into a silent pleading.

- You wanted it all to stop. You couldn't think of running anymore, you couldn't actually think in general. The days rewound itself but your body still required rest and though food was never an issue, the way the bags under your eyes weighed down your vision told another sort of struggle.

- When was the last time you managed to sleep?

- What day was it?

- What were you doing?

- ....Where is everyone?

- Where was Vil?

- Shouldn't he be here already? The wedding ceremony was going to start anytime soon, right? It's not like him to be so late. He's always the first to arrive....

- The spell breaks the moment you sit up in bed and lose all track of time and logic.

- Vil ready at your side as you open your eyes and see him sitting on the chair beside your bed.

- He's smiling. You wonder why he's so happy.

- Didn't he hate you?

- "Good morning, Daffodil" Vil reaches out to tuck a few strands of loose hair behind your ear, his voice gentle and soft as he speaks.

- You open your mouth, but nothing really comes out but a weak sigh. God,your head felt dizzy.

- Luckily Vil was there, you felt warm in his presence, and when he brought a damp towel to wipe at your forehead, you leaned into his touch.

- "....Thank you. Happy...I'm happy...Vil is here"

- How cute. You couldn't even form proper sentences anymore.

- Vil would've laughed then but he enjoyed your new sense of submission to him, at least now you're acting a bit more grateful than before

- Yes, this was the right way after all. How things should be between you and him. No more stubborn attitude or ungratefulness. No more frustrations.

- If you continued like this, Vil might even consider teaching you how to talk again.

[the-lady-of-stars]

Wishing you were somehow here again -  Pt. 2

Commander Wolffe x Jedi ! Reader

Summary: The time has come... execute order 66

Warnings: Character death!! Injury/fighting/violence. Angst... and lots of it. I would say I’m sorry but I’m really just out here living my best life writing some lovely heartbreak 💞💖💘 

A/N: I listened to across the stars the entire time I wrote this for that extra angsty vibe  😇 hope u enjoy bb. If you haven’t read part 1 I recommend giving it a read before this! : ) Also dw I am not leaving it at this, there will be a Part 3. I’m not that mean ☺️ 

Tags: @wille-zarr @chaotic-noceur

Cato Neimoidia. What a beautiful city to fly over. 

You, Master Plo and the rest of the 104th Batallion had been assigned to the planet in hopes of besieging a Trade Federation stronghold. 

You peered out the windows of your starfighter at the rocky arches of the surrounding environment, enjoying the brief moment of peace and beauty this war had offered you. In front of you flew your master, Plo Koon, behind you Commander Wolffe, your beloved, then the rest of the pack trailed behind. 

You ran a finger over the makeshift grass ring that adorned your left hand, your heart skipping a beat at the mere thought of the previous week’s events. Your husband, in spirit at least. You planned to have a real wedding in the future, perhaps on Naboo if you could manage to pull a few strings with Skywalker. His marriage to the Senator had been no secret to you, so surely Anakin would not mind helping you with yours. 

You could picture it now, a marble balcony overlooking the waterfalls of Naboo, the burning orange sun gleaming from them as you kissed each other like no one was watching. Your master would be there to officiate it- he knew about you and his Commander, of course. You never had been able to hide anything from him. Master Plo had always been somewhat of a father figure to you ever since he took you as his Padawan when you were little, so of course he quickly noticed the bond forming between you and Wolffe. Much as Qui-Gon had turned a blind eye to Obi-Wan and Satine, your master had said nothing about the subject except that he wanted you to be happy, and if Wolffe provided you with such happiness then he was more than willing to protect your little secret, although you briefly remember Wolffe mentioning something about receiving an ‘if-you-ever-break-her-heart-you’re-dead’ speech from him, but you decided not to inquire further. The rest of the pack would be there of course. They were family, and without them to watch it would be no wedding at all. 

Being in a starfighter, you had no means of communicating with Wolffe except over the comm channel which also included the rest of the battalion, and you weren't in the mood to put up with Boost’s usual quips. You could, however, radiate love in his direction through the force, so that’s what you did. 

Wolffe’s chest pounded as he felt your force signature surround him like a ghostly embrace. It brought a heat to his cheeks, hands gripping the controls tighter. Any nerves from the mission dissipated and he was left feeling warm and whole. He thought to himself then that he did not ever want to feel any other way. Blissful. He was no Jedi, didn’t have a lick of force-sensitivity, but he could damn well try to return the sentiment. He found himself furrowing his brows and squinting slightly, while with all his might he mustered up his favourite memories of you, trying his best to radiate the way you made him feel. He hoped you could feel it. 

You could. A soft, breathy chuckle burst from your lips at his efforts, at how truly sweet your tough Commander was on the inside. There were few things you could be sure of in life, but the dream of really marrying him was one of them. One day, hopefully soon, you would see him stood o- what was wrong? The adoration Wolffe was radiating suddenly cut off as though someone had flicked a switch, nothing but neutrality emanating from him now. Opening yourself up to more force signatures you felt the same emotion from the rest of the boys behind you. Something was wrong, and your master clearly sensed it too as the only real emotion you could sense was his confusion. 

“Men, is something the matter?” Plo spoke over the comm channel. 

There was a momentary pause, then Wolffe was the next to speak.

“General Plo Koon, General Y/N Y/L/N, you are both subject to execution under Order 66 due to crimes against the Republic.”

Before either you or your master could say a word your ships burst into flames, your own men firing right at you. The engine was destroyed- there was nothing you could do but wail Wolffe’s name in one last desperate plea as your ship began to plummet down towards the rocky terrain of Cato Neimoidia. Smoke. Heat. Burning. Sharp. Pain. Then nothing. The world went black as your starfighter made contact with the ground. The last thing you saw before your eyes closed was the sight of your master laying dead on the ground nearby.

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

Your ears rang, a sharp tone muffling the sound of shouting voices. Clones. A pang of fear shot straight to your heart as you remembered how they had attempted to kill you, and how they had succeeded with your dear master. You flinched up instinctively, wanting to run but collapsing the second you so much as moved due to the piercing pain that struck your entire body. You whimpered, tears pricking at your eyes, hearing the clones get closer. 

It seemed that the crash had thrown you from your starfighter and into an alcove in the rocks, which gave you the slightest bit of shelter. As the ringing in your ears subsided a little you heard a pair of footsteps drawing closer to your position. You dug your fingers into the ground, desperately trying to get to your feet so you could defend yourself but with no luck. There was a small cave entrance a few metres away which could offer you a hiding place, but you weren’t fast enough. A boot planted onto your back, pinning you down and earning a yelp.

You craned your head back, trying to see who had a hold of you through the tears which had welled up. 

Wolffe. But he looked nothing like the Wolffe you knew. Your Wolffe never so much as glanced at you without tenderness, but now? A snarl had replaced his smile, eyes glaring down at you like a predator.

“Wolffe-” you choked out, which resulted in him pressing his foot down further.

“Jedi,” he practically growled. “You are to be executed for your crimes against the Republic.”

Before he could make another move, you mustered all the strength you could find and pushed him away from you and into the cave entrance nearby with the force, enough to keep him subdued for a minute or so. Still riding the spike of energy, you pulled yourself to your feet, making your way over to the miniature medical droid which was kept in each starfighter, which had clearly fallen from the crash with you. You brought it to you with the force, pressing the on button once it was in your hands. The droid buzzed to life, whirring around you in circles, clearly in distress at your state. 

“Not me,” your voice was coarse. “Give the Commander a full head scan. I’m looking for something. A chip, possibly?” You nodded your head in the direction of Wolffe slumped over in the cave entrance, the droid zooming over to him immediately. 

When you finally made it over to the cave the droid repeatedly made a beeping sound over one particular part of Wolffe’s head. 

“What’d you find?” 

The droid pulled up a hologram, a red circle highlighting a small piece of organic matter. 

“This appears to be some kind of tumour, which is not normally found in human brains,” it announced.

Your eyes widened, all the breath leaving your body. Fives had been right all along. There really was a chip hidden in the clones. 

“Remove it.” 

“But- General- I don’t think this is the place to-”

“Now!” you spoke sternly, trying to keep your voice down so the other clones wouldn’t find you. They’d notice sooner or later that their Commander was missing, but you had until them to remove that chip. 

“Very well, General. You may want to look away for this.”

A anaesthesia shot was pricked into Wolffe’s neck before the droid protruded an arm with a red laser attached to the end, beginning to cut a hole into his head. You winced, closing your eyes and holding on to Wolffe’s hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

 “You’ll be okay, my love,” you spoke under your breath to him, rubbing soothing circles on Wolffe’s palm. “I’ve got you.”

The whirring stopped. You opened your eyes again to see what was going on when the droid announced, “The procedure has been completed and the chip has been successfully removed. The Commander will awaken momentarily.”

“Thank you, you can shut down now,” you told the droid, shuffling closer to Wolffe so he knew you were there when he woke up. 

About thirty seconds later, Wolffe began to stir. With a groan he reached a hand up to his head, thumbing over the gauze the incision had been covered by. 

“Ahh, where am I?” 

“Wolffe? Wolffe, my love, look at me. Look at me, please.”

With a grimace he turned his head to look at you, blinking a few times before his eyes widened like saucers. 

“Cyare! What happened to you? Are you okay? Who did this to you?” he panicked, getting to his knees so he could rake his eyes over you better. 

“Oh, Wolffe...” he was back. Your Wolffe was back. You couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, throwing yourself into his arms and sobbing wildly. 

“Oh shhh, shhh easy Cyare. I’ve got you now, you’re safe my sweet girl,” he cooed, rubbing his hands soothingly over your upper arms. “What happened?”

Wolffe paused, looking over at your burning starfighter, at his brothers slightly behind it stood around the body of General Plo. General Plo. Order 66. Oh. He launched himself away from you, breathing frantically. 

“It was me. I’m what happened. I- I did this. Order 66. I killed General Plo and I nearly killed you- oh stars...” Wolffe looked down at his shaking hands, thinking about what he had done with them. 

“Wolffe, look at me. Hey. Look,” you got closer to him, taking his hands in yours to ground him. Still trembling he brought his eyes to yours, tears streaming down his cheeks. “That was not you, my love. That was Sidious. He was controlling you and all the other clones through the chips in your brain. They were planted there for that very reason. I do not blame you, nobody blames you. This was not your fault at all.” 

Wolffe broke down into a flurry of “I’m sorry” and “forgive me” but you just pulled him into your chest, holding him tight, pressing kisses to his temple and his cheeks to reassure him. 

“Wolffe, my love, we don’t have much time. Your brothers are still looking for me to check if I’m dead and I’m sure they’ve noticed you’re missing by now. They’ll find us. I removed your chip but they’re still under control of Sidious. We have to leave.”

“No,” Wolffe choked sternly.

“No? What do you mean no?”

“You don’t have a ship any more, and if you ran now they’d see you and kill you on sight. I need to go back, to tell them I found your body and disposed of it. Then you run when we leave. Run and never come back, you hear me?”

Wolffe spoke through tears, clasping your shoulders tightly to make sure you heard every word. 

“No, no, Wolffe you can’t do that. I’m not going anywhere without you. I’m not leaving you to Sidious. I love you.”

“Y/N, please. My sweet girl. Oh, look at you. I wanted to marry you so bad. More than anything. But now I realise what I want more than anything is to keep you alive, even if that means I can’t be yours any more. I love you, Y/N. I love you so much,” he moved his hands up to cup your cheeks, wiping your tears away with his thumbs. “Don’t you go coming back to find me now, you hear me? Run and never come back. Make a life for yourself. You do that for me, hmm? Promise me,” he wept, wet eyes looking straight into yours.

“Okay. Okay I promise,” you felt your heart tearing in two. 

“That’s a good girl. My good girl,” he spoke softly.

“Wolffe-” you whimpered. 

“I know, I know, love. Everything will be alright.”

Wolffe sighed, heart visibly breaking. His glassy eyes observed your face as though it would be the last time he would ever see it. And it would. 

Unable to find any other words to say, Wolffe leaned down and kissed you one last time, tears mingling on your cheeks. His lips pressed hard against yours, clinging on to the moment as long as you both could. When he finally pulled away you chased after him, not ready to let go. 

“I have to go, cyare. Back to my brothers. I’ll be alright, don’t you worry about me, hmm? You stay safe now, I mean it. I love you Y/N.”

“I love you too.”

Wolffe stood, absorbing the sight of you. How this was the last time he’d ever see his girl. With one final sigh he tore his eyes from you and tipped his helmet back on, exiting the cave and leaving everything he ever loved behind. 

The war left its scars on everyone, but Wolffe knew these ones would never heal.

[froggywhumpy]

An Actual Doctor Is Needed

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I make myself laugh so much with the chapter titles- I really think I’m so funny. I also almost made sibling whumpers again but then I was like... wait. Not again! I pinky promise I did not completely forget about Cameron in this chapter.. I’m pretty sure he has at least one line! Like always, if you see any typos, no you did not<3. Anyways, I hope u enjoy thisss:)

- - -

Tagging: @happy-whumper @heathenville @myst-in-the-mirror

- - -

CW: manhandling, swearing, gun/ gun wound, restraints, hospital environment, minor whumpees.

- - -

The sudden daylight was blinding. Once their eyes had adjusted to the sudden light, they were able to observe the building before it. Made of smooth, white tile, the building looked like it belonged on a university campus, with its modern design. Written in big, black letters on the side of the building were the words ‘C. O. U. R. S. TESTING’. Surrounding the building were trees, spreading for what seemed like forever, and surrounding the truck and driveway were a handful of muscular people, who Eva assumed were security of some sort. All of them were wearing a white uniform with the acronym ‘COURS’ printed on it.

Before Eva could look around any more, she was grabbed roughly and pulled out of the truck by one of the security officers, and though she fought against them, she wasn’t making much of a difference.

Eva heard Sasha scream beside her as she, too, was grabbed and pulled out of the truck, onto the dark pavement of the driveway. “Let go of- get your fucking hands off of me!!”

Eva heard Cameron putting up a similar fight as well, but that didn’t do much, as the three of them were set down on their feet, all very much aware of the presence of the security.

“Let us go,” Sasha spat, glaring at the officers like they were a bug she had squished under her shoe. “or I swear on my fucking life, you’ll all regret it.”

“Tell me, how you plan on doing that?” Called an amused voice from around the truck. Stepping into sight, was the woman who had lured Sasha and Cameron to the truck the night before.

Pale-skinned, her dark brown hair spilling over her head in waves, the woman held herself with confidence Eva only wished she had. Eva shuddered at the sight of her, a vivid memory of being shot by her playing on repeat in her head.

“And why would I tell you?” Sasha snapped. Despite the power imbalance, Sasha still carried with her an air of defiance that made Eva grateful that she was on her side. “The authorities are going to notice I’m missing, it would be smarter to just release us now.”

“That’s not my decision anymore.” The woman smiled, knowingly.

Sasha raised an eyebrow, her glare unfaltering. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think it’s time for you to meet the Doctor, they’ll be very pleased with you.” The woman hummed, gesturing for the security to follow her as she turned towards the building.

Eva watched in horror as security officers grabbed Sasha’s arms, yanking her towards the building. “What- let the fuck go!!”

“Let her go!” Cameron echoed her words, struggling as he, too, was grabbed by the security.

Narrowly ducking out of the way of one of the officers, Eva frantically backed away. She glanced at Cameron and Sasha, completely panicked.

“Run!!” Sasha screamed at Eva, eyes wide and desperate. “Run!”

Immediately, Eva turned on her heel and sprinted for the woods. She gasped as she nearly tripped over her own feet. Don’t screw this up, Eva, run, run run run, Sasha told me to run, She finally broke the tree-line, pushing through the greenery and brush. I have to get out of there, I have to get help, I have to run, I have-

Crack! The sound of a gun firing echoed through the forest. Eva’s world spun. Her ears rang. Surprisingly and thankfully, she didn’t feel any pain as she collapsed on the forest floor, and her vision faded to black.

- - -

“No!!” Sasha screamed, staring at the woman, her gun still raised towards the woods.

A beat of tense silence followed as Sasha listened. The only sound she could hear was the sound of birds fleeing. No Eva.

“No! No!!” Sasha screeched, struggling more than she had before. “You- you monster!!”

“Oh, shut up. Now, bring them inside,” the woman spoke to the guards, before turning her attention back to Sasha. “I believe you have a doctor’s appointment.” The woman chuckled, lowering her gun.

“I’m not going any-fucking-where, you, please, you have to let me go see her!!” Sasha squirmed, struggling against the grip of the men dragging her off, doing little to stop them as she was pulled inside the building.

Sasha would’ve admired the décor of the building if she weren’t there under these circumstances. A sculpture of modern art sat in the center of the lobby, white beams spiraling around a silver pole, about 20 feet tall. Contemporary paintings embellished the walls. The walls were white. The floors, the ceiling, all a sterile white. If it weren’t for the large windows showing the wilderness outside, the white would’ve been all consuming.

A man stood behind a counter, where a receptionist would be. The man merely glanced at Sasha as she was practically dragged through the lobby, completely ignoring her screams and shouts for help.

Sasha was pushed into an elevator, the guards following her into the cramped space, quickly restrained and stopped from trying to escape. The elevator doors opened much quicker than expected, and before she could have time to react, she was pulled from the elevator, down a short- although still intensely white- hallway. The guards opened a door at the end of the hallway and Sasha was shoved inside, the door slamming shut behind her.

This next room was such a sudden change compared to the previous ones. Sasha blinked a couple times, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the dimmer lighting.

Once her eyes did adjust, Sasha was able to take in the scenery around her. The walls were, thankfully, not white, instead a lighter grey. The floors too were not white, this time made out of wooden black walnut planks.

Adorning the walls were wooden bookshelves, hundreds of thick tomes stacked upon them. A red ornamental rug was laid out across the floor. On top of that stood an oaken desk- papers and pens strewn chaotically across it-as well as a wooden chair with metal cuffs on the arms and front legs of the chair on Sasha’s side of the desk.

On the other side of the desk sat another chair, this one much more comfortable-looking, and behind the chair stood a woman.

Already, Sasha could tell she was important, just from the way she stood. Her red hair was bound in a ponytail that spilled down her back, her face framed by flyaways and other loose strands of her hair. Her eyebrows were raised in curiosity, though there was still a harsh sternness in her gaze that came across to Sasha as threatening. Dark bags sat just below her brown eyes, and a thin white scar ran across the bridge of her nose. The woman stood at around 5’8, and she wore a white lab jacket.

“Oh, finally, you’ve arrived.” The sternness in the woman’s eyes faded, replaced by a sudden and out of place warmness as she smiled. “Take a seat, please.”

“Like hell I will!” Sasha retorted, standing her ground, though very aware of the closed door behind her; as far as she could tell, it was the only exit to this office. “Who the fuck are you, what do you want with me?!”

The woman laughed suddenly and loudly. “That’s not usually what they say. Usually, it’s something along the lines of ‘Let me go’.” She said, more to herself than anything.

“Yeah, that too, bitch.”

“That won’t do.” The woman sighed through pursed lips. “Have a seat, Sasha.”

“I won’t,” Sasha reaffirmed. “Let me go.”

The woman held up a walkie-talkie from her desk. “I’m afraid that won’t be happening,” she looked pointedly at Sasha before pressing a button on the radio. “It appears the subject is being uncooperative.”

Before Sasha could really react, the door opened from behind her and in rushed a pair of guards, grabbing her from behind.

“Hey- no, stop!” Sasha grunted as she continued to struggle against their grip. Ignoring her attempts to escape, the guards wrestled her into the chair. Sasha locked eyes with the woman, staring as the woman lifted a remote towards her, pressing a button on it. Without hesitation, the cuffs on the chairs clamped shut over Sasha’s wrists and ankles, trapping her in place.

“That will be all, thank you.” The woman told the guards, and they left without a word, the door closing behind them again.

“Now that you’re properly situated, I’ll introduce myself.” The woman sighed, setting the remote down. “I’m the doctor of this testing establishment, and you will refer to me as such.”

“I meant like a first name.” Sasha grumbled.

“That’s unfortunate.” The Doctor frowned. “Remember what happened to poor little Eva when she misbehaved?”

At this, Sasha’s expression turned livid. “She- she didn’t do anything wrong, you fucking sicko!!” She writhed and squirmed in an attempt to free herself, only succeeding in infuriating herself further.

The Doctor only sounded amused. “I’ll take that as a yes! Keep that in mind going forward. With that being said, I think it’s time we get started.”

[whoisbxcky]

Holding On, And Letting Go

request: Would you wanna write a Bucky imagine where he was sent to kill the reader when he was the winter soldier and he hurt and a few years later they meet again when she’s an avenger and she’s scared of him? Please make a fluffy ending!

pairing: Bucky x Reader

word count: 2500

warnings: just so much angst. also fluff at the end as per request! mentions of panic attacks, being shot, implied ptsd, ONE bad language word 

author’s note: okay first of all I AM SO SORRY it’s taken me so long to write this. I did not expect to get as many requests as have come through the past few days and it got me a lil overwhelmed so anyone who’s requested I AM WRITING IT i’m just a lil backlogged right now hehe.

More to the point, thank you so so so much anon for this amazing request, I love it so much I may even make a second part... Maybe even a third? Who knows. Anyway, hope you enjoy and stay fabulous my lovelies! ~ Toria <3

Tijuana, Mexico. July 24, 2011. 02:00.

“Fighter 1 this is Echo Sierra, where the hell is that medevac!?”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes frantically scanning your surroundings. The team of Marines sent to extract you from your undercover op looked just as unnerved as you did. The rescue chopper was supposed to be here two minutes ago. But overhead, there was only silence.

“Fighter 1, do you copy?”

The sound of an explosion behind you made cry out, and you ducked for cover as the men surrounding you burst into action. Gunfire rang out around you like a chorus of thunder, making your heart rate soar as adrenaline took over. Over the coms, you heard Sergeant Mills frantic voice.

“It’s him.”

You let out a sob of despair, the scene in the street in front of you was like something out of a nightmare. Bodies littered the floor, Marines who had come here to save you, lifeless and bloody.

Your gaze was drawn from your hiding place to the end of the ally, where a lone man materialised from the raging fire of the destroyed building. He moved swiftly, taking out the advancing Marines with sickening efficiency and precision, before his eyes locked on you.

Eyes as blue and as furious as a maelstrom, raven black hair, metal arm…

Hydra’s fist. The one they all talked about, the Winter Soldier.

He’d found you.

You needed to get out of there. Now.

You were running… So much noise… So much blood… You couldn’t get away… Couldn’t get away from him… Eyes as blue and as furious as a maelstrom, raven black hair, metal arm…

A gunshot.

Searing pain, so much blood.

Then, only darkness.

Avengers Tower. April 15, 2017. 04:56.

The rhythmic sound of your first connecting with the solid leather of the punch bag in front of you echoed out around the gym. Accompanied only by the sound of your ragged breaths, the occasional grunt of frustration escaping your now dry lips.

You had been down here for hours, last you checked it was a little past four in the morning, but you’d given up keeping track. Sleep did not come easily to you these days, and you figured you may as well make use of your insomnia by getting in some extra training.

You had been preparing to be an Avenger for weeks now, and so far, you were acing every test they had thrown at you, particularly the physicals thanks to your late-night work outs. Everything was going perfectly as you worked towards joining the Earth’s mightiest heroes.

The only problem you’d encountered so far had arrived the day you’d been sat in the conference room, waiting to meet the mission partner you’d be assigned to, nerves and excitement making you practically vibrate in your chair. 

Oh, sweet blissful ignorance.

To say you were shocked when the Winter Soldier had walked through the door, would be the understatement of the millennium.

The scene that unfolded after your initial shock had subsided was… Far from your proudest moment, to say the least. It’s one thing to have a panic attack in front of a complete stranger, but in front of your new boss and the man who once tracked you all across Mexico and then put a bullet through your chest … Well, it certainly wasn’t going to make your ‘top five moments as an Avenger’ highlight reel.

It hadn’t taken long for Fury to reveal his knowledge of you and the Soldier’s past, nor had it taken him long to explain the fact that James Buchanan Barnes and the Winter Soldier, while sharing the same body, were technically not the same person. Or the fact that Barnes was now ‘cured’ and fighting the good fight. It certainly hadn’t taken long for you to say hell no and flee the room, hyperventilating and shaking head to toe, without looking back.

That had been three weeks ago, and ever since you had been studiously avoiding anywhere Barnes might be. You ate about ten blocks away from the tower, you only ventured into the gym during the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately, there was nothing you could do about being in the room next door to the guy, but at least it allowed to you keep track of when he was home and when he might be wandering the Tower corridors.

Eventually, you knew you’d either have to face him, or look for new employment. You two were mission partners after all, and after extensive conversations with Steve, Nat and the on-site therapist, you were now almost certain that what Fury had told you was true, and that Barnes was just as much a victim of the Soldier’s actions as you were.

But still, you couldn’t help the creeping sensation of dread, or the flashbacks you suffered, every time you caught sight of the man.

It was at that moment that the sound of the gym door swinging open and closed brought you out of your musings with a start, and you turned on your heel, eyes scanning the dimly lit room to identify the new arrival.

Your breath caught in your throat, your entire body practically electrified with fear and apprehension as you narrowed your eyes at the last person you wanted to appear in front of you in an empty room.

Barnes.

Just your damn luck.

As soon as his eyes raked over you, he froze, although his expression was entirely unreadable.

Your expression, on the other hand, may as well have come with sirens and a bullhorn screaming ‘danger, danger’.

With a sigh, Barnes raised his hands in a mock surrender, taking a tentative step into the room. You immediately took a step back.

“Y/N…Right?”

His voice was gravelly with exhaustion, and even from this distance you could see the black rims around his eyes. Clearly, the guy was as sleep deprived as you right now.

You nodded curtly, eyes hyper fixated on his every movement.

“I… Uh… Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d tire myself out. Would you mind? I’ll keep out of your way…”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. This really was far from the man who had murdered an entire squad of US Marines and left you with a gaping hole where a few ribs used to be.

When you offered him a tentative nod once more, he made his way towards the treadmill, and you could feel him tracking your every move from the corner of his eye. Clearly, he trusted you about as much as you did him.

The silence of the gym was practically deafening, and after a moment of mind-numbing panic, you found words leaving your lips of their own accord.

“Do you remember me?”

Barnes froze then, mid stride towards the machinery. Without so much as a glance in your direction, he spoke in a voice entirely void of emotion.

“No.”

You let out a breath you were unaware of holding, digging your nails into your palms painfully hard to keep from crying. When you spoke again, you could not keep the virulent anger from your tone.

“July 24, 2011. Tijuana. You were sent to kill me… Why?”

Barnes dropped his water bottle then, the sound of it crashing into the wooden flooring making you jump. He rounded on you, his eyes glassy and red, and you simply stared back, unable to keep the shock and apprehension from your face.

“I’ve read the file. But, like I said, I don’t remember.”

He let out an uneasy breath, moving to sit on one of the benches against the wall. You stayed put, trembling from head to toe, your mind entirely numb as you tried to process the fact he truly had no recollection of trying to kill you. Barnes continued.

“I don’t remember a damn thing. I wish I could, so I could give you answers. But I’ve got nothing for you, Y/N."

His eyes visibly darkened, clouded by years of torment, and for a while you both remained mute, both lost in your respective musings. However, eventually Barnes broke the silence with a tentative cough, and your eyes snapped up to meet his.

“Does it still hurt?”

He trailed off, gesturing towards your chest, where the scar of your last encountered lay. Snarling, a constant reminder of your pain. You nodded.

“Can I… Can I see it?”

You looked at him incredulously for a beat, and he faltered.

“It’s just… I may not ever be able to remember what I did to you, to those Marines. But, at the very least, before I apologise, I want to understand as best I can. Otherwise, it’s meaningless.”

He shrugged then, earnest gaze fixated on you, and despite yourself, almost as if in a dream, you found yourself moving towards him, eyes never leaving his as you approached.

Barnes raised himself from the bench, taking a few tentative steps in your direction. You paused briefly, contemplating the insanity of getting that close to the person who once tried, and very nearly succeeded in, killing you. But, a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach willed you on.

Give him a chance. Maybe, just maybe, you both need this.

With a short sigh, you stepped forward, coming to rest just centimetres from his chest. You swallowed hard, refusing to allow your gaze to stray away from his own for even a second, fear and apprehension causing a thin sheen of sweat across your forehead.

Barnes offered you a gentle half-smile, and you cleared your throat, tossing your hair over your shoulder to give him better access, staring stonily ahead. He searched your face for a moment more, looking for any sign of objection. When he found none, he tentatively reached out to push your tank top aside, to reveal the full extent of the injury.

You heard him take in a sharp breath, his thumb delicately tracing the lines of the scar tissue. Under his touch, you couldn’t help but note the increase in your heart rate, anxiety causing your whole body to shiver with apprehension.

He glanced at you apologetically, but you shook your head as he moved to back off. As nervous as it made you being in contact with him, you had to trust him, and he you. You were supposed teammates now, after all.

After a few more minutes of inspection, Barnes finally broke the silence once more, his voice raw with emotion.

“Y/N… I am so, so sorry…”

You exhaled deeply, gaze coming to rest on your scar. And the thumb of the man who put it there, gently caressing it, as if he could rub it away like a smudge on glass.

Except… He didn’t put it there… Technically…

You cleared you throat.

“You know for the longest time, I’ve hated you. For what you did, to me, to those Marines.”

You swallowed again, lifting your eyes to meet his own, studiously ignoring the way your body shivered from the intensity of the guilt in his look.

“And now?”

You could see the hurt, the years of torment, the sleepless nights, all of it shining through his gaze in that moment. From the mournful expectation in his tone, you could tell this was not a man familiar with being forgiven.

Could you forgive him, though?

You lost yourself in your inner turmoil for a moment. Undeniably, there was more to James Buchanan Barnes than met the eye. The man in front of you was not a heartless, killing machine. That much was obvious. But those fingers had squeezed the trigger. Those eyes had met your own coldly as you’d screamed for fallen comrades. It was quite the predicament.

After a few more seconds of debating, you settled your resolve. This was a new chapter in your life, and while you could not rectify the past any more than Barnes could, you could certainly work towards giving yourself, and maybe even him, a better future.

You sighed, meeting his gaze once more.

“I don’t hate you, Barnes. I’ll admit, being around you scares the shit out of me.”

He nodded sombrely, stepping away from you in defeat. You instinctively reached out to catch his hand in your own, holding him in place. Wide eyes met your gentle ones, and before Barnes could question you, you continued.

“But I understand now, that wasn’t you. I don’t want to be afraid anymore, and if you promise me I can trust you, Barnes, I’d like to get to know the real you.”

You offered him as sincere a half-smile as you could muster in that moment, dutifully ignoring the tear that was now rolling down your cheek.

Barnes stared at you in disbelief for a second, as if expecting the proverbial other shoe to drop. However, when your resolve did not waiver, the nodded slowly to himself, reaching out with his free, metal hand tentatively. You did not flinch as the cool metal glanced over your cheek, wiping the stray tear away with a gentleness that caught you entirely off guard.

“Bucky… You can just call me Bucky.”

Barnes’ voice- Bucky’s, voice was a barely-there whisper, so quiet you almost lost it in the silence of the gym hall. He offered you that half-smile again, only this time his eyes glittered hopefully in the dimness around you, and you found yourself captivated for a moment. Now that you weren’t on the defensive, you could truly appreciate just how beautifully the light from the hall beyond the gym door framed his profile, and you felt a slight warmth growing in your cheeks under his gaze.

The two of you spent the rest of the night in the gymnasium, talking until the sun came up. As the Tower began to come to life again under the first rays of dawn, the two of you walked side by side up to your shared floor, a planned day of training exercises and even lunch at Bucky’s favourite Italian place down the road ahead of you.

You couldn’t keep from smiling to yourself as you stood in the shower, readying yourself for the day ahead, as you considered the irony in how well you and Bucky actually got on, considering your prickly history.

This, you thought to yourself, could be the start of something interesting.

[potterotterdrafts]

A Bond to Remember-Updated 1/4/21

Stranger: (TW: Abuse mention) I need to apologize to you, Inspector. MH (O)

You: Whatever for?-GL

Stranger: Peter was rude to you. MH

Stranger: It was uncalled for and overly aggressive. MH

You: He's certainly not the first Alpha to shout profanities at me or accuse me of trying to steal his partner and I doubt he'll be the last in my line of work.-GL

Stranger: That doesn’t make it less worthy of an apology. MH

You: You're not the one who should be apologizing.-GL

Stranger: Perhaps not, but it is unlikely that Peter will admit his error. MH

You: Those types rarely see the error of their ways.-GL

Stranger: I suppose that is true. MH

You: How long has he been like that?-GL

Stranger: Stubborn and possessive? Always. MH

You: Does he abuse you?-GL

Stranger: I wouldn’t call it that. He disciplines me, certainly. I’m not a very well-behaved omega. MH

You: He's taught you that you need to be disciplined. He's given you a completely false idea of what a 'well-behaved' Omega is.-GL

Stranger: (...) He’s traditional. That is the reason my mother chose him. MH

You: It's an arranged bond?-GL

Stranger: Of course it is. I have nothing in common with Peter. I’d hardly choose him myself. MH

You: So why not leave?-GL

You: You've got enough money and power and connections.-GL

Stranger: I’m not certain I’m willing to risk his vengeance. He dislikes being crossed. MH

You: Couldn't you have him carted off to some island prison or something?-GL

Stranger: Not without cause. Despite what Sherlock may claim, I’m no supervillain. MH

Stranger: And as well, without sufficient reason, my petition for a bond scrubbing would likely be turned away. MH

You: Without sufficient reason? He's an abusive narsacist.-GL

Stranger: Narcissism, while irritating, is not considered valid grounds. And I would have to prove abuse. MH

Stranger: You needn’t concern yourself on my behalf. I’ve managed this long. MH

You: Then convince him you aren't worth the bond.-GL

Stranger: Why are you so concerned over this? MH

You: You wouldn't believe me if I told you.GL Doesn't really matter either. I just am.-GL

Stranger: I think you would find I am far more likely to believe the unexpected than you may believe. MH

Stranger: I am alright. He knows the risks of disciplining me too often or harshly. I am alright. MH

You: [delayed] I've been flirting with you for six months now and never worked out that you had an Alpha.-GL

Stranger: I...oh. MH

Stranger: Apologies. I didn’t mean to lead you on. MH

You: You didn't.-GL

You: You needed some positive attention in your life and I was more than happy to give it being the one to fancy you and all.-GL

Stranger: I should have told you. Warned you, I suppose. Mh

You: No, it's not your fault.-GL

You: I should have known you weren't available.-GL

Stranger: Still...I should have noticed. MH

You: I must be really bad at it. Certainly explains a lot.-GL

Stranger: Or I simply wasn’t paying attention. You’ve been very kind. MH

You: For whatever it's worth, I do care about you.-GL

Stranger: Thank you. MH

Stranger: I wish I had more to offer you than thanks. MH

You: You don't owe me anything more than that.-GL

Stranger: I know. But you’ve been terribly kind to me, and I appreciate it greatly. MH

You: I know you do. It's high time you got some appreciation.-GL

Stranger: I think most would disagree with you. MH

Stranger: I should let you go. I only meant to apologize for Peter, not take up so much of your day. MH

You: Take care, Mycroft.-GL

Stranger: You as well, Gregory. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. MH

You: I will. Same goes for you.-GL

Stranger: I’ll keep that in mind. MH

Stranger: ((Several weeks later)) Has Sherlock contacted you today? MH

You: He's been yelling about a case all morning, why?-GL

Stranger: There was an incident, I’m at the hospital. I didn’t want him exaggerating. MH

You: What happened? Are you alright?-GL

Stranger: I will be fine. I had an altercation with Peter. MH

Stranger: He discovered I’m pregnant, despite my best efforts, and he did not take it well. MH

You: Is the baby alright?-GL

Stranger: The doctors seem to think so, though they advise I rest for a few days. MH

You: That's good to hear. I'm glad you're both well.-GL Do you need anything?-GL

Stranger: Not at the moment. I simply wanted to ensure you weren’t given a false version of the story, and to warn you. MH

Stranger: Peter seems to believe the pup is yours, despite the fact that he has hardly been celibate. MH

Stranger: If he makes bail, he may try to seek you out. MH

You: Oh I can't wait to chat with him. Thanks for the heads up.-GL

You: (brb)

Stranger: Please be careful. I would hate to see you injured because of me. MH

You: It wouldn't be because of you. Your Alpha is free to make his own choices, Mycroft.-GL

Stranger: Yes, but the fact that he thinks /I/ am sleeping with you will influence those choices. MH

Stranger: Please, just take care. I know you are capable, but Peter is a brute when he’s angry. MH

You: I promise to be careful.-GL

Stranger: Thank you. MH

You: {A few days later.} How are you feeling?-GL

Stranger: Nauseous and a bit tired, but that is apparently normal. MH

Stranger: Healing well. They’ve moved me to a safe house until they locate Peter. MH

You: I've heard morning sickness can be a horrible thing to go through. Glad to hear you're healing well though.-GL And that you're safe.-GL I've got some good news for you. I know where Peter is.-GL

Stranger: You do? Where? MH

You: My flat.-GL

Stranger: (Delay) Why is he at your flat? MH

You: You were right about him coming to find me.-GL He came to rough me up a bit. Succeeded too.-GL

Stranger: Oh dear. MH

Stranger: Are you alright? MH

You: Yeah, I'm fine. Got one hell of a black eye, swollen and split lip and a broken hand.-GL

Stranger: My apologies. MH

Stranger: And...he’s still there? MH

You: Being looked over as we speak.-GL

Stranger: Oh. MH

Stranger: I will have Anthea send someone to collect him. MH

You: The police are already here. I'm pressing charges.-GL

Stranger: Alright then. MH

You: I should tell you too that I may have said some things because I was angry with him.-GL

Stranger: What sort of things? MH

You: [delayed] Other than that I thought he was a worthless Alpha and a disgrace to our kind I told him that the pup you carry probably is mine.-GL

You: And that I was going to take you for myself.-GL

Stranger: (Delay) Were you trying to enrage him? I’m amazed you only ended up with a broken hand and black eye. MH

You: I may have wanted an excuse to hit him, yes.-GL

You: Would you be upset if I told you that hand wasn't the worst of it?-GL

Stranger: What was the worst of it? MH

You: I may or may not have gotten clipped.-GL

Stranger: Clipped? By what? MH

You: A bullet to the side.-GL

You: Just above my old scar.-GL

Stranger: Oh, Gregory...you ought to see a doctor. MH

Stranger: You shouldn’t have antagonized him. Now you’re injured. MH

You: Don't worry. I'll go to the hospital in a bit. I've got patched up for the moment.-GL

You: He deserved it, Myc.-GL

Stranger: But was if necessary for you to be injured over it? MH

You: Comes with the territory, I suppose.-GL

Stranger: I’ll make sure you have adequate leave to heal. MH

Stranger: ((BRB))

You: You'll make sure to stay away from Peter.-GL

You: You deserve better than him, Myc, you and the pup do._GL

Stranger: The pup does, at least. MH

Stranger: I imagine Anthea will make me stay here until he is charged and remanded. MH

You: You do too, Mycroft. Absolutely.-GL

You: You should listen to Anthea.-GL

Stranger: I do listen to her. MH

Stranger: Take care of yourself, Gregory. You’ve been shot; you shouldn’t waste time on me. MH

You: It's not a waste. Never a waste.-GL

You: I'd get shot again for you if it came to that.-GL

Stranger: Perish the thought. MH

Stranger: (...)How badly were you ‘clipped’? MH

Stranger: Be truthful. MH

You: There was a lot of blood.-GL

You: Won't know until the doctor looks me over.-GL We're almost to the hospital.-GL

Stranger: Rather more than clipped, it seems. MH

Stranger: Keep me updated if you can. MH

Stranger: I’m sorry this has happened. MH

You: No more apologies from you until you're the person who fires the gun, yes?-GL

Stranger: You have to admit, this is at least partially my fault. It is because of me that he came after you. MH

You: [delayed] It's because I got too friendly with you. I care about you too much.-GL

Stranger: It’s because I didn’t alert you to the fact that I was bonded. MH

You: Wish you weren't.-GL

Stranger: (Delay) I’m sorry. MH

You: Not your fault.-GL Hopefully now you can get rid of Peter.-GL

Stranger: That is my hope. I only hope they won’t keep me from scrubbing the bond because of the pup. It can be rough on them. MH

You: I'll help as much as I can.-GL

Stranger: You will rest and heal. I suspect you’re injured more than you’re telling me. MH

You: Don't want to worry you.-GL

Stranger: I am already worried for you. MH

You: Then stop. I'll be fine.-GL

Stranger: Let me know once they tell you how long you will need to heal. MH

You: Promise.-GL

Stranger: Thank you. MH

You: [A week later] Got released today. All in one piece.-GL

Stranger: That is a relief. MH

Stranger: Are you able to manage things for yourself, or would assistance be better? MH

You: I'm sure it'll just be me in my flat doing more sleeping than anything else while I'm on these pain pills.-GL

Stranger: I could arrange for meals and a cleaning service if it would help. I owe you a great deal. MH

You: You spoil me.-GL

Stranger: It seems the least I can do. MH

You: I distinctly remember telling you to take care of yourself and your pup. Not to take care of me.-GL

Stranger: I can do more than one thing, you know. MH

Stranger: Besides, I’m terribly stubborn. You already knew that. MH

You: Yeah, yeah, I know.-GL

You: You're still alright though, yes?-GL

Stranger: I am fine, Gregory. My injuries are nearly completely healed. Just a bit of tenderness in my ribs. MH

You: That makes me feel better.-GL

Stranger: I wouldn’t ignore your concerns. MH

You: I know.-GL

You: I'd like to visit you.-GL

Stranger: I’m not sure you’re in good enough health to be visiting people, Gregory. MH

Stranger: Perhaps Anthea would allow me to visit you, though. MH

You: No, I know. It's home for me.-GL

Stranger: You /were/ shot, after all. MH

You: It's hardly the first time that's happened.-GL

Stranger: That is not the reassurance you think it is, Gregory. MH

Stranger: (Delay) Is tomorrow evening acceptable? I can bring you supper. MH

You: Are you sure it's alright that you come and visit me?-GL

Stranger: Peter is in jail awaiting his trial, and my morning sickness has lessened. I will be fine, Gregory. MH

You: Tomorrow's fine then.-GL

Stranger: Alright, thank you. MH

Stranger: What would you like for dinner? MH

You: How's thai?-GL

Stranger: Sounds excellent. MH

You: I look forward to seeing you.-GL

Stranger: As do I. I don’t trust you to be honest about your injuries with me. I want to check for myself. MH

You: Lucky for you, I'm too tired and medicated to argue.-GL

Stranger: I would prefer you not be injured. Then you wouldn’t need medication. MH

You: I just didn't see the gun, that's all.-GL

You: Got to keep a better eye out.-GL

Stranger: (Delay) I am glad your injuries weren’t worse. You took a great risk, antagonizing him. MH

You: I know, you've said.-GL

Stranger: I appreciate your intentions, though they were perhaps reckless. Your life is worth more than an excuse to hit Peter, Gregory. MH

You: He deserved it.-GL

Stranger: Apparently he plans to kill us both if he gets out. MH

You: I won't let him hurt you again.-GL

Stranger: You’re very determined. It’s unlikely he’ll get away; you can rest. MH

You: Sorry.-GL

Stranger: You needn’t apologize. MH

Stranger: I simply don’t want you to worry unnecessarily. MH

You: I always worry about you.-GL

Stranger: (...) I know. MH

You: As long as you know.-GL

Stranger: I don’t quite understand it, but I appreciate it. MH

You: Probably for the best.-GL

You: I'll see you later, Mycroft.-GL

Stranger: Of course. I look forward to it. MH

Stranger: ((Paras? I can start))

You: (sure, I'm down!)

Stranger: Mycroft arrived at Greg’s the next evening just after 6, not wanting to keep the recovering man up too late in case he was exhausted. He carried a bag with their dinner in one hand, and a folded blanket under his arm, and he’d dressed more casually in honor of the occasion. He rang the doorbell, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He hadn’t seen Greg face to face in ages, since the night Peter first yelled at the other Alpha, and he was nervous about facing him.

You: Greg had spent most of the day sleeping in his bed, trying his best to manage the pain. That fight with Peter had been quite a tussel. Mycroft spoke the truth when he mentioned how brutish the other Alpha could be when agitated. Greg wasn't a young Alpha any longer and hadn't been in a true fist fight in years so Peter certainly took the upper hand for most of their sparing. By the time Mycroft asked to visit him his eye had opened up a bit but was still a dark purplish red and swollen. His lip was nearly back to normal (minus the cut), his hand and most of his forearm were in a cast, and his side was bandaged up from surgery under his shirt. He was slow on his way to the front door of his flat, holding a hand carefully over the bandage. "Hey..." He smiled at the man. "Come in..."

Stranger: Mycroft frowned when he saw the injured eye and the way Greg held his own side. “Good evening Gregory.” He said quietly, stepping inside, “We should get you settled, on the sofa perhaps? I know you’re not meant to be doing much yet.” He turned, offering his free arm to Greg. “I’ve brought you a blanket; I’m sir you have some already, but Anthea mentioned you were a big cold in hospital. I thought it might help.” He bit his lip, lapsing into silence as he watched the man uncertainly.

You: Greg closed the door behind Mycroft. "I just answered the door. I haven't run a marathon," he promised, slipping his arm through Mycroft's. "It was because of the blood loss..." he explained. "And because they always tend to keep the rooms cold to cut down on chances of infection and diseases, viruses, etc from spreading....sofa sounds good. I've been in bed most of the day except when I fixed myself some breakfast earlier...." Greg led them into the small living room and sat down on the sofa. "You look well. Lovely really. How far along are you?"

Stranger: Mycroft nodded, setting the blanket beside Greg and placing the bag of food on the table before sitting on the opposite side of the sofa. “Thank you. The doctor says I am just over 3 months.” He glanced at Greg, trying to read signs of the man’s condition in his movements and facial expressions, uncertain of how honest the man would be about his pain or exhaustion. “I did my best to get the food items I know you favor.” He remarked, “May I serve you some food?”

You: "You've got some time to go then. That's good. Gives you a chance to get through a trial and set up the nursery...." Greg nodded. "It smells great, I'm sure whatever you got will be just fine. I'm not really that picky about food. I'm a simple man to please, Mycroft." Greg pulled the blanket over his lap as he stretched his legs out in front of him. It smelled very much like Mycroft which he appreciated more than he should have. "I'm glad you came by."

Stranger: “I know you aren’t, Gregory. But if you’re going to have to host while you’re injured, the least I can do is make sure you have a meal you enjoy.” Mycroft smiled a bit, fixing Greg’s plate for him. “It gives me time to move as well. I don’t think I can continue living at the house, and my uncle left me a flat that has two bedrooms. It’s small, but that will make it easier for my security team to cover.”

You: Greg leaned forward and took the offered plate before Mycroft could offer anything as silly as hand feeding him. "You keep saying that everything is the least you can do. I wish you would stop. Peter's done such a number on you, Mycroft, he's got you thinking that you owe Alphas something. You don't owe any of us anything, yes? Even with the way I look. I was defending myself from the choices Peter made. You didn't force him to find me, you didn't pull the trigger of his gun. This was all him. I invited you here because I wanted to see you. It's been so long since we...just got to chat. I didn't invite you over here to make you feel guilty about this..." he waved his cast over himself.

You: (I have to run grab some dinner. I totally understand if you can't stick around. I'll save the log so we can pick up, if you'd like)

Stranger: ((I can stick around. I’m not doing anything else, lol))

You: (I'll be as quick as I can)

Stranger: Mycroft stiffened, nodding as he retreated to the other end of the sofa with his own food. “It’s not because I feel like I owe you. I do owe you a great deal, whether you are willing to acknowledge that or not, but it’s not the reason. You’re not making me feel guilty either. I consider you a friend, Gregory, and you’ve been harmed. It’s not unheard of to are for one’s friends when they are ill or injured.”

Stranger: *to care for

You: (Hi, sorry)

Stranger: ((No problem :) ))

You: "Well, that's a relief," Greg said. He didn't like the way Mycroft recoiled and moved himself to the other end of the sofa but that was something they could work on over time. Over dinner, Greg kept the conversation a bit lighter asking after Sherlock and John and any word of the world he'd missed over the last week. He asked about the pup and how excited Mycroft was to welcome a little one. He leaned forward and set his empty plate on the coffee table.

Stranger: Mycroft answered the questions, eating slowly and keeping an eye on Greg to make sure he wasn’t overtired. He avoided the question about being excited to a pup, redirecting to a question about Greg possibly returning to desk work in a couple of weeks. He eventually set his plate down as well, though he hadn’t finished his meal. “I’m glad you’re out of the hospital. You had us all worried.”

You: "If by worried you mean that Sherlock had a meltdown because he thought I'd die and leave him alone with no interesting cases, sure. He's going to have a rough few months...." Greg scrunched up his nose at the thought of desk work. "I'm scheduled to be out for about six weeks if everything heals up properly....then it'll be another six weeks on desk duty. Sounds boring even for me..." Greg noticed how Mycroft avoided certain questions and didn't finish his food which worried the Alpha. "Mycroft?" he asked. "Is something wrong? You barely touched your dinner and you don't seem...happy for the pup...you know there are options for you, right?"

Stranger: Mycroft shrugged. “I haven’t been terribly hungry lately.” He admitted, “The morning sickness is abating, but my appetite hasn’t returned yet.” He looked at Greg, shaking his head. “I can’t bring myself to get rid of the pup, even though it is Peter’s. I simply...I worry. I wonder if I can actually be the parent they deserve, or if I’ll even make it to term. I’m rather old for a first pup, and there is potential for issues with the bond scrubbing.”

You: Greg nodded in understanding. "I think you'll make a wonderful mum." Greg was absolutely positive of it. "You're a brilliant man, Mycroft. You may show a rather cold and aloof front to the world but it's not truly who you are. You care deeply for those around you...just look at all this..." he motioned to the dinner, the blankets, himself. "You left your safehouse to come and fuss over me for a little while..." he held up his hand. "You've been eyeing me all evening. I know you're over there trying to figure out if I've given you all the information on my own injuries truthfully. You're trying to monitor me for signs of pain, discomfort and exhaustion...." he hesitated a moment before continuing. "If you got the bond with Peter scrubbed would it be helpful to have someone else to bond with?"

Stranger: “After being stuck in hospital for a week, I’d say you’re due some fuss.” Mycroft replied, “I apologize; I’m used to keeping an eye on things, making sure I don’t overdo things if I’m injured. It’s become second nature to keep an eye on others as well.” He shifted, giving a tiny, humorless smile. “I imagine it would, to keep the hormones from surging and to protect the pup. But...I’m hardly a catch. I suppose I could put an ad in the paper; one somewhat used omega with pup, will pay well.”

You: Greg was quiet for a beat on his end of the sofa. "Or you could just use me." Greg was certain the response from Mycroft would be timid and include the phrase 'That's very kind of you, Gregory, but I couldn't impose'. No matter how often you told the man that he wasn't an imposition or a bother or any other word he never listened. Years of being brainwashed into thinking he wasn't a catch or important enough or worthy enough of basic, decent human rights had taken their toll. Mycroft was fierce in his professional life but his personal life was wracked with low self-esteem and very little confidence. "No pay required."

Stranger: Mycroft shifted, staying silent for several long moments before speaking again. “I dislike the idea of taking advantage of you, Gregory.” He said, “Are you certain you wouldn’t accept some form of payment? It’s a rather involved undertaking, after all. It’s likely you would need to cohabitate with me for at least some of the pregnancy. I know you value your privacy.”

You: "I fail to see how my offering to bond with you is you taking advantage of me." It was absurd to think that Greg would offer something so...heavy if he didn't want to assist. "God forbid we live together...it's not like I'd come barging in and demand you sleep in my bed with me or wait on me hand and foot. I like my space, yeah, but you've never invaded it...at least not to my knowledge...take Sherlock for instance...he breaks into my flat all the time, reads my emails....that's an invasion in privacy. Living with you to help ensure you and your pup are healthy, helping to set up the nursery, maybe getting to fuss over /you/ a bit is not that."

Stranger: “I try not to overstep.” He replied, “Sherlock is far less caring about other’s spaces.” Mycroft flushed, twisting his hands together in his lap. “I appreciate the offer.” He said after a short time, “And I’ll gladly take you up on it. It will be easier, with someone I trust. Someone I know isn’t trying to turn a difficult situation to their advantage.”

You: Greg held out his unharmed hand to the man. "Whatever you need...whenever you need it...well, as soon as I can behind over and start to lift things again. Then I'm you're guy.." He gave Mycroft's hand a squeeze. "We'll get through it. I'm pretty easy going for being so high maintenance..." he chuckled softly. Greg leaned his head back on the sofa as he looked over at Mycroft. "I'm glad you're here."

Stranger: Mycroft took the offered hand uncertainly, relaxing when Greg squeezed it. “No lifting until you are fully healed.” He admonished gently, shifting closer and patting Greg’s knee lightly. “I was pleased to be able to visit. To ensure for myself that you will be alright. I was quite worried, you know.” He relaxed a bit, though his free hand fiddled with the hen of his jumper. “You might regret offering yourself so freely, Gregory. You may find yourself underestimating how clingy I may become. I’ve never carried a pup more than a few weeks. Who knows what is to come?”

You: Greg chuckled softly as he stared at Mycroft. "You underestimate how much I enjoy being in a relationship with someone who likes to clingy. It's about so much more than sex, you know? It's about being...at ease, comfortable with your partner. It's about being able to come home after a long day of work and just stretching out on the sofa together. It's about being able to connect with another person equally. I won't regret offering myself up so freely, Mycroft. When I said that I cared for you I meant it. I do. A lot, yes?" Greg brushed his thumb over Mycroft's hand. "Whatever happens I'm right here. We'll get through this together."

Stranger: Mycroft nodded, glancing away and then back to Greg. “I will do my best to ensure you aren’t deprived of the connection you want.” He looked at the place where their hands met, wondering if he should bring up sex, now that Greg had mentioned it. It seemed unlikely that the Alpha wouldn’t expect at least /something/, but if he could avoid the potential embarrassment of the conversation, he was going to. “You’re very kind.” He remarked, “Being here for me. I appreciate it. And...I care for you, too. I don’t want you to think I’m just trying to do this for the pup. I do enjoy your company.”

You: "Don't take that to mean I demand it." He reiterated. " I want you to have what you need just as much if not more, yeah? You might absolutely hate quiet nights on the sofa. That's fine. You might hate cuddling, that's fine too. My offering and agreeing to bond with you is not my wanting you to enter into another contract that you have no say in. The only thing I ask is that you communicate with me. More than this..." he held up their still laced fingers then motioned to the dinner in front of them. "You won't be depriving me of anything because I'll be getting just as much our of this, yeah? I'll be getting your company....I'll be hopefully getting to participate a bit in your pregnancy and seeing the little one...maybe a few midnight feedings. It's not a prison sentence for me and I don't want it to be for you either."

Stranger: Mycroft nodded, biting his lip. “I understand.” He replied, “I cannot promise I will always be the most effective at communicating my needs, but I will do my best not to hide them from you. This is...it’s very different for me.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve always been rather a disappointment. Too stubborn and outspoken for my mother, a poor example of a ‘proper’ traditional omega. Even my attempts at behaving simply seemed to make Peter angrier.” He shifted. “I know you are not like either of them, that you don’t expect subservience from me, but if there is something you want of that I ought to be doing, I would appreciate it if you let me know instead of keeping quiet until you’re upset with me. This is meant of be a partnership of sorts, yes?”

Stranger: *meant to be

You: Greg nodded. "You've got that right...not letting things build up and having those open lines of communication make up a healthy partnership." Greg held Mycroft's hand, watching him for a bit longer. "It's getting late, you know, and I shouldn't keep you out too long. Anthea'll come over and finish the job. She's quite protective of you, you know? Not that I blame her any..." Greg didn't want Mycroft to leave. He didn't want to stop their little date or whatever this was but he knew it was best. They both needed rest and Greg needed to take his medication again."

Stranger: “She would not dare harm you.” Mycroft replied, “She’s still breaking into giggles over you telling Peter the pup was yours.” He smiled reluctantly, “We both need rest, I suspect. Who knew growing a pup would destroy my ability to stay up late?” He stood slowly, “Can I do anything to help you? I don’t want you to overtire and pass out while trying to collect what you need for bed. After all, I’m more healed than you are, and I wasn’t shot either.”

You: Greg blushed at that. "I said a lot of things to him that I probably shouldn't have...including that but I just...I saw red as soon as he started in on you and I couldn't control it...." Greg shook his head. "No, no. I'll be fine. I'll just go in to take my medication and then I'll hobble to my bed and wrap up in this lovely blanket of yours." With some effort Greg was able to pull himself off the sofa. "You've been through a lot too, Mycroft, don't discount your own experiences just because you're more healed than me. You've had years of abuse. It's not going away over night." Greg walked with Mycroft to the front door. "Be careful going home. Text me when you get back to your flat, yes? Or I'll be up all night worrying."

Stranger: “Ah, yes. What was it? You were going to take me for yourself?” He smiled a bit, “More apt than you perhaps knew at the time.” He walked close to Greg, watching the man. “I must warn you, if you’re going to explode every time someone calls me a whore, I fear for your knuckles.” He nodded, reaching out to squeeze Greg’s shoulder. “Of course I will. And you are not to overwork yourself. I’ll arrange for meals to be dropped off. You get all the rest you need while you are healing.”

You: "Not everyone that calls you a whore has been physically, mentally and verbally abusive to you, Mycroft. It's much different with Peter." And it always would be. Greg would happily take a hundred bullets and a thousand punches if it meant that Mycroft would be safe. "Promise." He opened the door for Mycroft. "Night, Mycroft." He waited at the door until Mycroft disappeared into his waiting car downstairs.

Stranger: “Good night, Gregory.” Mycroft spent the trip home thinking about the discussion they’d had and the decision that had been made. It would take some work, but he could make space for Greg in the flat, as well as himself and the pup. His stomach clenched as he glossed over the awareness that Greg would likely leave once the pup was born and they were settled. As would be his right; Mycroft had no right to the Alpha, no matter how fond he was of Greg. When he arrived home, he texted Greg, not wanting him to worry. /Home safe. Pleasant dreams. MH/

You: Greg waited for Mycroft's message to come through before he took his medication and headed off to bed, having cleaned up their dinner in the living room. Over the next few weeks, Greg did his best to rest and not overdo things but he did eventually start cleaning up his flat in anticipation of a move. He figured he'd keep it for when Mycroft didn't need him around as much but he hoped that he wouldn't need to use it all that often. Mycroft visited a few more times and each time Greg hated having to watch him leave again. It was usually dinner and a bit of watching television or talking or just sitting together while Mycroft worked on his mobile.

Stranger: It took nearly six more weeks to get approval for his divorce and bond scrubbing, and each day that passed had left Mycroft more anxious and uncertain. He enjoyed spending time with Gregory, growing closer to the man, but he was worried that he couldn’t provide enough to make Greg’s offer of bonding worth it to the Alpha. The day finally came, though, and he spent the morning in the courthouse, signing paperwork and being injected with the chemicals to scrub the bond. By afternoon he felt a bit lightheaded and overwhelmed emotionally, both expected side effects. He texted Greg around 4 from work. /Are we still on for tonight? MH/

You: Of course. I want to hear all about what happened today. I've got all the stuff to cook a celebratory dinner.-GL Greg had been a nervous wreck the entire day waiting for some sort of sign that things had gone well at the last hearing. He was worried about what the bond scrubbing might do to Mycroft and the pup. He worried about how Mycroft would feel during their evening. Would he change his mind now that he was finally free of an Alpha? Greg wouldn't be upset if that was the case. Mycroft deserved some freedom after having been tied to someone else for so long.

Stranger: /I’m afraid it isn’t the epic tale you are hoping for. MH/ Mycroft arrived at Greg’s door that evening, carrying a bottle of wine for the man, as well as a bag with their dessert in it. Now that Greg no longer had to take painkillers, he suspected the Alpha might enjoy the chance to have a drink. He rang the doorbell, smiling a bit to himself as he waited.

You: Greg answered the door nearly immediately having been pacing around his tiny flat waiting. He smiled wildly seeing Mycroft. "Come in. Come in..." he stepped aside and took the items Mycroft was carrying. "Dinner shouldn't be long." Greg had healed up nicely now able to move around better and able to do more things without getting completely winded. He was still instructed to take it easy which meant that he started desk duty the following week. "How are you feeling? Excited to have everything behind you?"

Stranger: Mycroft followed Greg to the kitchen, sitting at the table and folding his hands. “I feel a bit off-kilter. Between the pregnancy hormones and the after-effects of the shot, I’m not sure if I want to cry or shout.” He smiled a bit, “It is a relief to know I am no longer connected to Peter by law or biology.” He rubbed at the base of his neck. “The doctor who administered the shot suggested that if we plan to go through with a bond, we do it within 48 hours, to lessen the possible risk to the pup.” He shifted. “I apologize. I know we thought we might have more time to plan.”

You: Greg was working at the oven when Mycroft mentioned the deadline for starting their bond. He set down the spoon he was using to stir the pot and turned to the man. "Are you sure you still want to bond?" he asked. "Now that you've finally got your freedom it might not seem so lovely to immediately have to be bonded off to another Alpha....not that I've changed my mind just so we're clear. I still want to do whatever is needed to make sure you and the pup are healthy...I just..." Greg shook his head for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I've just been thinking about that a lot today."

Stranger: Mycroft shifted, resting a hand against the swell of his stomach. “I’m sure.” He said, “I...I cannot risk my pup’s life over something as trivial as the idea of freedom. I have not been free since I presented, Gregory. I’m not unhappy with the idea of being bonded to you. You’re very kind, very considerate. I trust you not to force me into an uncomfortable position.” He looked across at Greg. “I am willing to do anything to protect my child, and there are thousands of things more trying or unlovely than being bonded to you.”

You: Greg raked a hand through his hair. "Yeah, right. Good. That's good. We'll bond then. Whenever you're...ready." He wasn't exactly sure how the bond was going to work since Mycroft was already pregnant. It wasn't like they were going to share a heat together. It wasn't like they were going to be...overly intimate in any way. Greg imagined it would end up being more of a business transaction. He'd mark the Omega, they'd shake hands and Mycroft would leave. Christ, he hoped it wouldn't be like that.

Stranger: “It is not too late for you to change your mind, Gregory.” Mycroft said quietly, “I would not hold it against you. This is highly unusual, and I don’t want you to feel obligated because of our friendship or fondness for one another.” He looked at his hands, biting his lip. He desperately didn’t want Greg to change his mind, but he would feel wro mg if he didn’t offer the option.

You: Greg pushed away from the stove and padded over to where Mycroft was fretting at the kitchen table. "Hey..." He reached out and put two fingers under Mycroft's chin. "Myc, look at me..." he said quietly. "I'm not going to change my mind....I promise. I'm here for the long haul...I'm here until you don't need me anymore, yes? Whether that means that we scrub right after the pup's born or we wait until they leave for school or we...decide we like each other well enough to stay bonded...I'm not going anywhere."

Stranger: Mycroft blinked, looking back at Greg. “Very well.” He said, nodding a bit, “Thank you. I appreciate that, Gregory, more than I can say.” He shivered a bit under the intensity of Greg’s gaze. “Could we...after dinner, perhaps? I had my schedule cleared for tomorrow. I was not sure what might happen.”

You: Greg nodded. "I cleaned up my bedroom so that we could stretch out just in case we needed to. I read that sometimes those drugs they give you can make some Omegas nauseous or ill. And I thought since you still sometimes had a bit of an upset stomach with the hormones that being somewhere my scent is strongest would help with...everything. Or we could stay in the living room. Whereever you want..." he promised. Greg finished dinner and plated their food returning some time later to sit down across from Mycroft.

Stranger: “You’re very considerate, Gregory.” Mycroft smiled a bit, “That is extremely thoughtful. I’m sure your bedroom will do nicely. I cannot promise to be entirely calm or collected; it’s been 15 years since my first bond, and it wasn’t exactly a fairytale.” He shook his head. “That doesn’t matter. This meal looks incredible, Gregory. Thank you for this.” He smiled at the man, lifting his water glass in a toast to the Alpha.

You: "Well, I wasn't sure what type of fairy tale you were looking for with me as your prince charming so I didn't stuff my room with candles and flowers or anything...next time though. I'll have my stuff together a bit more." Greg picked up his own water glass and toasted the end of Mycroft's trial. "I'm saving the wine for a special occasion," he promised. "I hate to be the only one drinking and anyway tonight's...special." Greg relaxed a bit as Mycroft looked more settled during dinner. It was a nerve wracking situation for anyone but for them it seemed to be a hundred times worse. Not knowing what to expect didn't help things either. Greg only wanted Mycroft and the pup to be healthy after the bond was formed.

Stranger: Mycroft snickered. “Flowers and candles are unnecessary. I’m a grown man; I much prefer you on your own merits, Gregory. And you have many.” He smiled as they ate and chatted idly, enjoying the quiet mealtime with Greg as he often did. “Are you looking forward to getting back to the office?” He asked, “I’m sure O could arrange for a bouquet to celebrate your new attachment, if you think your team might approve.”

You: Greg nodded. "Definitely looking forward to getting back to work and a routine, you know? Though the time off has been nice lately....I started to get a bit bored not getting yelled at by your brother every day or being able to run through the rain and muck around the city. These dinners were really the highlight of my time off. Always gave me something nice to look forward to..." he chuckled at the mention of a bouquet. "They wouldn't know what to think. Can you imagine everyone finding out that we'd actually bonded. They might start believing that the pup really is mine."

Stranger: “Best not then. I don’t want them thinking poorly of you.” He stirred his fork across his plate slowly, focusing on the path. “I’ve made it known among my staff that you did not father my pup, and that you never behaved inappropriately. Only those who were privy to what you said to Peter, of course. You’re an honorable man, and I won’t have them saying otherwise, even in jest.” He glanced up at Greg. “What you choose to tell your colleagues is up to you, of course.”

You: "I wasn't planning to tell anyone because I thought it might look poorly on you. Implications of an affair, of carrying another man's pup while you were still bonded, a quickie second bond to keep things...safe...It didn't seem like it could do anything but slander your name." When they'd finished dinner Greg cleared the table and put the leftovers away. He left some of the pots to soak but washed the plates and cups they'd used. "Do you want dessert?" he asked Mycroft.

Stranger: Mycroft shook his head. “Best not. I’m unsettled enough without adding sugar on top.” He smiled a bit, “Feel free though. I brought that fruit tart you liked. I thought you might like something special, since this is a rather momentous occasion. Second bonds and all that.”

You: "I'll eat the whole thing if we aren't careful. It's absolutely delicious...I blame you completely for turning me on to that bakery." he teased gently. "I'll have some after we...you know..." he dried his hands off and made his way over to where Mycroft set. "Do you want to go and lay down for a bit before we bond? Not sure how nervous you are about the whole thing but I'm...downright scared."

Stranger: Mycroft’s shoulders relaxed and he nodded gratefully. “That would be appreciated. I’m extremely nervous. Logically I know you will not do anything to harm me or force me, but my brain seems intent on considering the worst that could happen.” He stood, slipping his fingers into Greg’s hand and squeezing lightly. “Lead the way. It is your room, after all.”

You: "You've had years of nothing but worst case scenario..." Greg reminded him as their fingers were laced together. "It's normal." He led them out of the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom. He turned on the bedside lamp and motioned for Mycroft to pick a side. "I usually fall asleep on the sofa and then end up in the middle of the bed so I don't really have a dedicated side or anything." Greg let go of Mycroft's hand so that he could take off his jumper, struggling to get it over the cast that he was stuck with. "Not taking off anything else just didn't want to overheat or anything."

Stranger: “You’ll enjoy the bed at the flat then.” Mycroft smiled, “It was my uncle’s and it is rather enormous. Plenty of space for you to sprawl out if you wish.” He removed his own jumper and necktie, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt to bare his neck. No need to fumble with clothing later and spoil the moment. He laid on his side, watching Greg with a soft smile. “I suppose I needn’t worry. You’ll have trouble grabbing me with one hand.” His tone was light, clearly meant to put Greg at ease.

You: "I can't tell you how ready I am to have this thing gone.." he waved the cast around. "Do you know how unbelievably difficult it is to shower properly with a trash bag over your arm? Doc said I've got at least another three weeks before we can look at having it removed and even then I'll probably have to wear some sort of brace or wrap for a while after that...." Greg shook his head when Mycroft mentioned being grabbed. "I'm not a really handsy person like that..." he promised, getting into bed next to Mycroft. "I do like the touching and kissing and stuff but....I mind my manners."

You: (brb)

Stranger: “I never really suspected otherwise.” Mycroft murmured, “You’re a gentleman, Gregory. I know that.” He shifted, reaching out and resting his hand against Greg’s upper arm. “What qualifies as stuff?” He asked, voice full of humor, “Kissing, touching...is stuff the part where you eat crackers in bed and I decide if that’s something I can live with?” He bit his lip, smiling. “Your poor arm. Sacrificed to break Peter’s nose. A noble cause.”

You: Greg smiled over at Mycroft, chuckling. "I may or may not eat a biscuit or two in bed some times, yes...there's a lot of 'stuff' I like to do in bed...like sleeping or answering emails....working on cases...and some other things when the mood strikes. I can keep the biscuits out of bed though. Wouldn't want that to be what ends our relationship. You're not worth risking just for some biscuits." He nodded. "Does it qualify as prince charming material?"

Stranger: “It wouldn’t be. You’re welcome to eat biscuits if you like. I’ve dealt with far worse, and I wouldn’t want you to waste away.” He smiled, fingers stroking against Greg’s arm lightly. “It definitely qualifies. I’ll have your crown ordered immediately.” He sighed, shuffling a bit closer to Greg. “We haven’t talked much about...intimacy.” He finally murmured, “I suppose we ought to cover our bases before bonding.”

You: "I get to bond Mycroft Holmes and I get a crown?" he said absolutely elated. "I've really got the best part of this deal. All you get is a soppy, gray haired DI. Sure you don't want out before it's too late?" he let his arm slip around Mycroft's waist as the man moved closer to him. "Oh. Right. Probably important. I know you're getting sick of me saying this but I'm not ever going to ask you for sex. I can only imagine how Peter treated the subject and I don't want to come close to that, Mycroft. Would I like if we were intimate sometime, sure, if things progressed that way but I also don't ever want you to think that you owe me sex for agreeing to bond with you."

Stranger: “Don’t be ridiculous.” Mycroft smiled, “Frankly I’m still astounded that you’ve agreed to this, that you offered it. You’re a kind, wonderful man.” Mycroft pressed his forehead lightly to Greg’s, thumb brushing the man’s jaw. “I appreciate that, Gregory. You could never be even close to Peter, you know. He felt entitled to my time, my body, everything simply by virtue of being bonded to me. You would never do that. I cannot promise that I will feel comfortable with sex in the near future, but I know you will have urges or desires. I’m not against being intimate; I just don’t think I will be able to handle sex well at the moment.”

You: "I've been alone a long time, Myc.." Greg said softly, turning his head just enough to press a kiss to Mycroft's wrist. "I can take care of my own urges and desires without coming to you pouting about it.The only thing you need to worry about, ever, is your pup...especially right now. We've got to make sure that little guy or girl keeps baking in there long enough so that when it's time we get to meet them and spoil them rotten..." Greg sighed. "Intimacy after you've been so mistreated isn't going to be easy, Mycroft, you're going to want to have it and then not be able to go through it. You're going to panic if we start to kiss or have sex and have to stop. There are going to be days that you won't want me around. I get that. Doesn't make you a bad Omega at all. It means you're working through your past."

Stranger: Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes. “Logically I know that.” He admitted, “I imagine it will be some time before I’m comfortable even kissing you or having you hold me for more than a few minutes. I don’t...I fear that you will feel rejected. You’re giving me this gift, this chance to protect my pup, and in return I feel like I’m giving you nothing. It’s not about owing you, but it is about feeling like I am inadequate.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

You: Greg pulled back just enough so that he could clearly see Mycroft's face. He brought his hand up to brush Mycroft's cheek gently. "In all the years I've known you, Mycroft Holmes, you've never disappointed me once. You've been there anytime I needed anything be it for your brother or work or anything else. You also aren't inadequate. You're a brilliant, steadfast Omega who was dealt a terrible hand in life. You're giving me so much, do you understand that? You're giving me friendship...a bond...you're giving me the chance to experience what it's like to watch a partner carry a child. You put up with my stupid questions and you let me feel the baby...." Greg could feel the tears just beginning to sting the corners of his eyes. He blinked a few times willing them away. "All those feelings you have are valid, Mycroft, don't ever think they aren't....just know that you aren't alone in this."

Stranger: Mycroft closed his eyes, tucking his face against Greg’s shoulder to hide his tears. “Of course I let you feel that. If you could see the way your face looks when you feel then fluttering about...it’s astonishing. You’re so careful, so cautious about not making me feel cornered or unsafe.” He curled his fingers into Greg’s shirt. “I am so honored that you would share this with me, that you feel my child and I are worthy of your time and attention.” He sniffled, pulling back to give Greg a watery smile. “Apologies. I’m feeling a bit fragile; hormones and that. It’s a big night, after all.”

You: Greg returned his arm to wrap around Mycroft. "Poor dear, you're getting it from every angle...the pregnancy hormones, the chemicals to scrub your bond, anticipation of a new one...I'll make you a deal..." he rubbed the man's back. "You don't apologize for your tears and I won't apologize for mine, how's that sound?" He looked at Mycroft laying in his bed. /his bed/ and allowing Greg to hold him and protect him and barge right in without a moment's hesitation. Greg was so nervous about what was going to happen. There wasn't a fiber in his being that didn't want to bond with Mycroft but he was terrified for it. Somewhere deep down inside Greg worried that their bond would make Mycroft feel cornered. The poor man was being bounced around from bonds with very little say in the matter. "Last chance to change your mind..." he said as his arm stopped the circles he was rubbing on Mycroft back and brought it up to Mycroft's neck. Greg swallowed around the lump in his throat before he leaned in and sank his teeth over Mycroft's original bond mark.

Stranger: “Shan’t.” Mycroft murmured, “I’ve chosen you.” He hissed at the sharp prick of Greg’s teeth, though he relaxed at the flood of hormones released, recognizing the primal claim. He gripped Greg’s shirt tightly, a rush of fondness for the Alpha flooding him as readily as the hormones. “Thank you.” He said softly, pressing a kiss to Greg’s shoulder, the only place he could reach with the man’s teeth in his neck.

You: Greg heard the painful hiss that Mycroft made and felt the man's grip tighten on his shirt. He waited until his own rush of hormones nearly dissipated before he released the sensitive flesh of Mycroft's shoulder. Greg had to close his eyes as he pulled back and rested his head on his own pillow, dizzy from the rush of new hormones and scents and feelings. He was flushed, his skin tingling where Mycroft had kissed his shoulder. He didn't want to let the man go. His body fought against untangling itself from Mycroft. "Alright?" was all he could manage at the moment.

Stranger: “Mm.” Mycroft nodded, “It was rather intense, but I’m unharmed.” He touched the mark tentatively, wincing a bit at the tenderness. It wasn’t unexpected, but he’d been distracted from feeling the bite in his last bond. He shifted uncomfortably when Greg pulled away, feeling an unhappy knot in his stomach, a sense of wrongness at being separated from Greg. “Are you well?”

You: Greg nodded opening his eyes after a moment. "Just dizzy is all. You've got a lot of...everything...." he looked over at Mycroft who was frowning at him. "Will you stay for a bit?" he asked. "Here." In bed with him is what he meant. He half expected Mycroft to immediately jump up and leave the flat. "I can take the sofa if you want to be alone...might be best or I'll have you wrapped up in my arms again." Greg felt the tears stinging his eyes again, the lump returning, and the panic setting in. "I forgot how...emotional a new bond could be. I don't remember my first being like this...this is....better."

Stranger: “Of course I’ll stay.” Mycroft nodded, “I’m not honestly sure I can stand at the moment.” He sucked in a sharp breath, shaking his head and exclaiming “No!” He flushed, modulating his tone before speaking again. “I...don’t go, please. I’m already unsettled, being separated even this much.” He shuffled closer, pressing against Greg’s side. “Hold me, please.” His voice was quiet, pleading, “Just for a moment. I can’t bear it; I need you to touch me.”

You: Greg immediately wrapped his arms around Mycroft, holding the man close to his chest, and began running his fingers through Mycroft's hair. He pressed kisses to the top on Mycroft's head as they laid together. He shushed the man as Mycroft's own panic seemed to creep in. Mycroft felt absolutely perfect in his arms like he was made to be there. Greg knew without thinking on the matter very deeply that he was in love with Mycroft though he would be damned if he was going to say it out loud any time soon. "You're absolutely perfect..." he settled for. "Thank you for staying with me...for letting me...touch."

Stranger: Mycroft clung to Greg, letting the man’s presence and scent calm him. Some small part of his brain was alert, keeping watch for danger or the Alpha trying to hold him down, but most of his consciousness was simply wallowing in the safe contentment of being held, the sense of protection. “Thank you.” He murmured, “For holding me. Feels safe.”

You: Greg was thankful that Mycroft couldn't see his face. He didn't have many details about what Peter did to Mycroft during their bond and subsequent years together but he'd pieced enough of it together to know that Peter had probably forcefully bonded with Mycroft the moment their parents closed the arrangement. Thoughts of Peter holding Mycroft down during their encounters and Mycroft trying to get away made his blood boil. The fact that Mycroft thanked Greg for making him feel safe broken his heart. "You're always going to be safe with me." he promised the Omega. "Always."

Stranger: Mycroft smiled, hidden against Greg’s shirt as he gave a contented murmur. “Are you comfortable?” He asked after a time, “I know that we weren’t sure of what a bond like this might bring. S’pose you’re not feeling as much urge to get me with a pup, since there’s already one there.” His hand slipped up Greg’s back, petting the hair at the back of his neck.

You: "Quite comfortable, yeah...." he promised, shivering as Mycroft's hand found it's way up to the back of his neck. "No, the urge is still there....but it's..." Greg thought for a moment. What was he feeling exactly? "It's like being gone on vacation for a week and finally coming home to slip into your own bed. It's like putting on a pair of shoes that you've broken in well. It's like having a missing piece from yourself that you didn't know wasn't there returned. I want to pepper you with kisses and touch every inch of you while I memorize every freckle on your body but I also want to hold you right here with me until the world ends."

Stranger: “You’re a poet.” Mycroft chuckled, nosing against Greg’s jaw, “It feels...safe. Feels right, like this is where I ought to be more than any other place.” He listened to Greg, breath caught in his throat. “There’s a lot of extra inches with this pup growing.” He offered weakly, unwilling to admit how simultaneously arousing and terrifying the idea was, “You’d grow bored, dearest. And Sherlock would make fun of you for using brain space on memorizing freckles.”

You: "You're absolutely stunning with that round belly of yours, Mycroft, I could never grow bored with touching you or kissing you or anything else that involved you. Been imagining longer than I ever admitted to....getting to actually see it, well, let's just say you've got this prince charming tightly wrapped around your finger. You and your brother can tease me all you want about memorizing freckles or being a terrible poet or a hopeless romantic. It won't bother me...not when I've got this to look forward to." He brushed a hand over Mycroft's back as he held onto the man. "You're sure you feel alright? I didn't hurt you, did I? I've got some oionment somewhere that we could put on the bond mark if it's sore..I bet it'll leave a bigger scar than the first one."

Stranger: “You didn’t hurt me, Gregory.” Mycroft replied quietly, “Truly. You were very gentle, considering that you were biting me.” He touched the bite again, brushing one fingertip across it and shivering lightly. “I hope it does. It seems fitting that your mark be larger, considering it will be the only one you leave tonight.” He rubbed his face against the Alpha’s shirt, breathing in his scent with contentment. “I won’t tease, Gregory. I find it charming, and you’re not a terrible poet. It was a very sweet sentiment.”

You: "You keep scenting me like that and I'm not going to be able to hide the fact that we've bonded from anyone." Greg leaned down and pressed another kiss to the top of Mycroft's head. Not that he would hate telling everyone. At the moment Greg felt like shouting from the rooftops that Mycroft Holmes was officially his partner. "Sentimental and soppy, love, sentimental and soppy. You've been saddled with a hopeless romantic, gentle and charming and absolutely smitten with you."

Stranger: “My apologies.” Mycroft murmured, “I’m finding it hard to stop. It’s been a very long time since I’ve proper gotten to scent someone.” He flushed, butting his head lightly against Greg. “I could do far worse than gentle and sentimental, you know.” He yawned, the long day and rush of bonding leaving him worn out. “Would it be terribly scandalous if I slept here with you?” He asked, “I don’t want to leave you.”

You: "Never said I wanted you to stop. At the moment I want everyone to know that I belong to you, Myc..." Greg whispered. Greg was absolutely shocked when Mycroft asked if he could stay. It was probably the best part of anything else that had happened that day with him. "Of course you can stay here with me. Saves you from seeing a very weepy Alpha..." Greg would have asked again if Mycroft had gotten up to leave and while he absolutely would have let than man go he would have been absolutely wrecked to watch the door close behind him. "Rest, darling, I'll be right here when you wake up."

Stranger: “Belong to me...I like that.” Mycroft murmured, yawning, “Wouldn’t be right to leave you while we’re so fragile. Closeness is what’s best for a new bond.” He curled close against Greg, relaxing into the man’s embrace. “Thank you.” He said quietly, “So good to me.” He yawned and closed his eyes, soon drifting into sleep.

You: Every bit of it was true. Greg was absolutely Mycrofts now (more so than he had been before). Greg was already prepared to go through hell (and had) for Mycroft but now with a new bond pulsing through his veins, he was ready for apocalyptic conditions. It was absolutely terrifying to be so quickly and readily in love with someone especially someone you'd only really started getting to know. The bond pushed them together in a way that simply felt right and Greg was hardly going to question it. He tried his best to stay awake not wanting to lose the perfect little evening they were having but eventually he succumbed to sleep himself still tangled up with Mycroft.

Stranger: It was still dark outside in the wee hours before dawn when Mycroft woke with a start. His first instinct was to stiffen and pull away from the tangle of limbs around him, though he managed to calm himself enough to slip out slowly and avoid waking Greg. He slipped out of the bed and padded to the bathroom, feeling wrong-footed and unhappy as he moved further from Greg. Despite the lingering pull from his bond, he ignored it in favor of checking his new bond mark in the mirror and then going to the kitchen to fix a mug of herbal tea. He’d taken to keeping a container of the blend at Greg’s home, never knowing when the pup would unsettle his stomach and leave him needing the tea.

You: Greg shifted when Mycroft got out of bed but didn't quite wake up enough to register the world around him. It wasn't until he heard someone puttering around his kitchen sometime later that he woke up alerted to the fact that there could be an unwanted guest. When he found the bed empty of his Omega Greg immediately got up and went out to investigate. When he saw Mycroft (unharmed) alone in the kitchen he sunk against the door frame. Greg raked a hand through his hair. "This feeling of being pulled apart at the seams is going to do me in when you're gone." he gave a sleepy smile to the man sipping his tea. "Think it'll lessen the longer we're together?"

Part 2 below the cut.

Stranger: Mycroft smiled, gesturing to a second mug and a plate of toast. “There’s plenty if you’d like some.” He murmured, “I imagine it will lessen in a day or two. This bond is non traditional, so it makes sense that the emotions and feelings would be different as well.” He watched the man for a moment. “Come sit by me; maybe it will help make you feel less at ease. I’m sorry I didn’t wake you; you seemed very peaceful, and I wasn’t about to disturb your rest.”

You: Greg padded into the kitchen and sat down beside Mycroft. "Best sleep I've gotten in a while post pain killers." Greg picked up the mug of tea and took a sip. Perfect as usual. He was quiet for a few moments as he picked up a piece of toast and munched happily on it. "Well, we've survived for the moment. I guess that's something to celebrate, hm?" he looked over at Mycroft hoping the man really was feeling better. "What's next?" he asked.

Stranger: Mycroft nodded, sipping his tea. “We’ll need to discuss living arrangements. If you’re still content to live at the flat with me, we can make arrangements to move your things in. Apart from that, I suppose we will be spending the day together so neither of us does ourselves a mischief because of feeling unsettled.” He smiled at Greg. “The weather’s meant to be nice; we could take a walk?”

You: Greg nodded. "Sounds like a lovely day." He was incredibly excited to spend the entire day with Mycroft. Maybe this was the beginning of something absolutely wonderful, something both of them had needed for a very long time. "I don't mind moving into your flat. Are you sure there's going to be enough room especially after the baby comes? I know we talked about having separate rooms for the foreseeable future but we need to make sure all the baby's things will fit with me there too. I can keep my flat so that way I only really need to move my close and some personal things over. Might be easier that way. Got to have a contingency plan in place for when I get in the dog house." he teased gently.

Stranger: “There’s enough room.” Mycroft replied, “There is an office space that isn’t necessary. I’m turning that into the nursery, and then the two bedrooms will be for you and I. It’s cozy, but not cramped.” He glanced at Greg. “You’re welcome to retain your flat, Gregory. I understand that you may prefer to have your own space. I will arrange for the rent to be covered, so you needn’t worry about it.”

You: Greg sighed. "Don't think that means I'm not serious about this bond." he wanted to make sure that Mycroft didn't think he was gone as soon as the pup arrived. "We're going to need to carefully consider all the options once the baby arrives. We can't scrub the bond too soon postpartum or there could be complications for you. I'm more concerned about /you/ needing some personal space away from me, yes? And the last thing I want is for you to feel like you can't escape me. You're not my property, you're not inferior to me, you're my friend and my partner now, Myc, that makes us equal. You've been through hell with your previous Alpha...we just need to make sure you don't feel backed into that corner again."

Stranger: “I didn’t think that, Gregory.” Mycroft replied, “I simply know this is unusual, and even committed, you’re moving into a space that was originally mine rather than ours or your own. It is not surprising that you want to hold onto your flat.” He patted Greg’s knee. “I know you wouldn’t bond with me unless you were serious about helping.”

You: Greg smiled over at Mycroft, slipping his hand over the man's as Mycroft patted his knee. "Sometimes I feel like you need reminding that you're in control of the situation now...and that we've got a long while to go before we can even begin to think of scrubbing the bond...if we ever wanted to that is..." There was a part of Greg that was hopeful they wouldn't ever scrub the bond. There was also a part of Greg that wanted Mycroft to experience what it was like to date and choose a partner because you wanted to not because you had to. "And I'm not going to let you pay my rent. I'm a big boy. I can pay my own bills even though I bonded into a wealthy family."

Stranger: Mycroft wrinkled his nose, though he nodded. “Very well. If you change your mind though, somply let me know. I’m happy to cover the costs.” He leaned against the Alpha lightly, nibbling at a piece of toast. “It seems hard to believe it’s nearly halfway through the time until we meet the pup.” He remarked, “They should be able to tell me boy or girl at the next appointment.”

You: Greg turned and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's temple when the man leaned into him. "Halfway there?" he asked. "Well, we've got a lot to do then. Got to finish the nursery, make sure your bag is packed, set up a little cot next to your bed...." Greg had made a list. An actual list of everything they'd have to do to get ready for the pup. He'd spent the majority of his leave reading parenting blogs and articles about what to expect during pregnancy and what to look out for during high risk ones just so he could be prepared. "I can't believe you'll already be able to find out..that's fantastic....I don't know about you but I'm so excited to meet the little bugger...." He looked down at Mycroft's bump when he said it. He'd even started buy a few things for Mycroft and the pup as gifts for the nursery. A few outfits, some books and things like that though he was trying not to go overboard. He didn't want the man fussing at him.

Stranger: “You’re almost more excited for this than I am.” Mycroft teased, “I can already see you with the pup in a baby sling, carrying them around at work while you bark orders at your team.” He appreciated Greg’s apparent eagerness for the pup to join them. He’d had some worry that the man might resent Mycroft or the pup, especially since it was technically the child of the man who had shot him. “The nursery just needs to be painted and arranged. I have all the furniture. I managed to salvage my grandmother’s rocking chair, with Sherlock’s help.”

You: "It's far more likely that you'll see me sleeping on the sofa with the pup asleep on my chest after we've had a late night snack. We'll be the picture of perfection..." Greg was happy to hear that Mycroft had gotten pretty far along with the nursery set up. "That's wonderful to hear. I should be able to handle the painting and set up of the furniture....which reminds me...I got you some things..." He held up his hand to let Mycroft know that he'd be right back before he disappeared into his room. He returned with two wrapped boxes. One contained this little cot and the other had the rest of the items for Mycroft and the baby. "Wasn't sure you were going to have a baby shower...or really when we'd be able to celebrate properly..." he set the boxes on the table for Mycroft.

Stranger: “I will remind you that you still have a cast on your hand.” Mycroft replied, “You’re welcome to help with the painting, but I’m not an invalid. I can do some of it.” He looked at the boxes, then back to Greg. “You didn’t need to do this, Gregory.” He smiled, “Though it is very thoughtful. Thank you.” He unwrapped the cot first, remarking on the practicality and thanking Greg again. He unwrapped the second package, looking at the books and the infant clothing. “A very fashionable infant.” He said, holding up a tiny pair of overalls patterned with bees.

You: Greg made a face at the man. "/You/ shouldn't be doing any heavy lifting while you're pregnant. The last thing we need is for you to become invalid." Greg was practically bouncing in his seat while Mycroft unwrapped the gifts. "The baby and I discussed making this easier on you for the first few weeks. The little cot fits right next to your bed with places to put wipes and diapers and things. So you won't have to go very far to change them or feed them in the middle of the night...." He reached into the smaller box and pulled out a little baby blanket. "This is one of my favorites..." The plush blanket was covered in tiny umbrellas.

Stranger: “Ah yes. You and the baby had conversations.” He smiled, “Can you convince them not to kick my bladder with such glee.” He looked at the blanket, reaching out to touch it with a soft smile. “It’s perfect, Gregory. All of it is. Thank you so much for this.”

You: "I've tried to remind the baby that they need to be a bit nicer to you given that you are doing them a huge favor by giving them a place to live for nine months but they're really stubborn..." he chuckled. "Do you mind that we've had conversations? Everything I've read says that it's good for us to talk to them while they're in the womb. This way they know who we both are....helps with bonding after they're born. Not that I'm going to bond with your pup or anything....it'd just be nice if they weren't scared of me when they got here..."

Stranger: Mycroft shook his head, reaching out to pat Greg’s cheek. “I don’t mind at all. I’m happy for them to talk to you, Greg. I appreciate the time and effort you are putting into preparing for this pup, and I love that you want to try and let them get used to your presence before they’re born. It’s important that they know you and are alright with you. What if something were to happen to me and I couldn’t come home from the hospital with them? They need to be used to you, content with your presence.”

You: Greg leaned into Mycroft's touch. "We're going to make sure that nothing happens to you and that you both come home from the hospital together." Greg didn't want to think about what would happen if Mycroft couldn't come home right away or worse didn't come home at all. He knew it was a needed plan. He knew that Mycroft had probably already updated his will and things to include instructions on where the pup would go in the event of his untimely demise. "Who gets custody if something happens to you?" Greg asked. "I realize that I might not want to talk about it but...we should"

Stranger: “Custody goes to you, now that we’re bonded.” Mycroft replied, “I texted Anthea and she is having my will updated. If you are unable or unwilling, she is next in line.” He glanced at Gregory. “I would understand if you didn’t feel willing or comfortable taking them if I died, but I trust you implicitly. You’re the first choice of guardian if I am unable.”

You: Greg couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Just we're bonded doesn't mean you'd want them to come to me especially since I don't really have any claim to them..." he began. "But I'd be absolutely lying to you if I said I wasn't relieved to hear you say that you want them to stay with me. I am absolutely willing, Mycroft, biologically mine or not...I'm in with both feet."

Stranger: “You have more claim to them than their sire.” Mycroft frowned, “Sherlock is not a suitable guardian, for all I love him. I would not subject another child to my mother’s idea of parenting, and Peter’s parents are no longer living, not that they are better than my own.” He turned, looking at Greg intently. “I would choose you for them even if we hadn’t bonded. I trust you, Gregory, with myself and, more importantly, with my pup.”

You: "You're going to make me cry again." Greg choked out barely above a whisper. Greg fought hard against the urge to wrap Mycroft up in his arms and plant a kiss right on those beautiful lips of his. He knew the man would hate it. Knew it would be a selfish, inconsiderate move to make especially while Mycroft was so unbelievably vulnerable. Instead, he gave Mycroft a barely held together, dopey smile. He hoped against everything that Mycroft wouldn't grow to hate his sentimental nature. "How about that walk, hm?"

You: (hey, I have to grab dinner. Might be a hot minute before I'm back!)

Stranger: “Poor sentimental Alpha.” Mycroft said quietly, smiling, “How difficult it must be, knowing that at any moment I could do something like making you guardian or allowing you to hold me and sending you into tears.” He leaned in, pressing a light kiss to Greg’s jaw before standing and grabbing his overnight bag from where he’d left it by the kitchen door. “Let me change into something I haven’t slept in, and then we can go.” He grinned after Greg before disappearing down the hall.

Stranger: ((Ok, NP))

Stranger: ((I have to run an errand for my mom, yikes. I’ll be gone a hot minute. If we get disconnected, I hope to find you again))

Stranger: ((Sorry))

You: (Hey! I'm back.)

You: Greg took a deep breath as Mycroft left him alone in the kitchen. He needed some time to collect himself after Mycroft's teasing and the kiss and just...everything. When he was sure his legs could hold him again he got up and cleared their mugs and the empty plate from the table and went to his room to change as well. "You've got to pull yourself together." He told his reflection as he stood in the bathroom. "You're absolutely impossible." He finished getting ready and returned to the front of his flat to slip on his shoes for their walk around the neighborhood.

Stranger: ((Back! Sorry))

You: (Hi!)

Stranger: Mycroft was waiting by the door, carrying his umbrella but dressed casually in trousers and a jumper in a forest green tone. He smiled at Greg, offering his hand to the man once he had his shoes on. “Shall we?” He asked, “I know it isn’t meant to rain, but better safe than sorry, yes?”

You: "I'd be concerned if you didn't bring that umbrella of yours...don't think I've ever seen you outside without it." He took Mycroft's hand as they left the flat, locking the door behind him. It was such a happy, domestic act just walking around the neighborhood hand in hand. That part had shocked Greg. He hadn't expected Mycroft to want to hold hands though it made sense. They were both still quite needy from the new bond.

Stranger: “Yes, well...I find it to be quite useful in a variety of occasions.” He walked quietly for a time, enjoying the warm weather and having Gregory close by his side. It felt safe, felt correct in a way that contact with Peter never quite had, and Mycroft was reveling in the happy sensation. He knew it was partially influenced by the new bond, biology urging him to stay close to the safety of his Alpha, but there was also the genuine warm affection he held for Greg from their time together.

You: "You never cease to amaze me." Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand as they rounded the corner. "So we've figured out our living arrangements, talked about the nursery...seems like we've had a pretty productive morning, I'd say. I'll stay packing up my things tonight to get ready..."

Stranger: Mycroft smiled. “Flatterer.” He said lightly, “We have been very productive. Finished most of our necessary tasks. You’ll have enough time for a nap this afternoon, should you desire.” He looked at the other man for a moment. “I should warn you, I will have to visit my mother before long. And she likely will learn that we’ve bonded. I will try to keep her away from you, though.”

You: Greg nodded. "Do you think that she'll be disappointed in what's happened? In your choice for a new Alpha since I'm not one who wants to rule with an iron fist so to speak?" Greg had considered that Mycroft would need to visit his family and tell them of what had happened. "Do they understand how horrible Peter was to you?" he asked. "You know I don't mind coming with you...you need someone in your corner."

Stranger: “She will likely accuse me of being deliberately difficult to drive Peter away. She may imply that I’ve no sense of integrity for rebonding so quickly. She will undoubtedly disparage the fact that I’ve chosen a policeman.” He sighed, “I don’t want you to have to be exposed to her. I have never been, and will never be, a good enough Omega for her standards.” He looked away, falling silent as he tried to marshal his words into something that wouldn’t anger Greg. “Her thoughts were that I need discipline, and if Peter left a mark or an injury after, it was because I did something to drive him to it.”

You: "Wouldn't be the first time someone thought I wasn't worth anything," he said. " I don't want you going alone. Whether you take me with you or you invite your parents over to our flat, doesn't matter. I just don't think that your mother needs to continue such speak so harshly to you and she won't listen to reason at all....but I could...it'd be nice to be able to praise you a bit."

Stranger: Mycroft bit his lip, shaking his head. “I don’t want her at our flat.” He admitted, “I don’t want her to snoop through our things and criticize the wall colors.” He sighed, squeezing Greg’s hand. “If you come, you need to promise me you will keep your temper. Mummy is a master at getting under people’s skin, and this isn’t like Peter.”

You: Greg sighed. "I wouldn't punch your mother, Mycroft, but I would definitely have words with her. Starting with the fact that her way of thinking is archaic and that Omegas don't need discipline. She may not be physically abusing you but speaking down to you...constantly criticizing you...it's just as bad, Mycroft. Someone's got to put her in her place, wouldn't you say?"

Stranger: Mycroft shrugged. “I suppose I’ve grown accustomed to her ways. I was an unexpected child, and then presented omega on top of that. She was disappointed.” He leaned against Greg as they waited at a street crossing, “To be honest, my worry has more to do with her saying something rude to you. If she is unkind to you, I may not be able to hold my tongue.”

You: "Don't worry about me...I've got a thick skin, Myc. I doubt very much that your mother could say anything to me or about me that I haven't heard before." Greg couldn't help but smirk at the idea of Mycroft not holding his tongue. "Maybe that's what she really needs...you standing up to her and letting your thoughts and feelings on the matter ring out. Your mother sounds like a bully, Mycroft, just like Peter was."

Stranger: “I suppose she is, in some ways.” Mycroft replied, “I know you’ve a thick skin, Gregory, but that doesn’t mean I will simply let her try to tear down my chosen bond mate.” He shifted, biting his lip. “She may refer to the pup as a bastard, because I am no longer bonded to Peter. Try not to snarl at her?”

You: "I make absolutely no promises on that. Any person who would speak about their grandchild like that needs a bit of a snarl." Greg turned and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's temple. "I'm sure that your mother will do a fair bit of tearing us both down once she's told what's happened between you and Peter and told about the pup. We'll have to both try and be on relatively good behavior."

Stranger: “Oh, she knows about the pup.” Mycroft said, “That is the reason I have to visit.” He smiled a bit. “You’re taking this all very well. I appreciate that. I will let you know when she tells me the date.”

You: "What is there to take poorly?" he asked the man. "Your mother hates the fact that you had a bond scrubbed because she thinks that Omegas are inferior to Alphas. Now you've got an Alpha who isn't such a...traditional Alpha. Seems quite cut and dry really." Greg looked over to Mycroft as they walked. "I look forward to it..."

Stranger: “This mag be shocking, but most people don’t like the knowledge that their new partner’s mother will likely insult them the first time she meets them.” He leaned up, pressing a kiss to Greg’s jaw. “Should we start back soon? I think we’re losing the sun.” He featured up to the clustering clouds.

You: Greg couldn't help but chuckle as they turned back towards his flat. "Couldn't be any worse than being insulted by your new partner's brother the first time they met. Something about being a pathetic excuse for a DI who wouldn't know his right hand from his left hand if they were both the same. I think I can handle your mother....I've had some practice with in laws, you know?"

Stranger: Mycroft groaned. “Oh Sherlock...he’s always been combative and inappropriate.” He smiled at Greg gratefully. “You’re being very kind, and I appreciate it.” He smiled. “It should be after we find out the sex, so perhaps there will be a name she can refer to the pup by instead.”

You: "There's something fun we can do with our time...choosing baby names." He said. "Well, you can choose the name...I can just lay with my head in your lap talking to the baby while you look through pages and pages of unique, old world names.... then we can make sure to remind your mother that it's a living being with feelings and needs and opinions all their own is growing in there."

Stranger: Mycroft smiled at the image Greg brought into his mind; listening to the Alpha talking to the pup as they sat together, feeling the warm weight on his lap...He blinked, eyes a bit misty from the wash of emotion. “I would appreciate your input on names.” He remarked, “I was actually thinking of choosing something that isn’t as...unique as Sherlock’s name or my own. This little one deserves something a little easier, since so much of their life is in upheaval before they even arrive.”

You: "Don't worry. Live will settle down in time for their arrival. Once they get here they won't have any idea that things were ever anything but this..." he motioned between them as they walked. "We don't have to tell the baby about Peter or about what happened before. Think the only other thing we'll have to figure out is what they're going to call me if I'm still around in this capacity. Should it be Uncle Greg or Gregory or 'the silly old man'....possibilities are endless really.

Stranger: Mycroft nodded. “I’ve no plan to tell them about Peter; when they’re grown, perhaps, if they ask about their sire.” He looked at Greg, shaking his head. “You’re only a few years older than I am, Gregory...you’re hardly ‘old’. I suppose what they call you will depend on whether we are still bonded when they begin talking. We have time to think about it, to decide on something you’re comfortable with.” He kept to himself the fact that if the pup chose to call Greg something like Papa, Mycroft wouldn’t protest at all. “I was thinking of...testing our bond, this afternoon. To see if the sensation of being pulled apart has lessened. I don’t wish to cause you distress, but I’ll need to know if I need to arrange for another day of leave.”

You: "True but I'm going to tell you now that if they start calling me Papa or Dad you'll never be able to get rid of me." Greg nodded when Mycroft mentioned testing the bond that afternoon. "Don't worry about me," he said. "We both'll have to go back to work so we might as well get used to whatever pain we're going to experience due to separation. We can still keep up our meetings, can't we? That way we all get the best of both worlds."

Stranger: “Oh no. However will I cope with an affectionate Alpha who respects my boundaries and knows how to cook?” He snickered, nodding. “We can keep up our meetings if you like. You’ll see me every evening at the flat, of course, but the meetings are normal for us, and it will be nice to get extra time with you.”

You: "I meant before I move in, Mycroft, before I get all moved in we won't see each other every day, right?" he questioned. "Unless you just miss me so much that you can't stand to be without me...." It was far more likely that Greg would be the first to cave but he kept that bit of enlightened observation to himself. "When I move in it'll be a lot of time we'll have together. Mornings before work...time after work...weekends and holidays..."

Stranger: “Oh...of course.” He nodded, “I suppose I wasn’t thinking of before. I can’t promise I won’t come over to spend some time with you. Perhaps not every day, but...the feeling of contentment is rather intoxicating.”

You: "It's part of my allure," Greg added. "You're welcome in my flat anytime you want to come over. It shouldn't take me long at all to finish up packing my clothes and things. I started the other day when we first started talking about officially moving in together." The got back to Greg's flat and the Alpha let them inside. "Are you really feeling alright? No negative side effects?"

Stranger: “I feel alright, Gregory.” Mycroft assured him, “I promise to let you know if I feel any adverse effects. At the moment, I honestly feel rather pleasant; content and safe.” He looked at Greg. “I know it may not last, but I plan to enjoy it while it does.” ((Do you want to skip ahead some? Few weeks maybe?))

You: (Yeah, that'd be great!)

Stranger: ((BRB, the dog is screaming at someone))

You: Greg nodded. "Best not to assume it'll change...there's really no reason to think you'll go back to feeling miserable." Greg fixed them lunch that afternoon before Mycroft left for a few hours to test the bond. Greg decided it was best not to tell the man just how much he missed him. Nearly a month later, Greg had moved in all of his clothes to Mycroft's flat and had started to work on painting the nursery during the weekends. He and Mycroft moved the furniture, fussing between them on where things should go like a properly bonded couple. They spent their days at work, their evenings having dinner together and lounging around on the sofa looking for baby names when they weren't both still finishing up that day's work. It was absolutely perfect for Greg. The sort of home life he'd always wanted with a partner but never got to experience.

Stranger: ((Back))

Stranger: Mycroft had never felt more content in sharing a home, even as a child. Greg was considerate and helpful, willing to work together with Mycroft to shape their home as they wanted it. They’d discussed hundreds of names for the pup but come no closer to finding one that seemed perfect, leading Mycroft to simply refer to the growing pup as ‘little boy’ after a doctor’s checkup that had left him in grateful tears. One Sunday morning he poked his head into Greg’s open door, face pale and drawn. “We’re expected at Mummy’s by noon. Are you ready to go, Gregory?”

You: Greg was tugging on a jumper when Mycroft interrupted him. "Yeah, just have to put on my shoes. What do you think? Do I look proper enough to hold your mother's tongue for at least a few minutes?" he turned so that Mycroft could get a good look at him. Greg had showered, shaved and picked out his nicest outfit for their lunch with Mycrot's parents. "You know we don't have to do this, Mycroft, you aren't under her control anymore...I'm not in her pocket, remember?" he said moving to stand in front of Mycroft. He reached up and brushed his hands over Mycrofts shoulders and down his arms. "Either way I'll be right there beside you."

Stranger: Mycroft was wearing a suit, carefully tailored to fit with the swell of his stomach. He looked Greg over, nodding. “You look lovely. She’s unlikely to find fault with your clothing.” He leaned up, pressing a light kiss to the corner of Greg’s mouth. “If we do not go to her, she will come here. And I couldn’t bear that.” He sighed, shifting. “I appreciate your support more than I can say, dear.” He straightened, pressing a hand to his stomach as the pup kicked. “The car will be here soon.”

You: "It's not the clothing I was talking about. People's first impressions of you is like ninety percent visual, isn't it? If I look put together and posh we might have a better chance of not having an argument within the first ten minutes." Greg leaned down when Mycroft stopped for a moment. "Little one...you've got to take a break. We're going to visit your grandparents and your mum is already under enough stress..." Greg brushed a quick hand over Mycroft's bump. "Into battle as Sherlock would say, mm?" They moved out of his room so that he could put his shoes on. He made sure to grab his things as the driver knocked on the door of their flat.

Stranger: Mycroft chuckled. “He’s being stubborn today; I think he senses I am worried and is responding to it.” He followed Greg, speaking quietly to the driver to give him the address as they walked down to the car. The ride was tense, Mycroft sticking close to Greg’s side as though unable to bear sitting alone. When they pulled to a stop in front of the house he was the first one out, picking up the bottle of wine he’d brought for his parents in an attempt to appease them. “Into battle.” He murmured to Greg, “Will you ring the bell? I ought to stand behind; start off on the right foot.”

You: "You'll stand beside me, Mycroft. Partners, remember?" It wasn't an order by any means, it was simply a...request. Greg wanted Mycroft beside him in everything else...it just made sense that that would carrying over into this. Greg rang the bell of Mycroft's parent's house and immediately laced his fingers with Mycroft's, giving it a squeeze. "Together." he glanced quickly at Mycroft giving the man a small smile before the door opened. "Good afternoon Mrs. Holmes. Mr. Holmes." Greg had to remind himself to be polite and mind his manners. Mycroft had been trying to teach him over the last few weeks to be a little less brash in his modern mind set but Greg proved to be nearly as stubborn as his partner.

Stranger: Mycroft’s fingers trembled a bit in Greg’s grasp, but he didn’t let go, letting the touch soothe him as he glanced over his parents. “Mummy, Father.” He said quietly, nodding. Mummy was in front, of course, looking the two of them over with critical eyes while his father hung back a step, smiling at his son and Greg. Father was a perfect example of a traditional Omega, of course; he never needed ‘reminding’. Mycroft sighed, biting the inside of his lip. He passed the wine bottle to Father as they were ushered inside, turning automatically to take Greg’s cost and hang it with his own. He turned back, only to find Mummy eyeing Greg once more. “So...you are the Alpha Mikey has decided to throw away family tradition and decency for? He always has been a troublesome child, but this really is beyond the pale.”

You: Greg didn't protest the way Mycroft took his coat or remained just behind him when Mrs. Holmes started in on him. Greg knew instantly that Mycroft got his fire from that woman. "If by that you mean the Alpha your son made a conscious decision to take for love, comfort, and safety from the manipulative, abusive, psychotic Alpha you originally bonded him to, yes. Greg Lestrade...." The Alpha stuck out his hand to the woman. "It's very nice to meet you." Greg could nearly see the smoke coming out of the woman's ears. "Mr. Holmes..." Greg moved around the woman as if to dismiss her negative portrayal of their relationship and extended his hand to the elder Holmes. "Mycroft's told me so much about you....it's really a pleasure."

Stranger: Mycroft struggled for a moment, but managed to keep his glee at Greg’s casual disregard hidden. He watched his father shake Greg’s hand and greet the Alpha, so caught up in seeing his partner meet the man who carried him that he forgot to keep an eye on Mummy. He stiffened when she gripped his shoulder tightly, a soft yip of surprise escaping him. “I shouldn’t need to tell you that I am disappointed you’ve taken up with a mannerless lout.” She snapped, “For your own sake, I hope that pup is Peter’s and not proof of whatever affair you and your...partner were conducting.” Mycroft flushed, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t sp..speak of Gregory like that, Mummy. He’s been very kind. He was willing to bond with me so that you’d grandchild wouldn’t be harmed by the bond scrubbing.”

You: Greg was chatting with Mr. Holmes about his line of work when he heard the yelp from Mycroft. Mr. Holmes quietly asked Greg not to get involved as it was simply the way their family worked. Frowning at the man Greg responded quietly in return. "It's not the way my family works." Greg turned around again and immediately put himself between Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft. "I shouldn't need to tell you how disappointed I am to learn that my partner's own mother would sell him off to the highest bidder like some sort of farm animal." he snapped back. "Peter was well on his way to putting Mycroft into an early grave with the way he was hurting him. Broken bones, bruises....If it weren't for Alphas like me, Mrs. Holmes, Omegas like Mycroft would never learn what compassion or kindness is. The pup in his belly may biologically be Peter's but don't you /ever/ mistake that man for his father. /I/ am that pup's father whether you like it or not and I will /not/ allow you to talk to Mycroft so rudely, are we clear?"

Stranger: Mycroft clung to the back of Greg’s jumper with one hand, bracing himself to haul the Alpha back if he needed to. This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to make the man come; it was never going to end well with the pair of Alphas butting heads. “Miley has always been stubborn and unwilling to learn. If he earned a few bruises through his smart mouth and inability to obey, it is simply his own fault. I never had to discipline his father, and we’ve been married nearly 48 years. It wouldn’t hurt Mikey to toughen up and learn to accept his place in life.” She sneered at Greg, eyes running over him. “You’re a soft excuse for an Alpha, and I will /not/ be lectured in my own house about how I speak to my ungrateful child.”

Stranger: *Mikey

You: "There's nothing at all to learn." Greg corrected the woman. "Mycroft's place is at the side of his Alpha, not three steps behind in quiet subservience. He's stubborn and outspoken and absolutely perfect the way he is. His smart mouth and his 'inability to obey' it's what's kept him alive when Peter was repeatedly abusing him. It wasn't just a few bruises, don't you understand? It was broken bones and punctured lungs and falls down the stairs. It was concussions and beatings that left scars. Your son is one of the bravest, wisest people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. He's given me so much, taught me so much in the short time we've been bonded and I would rather be a soft Alpha than to rule with an iron fist any time someone put a toe out of line. You may demand blind loyalty and silent subservience from your Omega but I don't. Mycroft is my equal and always will be whether you approve or not doesn't matter but you will not speak ill of my partner no matter your feelings on our bond."

Stranger: Mycroft winced as Greg spoke, revealing things he’d kept hidden from his parents for years. He knew Greg had seen him once or twice lacking a shirt, when he woke crying out from a nightmare, but he hadn’t realized the Alpha had seen the scars. “Gregory, please...calm down.” He tugged lightly at the man’s jumper, “We don’t want Father’s meal to get cold. I’m sure he worked hard on it.” He didn’t dare look at his mother, who he was sure would be furious. She was used to being in charge in her home, and Peter had always been content to play the part of obedient Alpha son-in-law. Greg of course would not, nor did Mycroft truly expect him to. It wasn’t in the man’s nature to let insults about Mycroft slide off.

You: Mycroft pulled Greg out of his heated state enough that Alpha turned to look at him. "Love, it's alright, I promise." he reached up and gently brushed his thumb over Mycroft's cheek before pressing a kiss there. He turned back to face Mycroft's parents. "Apologies, Mr. Holmes. Mycroft's been raving about your cooking...it puts mine to shame, I'm sure. Can I help you with anything?" he asked the man knowing he'd say no. Greg had a feeling that Mr. Holmes was going to remain quiet throughout the meal, serving the Alphas before serving his son and then himself. He'd probably also be responsible for all of the washing up which Greg was absolutely /not/ going to stand for. "Shall we, Mrs. Holmes?"

Stranger: Mycroft heard his mother huff and storm off towards the dining room. He looked at Greg, leaning into the man and pressing his nose to the Alpha’s neck briefly to scent him. “Thank you.” He murmured, “That was very kind of you. I didn’t realize that you knew; about the scars, I mean.” He took Greg’s hand, tugging for him to follow. “Come, we can help Father carry the dishes out.”

You: Greg let out a shuddering breath when the woman left. He let Mycroft press against him and scent him, nodding. "She deserves to know that this started with her outdated rules," he said quietly before Mycroft tugged him off to the kitchen to help. He was glad to be of some use more than just starting arguments with stubborn Alphas. Greg helped Mr. Holmes with the dishes making sure to praise him loudly during lunch at how delicious everything tasted. Greg made sure to ask for more than one recipe, promising to keep the secret ingredients secret, hoping to let Mr. Holmes know how appreciated all his hard work was.

Stranger: Mycroft sat by his father, chatting quietly with the man whenever he wasn’t being chatted to by Greg. He watched as his mother fired question after question ag Greg, asking about his family, career, interactions with Mycroft, his first bond. She was clearly hoping the other Alpha would be tripped up, and Mycroft was quietly proud that Greg had no trouble keeping up with her.

You: Greg should have known that their lunch with his new in-laws would be anything less than an interrogation. He felt as if he was on trial for committing murder more than simply there for the Holmes' to get to know. "My parents passed a way a number of years ago and I certain miss them both. It's just my sister and I, she's three years younger." Greg went into more detail about his family knowing the woman wanted to know what tier of society Greg was raised in. "I've got twenty years in. Went into the force straight after University and been working my way up...that's how I met Mycroft actually...and Sherlock. We all work together at some point during cases...quite the family affair." he chuckled, reaching over to squeeze Mycroft's hand. "My Omega cheated on me repeatedly over the course of our eight year marriage. I respected her enough to let her go instead of keeping her locked up in a bond she didn't want." he said when asked about his previous partner. "Is there something in particular you're searching for, Mrs. Holmes?"

Stranger: “I simply wish to know why you, someone who knows the pain of an unfaithful partner, would put yourself in a position to be seen as an adulterous Alpha. Clearly you have no respect for your own reputation or Mikey’s. Not to mention the fast approaching bastard pup.” Mycroft dropped his fork, appalled at her words. “Mummy, that is enough!” He looked as shocked at his own words as his parents seemed, “Gregory has been nothing but kind and careful. Almost no one knows we are bonded, because he was concerned it might reflect badly on me due to leaving my bond with Peter. He suffered a gunshot because of his defense of me, and he is a far better man than Peter could even dream of being, not that he would.” He stood, setting his napkin on the table and pressing a kiss to his father’s forehead. “I’ll be in touch.” He murmured to the older Alpha before turning to Greg. “I believe we should go, Gregory.”

You: "People talk regardless of whether or not it's true. Mycroft never stepped out of the bounds of his contracted bond with Peter and I never stepped in them. My reputation can take it, I assure you." Greg's face flushed when the woman made a comment about the pup. He opened his mouth to respond but Mycroft beat him to it. Instead, Greg allowed Mycroft to stand up for himself ready to jump in if the Omega needed support which of course he didn't. He leaned over to Mr. Holmes as whispered something while Mycroft went off on his mother. 'You taught him well, sir', he told the man with a smirk. Greg nodded and turned to Mr. Holmes first. "Thank you so much for lunch, Mr. Holmes. It was lovely to meet you. I hope to see you again soon." Greg got up and pushed his chair in. "Mrs. Holmes," he said as he let Mycroft lead him out of the room. When they got to the front door Greg helped Mycroft into his coat before plucking his own off the hook. "Are you alright, Myc?"

Stranger: Mycroft was pale and shaking, jaw clenched as he tugged his coat on. His eyes softened for a moment as he looked at Greg and he shook his head. “That was horrendous.” He murmured, “I just...I need to get out of here.” When they were in the car he retreated to one corner of the seat, resting his cheek against the glass and texting the driver the instruction to take them home. He closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.” He finally spoke, “This was a mistake.”

You: Greg knew he'd messed up as soon as they were in the car. Mycroft stayed as far away from him as possible. Greg didn't say anything until Mycroft spoke some time into their journey home. "Should have listened to you about not joining..." he said. "And you're not the one who should be apologizing. It's my fault things got so heated...I couldn't...play the part she wanted...couldn't just let her talk to you like that. I'm sorry I lost my temper..." Greg looked over at Mycroft. "I'm proud of you though, Myc, for standing up to her. The look on her face when you met her head on was...priceless."

You: ** You don't think she'll be upset with your father, will she? She's not one to...punish him, is she?"

Stranger: Mycroft looked up, wide-eyed. “Gregory...no. Don’t apologize. I understand why you wanted to come, and...you were magnificent. I’ve never seen /anyone/ challenge her like that. I couldn’t believe how well you did. And...given the circumstances, you stayed fairly calm.” He reached out, touching Greg’s hand. “She won’t be upset with father. And she won’t hurt him. For all her talk, she’s rather softhearted when it comes to father. She rather dotes on him.”

You: Greg laced their fingers together. "So it's just you that she takes her frustrations out on, then...and all because you're just like her. You know that's what that is, right? You're both passionate, strong-willed, opinionated people. You both like to be right all the time...She's a good woman if a little misguided in the way modern households should run. I'm glad to hear that she's nice to your father. He's such a wonderful man." He hesitated a beat, afraid to ask for the reassurance he desperately sought. "Promise I didn't upset you by the way I acted?"

Stranger: “I’m too much like her.” Mycroft agreed, “And then when I presented...it was too much for her. She was so disappointed that I wasn’t an Alpha.” He sighed, shuffling closer and turning to drape his legs across Greg’s lap, not quite on his lap but close enough to wrap his arms around the Alpha’s neck and press a kiss to his cheek. “You did not upset me, Gregory. No one has defended me like that...ever. You were very protective; it was very pleasant.”

You: "Being an Alpha shouldn't have been that important. Having these preconceived notions on what makes 'proper' Alphas and Omegas is all...bs." he began. He protested when Mycroft moved over. "You don't have to do this to make me feel better.." he said quietly. "the closeness and the hugging and the kissing, I mean. If you need your space, Mycroft, take it. Don't put me before your own needs..." Greg felt like an absolute idiot. "I can't stop it, you know...I've tried to...keep it in check. The protectiveness...the defensiveness...the worry and the fuss...but the bond.." he shook his head. "I promise it's not my being possessive. You are a procession that's there for my pleasure or my enjoyment. It just...bubbles up sometimes and I don't know how to handle it is all."

[werezmastarbucks]

guest

the reader opens up to her boyfriend about the demonic intruder haunting her at nights

tyler joseph x reader x kai parker

genre: horror

warnings: stalking

word count: 2950

music: ode to sleep by twenty one pilots, o come o come by tyler joseph

At night you put the drawer to the door and put your lava lamp on top. You fell asleep every time looking at the changing neon soft lights, to get woken up at three exactly, to the sound of his fists drumming on the door. Every night.

He’d come from the corridor, a tall shadow, as you once saw him, not in a hurry at all. He knew you wouldn’t run anywhere, not even through the window, because you were always afraid of getting too far out of it.

He’d walk down the corridor and to the door, and try to open it. Once he succeeded, and was inside your room, and you woke up, to see the silhouette standing above you. In the dark of night, he looked completely black. His eyes were vaguely glowing, and you were completely cemented in your place. People are generally divided into two groups when scared: those who scream, and those who freeze. There’s a legend that there’s also a thin layer in between, a group of people who fight, but you’ve never met one. The closest to that was your boyfriend.

You never told Tyler about the ghost hunting your house. You were scared to seem nuts; you had no proof and hasn’t caught it once, largely because the ghost was trying to catch you.

At school, you weren’t really the people’s favorite, so you just got through moderately peacefully by sticking with your best friend and your boyfriend.

What would you say anyway? Hey, Tyler. There’s this dude, he started manifesting himself at my house at nights. He’s invisible to everybody except me, and he always appears in the middle of the corridor, and walks to my room, and I don’t know what he wants to do with me, but he scares the shit out of me.

You were afraid he’d think you got some issues, and find someone better.

There wasn’t much you could do except put the drawer close to the door, and make it heavy, piling all your tings on top, and turn on the lava lamp to see when he comes.

Sometimes you thought it was all your imagination. You’ve heard that urban legend about a girl who thought her house was haunted. The things disappeared, and she heard voces constantly bothering her day and night. She saw shadow people lurking outside, trying to break inside the house, and one of them actually smothered her dog; when she realized she’s the only one seeing all of them, she took it upon herself to protect her family. That girl had a little sister, too, and didn’t want any harm to come upon her. Maybe she was a witch, or just had this thing that some people have. The kind of sensitivity for supernatural things. She was the only one who could defend her loved ones.

She got armed with a kitchen knife and attacked them the next time they tried to get inside. Strike, before they make a move. The girl allegedly spent a tough long afternoon chasing ghosts around her front yard, and killed all of them. To then discover they were, in fact, her family, and she’s been hallucinating the whole time.

That’s the kind of stories that were floating around in the town. No one would really believe you if you told what’s happening. Although your case was slightly different from that poor girl’s. The black shadow guy coming for you almost every night seemed to only have interest in you. It was like he was uncertain yet; that one time he actually got inside the room, he vanished, as you lay there, paralyzed by fear. You never managed to get rid of the sight of him, disproportionally tall, completely silent, watching you in bed. He seemed like he was about to bow, but you opening your eyes made him change his mind.

Other nights he was more persistent and you bet he regretted not having acted while he had a chance.

Usually he wouldn’t get past the door barricaded by the drawer.

You’d look at the lava lamp sending her orange, red, green and infernal blue light across the room, like it was a safe beacon of protective fire; as if it could actually stop him. While he hammered his fists on the door, pulling and twisting the handle, you held the blanket with your numb fingers. You were never religious so you never prayed. You had a strong feeling he wasn’t afraid of Jesus.

The worst thing was seeing the drawer move and wiggle when he pushed the door with his shoulder. Once, the lava lamp nearly tipped over, and you moaned with fear. Nobody heard anything in the morning, and that one time you screamed, unable to hold it inside anymore, you got in a big row with your parents.

Tyler took your fist and tried to undo it, to interlace his fingers with yours.

It was that hour after school when you’re not ready to go home yet, and the street seems gray even in the middle of the afternoon, and everybody looks like zombies.

Maybe I am going crazy after all. Thinking about stuff like that, and listening to depressing music, all those things at school weighing on you, made you feel like you were tied to the house, because the demon boy was there. You were afraid he’d do something to your family, too.

“You don’t seem like yourself these days”, Tyler complained, but his voice sounded pondering, as usual. He was a philosopher, this guy, always analyzing stuff and the words people say, reading into them.

“I don’t sleep well”, you said, putting your head on his shoulder. His soft black hoodie was warm even on the outside. His baggy clothes, his hands, like the lava lamp, seemed such a safe territory. You were scared he’d take it all away if you told him.

“Why?”

You knew Tyler had insomnia, too. He was suffering from regular headaches, turning into prolonged migraine, that started on the top of his head and cralwed down to the very base of his neck. You suspected he had some kind of injury he never spoke about. He did double work; taking care of you and fighting his own pain all the time. You knew it hurts even during the day. You read him when he suddenly put his head into his hands or stopped talking in the middle of the sentence. His silence was soft and dignified. He carried it well. You wished you could help him somehow. Sometimes he’d look so sad, such deep regret in his eyes, that you’d think it was something more serious that he let out.

Now you just needed him.

“I don’t know”, you shrugged.

“Huh. Doesn’t seem true”.

You hid a little guilty smile in the fold of his hoodie sleeve. Your arms vined around his shoulder, and you two watched the playground for some time, silently.

“Is something happening, Y/N?” he asked.

You felt bad.

“I don’t know”, you muttered again, like a dummy. “I’m sorry”.

You kissed his cheek as he tried to read you with his dark eyes. His ears caught your soft whisper.

I love you.

You heard the footsteps and rolled onto your back. Your elbows started hurting almost instantly as you tried to lift yourself up. Sleeping with the lava lamp on, you ruined your dreams completely, and you were sure the sleep wasn’t as healthy as it was supposed to be. You were dozing instead of sleeping, waking up every five minutes, horrible visions floating around.

You knew what came next. He stopped at the door, and for the hundreth time, you couldn’t believe it’s happening. How, in the rational boring world, do you get to have a night intruder vanishing in thin air, getting out of the darkness of your house like a vampire; why you?

The soft knock on the door didn’t, and wouldn’t wake your parents up. You were glad you didn’t have any pets; you didn’t want to imagine what he’d do to a dog barking at him.

Your heart pounding, you sat yourself, back to the wall, feeling the glossy smooth surface of a poster with your bare shoulder. Your own hand snaked up to your neck, holding the whimper inside the throat.

He knocked again, mockingly polite, as always. He never said a word, like he didn’t have a voice, which was way scarier.

Knock knock knock still sent a very clear mesage: let me in.

You just wished you’d get through your night routine as usual, and he’d leave again. You felt exhausted, old, thinking, you were slowly getting used to being haunted.

Suddenly, a hammering knock shuddered the door, and you jumped. The back of your neck started sweating. The lava lamp changed from orange to purple, the color you hated because it was too dark for the night. The people on your posters, smiling indifferently at you, they had no idea. They wouldn’t help.

Bang bang bang!

His hand was heavy. He was hitting the door like he was a drumming machine, at the fast pace as if trying to drive you crazy. The door stood, loyal and hard, but when he started colliding with it with his shoulder, it shook like carton.

Suddenly, the thing happened that hasn’t occurred before, and you put the hands to your mouth, feeling the blood pump in your ears.

The drawer actually moved.

He is getting stronger.

The lock clicked, and the door opened half an inch. Lava lamp tipped and fell on its side, banging on the wood, and you closed your eyes for a second.

You held your breath. The demon boy stopped. All of a sudden, there was whistling silence, and you heard the night wind outside. The narrow black line between the door and the wall was sucking the light out, the blackest you’ve ever seen, like space vaccum. Magnetizing your gaze.

You couldn’t sleep like that. The crack was big enough for him to watch you.

You crawled out of bed and listened again: nothing. Perhaps he exhausted himself opening the door. It seemed like he only had so much energy for one night.

Your knees were shaking violently as you stepped to the drawer and put the lamp back up. The jelly soft bubbles were drifting inside, like soulless clouds, casting neon colors on your face.

You reached for the door to push it back closed, having no desire to look into the crack... as your fingers touched the wood, a violent push crashed on it, moving the door and the drawer together. You jumped away, unable to hold a yell.

He was getting inside.

You crashed into the opposite wall. The drawer now stood almost sideways, and door was open wide enough for him to slither inside.

“Go away”, you begged.

“But I love you”, a voice said.

Your knees gave in, and you slid down on the floor, grouping so hard you could come off as a big cat. Your arms wrapped around your legs. He sounded hollow, alien, as if he was standing far away, wrapped in a plastic bag. The door moved a little, and he showed his head inside the room. Seeing him, a human looking guy, was so catastrophically sobering that your mind went numb.

He didn’t have horns or black eyes, or sharp teeth of a monster. His face wasn’t distorted or disfigured; he looked like a usual boy. Only, there was this predatory hungry look about him. Sadistic smirk curled his lips when he looked at you sitting on the floor.

“Go away”, you asked again. He cocked his head, mockery in his eyes.

“That’s a pretty lamp”.

He moved so sharply you jumped again, throwing yourself into another corner of the room, like a cat that doesn’t think at all. Your joints were burning, working to escape, but there was nowhere to run.

He held onto the door, and with the other hand, he snatched the lava lamp from the drawer. You didn’t look, pressing your face into the wall, but there was a characterisical click, and the room went dark.

He stole your lava lamp and stole your beacon light.

The walls of his house were stiff and reliable. You liked to be in Tyler’s room because of all the things connected to him. You appreciated his constant musing; some people even said he was a bit slow sometimes. Tyler was a bit sad. But the saddest people are the most precious when you make them smile, and you made Tyler smile a lot.

He was funny when he swung his baseball bat, pretending to be a bad boy, about to smash some heads. He had a quirky sense of humor that always entertained you in a way that stuck with you. He was special, and he was good, and you were completely fine with others not getting him.

You were looking at the baseball bat put against the wall next to the book case.

Tyler came into the room with the towel on his head, rubbing hard his short soft hair, and then threw in right onto the bed. You stood up, sighing, and tried to find a place to hang it.

“You’re messy”, you noted. Tyler puffed, disinterested.

“You okay? You never get up so early on a Saturday”.

“Uh-huh”.

“What did you wanna talk about?”

There was hope in his voice; obviousy. He wasn’t fooled by all the badly masked secrets you kept. Like an owl, he watched you closely, but never intruded, probably, trained well by his folks: he knew how much it sucks when someone is trying to get under your skin. Even his mom thought he was weird, while he was simply sanguine; so she bugged him constantly.

He patted the bed next to him, inviting you. You liked to sit close so that your thighs touched, you connected to him.

“I need to tell you about what’s going on in my house”.

Tyler was quiet.

“There’s someone... uh”.

Anything you’d say, it would come out fucking stupid. Like in a movie.

“There’s this person who comes to my house at nights and tries to get into my room. I’m the only one who can see him. At first I thought I was sick, but last night, Tyler, he took something from my room, and it isn’t there. I think he exists”.

His face hardened. Tyler changed; the expression of his usually kind demeanor was something you’ve never seen before. It was hostile, and for a moment, he felt very distant.

“What does he look like?” he asked, his voice low.

You were taken aback by his question. No ‘are you sure’, no ‘you mean like a ghost?’, no ‘is this a joke?’.

His arm went up your shoulder, and he hugged you, bringing you close as if to keep this conversation quiet and between you. You were getting a strange sensation.

“Y/N, what does he look like?”

“Like a boy. A usual, teenage boy. You believe me?”

“You should see yourself nowadays. You look tired and horrified”.

Tyler never called you ‘honey’, or ‘baby’. His ‘you’s said much more than that. Sometimes they communicated way more tenderness than any nickname.

“You spoke quietly, and then he said he’d stay with you for the night. He got very upset you didn’t tell earlier. His frustration at it seemed very deep; like something made him profoundly uncomfortable. You’ve also never seen peaceful, quiet Tyler so menacing.

He took the baseball bat with him.

“Shithead!”

A sound of broken glass pulled you out of sleep, vivid and simultaneously, ghostly. You couldn’t tell if you dreamt it or not.

The room was dark; without the lamp there was no way of telling who else was in here. You searched for Tyler next to you, and he wasn’t in bed. The sheets were stil warm, and you had a sensation of his skin under your hand.

You sat in your bed, dizzy. As your eyes got used to the dark, you finally realized the drawer is moved away from the door.

There was something happening in the upstairs bathroom.

You jumped off the bed. You couldn’t lose him. Tyler was yours.

You went to the door and opened it wide, stepping into the darkness. Few feet away, the narrow line of light was indicating someone was in the bathroom. Okay, maybe Tyler just knocked something over because he’s sleepy.

“Come here!”

His voice was hissing like a snake. He was whispering, but it sounded like the rain noise. Something bumped against the door, like there was a swift fight.

“Tyler!” you called.

Silence. Then, a sudden burst of laughter of that hollow, distant voice again. Your feet carried you on, and you pulled the handle, opening the door. Laughter rang in your ears, fading away in the depth of the house and your own brain. For a second, you were blinded and frightened by the light.

Your lava lamp sat on the edge of the bathroom sink, and Tyler was holding onto it, panting, his back humped like he’s been trying to outpower someone. But there was no one else.

His neck was covered in black, something that looked like blood, or oil, but was complete, vanta color, and it moved, as if darkness was consuming, coming up to his chin. Tyler’s jaws pressed together, and then he turned and looked at you - with the eyes of a stranger instead of his own. Like there was somebody else inside.