#i like star trek so much. the 'I love star trek' is vibrating under my skin like a skeleton that wants to hatch

[twinklepuzzle]

Ppl gotta stop putting posts about vulcans on my dash or I'm gonna go insane again. I can feel the star trek fixation creeping up on me already but I'm beating it back with a stick.

[coepiteamare]

depth of field

pairing: yoongi x female!reader genre: angst (are we surprised), fluff, reader is an actress, yoongi is photographer warning: a lot of feelings, uhm there’s like 2 lines about sex but it’s not super explicit, bad break ups, not beta read, heartbreak,  header credit: lovely isa! she’s so talented please check her out @monvante​  word count: 9.5k (how and why this became the longest thing i’ve written, i don’t know) rating: sfw though slightly mature (2 lines about sex but not explicit) collab: the valentine’s day collab with a bunch of awesome writers! please check out everyone’s stories! 

summary: yoongi is a nature photographer and you��re an actress who’s spent her entire life in front of the cameras. when he’s hired (against his will) for a photoshoot, he’s not quite expecting you: all smiles and charm and mystery. (alt: you laugh, and yoongi hears the night sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. he fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the picture doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice.) A/N: this is....so late because i am big dumb + life changes + writing is hard. i have extremely mixed feelings on this one, but if you do read it, i hope it makes you feel something. if you listen to epik high, a lot of this was written while listening to “sleepless in _________”. 

[Triptych: Sleepless In The City.JPEG]

[alt.image: Black and white triptych of a view outside a bedroom window. The position of the shot is the same in all three: all of them are directly facing an open window depicting the Seoul skyline. Towards the bottom of the picture, the edge of a bed can be seen: a plaid blanket with a light coloured bed frame. Right below the window is a dark wood dresser with a glass of water on top. At the center of the frame is a square, side hung window with light coloured (white) curtains on the sides. The first frame depicts a light blue coloured sky. There’s a lens flare at the top right of the corner. The second frame depicts a gradient sky. There’s light from the buildings shining through. The third frame depicts a darker sky, but the building lights are still on. The glass of water lies in the same position through the pictures, with little to no change in water amount.]

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt��there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he contemplates answering as his fingers make contact with his phone, before pressing the side button and turning it off. 

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name this time around. Someone else does, as the door swings open.

“Yoongi!” 

Yoongi groans and pulls the covers over his head, letting the weighted blanket settle around his body, but Hoseok peels it off his body without a struggle. 

“You could have called when you came back,” Hoseok opens the black out curtains, afternoon light flooding through the window and making Yoongi’s vision dance. 

“You could have called before you barged in.” 

“I did,” Hoseok settles on the edge of his bed, laughing when Yoongi kicks him off, “you didn’t answer.” 

“I was busy.” He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the afterglow of his dreams fading from his mind. 

Hoseok looks at the suitcase still packed at the corner of his bed, at the instant noodle cups on the counter. “I see that.” 

Yoongi shrugs and reaches for the camera bag on his nightstand, fiddling with the zippers and refusing to meet Hoseok’s eyes. 

It’s quiet before there’s a sigh that paints the silence between them. Hoseok reaches his hand out, eyes a little soft, smile a little apologetic, and Yoongi gives him the camera. 

“So how was Greenland?”

“Cold. Colder than here. Not green at all.” Hoseok laughs at that, and perhaps it’s the weather, the lack of people Yoongi has seen the past few months, or Hoseok’s sunny disposition dispelling the shadows, but there’s a small warmth that blooms through Yoongi. “It was nice though. Nice pictures.” 

“I can see that. Did you have an exhibition in mind for these?”

“No. I just wanted a change of pace for a bit.” he clears his throat, trying to unstick the words clinging to his esophagus. “New environment. Clear my head. Look for new inspiration.” 

Hoseok hands him back the camera. “I signed you up for RKIVE LAB’s Valentine’s Day exhibition.”  Yoongi stops fiddling with the buttons and grips the camera  a little tighter. “Portraits of love. Pictures of people required.”

“I don’t take pictures of people.”

“You used to. Before.” Hoseok doesn’t say it—knows to shut his mouth even before Yoongi glares at him—but the presence of the words stains the air like an unwanted lens flare smudged across the picture. The weight of it lingers, glaringly obvious in the silence, as heavy as the blanket curled up at Yoongi’s feet. 

“Used to. Not anymore.” 

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do it again.”

“And that doesn’t mean I want to. Besides, I’m not ready for another exhibition.” 

“Yoongi,” Hoseok takes a seat on the bed and this time, Yoongi doesn’t chide him for it. “Your last exhibition was a year ago. You stopped photographing people for 8 months. 4 months ago, you decided—out of the blue, mind you—to pack up and visit Greenland, 2 weeks before your exhibition. Not only was PR an absolute nightmare, but you also scared me. I was worried about you.”

There’s a sense of guilt that trickles through him at Hoseok’s words. Yoongi hugs his knees to his chest and tucks his chin over them. He’d sink into the floor if he could, let it swallow him whole if it meant he could avoid the conversation, but knowing Hoseok, he’d continue, even when it closed back up. 

“You need to let go,” Hoseok squeezes his shoulder. 

“I need to sleep. I’m still jet lagged.” 

“It’s been a week since you’ve come back!” 

“Exactly,” he pouts, and tries to reach for his blanket, but Hoseok gently slaps his hands away. His voice softens when he opens his mouth, insecurity painting the edges.“I just don’t think I’m ready for an exhibit. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

“I think you just need to try.”

The sigh that leaves his body doesn’t do much for the heaviness that he can’t seem to dispel. He’s tried. Tried to take pictures, tried to photograph people, but he doesn’t know how to capture them without the lens of heartbreak, without finding pieces of his ex hidden in filters. He’s tried to forget, tried to remember, tried to drown everything out to the bitter taste of alcohol, and nothing worked. He tries, and nothing works. 

“I don’t know how to take pictures of people anymore,” Yoongi says weakly. 

Hoseok’s smile is bright, too bright, the picture of false reassurance. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve already made a call.”

[Ready Or Not.JPEG]

[alt. Image: An out of focus, blurry, god shot, full body photograph of a girl. She wears a short red dress with thin straps and black platform boots. There’s a pink and green image/texture projected on top of her as she poses with her arms stretched over her head. The woman is not at the centre of frame, but more towards the right. The photograph appears to be taken hastily, as if the photographer was falling down when taking the shot.]

Yoongi’s forgotten how much light is involved with studio shoots: the moment he steps into the studio, there’s a flash of bright light, and there’s small spots of light dancing in the corner of his vision. He wants to go home, curl back into his cotton sheets, and hide under the covers. 

It’s convenient, he’ll admit. Outdoor photography, especially nature photography, means hours and hours of planning ahead, of trekking into the wilderness and adjusting lenses and camera angles, and tripod placements to get the perfect shot, only to have something—be it the sun, or a bug, or an animal, or a tree that decides to fall at that moment—interfere and ruin the moment. But indoor photography means that everything gets to be controlled, adjustable to his whims.

Yoongi fiddles with his camera settings, finger nervously itching for something to do in the unfamiliar environment. He’s not sure if he likes these kinds of photographs, the ones scripted and tweaked until perfection is smudged against the frame of the picture. He likes spontaneity, likes the unpredictability of nature, but he also likes the idea that everything can be adjusted, picture perfect, to the way he wants it. (No one leaves, no one hurts. Just pictures. Just his ideas.)

“I didn’t know we were getting a new photographer.” 

He spins around and almost stumbles backwards at the sight of you. He could easily have deemed you as one of the set pieces: clothes perfectly pressed, skin glossy, not a hair out of place. You're brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, pressurised to perfection, and Yoongi doesn’t know if he likes that. Doesn’t like the crisp edges of your pants, the sharp angles of your shoulders. 

“My name is Y/N. It’s nice to work with you.”

He stares at the hand in front of him for a second before wiping his palm on his pants. Your smile doesn’t fade as Yoongi gingerly shakes your hand. “Yoongi. I’m just here to watch Vante on shoot. I haven’t photographed people in a while, and our agent thought it would help me to watch him in action.” 

The way your eyes sparkle, light up brighter than the studio lights, feels uncanny: he knows he’s seen it before, but he’s not sure where. It stirs up a familiar feeling in his tummy, like the anticipation that builds just as he’s about to press the click of a shutter. 

“I’m sure you’re a lot better than you think you are,” your smile is warm, but it sends a chill down his spine. It feels wrong, like he’s stuck in the wrong picture frame, the wrong background. The ground is blurry, his head is light, and when he blinks, everything feels cold. 

“You’re a lot better than you think you are, Yoongi. I’ve seen the photos. I know you,” his voice is warm, and Yoongi can hear the smile in the way he grips his hands. “I want to see the exhibit you put up, and I know other people will too.” 

“Hey,” there’s a jolt of electricity when you touch him. He blinks, and your face is in front of his, brows knitted. “You okay? I lost you for a moment.”

“Fine,” his voice is scratchy, so he coughs to clear it. “I’m fine. Just-uhm-it’s been a minute. Memories. I haven’t stepped foot in a studio for a while.”

“You must have loved it. Taking pictures of people,” when he tilts his head and tries to make sense of your words, you smile and let go of his shoulder. “You wouldn’t have had such a visceral reaction if you didn’t love it. I’m a firm believer that the things we love never leave us. So you’ll find that spark again. I believe in you.”

When the shoot starts, Yoongi moves around, trying to remember what it was like to work with other people other than him, what it’s like to capture the soul of a human being through a split second. But his mind is still standing where you left him, trying to digest your words to the tune of shutter sounds and someone else’s voice. 

All throughout the shoot, he wants to puke, wants to unclog the memories that won’t drain and be forgotten. But they keep playing—over and over and over—and refuse to stop. He talks to Vante in a daze, but he’s unable to wake up from the voice that he hears over and over again—you’ll find that spark again, Yoongi. I believe in you—until your voice cuts through the fog. 

“Wait!” he grabs your wrist, and quickly lets go when you turn back, eyes wide. “Wait. i-uhm-have an exhibition and I was wondering if you would be interested. In being the subject.”

“I’m flattered, but-” you pause and bit your lip, eyebrows furrowed, and there’s that feeling again, the click of a puzzle piece falling into place: everything feels all too familiar and foreign at once, like a dream he knew long ago, a photograph he’s taken and forgotten about. Jamais vu and deja vu all at once.  

It’s stupid, he knows. But there’s something about you that he doesn’t know how to let go. He’s not sure he’s ready to let go. 

“What’s your exhibit on?”

“Love.” He takes a sharp breath in. The word feels a sucker punch to the gut, like touching a wound that hasn’t healed. “What it means to fall in love.”

He knows his face gives away more than he wants to, but you don’t press him for answers. You continue to smile and ask him other questions about his photography instead, but something about the way you pretend like everything is fine reminds him of him, and everything hurts more. He answers the questions, tries to see you instead of his outline over yours, but still sees him in the way your eyes smile, in the sharp raise of your brows, and the quick way you navigate his defenses and gives him his space. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready for an exhibit.”

“I don’t think we ever know if we’re ready for anything,” you smile, and he feels nauseous again, like something is trying to crawl out of him. He hears the voices in his head crash over him like a wave, drowning out the sounds of everything and everyone else. 

How do you know you’re ready? He hears his voice wobble from the weight of his sorrow, quiver from the pressure of composure. He can’t meet his eyes. 

“I don’t think we’re ever ready for anything, Yoongi. But we don’t know until we try.”

“But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?”

“Right,” he repeats soullessly. (He wasn’t ready then. He doesn’t know if he’s ready now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to move on.)

“So I’ll do it.”

Yoongi snaps out of his reverie at your words, blinks away the fog. “Pardon?”

“I’ll do it. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this,” you purse your lips. “I do have a favour to ask though.” 

“What is it?”

The smile that spreads over your face, slow and cheshire, makes him grip his camera tighter. “How do you feel about going to a party?”

[Are You In Love.JPEG]

[alt image. Nighttime. A girl in a white dress on a rooftop with skyscrapers behind her. Her hair is blown back by the wind. Although her face is mostly turned away from the camera, there’s a hint of a smile on her face. Her eyes are closed as she spins around, dress billowing around her. The ends of the dress are unseen because the photograph cuts off at what would be her knees to show the cityline behind her. The skyscrapers are out of focus, blurry, so the girl is highlighted. Despite the lights in the background and the moon in the corner, she is the brightest piece in the photograph.]

Yoongi has never been a fan of parties or crowds. He doesn’t like the rush of people, of bodies pressed against each other as they slide across the floor; he hates how the lights are too dim and too bright. It’s too loud, bass amplifying his insecurities and dampening his social skills. 

Even at this gala, stuffed with people with important positions and famous titles, where the music is moderately loud and the tables are posh with red velvet tablecloths, Yoongi feels out of place. His glass flute feels awkward in his hand, tie a little too tight no matter how much he pulls it down. He knows he doesn’t belong here (or there or anywhere. It was always him who belonged and Yoongi who followed): security had stopped him before he entered telling him “paparazzi not allowed,” and gave him a once over when he fished out the invitation from his pocket, hesitantly letting him enter the venue and side-eyeing him the entire time. Minutes tick by, and there’s only so many hors d'oeuvres s he can devour, so he pulls out his phone to send you a text of rushed excuses (i have food poisoning. My pipes burst. My car broke down?) and hasty apologies. Just as he manages to get halfway to the exit, squeezing in between crowds, he sees you. 

A smile dawns over your face, and all his insecurities melt into the background. “I’ve been looking all over for you”

He points towards the buffet at the back. “They have good crab puffs.” 

You laugh at that, and he feels his cheeks stretch into a smile. The silence that hangs over the two of you now feels comfortable, like the world is dimming down to highlight you both, and Yoongi takes the moment to watch your eyes sparkle under the crystal chandeliers twinkling above you. You look at him, quirk an eyebrow and nod towards the exit. “Want to get out of here?” 

“Yes please.” 

You grab his hand, lace your fingers with his, and pull him up the stairs to the roof, letting go to run to the edge. He feels where your palm was in his, the loss of your warmth, and wants to reach back out to you. 

“How pretty.” The wind is cold, sinking teeth through skin and tearing through hair, but you cross your arms and fight back, planted firmly where you are to look at the view beneath you: small glimpses at people living their lives. 

Yoongi can’t take his eyes off of you. “Yeah. Pretty.”

“I like coming to the rooftops at parties. Sometimes, when the world is too loud and too much, I go up to the rooftop and I just stand here. ” your teeth chatter, and Yoongi rushes to take off his coat and drape it over your shoulders. Your fingers brush against his and something about you, he realises, feels like a fever dream: hot, hazy, and electric, even in the bitter chill of the winter winds. “I come up to the rooftop and I just look at people living their lives and wonder what I would be doing if I wasn’t here.”

Something about the way you look, empty and hollow, carves a hole in Yoongi’s chest. His fingers itch to reach for the shutter, bring it back to his eye and catch you in his view, but he fiddles with the camera strap around his neck instead. “What does it feel like? Being at the top?” 

What does it feel like? To be at the top? Yoongi writes and deletes over and over and over again. 

Your laughter sounds as bitter as the wind, but your smile is still fixed in place when you turn your body to meet his. “Like a rollercoaster. Only it’s going backwards as it goes up, so I can see the floor, see the bottom. I am always aware of how far I have to fall. I see the damage before it’s done, so I am always anticipating the drop.” 

Your shoulders sag, his jacket slipping down, and Yoongi, for a moment, thinks he sees stars glimmering in your eyes, catching the light of the city and threatening to fall. But when he blinks, all traces of it are gone and you’re back to the girl in the ballroom, smile shy and coy and knowing. 

“So what about you, photographer? What does it feel like to be in love?” 

His brows furrow and there’s a flush of heat blooming on his cheeks. His heart beats a little faster, staccato against his ribcage, like it’s trying to outrun the shame of being discovered. He’s not sure how you know, so all he can do is stutter. “I don’t-I mean-”

You raise your eyebrow, quirk your head to the side. “Isn’t that your exhibit theme? Explorations of love?”

“Oh,” before he can stop it, a film strip of memories starts playing through his head, snapshots of a relationship shelved in the back of his closet. It’s a slow slide show that sticks to his throat with every image, printed and smudged into the corners of his thoughts. He feels the corset of his ribcage tighten until he’s breathless, so he looks everywhere. Everywhere but you. “I don’t really know what love is supposed to feel like anymore.”

When your hand gently presses against his chest, Yoongi’s eyes widen, feet gently fumbling backwards from the chill of your fingers. “Does it hurt here?”

“What?”

“Are you heartbroken?” 

The words fall off your lips casually, like you were asking him how he took his coffee (no sugar, no cream) or how he liked his steak, and not plunging into his insecurities the way the cold of your fingers sink into his skin. The two of you blink in silence as Yoongi struggles to find the words. Everything feels wrong, his tongue twisting and falling to form the correct sounds—

“Stop thinking about it. Feel it here.” you press a little harder against his chest, “Are you heartbroken?” 

(Empty coffee cups, songs unfinished, laughter in the walls that he’s unable to scrub off. Yoongi remembers all of it.)

“Yeah.” it’s quiet, his voice stuck in his chest, but he sees the corners of your eyes soften and knows you hear his honesty over the howling wind. “I am.”

You retract your hand and hug his coat a little closer. “I don’t think there’s just one form of love, just as I don’t think there’s just one way to love someone. We love differently, and we love different people differently. Heartbrokenness is just another form of love. Just because they’re not there doesn’t change the way you love them or the fact that you love them. It just means all the love you have to give is still sitting here,” you bring your hand back to his chest, cover his heartbeat, “with no place to go. Isn’t that love?”

Isn’t that love? Seokjin asks him, sitting in the corner of Yoongi’s room. The sun casts a golden glow over his skin, kisses his dimples, and Yoongi swears Seokjin has always been more ethereal than mortal. “You take photos and bring me food when I forget to leave my desk because that’s what you know how to do. I write you songs and love letters because that’s what I know how to do. We say I love you in different ways, but does that make it any less love?

“I guess it doesn’t make it any less love.” 

You look his way and laugh, brilliant and dazzling and beautiful, and nothing in the sky can compare: not the moon, nor the comets, nor the galaxies. You laugh, and Yoongi hears the sky crumble into a thousand shooting stars. He fumbles with the settings, his heart rattling in his chest like the camera in his hands, but for the first time, the image through the lens doesn’t do the sight in front of him justice. 

But he tries anyway. He presses down on the shutter and tries to stuff your laughter into a freeze frame, even though he knows it won’t compare. 

It could never. 

[____Struck.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl sits with her chin over her knees next to a floor length window as a rainstorm blurs the background into hazy lights. The lighting is dark, but there’s a flash of lightning outside as it lights up the girl’s face. She stares outside her window, at the sky, deep in contemplation.]

Yoongi finds that Seoul sparkles when you’re next to him. Even the bitter winter winds that blow through his parka can’t steal the warmth of your hand in his when the two of you walk through the streets. The two of you start to spend more time together, getting food and eating in your apartment and taking pictures of nature. You’ll have glasses and a cap and a mask on, and there’ll be more of you he can’t see than he can, and still he finds you to be the brightest star in the night sky. But he likes you best like this: dressed with a smile and his t-shirt, face free of the traces of your day, in bed with him. He’s not sure when he’s found himself to be at home in your place, but he finds himself there instead of his studio apartment. Outside the window of your penthouse apartment, he can see the Seoul skyline and skyscrapers: if he looks down, he can see smudges of people walking through the streets, living about their daily lives. 

Sometimes, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find you sitting on the floor, against the floor length window, looking at the world below you. 

“Come back to bed,” he’ll murmur, sleep still fogging his vision, and you’ll smile, set your tea on the nightstand, and wrap your arms around him as he pulls you closer to him until the andante of your heartbeats lull him to sleep. 

Tonight, however, your head is leaned up against the glass, watching as the rain pours down, and there’s something about the moment that makes Yoongi reach for the camera to take a quick shot. He knows the lighting is off and the shadows are dark, but something about the way you’ve tucked your knees under your chin and folded in on yourself makes you seem so small, so different from the girl he sees on the billboards and magazine covers and television shows. 

You turn around when the flash goes off. “I didn’t know you were awake.” 

“The thunder,” he explains, just as another flash of light strikes through the sky. You hum, but don’t move towards him: this time, you look back out the window. He’s tempted to wait for the lightning to strike again so he could have the shot of your face illuminated in light, but the image through his viewfinder looks so different from what he’s used to, so he takes the camera with him and sits down across from you. He leans his face against the cool of the glass.

“Hey,” you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He sees the shadows under your eyes, the build up from over night shoots, and it tugs his heart. There’s something beautiful about you like this, in the normalcy. 

“Hey,” the two of you sit in the silence for a minute. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Another flash of lightning, then a roll of thunder. “Just thinking about how many people are out there, just living their lives. I wonder if they all know me, if they have an opinion of me, if they’ve seen me act. I wonder who I am to them, if I am anybody at all.”

“What do you mean?”

You pull your fingers away from the glass, but don’t look at him. “I feel as though I am always playing a character. So, I wonder what character they know me as. If they would be interested in knowing who I am.” 

His hand reaches out to yours, and he moves his body closer to yours, until your knees are knocking against his and your legs are entwined. “I’m interested.” 

Another flash. You smile, but it fades as quickly as the lightning does. “What about you? Anything on your mind? You seemed pretty distracted earlier.”

It’s Yoongi’s turn to not meet your eyes. There’s a slew of umbrellas below, a bunch of colourful blobs against the pavement. (Seokjin liked the rain. Do you like the rain? He’s not sure.) 

“It’s nothing.” He can’t meet your eyes. 

“Is it hard to let them go? The one who broke your heart?”

Yoongi hears the way your voice softens, the way it carries through the room gently, the same way you asked him if he was heartbroken up on the roof weeks ago. You’re always a little more perceptive then he gives you credit for, a little too good at reading in between the lines. He lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah he is. I still think about him sometimes. Sometimes, I still hear his voice in my head.” 

He feels your gaze on him, but neither of you say anything for a while. 

He knows you have a busy day tomorrow, jam packed with schedules and meetings and shoots and bits of sleep in between. (Not that your days are ever not busy. You’re always running from here to there, a blur of motion in the screenshots of his memories.) But the two of you just look out the window, at the storm that refuses to quell, and listen to the rain fall. 

He wakes up next to the lingering warmth of your body heat, your shampoo still clinging to the pillows and sheets. There’s not much to do today, so he takes his time getting ready to go back to his apartment and edit. Just as he’s putting his toothbrush into your toothbrush holder, his phone starts to vibrate.

Before he’s even said hello, Hoseok’s voice cuts through the phone. “How’s your exhibit coming along?” 

“Good morning, Hoseok. How was your sleep? Mine was lovely, thank you for asking.” 

There’s a sigh that comes through the phone. “I slept great. So how’s your exhibit?”

“It’s coming along.”

“Word on the street is that you’re getting close to Y/N.”

He catches a look at himself from the entrance mirror and is glad Hoseok can’t see him right now. There’s a small constellation on the dip of his collarbone from a couple nights ago. “We’re working together on the exhibit, yeah.”

“Yoongi, I’m serious. I’m glad that you’re editing and taking photos; I really am. I just think—if you are more than just coworkers—you should take it slow. You remember what happened last time-”

“It’s not like that this time Hoseok.”

“I know. But it’s happened before. You always fall too hard, too fast and then you don’t know how to dig yourself out of the hole when it’s over. “

Yoongi gently shuts the door behind him, shoves his free hand into his coat pocket. “When do I need to send you the pictures?” 

Another sigh. This one is heavier than the other. “Next Friday.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then.”

“Just take care of yourself, Yoongi.”

“I know,” there’s a hum from the other end before he presses end call. “Trust me, I know.” 

[Love Looks Pretty On You.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A girl turning around to smile at the camera as she holds the hand of the photographer. There’s a lens flare at the upper left corner of the picture. She glows as she smiles, sunlight hitting her cheekbones. The picture is a bust shot, and though the girl is in the centre of frame, she is slightly out of focus: the photo is mainly focused on the interlocked hands due to the depth of field.]

It’s strange how in love you are with the mundane. You like coffeeshop dates, holding hands in public, and the ability to walk down the streets without covering up your face, things Yoongi has never thought twice about. He prefers time spent in doors, tucked away with food and natural lighting. But you prefer the outdoors, the sun on your face, even if it isn’t the great outdoors. No, you like pavement and parks and everything in between if it means you don’t have to cover up. 

“I’ve never really had that,” you told him once, mouth stuffed with street food. “I’ve always been conscious of the way people look at me, how they’re going to view me, and the eyes. I’m always aware of people’s eyes on me. Growing up in the spotlight, working in this industry for so long meant I don’t get to have the normal things in life.”

So he tries to take you out more, though more often than not, it ends with the two of you running away from shadows and bright lights. More often than not, the two of you find your way to his or your apartment, tucked away from the eyes of everyone else with take out spread across the floor. He dreads the moment you pull your hands away from him, when the hands on the clock move too quickly for his taste. Tonight, however, he has you all to himself. 

So, he takes his time: delicately arranges the bouquet of purple across your chest and up your thighs, gently plucks your moans from your lips, and plants kisses on the field of your shoulder blades when the bloom of pleasure becomes too much. 

Your chest gently rises and falls under the white sheet, while his heart rapidly flutters inside his ribcage. Before he knows it, his fingers are on camera, trying to immortalise the moment before time takes it away from him too. 

When the shutter goes off, you bring your hand to his, pull his body to yours, and nuzzle your face in his shoulder. “So.”

“So?”

“Exhibition soon. Have you figured it out?” You pull back and trace your finger along the constellation you drew on to his chest. “What it feels like to fall in love?” 

He’s not sure. It feels fast: time seems to slip through his fingers when he’s with you. It feels slow: every moment is a picture frame, a freeze frame of a small infinity. It feels quiet: neither of you are loud, reveling in the silence and the quiet, sharing the same breath. It feels loud: you smile and he hears the sirens go off, ringing his mind until it’s drowned out by the pounding in his chest. I don’t know. It just feels different with you, he wants to say, but it sounds stupid in his head. It’s similar to how he felt like with Seokjin, but brighter, a saturation of colours and experiences. 

“Feels like you,” he tugs you closer. 

His brows furrow when you reach away from him, and he tries to pull you back: he reaches for your hand, but you slip away from him with a small smile. “Tea. I’ll be back.” 

He hears the pitter patter of your footsteps as you walk into the hallway, and he waits for you to come back. He waits and waits, until his eyelids grow too heavy.

When he blinks again, the light is shining through your curtains. The blanket is tucked under his chin, but the bed is empty. He rolls over, but it’s cold. 

The pillow doesn’t smell like you.

[Apparition.JPEG]

[Alt Image: A picture of someone’s eyes. The eyes are staring directly into the lens. One eye is lighter than the other, due to the angle of the sunlight. Although they are in the center of frame, the face is turned slightly to the side, as though they turned around for this picture.]

It gets harder and harder to meet you through the interstices of your schedule: you text him less and less, and he finds himself trying to find every possible reason to see you. 

Did you eat? 

Are you free anytime soon?

I miss you.

Every short text finds an even shorter response, crammed between short breaks. He spends more time fiddling with his phone, shooting up at the glow of his screen, than he does with his camera. His camera sits on his nightstand, untouched for the past few days: every time he tries to take a picture, all he can see is you. You laughing at dumb cat videos he sends you. You squealing in delight as the unpredictable Seoul weather brings rainfall. You leaning your head against the glass, lost in thought. 

He sees you in unfinished pizza boxes and unfinished netflix shows and half empty mugs strewn around. He finds you in everything. So when you show up at his doorstep, pizza box in hand and hat over your head, he almost dismisses you as an apparition. 

You stick your foot in his doorway to stop him from shutting the door. “You’re not kicking me out so soon? Not when I brought pizza?” 

He takes the pizza box from you, still a little unsure if you’re real, but then you call his name.

“Hi Yoongi,” you smile, and it’s so much prettier than he remembers. He knows you’ve had a long day—eyes glazed, shoulders drooping, smile falling—and something about the way you’re trying to hold your smile makes a corner of his chest squeeze tighter, until it hurts to breathe. He’s not sure what to say, not sure how to move past the breathlessness, so the two of you wordlessly chew on your pizzas. 

When the tension grows thick, the silence hard to breathe through, the clump of feelings in the pit of his stomach feels harder to hold on to, so he blurts out, “I love you.” 

His confession rings through the room, echoes in the silence, and crashes against your chest. Though neither of you say anything, he continues to hear the ripples in his head, his voice repeating over and over again. You don’t look at him, and his leg won’t stop bouncing, his hands won’t stop fidgeting with the camera settings. 

“I love you,” he says once more, just in case you didn’t hear it. He hopes your silence is because you didn’t hear it the first time. He knows better, from the way you bite your lip (your nervous habit) to the way you shrink into yourself (another tick he’s noticed). 

“I should leave. I have an early shoot tomorrow.” you stand. The smile plastered on your face makes him want to hurl, too reminiscent of your first meeting when you held him at an arm’s distance. When Seokjin held him at an arm’s distance, right before he told Yoongi I don���t think I’m the person you’re in love with. I don’t think this is going to work out. When Seokjin smiled and told him I’m sorry but wasn’t sorry enough to answer the phone when Yoongi’s heart was bloody and broken and drenched in alcohol. 

“But I love you,” it’s quiet and hoarse this time, and Yoongi doesn’t know if you can hear it over the sound of his heart breaking, but you turn around. The smile on your face—brilliant and dazzling and empty—burns something in him, the hollowness of his chest suddenly swelling with rage.“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“That,” Yoongi motions to you, brows furrowed and anger coating his tongue. “Stop looking at me like I'm a screenplay and a set, like you’re trying to read me and understand what I want. I don’t want anything from you.”

“That’s ridiculous. Everyone wants something.”

“Fine. I want you to be you. not what looks best on screen, not what you think I want you to be. But you. I want you to be you.”

“What’s that supposed to be like? Being me?” the anger lacing your voice, the way your smile drops quickly off your face, makes Yoongi’s anger fizzle out into a cold chill. “You don’t realise how biased the camera is, how you’re seeing the picture the way you want to, the way you want to frame things? Tell me you look at me and you don’t see what could be changed. that you don’t see how you would adjust the exposure, how to narrow or widen the depth of field.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, mouth glued shut and sticking together with shame. There’s a heat licking up his neck to his cheeks that burns through his skin and into his chest that only grows hotter when you continue. 

“My job is to give people what they want, squeeze myself into a character and a script. Become a fantasy they can project on. I’ve spent my entire life being different people and fitting myself into the role they want me to play. I don't exist, Yoongi. I only exist between action and cut. I am constantly in some form of a take. I am constantly shooting different movies for different people, being the different characters they want me to be. You want something from me too, Yoongi. Don’t you get it?”

He forces himself to look up at you. 

“Did you like me for me, Yoongi?” You tilt your head, eyes tired. “Or did you like me because something about me reminded you of your ex?”

Yoongi recoils, hurt spilling out of his veins. He opens and closes his mouth, but nothing falls out. Instead, it’s another roll of memories that plays through his head. 

I think we should break up, Seokjin tells him and Yoongi drops his fork. When you look at me, it feels like you’re seeing someone else, a version of me that exists only in your head. 

Who are you seeing when you take a picture, Yoongi? 

Who am I to you? 

What do you see through the lenses?  

When you smile this time, it’s more of a grimace, like his silence gives you an answer. Your eyes fall to the floor, shoulders trembling as you laugh humorlessly, and you start to leave.

Yoongi tries to say something—anything, the correct thing—and frantically pulls at his brain. “But I love you.”

That makes you stop. You stay at the doorstep, hand gripping the doorknob, but don’t turn to face him. He waits for you to say something, anything, for you to turn around. But you don’t. 

You open the door and close it behind you, never looking back. 

He’s alone again. 

[Blank.JPEG]

[alt.image: A black square. Darkness. The absence of light. The shade of broken heart. Is it nothing or everything? Is it too much or too little?]

Everything about you is intentional, from the tilt in your head (precise and exact, calculated) to the gleam in your eyes. The way your lips curl as you smile. 

He wonders if his broken heart was also something written into the script, if he was playing the role of a character he never signed up for, if his broken heart was something you calculated from the very start, just like the angle of your head tilts and degrees of your smile. 

His camera suddenly feels all too heavy, too fragile, and too much like his heart. If he wasn’t a photographer, would he have met you? In another world, would he have seen you through the view of his camera, just a subject and nothing else? No coffee dates and rooftop talks, no heartbreaks? He grips his camera tighter, and a flare of anger rushes through him, filtering every other thought and piercing through his vision. When he blinks and the lights settle, there’s a dull sense of pain near his foot and a dent in the wall. 

There’s shards of broken lenses on the floor, but he shuffles back to bed, sob clawing at his throat. 

Maybe you were like a film camera, brilliant and beautiful at first glance. Until the film is dipped into chemistry and developed and the errors are hung out to dry. 

So why does it hurt so much? 

There’s a loud bzzt bzzt coming from the side of his bed as sleep clings to his eyelashes and glues his eyes shut, exhaustion still running through his veins. His fingers fumble, groping in the darkness, for the source of the noise until his fingers clasp around his phone and silence it. He rubs his face in his pillow and lets himself settle in again, sleep creeping back when—bzzt, bzzt—there’s another round of vibrations from his phone. Yoongi knows he turned on the do not disturb mode, so he doesn’t contemplate answering when his fingers make contact with his phone, pressing the side button to shut it off. 

He shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn’t call his name. Neither does Hoseok.

Instead Hoseok gently shuts the door after slipping off his shoes at the entrance. He makes his way over towards the bed, and Yoongi pulls the covers over his head. He waits for the tug, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a gentle dip to the side of him when Hoseok takes a seat, silent. 

They sit like that for a while, Yoongi gently breathing—up and down, up and down—with a chest that feels broken and a heart that rattles inside his ribcage. He still feels the hum of alcohol in his system, sloshing in his lungs as they rise and fall.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” Hoseok’s voice vibrates through the silence. “I’m sorry you were hurt. But you can’t keep yourself holed up.”

Yoongi shifts under the blankets, but doesn’t say anything. He wonders if sleep would drag him under if he pretended long enough. His head is throbbing, and he wants another drink, but he knows Hoseok won’t let him while he’s still here. He knows because the last time he was heartbroken, he shut himself inside his apartment for two months until he was more alcohol than water. He stopped going out, stopped answering phone calls, stopped taking pictures because everything reminded him of Seokjin. 

Now that his camera is broken, he can’t be reminded of you. He drinks up until he can forget, until the film of memories is damaged, so he can fall asleep. When he wakes up and he remembers you still, he drinks up again to forget, shot after shot after shot. He doesn’t want to remember. 

“I called RKive. Told them you weren’t doing it.”

“Okay,” he whispers. Yoongi’s so tired and his head hurts, and he just wants to get this over with as quickly as he can so Hoseok can leave and Yoongi can pour out his sorrows into a shot glass that never seems to run dry. 

I don’t want to be the reason you don’t do this. 

He wishes he could stop hearing your voice in his head, stop seeing you in every corner of his room, stop smelling your perfume on his sheets. He just wants to go to sleep, dream in black. Stop remembering you. 

“I’m sorry, Yoongi.”

“Okay,” he whispers. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Are you heartbroken?

“Yeah,” the tears fall and his shoulders shake when he sobs. “Yeah, I think I’m heartbroken.”

“Oh Yoongi,” Hoseok hugs him close, and Yoongi lets out the wail that’s been stuck in his chest the past week. For the first time, he wants to let go instead of take in, so he weeps into Hoseok’s chest, until his throat is dry from the sounds it’s making. His body trembles from the stuttering in his chest and the remnants of his sobs. 

“I just want to stop hurting,” he hiccups into Hoseok’s shoulder as Hoseok gently pats him on the back. 

“I know. I know.”

“How do I stop hurting?”

Hoseok gently peels himself away from Yoongi until he’s looking at him directly in the eyes. “You have to learn to find closure. Whether that’s talking to her, making art, or just going about your routines until it doesn’t hurt anymore. You have to try.”

“What if I’m not ready to move on?”

I don’t think we’re ever ready. But we do it anyway. Because we never know until we try, right?

“Moving on isn’t a step; it’s a goal, Yoongi,” Hoseok squeezes his hands. “You can work towards it. But it’s a conscious choice we make and conscious steps we take. And when you make those steps, it gets easier to breathe and visit places you used to. And one day, you’ll look around and realise that you’ve done it. Maybe not completely, but enough. But you can’t just hole yourself up in your apartment or flee the country. You have to try.”

Hoseok’s eyes are soft when Yoongi looks at him, and Yoongi understands that he’s never allowed himself to move on from Seokjin, just slapped a bandaid over his wound and pretended it didn’t exist. When he met you, he used you as a gauze to staunch the injury and called it healing. He didn’t notice that he bled all over you, didn’t see that you were bleeding over the red of his blood on your wounds. You were trying to tell him you were hurting, and he was too fixated on how similar you were to Seokjin, how he found love again, to hear. 

“Hoseok,” Yoongi reaches out for his arm, squeezes his hand. “I want to do it.”

“Do what?”

“The exhibit,” his voice is muffled under his insecurities, but he wants this. “I want to do it.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he lies. “I think I need to do it. For me. To move on.” He’s not sure if he’s ready; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready. So he takes the step anyways. 

Yoongi knows Hoseok is thrilled: he hasn’t stopped smiling since before the exhibition, when there was a crowd of people outside waiting to enter the exhibition, and even before that, when Yoongi was collecting the photos and taking more. Yoongi’s worked tirelessly through the nights to meet the Valentine’s Day exhibit deadline, but now that he’s here, he’s a little proud of himself. 

He should find Hoseok, tell him thank you. He should also talk to Namjoon, the owner, and congratulate Jimin, Namjoon’s assistant, on a successful exhibition. He should talk to Jeongguk, the painter, about the rose installation piece that’s at the centre of the gallery. He should talk to Vante about the giant photograph of a bird’s eye view of Seoul. He should, but he’s looking for you. 

You were the only guest he wanted to invite, even when Hoseok raised an eyebrow at him and asked him if he really wanted to do this. (He did. He texted you over the course of two weeks and deleted each message before it was sent. In the end, he sent you his heart the old fashioned way, with stamps and an envelope, and sealed it with the hope that you’ll receive it in time.) He doesn’t think you’ll come, so he tampers down the anticipation, tries to not look for your laughter or hear the way your eyes form crescents when you smile too hard. Despite the invitation, he doesn’t know if he’s ready to see you again, so he tries to keep himself busy and talk to the visitors about the pictures. He tries to not think about you. 

But it’s hard when you’re all he has up for his exhibit, when your face is at every corner. When you’re all he’s been able to think about. 

And as it slowly starts to get closer to the close, he tries to not be disappointed. He puts on a smile and asks Jeongguk about the sun and moon holding hands, discusses lighting techniques with Vante, and manages to make Jimin beam with pride when he compliments him about how nice the exhibit set up is. 

When the clock strikes 5, Yoongi packs up his camera and tucks it into his bag with his disappointment and begins to head out. 

“Take care, Jimin.”

“Bye, Yoongi!” Jimin chirps. “By the way! There’s a lady in front of your exhibit. I think she was captivated by it; she’s been standing there for the past half hour if you want to talk to her!”

A very familiar silhouette greets him. 

“I didn’t think you’d come.” 

You don’t turn around to face him, just stand there looking up at the picture of you smiling at the camera with the covers pulled up to your chin. He hears the people in the background, the faint hum of murmurs and laughters, but you stand there, quiet and arms crossed. He takes a step towards you before shuffling back to his original spot, shifting his eyes to the portraits before him. 

At first glance, you are the same girl in the portraits, but the longer he looks at the portraits, at you from the peripherals in his vision, the less the two of you look alike. The girl in the photographs is soft and bright and sunny, draped in warm light and colour corrections, saturated in happiness. The girl in front of him is worn down and exhausted, cloaked in disguises and fronts that she doesn’t have the strength to put on properly. “I remember this day, but I don’t remember it like that.” You nod towards the picture in front of you. 

“What’s it like? In your memories?” he asks, and wants to take it back. There’s too many questions bubbling inside of him—Did you love me? Do you remember how I smiled when you did? What do your frames of memory look like? Do they look like mine, painted in a golden filter?—but he doesn’t know how to develop them into words. He’s not sure he wants to compare the photographs of your memories in the fear it’ll corrupt his. 

You’re radio silent, so he stands there, shuffling his feet back and forth as his heart drops with each second. He understands what you meant, back at the rooftop, when you had said about riding a rollercoaster: he sees the answer to your question before you’ve spoken, sees the damage he’s caused through the lens of hindsight. Yet some part of him still wants to hear the words from you. 

“I don’t remember a lot of it. I remember it was going well. And then I just remember the hurt. I remember realising you saw someone else when you looked at me, just like everyone else. How I wished I could take back everything from the beginning. I wished I could take back the first time I met you. What would it have been like if I had said no? Would it still hurt?”

“I’m sorry,” his hand reaches out for you automatically, too used to the warmth of your body and the lull of your heartbeat to alleviate the stiffness in his chest, but he pulls his hand back as he realises there is too much space between the two of you: he’s not sure if you want to shorten the distance, if you want him at all. 

“Why did you say yes?” he asks instead of what he really wants to ask. “To this. To being the subject. You could have said no.”

“I could have.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because you seemed genuine.You looked like you were genuinely looking for a reason—for something, for anything, for purpose—and I liked that. I haven’t met a lot of people like that. Genuine. Earnest.” Your body turns to him, but your gaze is still brushing against the floor and clinging to your hands. “I think a part of me wanted, desperately, to be the source of your purpose. So I let myself believe that you genuinely wanted me for me.” 

“I think I loved you.”

“I think the both of us were looking for someone to love,” the corners of your mouth wobble, a pale imitation of the blown up picture of your smile on the wall. “Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. Because we were blinded by our desperation.” 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. The way you look—so curled up in yourself and so vulnerable—slowly makes him realise there’s so much to you he wasn’t able to see. Were there more moments you tried to open up to him, only to have him turn a blind eye because he was still thinking about Seokjin?

“I wish I had met you later. Maybe in a different universe, you and I have a different story line, one where when you and I meet, I have learned to accept love and you have learned to accept heartbreak. Maybe we would have been ready for each other then.” Your smile wobbles, just as it did last time, and Yoongi’s heart wobbles too. When you start to walk away, he tastes the bitterness of his memories surfacing. 

“Wait!” he reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezes it a little too tight. When you turn, eyes wide, it feels like a scene he’s seen somewhere before, a picture he used to know. “We could. We could start over. We could make that universe this one.” 

“I don’t-I’m not following.” 

He drops your hand and offers you his. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Yoongi.”

“Yoongi, I’m not-”

“What’s your name?” 

“Y/N,” you tentatively take his hand and shake it. 

“It’s nice to meet you for the first time. This is my exhibit,” you smile, head tilted in confusion, but the light in your eyes is warm, so he keeps going,” and I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee? 

You bite your lip, but don’t let his hand go. He tries to keep his smile on his face, but his heart is beating with the force of a supernova and he feels his nails cut through the skin of his anticipation. When you look down at his hand, he knows you can feel the tremors that run through it, the electricity of anxiety crackling through his veins, but he keeps his eyes on you and the way your eyes search his for clues, for cues and stage directions. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” you smile, and it feels like the first time he’s seeing you. 

He’s not sure, this time, of the damage: he’s not sure he can anticipate the fall, the wreckage caused. Doesn’t know if he wants to. 

It’s a brand new film strip. A new camera. A new storyline. 

He’s never been more ready. 

[spinsterlocity-writes]

High-Jinx, Part II

Characters - Characters -Jim Kirk, Hikaru Sulu, Female Reader, Eventual Leonard McCoy x Female Reader

Summary - Jim, Sulu, and you take your newly germinated plant and shenanigans ensue.

Word Count - 1,174

Warnings - Recreational drug use, cussing, jackassery

Disclaimer- I do not own Star Trek, Jim Kirk, Hikaru Sulu, or Leonard McCoy. I just write for fun.

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Part I

The following day passed without much incident. Most of the crew was focused on shore leave. Jim and Hikaru gave you goofy and conspiratorial looks when they saw you. You’d just smile and roll your eyes at your two best friends. What had you gotten yourself into?

Hikaru and Jim arrived at your door at 21:00 sharp.

“Hello, boys,” you said in a husky voice and exaggerated pout.

Hikaru shook his head and laughed.

“Let’s get fucked up,” Jim pushed his way passed Sulu into your quarters.

“Make yourselves at home,” you said following them into your living room.

You plopped down on your sofa, opened a small envelope, and pulled out 2 leaves. Jim and Hikaru were practically vibrating with excitement. You chuckled and tore one of the leaves in half.

“Okay, you excitable kittens,” you handed them half a leaf each. “Eat this and relax.”

“Hang on, why do you get a whole leaf?” Hikaru asked as he lounged back on your sofa.

“Because I know how to manage my high, Sulu. And we don’t know how much is too much for you two yet. Just hang out and if nothing happens, I’ll give you a little more.”

“Y/N, what if I’m allergic to this stuff?” Jim asked, suddenly nervous.

“Relax, I looked over the list of things you’re allergic to and you’re in the clear.” You patted his knee, “We’ll go to the medbay if anything happens.” Hikaru scratched the back of his neck and Jim drummed his fingers on his thighs

“Why does this feel like a clinical trial but less fun?” you sighed, grabbed your PADD and turned on some music. “You guys want a soda or something?” you asked while walking to the replicator.

“Lemonade, please,” Hikaru said, his head bopping to the music.

“Cola, for me thanks,” Jim smiled.

“Did you guys hear Scotty cussing up a storm earlier? What was that about?” you handed them their drinks.

“Oh, yeah! He found two Ensigns trying to get it on in a Jeffries tube,” Jim cackled.

“I guess shore leave started early for some people,” Sulu snorted.

All three of you broke into a fit of giggles. You sat around, talked, and listened to music for a while. Somehow, you started telling each other the worst jokes you knew.

“A man walks into a bar. Ouch.” Jim said, suddenly cracking up.

“I think it’s starting to kick in!” you wiped tears from your eyes. “Because that wasn’t that funny but I can’t stop laughing at it.”

“I feel tingly. Is that supposed to happen?” Hikaru asked and took a sip of his soda.

“It can.” you shifted on the sofa, getting more comfortable. “I get sort of a tingly sensation that starts in my feet and spreads through my whole body and becomes this nice fuzzy feeling.” You tucked your feet under you.

“That sounds nice,” Jim said dreamily.

“You okay there, Kirk?” you asked.

“Mhmm,” he replied and rested his head on your shoulder.

You smiled and played with his hair as he happily sighed.

Hikaru leaned against the other arm of the sofa and tucked his feet under himself.

You looked over and giggled, “Sulu, we look like bookends!”

“We do!” Hikaru laughed. “I’m hungry,” he suddenly announced.

“Ooh, let’s replicate some food!” Jim said excitedly as he poked your thigh.

“Okay!” you replied as you pushed his hand away from you.

All three of you were soon full of your favorite snack food and arguing about the best possible deck for sliding around on socked feet.

“I’m telling you, it’s near engineering!” Hikaru argued.

“Sulu, I love you but you’re wrong. It’s definitely near the med bay. Those floors are so clean you can eat off of them. Perfect for sliding,” you disagreed.

“I think Y/N’s right. Plus it would annoy the shit out of Bones and I can never pass up the opportunity to annoy him,” Jim laughed.

“Then it’s settled, near the med bay it is!” you smiled.

Leonard McCoy was finishing up paperwork when he heard raucous laughter outside the med bay. The laughter of Jim, Hikaru, and yourself to be precise.

“Dammit, what are those three up to now?” he sighed.

When he exited the med bay he saw Hikaru in front of Jim and they were both on their hands and knees giggling.

“Hurry up, Y/N. We gotta play Kick the Can after this!” Hikaru laughed.

“Alright, I’m goin’, I’m goin’! This one’s for the gold!” you yelled and jumped over Jim.

“What in the Sam Hill are you idiots doing?!” Leonard yelled. He startled you and you lost your balance after you jumped over Hikaru and landed with an oof on the floor in front of him.

“Uh oh, we just got busted by Space Dad,” Hikaru giggled, setting off a fit of cackles from you and Jim.

Leonard helped you up off the floor and took your face in his hands.

“Your pupils are dilated, are you okay? he asked, ignoring Jim and Hikaru’s laughter.

You pushed his hands away from your face and said, “Get your hands off me, McCoy, unless you’re going to touch me someplace interesting,” you winked.

Leonard sputtered and looked at Jim and Hikaru. “All of your pupils are dilated. What’s going on?”

“I figured out a way to germinate a plant that’s essentially edible cannabis leaves,” you shrugged.

“It’s kind of minty,” Jim giggled.

“You gave it to Jim?! He’s allergic to everything!” Leonard yelled.

“Calm down, Leonard! I know what I’m doing! I’ve been testing it for months and I’ve been monitoring Jim for possible allergic reactions. I am a scientist, you know,” you replied with a huff.

“You three are going to be the death of me,” Leonard ran a hand from his forehead to his chin.

“Listen, I’ve written my findings in a report and researched intergalactic law and Starfleet rules about this. I’ve covered my ass, I’m not going to jeopardize my dream job over this, McCoy. You can read my findings anytime you want,” you said. “Now, relax,” you smiled.

“Relax, she says, after I find her playing Leapfrog with the ship’s captain and senior helmsman. Where’d you find out about this ancient kid’s game anyway?” Leonard scoffed.

“I looked up historical kid’s games once. Leapfrog and Kick the Can sounded like fun,” you grinned. Leonard shook his head.

“I’m starrrrving! Let’s go replicate a pizza. NO! Tacos! NO! pizza AND tacos!” Jim said.

“I’m going to get these two some food. Wanna join us?” you asked.

“No, thank you. I’m going to bed, I think I’ve seen enough of your shenanigans for tonight. I’ll find you during leave to read those findings. We’re all staying at the same hotel, right?”

“Yep. Have a good night, Leonard,” you lightly touched his arm.

Leonard watched you, Jim, and Hikaru gather your shoes and socks and run barefoot around the corner to the elevator.

He shook his head and smiled, “She’s trouble. I’m in trouble.”

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 14 first part

(RR The Untamed Masterpost) (Canary’s Pinboard - more Masterposts) 

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Murder Turtle, Continued

Lan Wangji wakes up after a good night's sleep leaning against a rock wall, to find that his leg is no longer splinted, and his perfectly clean and unbloody headband has been put back on his head while he was sleeping.

Leaving aside the "not waking up" part of things, how, exactly, did Wei Wuxian get his headband on without mussing his hair? Did he bring a crochet hook?

Wei Wuxian gives him a sitrep and then they cozy up and have an extended conversation about the nature and history of the Tortoise of Slaughter. Wei Wuxian is interested in everything Lan Wangji has to say, and Lan Wangji talks a lot more than usual; they are completely on the same wavelength here and are enjoying swapping obscure knowledge.

Lan Wangji: My lacerated leg and I are actually super aware that it has big teeth, but thanks for the reminder.

In the course of the conversation, Wei Wuxian mentions his plan to 1. sneak into the tortoise's shell and 2. drive it out of its shell so they can attack it. 

OP did a little tortoise research and learned that the only species of turtle that can leave its shell is the Koopa Troopa.

Good news for Wei Wuxian: If you jump on its shell in the right spot, you can rack up a pile of extra lives.

Does that make the Tortoise of Slaughter a giant Koopa Troopa? Perhaps...the king of the Koopa Troopas?

I'm gonna say yes.

(More after the cut)

Let’s Go Killing

Wei Wuxian is exhilarated by the idea of fighting a giant dangerous monster with Lan Wangji. Some day Wei Wuxian will found the Nike clan, because his motto is definitely "Just do it." 

It's sweet how, in his romantic notions about chivalry and Lan Wangji, he's completely elided the original reason they were (sort of) told to venture together. 

Wei Wuxian: I'm still on the "find the Yin Iron" quest; I'm just skipping the "suppress it" part.  

Wei Wuxian weighs up their chances against Bowser and tells Lan Wangji that even if they die, it will be badass to be killed by a famous monster, so they won't have to feel embarrassed.

This is the exact moment that Lan Wangji's feelings for Wei Wuxian go from "smitten" to "gagging for it."

Lan Wangji: as soon as we get out of here I'm going to borrow a whole lot of books from Nie Huaisang

The boys come up with a plan that involves a rather long montage of collecting archery equipment and deconstructing it. This potentially-dull montage is fun to watch because they are both very, very good looking.

Artists who want to draw Wang Yibo as an elven archer, this is your episode.

Now we suddenly have, with zero explanation, telepathy. Ok, sure. It seems to work kind of like a phone conversation, in which they say specific things to each other, rather than like Cherry Magic telepathy where you can hear everything the other person is thinking. Or at least, neither of them is embarrassed, so I assume they are maintaining some mental privacy.

Club Ruohan

Same, Wen Chao, same

At some point there is a boring sequence at Club Ruohan.  Wen Ruohan doesn't know where Xue Yang is, but really wants his hunk of Yin Iron. Wen Chao thinks that WRH's 3 pieces of Yin Iron should be able to beat Xue Yang's 1 piece, but apparently he is dumb and that is not how math works. O...kay? OP does not understand this either but whatever, Wen Ruohan is boring, moving on. This scene is really just here to make us think about Yin Iron before Wei Wuxian jumps into Bowser's shell.

Bigger On The Inside

So then Wei Wuxian climbs into Bowser's shell, which is, to quote The 12th Doctor, bigger on the inside.

Bowser’s shell is the approximate size of my entire house. It is also bathed in a hellish pure red photo filter, which OP has done her best to remove for these gifs, because it gives me eye strain and it obscures Xiao Zhan's hotness.

Camera Operator: What did I do? 

Wei Wuxian wanders around inside, finding random corpses encased in slime cocoons. Tortoise, spider, xenomorph, whatever. There are also random curtain things hanging all over, and then at one point Wei Wuxian stares into the face of a corpse, and then does a jump scare response at the camera operator even though nothing particular happened. 

I imagine the corpse was supposed to open its eyes and say "killl meeee" but it got censored. He also makes about 8 other faces at the camera operator, so we get that the inside of this TARDIS-like tortoise shell (must...resist...temptation...to...say...TORDIS) is yucky.

Lan Wangji waits outside listening to Wei Wuxian telepathically complain about the smell.  He is anxiously clenching a bundle of string and an arrow, and wishing he could clench Wei Wuxian Bichen instead.

Serendipitous Yin Iron

Wei Wuxian backs his way through the TORDIS until his butt bumps into a sword that is steaming with resentful energy. That's right: Wei Wuxian is about to pull a piece of Yin Iron almost literally out of his ass.

He grabs it and is overwhelmed by its screaming resentful energy and has to let it go again.

So this is what a vibrator with 4 batteries feels like

When Bowser comes looking for him, however, he quickly decides to go for it, grabbing the sword and singing "I've Got the Power (Gonna Make You Sweat)"

Wei Wuxian plunges the sword into Bowser's lower jaw, and Bowser pulls his entire head out of his shell with Wei Wuxian attached, while leaving the rest of his body and all rational laws of physics inside the shell.

Gamera Versus the Cultivators

What follows is one of the more ridiculous action sequences in the history of the world, and I say that as someone who likes Mothra movies. 

Wei Wuxian hovers in a perfect horizontal plank while “hanging from” the sword, which is held well below the level of his torso. While Bowser spins him around. For much of the time, Bowser keeps his head still and just waves his neck around.

Lan Wangji and the camera operator do everything they possibly can to make "guy pulls on string" look interesting. 

Everybody tries really, really hard and the actors are great at pretending something is there when it isn't, but this whole sequence is just horribly conceived.

What works well, though, is the Yin energy and Wei Wuxian's wrangling of it. He starts off being frightened and overwhelmed, and looking like it's too much for him; I dont' know if they made his face puffy on purpose or if that's just what happens when you spend days hanging from the ceiling fighting an imaginary monster. But he looks slack and unwell as he grapples with the iron sword.

Which makes this moment, when he gets control of it, deliciously creepy. He uses the power of the Yin Iron to stick a bunch of pokey things into Bowser's neck.

Lan Wangji has seen him struggling and now sees him...not struggling. Which scares the piss out of him, and he moves to finish the fight as quickly as possible, slicing up his hand and breaking the string. Combined with the pokey things, this does the trick and Bowser dies while Wei Wuxian faints and falls into the water.

Do the Whumpty Whump

Lan Wangji rescues him and wakes him up, and Wei Wuxian clutches the Yin Iron sword and tells Lan Wangji that he was knocked out by the screaming of disembodied voices.

This certainly sounds like a strange and dangerous phenomenon, so Lan Wangji carefully asks him to explain everything.

Ha ha ha j/k. Lan Wangji asks him exactly nothing about the strange sword or the black smoke or his weird evil smile or his new power over pointy objects. Lan Wangji appears to have a Star Trek: TNG level of unconcern about strange phenomena happening directly under his nose. But in fact he has noticed what's up, which is why he will be instantly distressed when he sees Wei Wuxian's flute moves at the Wen Corporate Headquarters.

Wei Wuxian has a fever (stay positive test negative) and comments on Lan Wangji's being so nice to him.

Wei Wuxian: I could never have imagined Lan Er Gongzi acting this concerned about me. Lan Wangji: what else have you never imagined me doing, while we're on the subject? 

Lan Wangji transfers a stream of spiritual energy to him. Lan Wangji has so much spiritual power he can be a battery for Wei Wuxian without breaking a sweat or, like, noticing whether Wei Wuxian has a golden core or not, for that matter.

Wei Wuxian basks in the nice feeling of gigajoules for a while but then decides he's bored. So then he pouts, whines, and cajoles Lan Wangji in exactly, EXACTLY the way he whines at Jiang Yanli.  I think this, while annoying of him, is a leap forward in his relationship with Lan Wangji.

He's letting his guard down and not just allowing Lan Wangji to take care of him; he's demanding to be cared for on multiple vectors, when he asks the guy who's already busy healing him to sing to him as well.

Lan Wangji obliges, singing him the song he composed about their love cultivation journey, while Wei Wuxian (or possibly Lan Wangji) (or possibly both) has a flashback to assorted sexy interactions that they've had so far.

Wei Wuxian memorizes the song perfectly on one hearing, before passing out.

Writing Prompt: Baldur’s Gate III / Untamed Crossover AU featuring elf archer Lan Wangji

I DARE YOU

Soundtrack: 1. Everybody Dance Now by C+C Music Factory 2. Paradise by the Dashboard Light by Meatloaf 

Wei Wuxian fainting tally (cumulative): 3

[beauregardlionett]

this poem is my confessional (loving you isn’t a sin)

AO3 Link

A/N: big shout out to my man @sadwizardvibes for the inspiration AND for writing me a fucking song to go with this piece thanks for fueling my beauyasha brainrot man <3

If she was honest with herself, giving Beau that poem had been entirely an impulse decision. Yasha had told Jester she would work on it—which she did—and that she would find a special moment for it. But most of the moments she shared with Beau were special to her, so that didn’t exactly narrow things down. She cherished every conversation and tried her hardest to keep Beau safe. Especially after the events at the chantry, Yasha appreciated every moment she got with Beau.

So, she had handed the paper over and prayed she didn’t embarrass herself.

Beau had seemed flustered, touched, and Yasha had wanted nothing more than to kiss her then and there. But she had held back, because she wanted Beau to at least read the poem before anything else happened.

And then all of that insanity with Vess and Molly—no, Lucien—had happened, and Yasha found herself grateful nothing else had transpired between her and Beau. She hated to think the memory of their potential first kiss might have been marred by the events following.

Regardless, they were underway toward Aeor; the snowy landscapes were taxing, endless, and a little boring. Supposedly it was a good thing they had encountered none of the foretold beasts, but Yasha harbored a lot of pent up frustration and nerves. It would be nice to have something to take that out on.

At the end of their second day, Caleb set up his tower. He ushered them all inside to a haven of warmth and stained glass they were becoming steadily more familiar with. Dagon seemed understandably impressed with the magical structure and grateful for the guest room he was directed to.

Usually they would gather up for dinner together, but there seemed to be a silent, unanimous decision that exhaustion took precedence. They retired to their various rooms with yawns and quiet ‘good nights’, safe for the time being. Yasha lay on her back on the cot in the room with the floral mural. She traced an absent gaze over the patterns, identifying flowers in her head and hoping it would lull her anxious mind to sleep.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Molly—Lucien—and what they would do when they caught up to him. Yasha couldn’t stop thinking about Beau, about the poem she carefully tucked away to read later. Yasha couldn’t help but remember of Zualla as she stared at the flowers on her wall.

There was a knock at her door.

Pushing to her feet after a moment, Yasha walked to her door to poke her head out. She was confused about who might be at her door at this hour until her eyes found Beau fidgeting on the other side of the threshold.

“Hi,” Beau mumbled, hands behind her back.

“Hi,” Yasha breathed back, opening the door a little wider. “Are you okay? It’s late.”

“Yeah,” Beau said, voice pitching up a little at the end in a tell Yasha quickly realized meant she was nervous. “Yeah, I just uh…”

Yasha raised an eyebrow at Beau’s nerves, unused to a Beau who floundered. She realized in the second before Beau pulled the piece of parchment out from behind her back what this was about. The Aasimar flushed pink and her eyes flicked to the ground, embarrassed.

“This was…really beautiful, Yasha,” Beau mumbled, fingers fiddling with the edges of the paper. “But I uh…I noticed this.”

Yasha chanced a look up, Beau extending the paper and pointing to a tiny note scrawled in the bottom corner. She had forgotten about that.

In her messy, cramped handwriting, Yasha had scrawled the word harp? She had been considering turning her poem into a song, because it was always easier for her to express things through music. Plus, she knew that Beau enjoyed her music, so why wouldn’t she put it to chords? But Yasha ended up pushing the idea aside. It was one thing for Beau to like Yasha’s wordless performances, and a whole other for Yasha to direct poetry with music toward the woman of her affection.

“It was…just an idea,” Yasha said with a half-hearted dismissive gesture.

“Would you play it for me?”

Yasha felt her cheeks grow warmer, more red than pink now. But before she could give it too much thought, the Aasimar felt herself nodding. She stood aside and let Beau into her room, leading the monk back into the chamber painted with flowers.

Beau sat cross-legged on the floor across from Yasha as the Aasimar tuned her harp. She took a little longer with the task than strictly necessary, just so she could freak out in silence.

Of course, she had prepared chords for this, because she had run with the idea. But Yasha shied away from it, losing her courage. Music was something that had helped Yasha heal, a meditation in her own way. It brought her peace and offered her an outlet for emotions she didn’t quite know how to express. So, to have Beau sitting before her, eyes trained solely on Yasha, was intense and nerve-wracking.

If Yasha had learned anything, though, it was that she could trust Beau. The monk had been looking out for her, and for the entire group, since day one. Before Beau had trusted any of them, she had still been looking out for them. It was something Yasha admired about Beau—her capacity to care and to love despite everything she had been through. Beau inspired Yasha to keep fighting.

The least she could do was play this for her.

She didn’t need the parchment back. Yasha had spent hours pouring over the words and the chords to make sure it sounded perfect.

Oh, oh Beau, I’m grateful for you.

You waited while I wandered,

While everyone was wondering

If I’d ever come back, you stayed true.

Her voice faltered slightly at the start, uncertain and underused, but she persisted. Beau’s eyes on her simultaneously made her nervous and strengthened her resolve.

Oh, oh Beau, you mean so much to me,

I’ve lost so many people,

I cannot fathom losing

The woman who has loved so fearlessly.

Yasha rarely sang. She used to sing for Zualla in those quiet stolen moments years ago. When they were out in the fields alone, walking or hunting or just existing to stare at the stars. She sang once for Molly, both of them a little past tipsy after a good night for the circus. He had told her she possessed a voice fit for performances, but Yasha had waved him off.

Her voice was sweet, higher than her speaking voice because she sang from her nose and her head. It threw most people for a loop, but Beau merely sat there and stared. Her blue eyes were wide with awe, lips slightly parted. If Yasha didn’t know Beau couldn’t be charmed, she would almost think the monk under a spell.

And I’ve ambled and trekked over miles and miles,

Every step lead me straight back to you.

You gave me the space to learn where I belong

And I’ll tell you right now, it’s the truth.

It was almost like nothing else existed. Yasha’s fingertips buzzed against the taut strings of the harp, her voice vibrated in her chest, and Beau’s eyes stayed fixated on Yasha’s face. This was all that mattered right now, and Yasha couldn’t think of what existed before this, or what might exist after.

Oh, oh Beau, the one I’m thinking of,

I want to hold your hand and

Stand quietly beside you.

I want to confess, you’re my love.

The last strum of her harp faded into silence, and Yasha reveled in the peace vibrating through her veins. She had rarely known stillness like this before discovering music.

Beau sniffed, and Yasha twitched as she startled, eyes snapping up to Beau’s face. The monk still stared at her, eyes wide and watering.

No one’s ever written me a poem before. Yasha remembered the soft-spoken admission as a tear tumbled down Beau’s cheek. She guessed without asking that no one ever sung for Beau before, either.

“Yasha…” Beau breathed. “That was incredible. Your voice…”

The Aasimar ducked her head, not even trying to suppress the smile pulling at her lips. Beau’s awe was so genuine, Yasha barely knew how to face it head on.

“I didn’t know if you would…y’know want to hear it like that. Or if you would just rather read it,” Yasha rambled, running her fingers with absent focus up and down one string on her harp. “So…yeah, I mean, it’s a song, too. But it was originally a poem. For you.”

“Yeah,” Beau’s voice cracked. “I don’t—Yasha, that was…incredible. You’re incredible. You wrote that? For me?”

“Of course,” Yasha said, looking up again with a small frown. The note of disbelief in Beau’s voice upset her. Why wouldn’t she write a poem for Beau?

“Thank you,” Beau said, her voice overflowing with an emotion Yasha could empathize with, but couldn’t name.

“I am glad you liked it,” Yasha said as she set her harp aside. She didn’t know where to go from here. Jester had said Beau was waiting for Yasha to make the first move, and this…was this enough? It felt weird to question that kind of thing because Yasha had been married before. Theoretically, she should know how to do this. But then again, everything she and Zualla had done had been in secret. Yasha never learned how to express affection for someone openly.

And knowing what she did about Beau, Yasha figured that the monk had no better clue in any of this than she did.

“Maybe uhm…” Yasha started, but stopped. She didn’t want to mess this up. “Maybe after we finish this job…we could, y’know…get dinner? Just us?”

Watching a slow smile spread and pull at Beau’s lips was like watching a sunrise. It began slowly, a little hesitantly, colors bleeding into and washing away the darkness of Beau’s uncertainty. It was a gentle harbinger that lasted a lifetime in no time at all. Then, between one blink and the next, the sun. Beau grinned with wild abandon, lips pulled wide to reveal her teeth, and eyes scrunching at the corners with the force of it. Yasha’s heart went giddy in her chest at the mere sight of Beau’s joy.

“I’d like that,” Beau whispered. There was the same quiet, awed excitement in her voice from when she first received Yasha’s poem.

Yasha’s cheeks hurt from how hard she was smiling. “It’s a date.”

[a-solitary-marshmallow]

Rewind Chapter 2

Stan’s head was full of cotton. He mumbled and buried his face into his pillow, wishing he could block out the world. Had he been hit in the head during gym class? He couldn’t remember, but that might explain the fuzziness in his brain and why his arms felt all weak and noodly.

Someone was talking to him, probably Ford, trying to get him up for school. Ew, school. Did he have a test today? Stan could have sworn there was one coming up but he never really paid attention to when. Not like studying would change his score much anyway. He had to squint to read the questions and it took him way longer than everyone else to answer anything at all. Pa said it was because he was stupid.

He didn’t want to go to school today. His head was all stuffy and he was tired. Was he sick? If he was sick maybe Pa would let him stay home. It was Ford’s schooling he cared about anyway.

But no, that would leave Ford alone all day! He couldn’t leave his brother with that stupid Crampelter. Ford tried to hide how the other kids picked on him when Stan wasn’t there, but Stan wasn’t a total idiot. He knew it got worse when he wasn’t by his brother’s side, fists clenched and rearing for a fight. They would take advantage of his absence to mess with his brother.

No, he’d have to go to school, for Sixer. Filled with indignation on the part of his brother Stan lifted his face from his pillow-

And froze.

He wasn’t in his room, on the bottom bunk while Ford leaned over from the top bunk to talk to him. He wasn’t in his room at all.

The bed he was on was big and messy with slightly grubby sheets. It sat in a weird room that looked like it was part of a log cabin, rife with random objects that sat on boxes or desks or were pinned to a corkboard on the wall. And there was someone standing over him.

Stan yelped and threw himself away from the reaching hand, only to topple off the bed and let out a pained cry when his elbows scraped the wooden floor. The person rushed around towards him. Heart pounding, Stan rolled under the bed and curled up as far in as he could get.

It was cold down here, and dusty, spider webs crisscrossing the beams above his head. Stan hugged his knees and gasped for breath.

Where the heck was he? Who was this guy? Where were Ford, and Ma, and his room and his house?

“Stanley?” A voice called. Deep and male and it sounded like Pa but not quite. Stan would have taken being alone with Pa over this. There was rustling as the person knelt next to the bed. Stan whimpered and curled up tighter. Maybe if he stayed still and very quiet, they would go away.

A man’s face peered into the shadows. His glasses reflected the light but – there was something familiar about those brown curls, the shape of his mouth, the concerned tilt of his brows.

“Ford?” Stan blurted. Ford – because it was Ford, wasn’t it, even though he was grown up? – nodded, seemingly at a loss for what to do. They sat there for a moment before Ford reached a hand towards him.

It was probably to help him out from under the bed, but Stanley took the chance to count his fingers. One, two, three, four, five, six. Yep, this was Ford alright. He grabbed the huge hand and crawled out of the dusty shadows.

Ford was huge. He looked like an adult, Stan realized as he shook dust from his clothes and sneezed. He looked like Pa, but without the sunglasses and the scowl and the grey hair.

“What happened to you?” Stan demanded. “You’re all – big.”

Ford’s eyes widened slightly. He hadn’t made a move to stand up from where he was kneeling. To be honest, Stan didn’t want him to stand up – he didn’t like the idea of his brother looming over him.

“You don’t remember?” Ford’s voice was deeper than he was used to. It still sounded like a nerd’s voice, though, so that was something. Stan frowned.

“Remember what? This isn’t home. Where are we? And you – you’re old. What’s going on?”

Ford ran a hand across his face and groaned. “Okay. This is fine. So you reverted to a child in memories as well. Just – great.”

And then he stood up and started walking. Stan trailed after his brother as he sat at a desk and started writing in a big book. Stan wasn’t tall enough to see what he was writing.

“Uh, Ford?”

No answer. Stan stood there awkwardly while Ford scratched away in his book. He really wasn’t liking how – how weird his brother was being. He felt like he’d missed something big. But with the way Ford was acting Stan was nervous to ask, and that made him even more worried. Ford had never been this distant before.

“I called you here.” Ford said suddenly, making Stan jump. The nerd still wasn’t looking up from his book. “I needed your help hiding my journals. You came to my house. Do you remember that?”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.” A thought struck Stan and he blinked. “Wait, are we in the future?”

“In a manner of speaking, you are.” Ford sighed. “Listen carefully, Stanley. I asked you to come, so you could take my journal far away and hide it.”

“Why?”

“It contains very dangerous information. I have to keep it out of the wrong hands.”

“Oh, okay.” Yeah, that made sense. That kind of stuff was always happening in the new Sci-Fi show Ford loved. Of course, that was a show, but they’d seen weird things before. Like the Jersey Devil! Plus, if anyone was gonna write something epic and powerful and smart, it would be Ford.

His brother sent him an odd look out of the corner of his eye but continued.

“When you got here – you were my age then – we got into an argument. You knocked into one of my samples and got it all over you. Then you turned into – this. A younger version of yourself.”

Stan blinked. “I was old?”

“We’re twenty seven, Stanley ­– or at least I am. I was investigating water from the spring of youth, but I only came across it recently so I haven’t had time to work out how to undo its effects. I’ll have to get a new sample to experiment on, since you destroyed the only one I had.”

Destroyed? Stan rubbed the back of his neck, shame twisting in his stomach. “Aw man, bro, sorry I broke your thing.”

Ford stiffened. Stan rushed to continue, afraid he’d said something wrong.

“But you can – can get a new one, right? And I can help. And then we can do the thing you wanted, hide the book, right? It’ll be like burying pirate treasure! Oh! If this is the future, did we get the Stan O’ War fixed?” He vibrated with excitement. “Is she seaworthy? Do we go sailing?”

“I’m trying to write, Stanley.” Ford said stiffly, coldly. He’d never used that voice with Stan before. It was unnerving. “Why don’t you go downstairs and get something to eat?”

“Uh… okay. Sure.” Stan mumbled, subdued. Maybe the Stan O’ War could wait.

For the first time he noticed the state of his clothes – well, cloth, since there was only one piece – a too-big shirt that hung off him like a huge smock. He considered asking for a change of clothes. But if he used to be a grownup, they would probably only have grownup clothes. Plus, Ford seemed pretty upset and Stan didn’t want to bother him.

So he held his tongue and wandered out of the room, into the rest of the house. It was big, and super messy. Stan passed what looked like a – a triangle shine? – as he explored a room that may have been a lounge. He poked his tongue out at it. The grumble of his stomach seemed very loud in the quiet. Ford was right, he hadn’t even realized he was hungry!

Eventually he found the kitchen. An investigation of the fridge showed it was empty except a quarter-full jar of peanut butter. Well, better than nothing. Stan found a spoon among the dishes and shuffled over to the dingy table to eat. He had to brush a few papers away to make space.

Okay. So this was really weird. Definitely not scary though. Stan refused to be scared. Even if he desperately missed the security of home, of having his brother by his side-

But this Ford was his brother –  just a bit older. And wasn’t that good? Ford was older, he knew what was going on, he could fix it. Stan just had to wait for him to make things go back to normal. And wasn’t it so cool that his nerd brother would grow up to be a nerdy scientist? He couldn’t wait to go back home and tell his Ford the adventure he’d gone on.

Secure once again, Stan decided to investigate this weird place. His Ford would wanna ask a lot of questions about it, after all. He shoved a final spoon of peanut butter into his mouth and jumped up to explore.

There was so much weird stuff here! Stan had no idea what half of it did. Though, that was true of a lot of things. He peered into some kind of office room with a chalk circle on the floor and candles scattered around, before deciding Ford probably wouldn’t like it if he messed with his stuff.

There was a door that, once opened, showed a dark, yawning staircase stretching out below. Stan peered around for a light switch. Finding none, he shrugged to himself and decided to brave it.

The stairs seemed to go on forever. Stan’s breathing and the tap-tap-tap of his footsteps seemed uncomfortably loud in the enclosed space. A flickering bluish light lit up whatever was below. Stan squinted to try and figure out what it was.

He soon found out, however, when he ended up in some huge lab. The majority of the space was taken up by some gigantic structure, a big circle like the kind you’d blow bubbles with but surrounded with technology junk. It looked like something straight out of Star Trek!

“Whoa.”

Stan walked over to a console to stare at all the buttons. Did Ford know how to use this thing? Did Ford build it? Jeez, he’d always known Ford was the smart twin but this was epic. And if Ford could build this thing, between the two of them the Stan O’ War was gonna be the greatest ship ever!

Stan paused. He knew he really shouldn’t be messing with Ford’s stuff, but that big red button was tempting him. Surely it couldn’t hurt to find out what this thing could do?

Stanley bit his lip, tossing up his options. He was spared from having to make a decision by stomping footsteps and a shout.

“Stanley!”

__________________________________________________________

In hindsight, letting a child roam freely around a house that doubled as a lab and testing site was… not the smartest move to make. In Ford’s defence he had been distracted when he suggested it. Stan had started talking about breaking projects, and that stupid boat, and it took every iota of Ford’s self-control to not snap and yell at him.

He’s a child. He has no memories of what happened. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

After about twenty minutes of writing observations in his journal Ford had come to the conclusion that letting a child – even worse, Stanley – loose in this place could be dangerous. He closed his journal and descended to make sure he was staying out of trouble.

But Stanley wasn’t downstairs. He wasn’t anywhere Ford checked. With increasing distress Ford stuck his head outside to see if the child had ventured into the woods. No sign of him, and the thick layer of snow was untouched. But the only other place he could have gone was-

The lab.                                                                    

Ford cursed himself for not noticing that the door to the lab was hanging ajar. Stupid sleep deprivation! Ford stormed down the stairs, caught between fury and concern. What if Stan hurt himself?

When he reached the bottom, however, and found his brother staring at the portal’s controls, fury won out.

“Stanley!”

Stan snapped around guiltily. “Uh, hey, Ford-”

“What are you doing down here? This is my lab, it’s dangerous! You can’t touch anything!” Ford marched over and snatched his brother away from the controls. “What if you broke something? Or got hurt?”

Stan yelped. Ford tucked him under one arm and started back up the stairs, gritting his teeth.

“From now on you are not to come down here. Understood?”

“Mm hmm.” Stan mumbled. Once at the top of the stairs Ford placed him down to close and lock the door firmly. He turned back to Stan to continue the scolding, but… Stan looked like he was about to cry. His face was screwed up and he stared at the floor as if he could will away the tears that Ford could see gathering in his eyes.

A surge of guilt washed over Ford, which was ridiculous, because he had nothing to be guilty about. He sighed.

“Stanley, I…” What was there to say? “It’s late. I’ll set you up in the spare room.”

Stan sniffed and nodded.

  Luckily Stan had always been resilient, and he perked back up while Ford went about preparing the bed in the spare room. He hadn’t had visitors for so long that he’d started using it as a workbench.

This had been Fiddleford’s room, back when they had worked together. The thought of his old research assistant sent a spike of guilt through him. Yet another warning that he had ignored, and in the process he’d destroyed the one human friendship he had.

No, he didn’t have time to reminisce. Not with Stanley to deal with and the threat of Bill looming over him at any given time. Ford harshly shoved all thoughts of Fiddleford from his mind and threw a blanket over the bed. It wasn’t very thick but it would have to do.

He was lost in thought as he absently picked up his brother and placed him on the bed. There, problem solved. Ford had more important work to do. For starters, he had to figure out some way to get the unicorn hair he needed for a protective spell against Bill. Until he could put up the barrier it wouldn’t be safe to dismantle the portal, which meant Bill had a much better chance of figuring out how to get in and activate it.

He paused in the doorway to glance at his watch. What was the time, somewhere after midnight? Two-ish apparently. At daybreak he could try again to get the unicorn hair. But he also had to figure out how to cure Stan. Would it be better to leave that until after he had Bill-proofed his house? Stan would be in the way the whole time, but he would be less of an obstacle than he would be as an adult.

But then again, an adult Stan could drive away and be out of the equation entirely. While he was a child Ford was stuck with him. Also, adult Stan also might agree to take the journal when he found out that Ford had cured him. Yes, it was probably better to do that first-

“I can almost see yer ears smoking!”

The chirp made him jump. Ford whipped around to stare at Stanley, who was blinking at him from his spot on the bed.

“Ya were standing in the doorway looking blank for like, five minutes.” The child explained at Ford’s stare. “Watcha thinking about?”

Ford took a slow, steadying breath. “Truthfully? The situation I’m currently in. I have far too much on my plate, and very little time to deal with it.”

“Well, is there anything I can do?” Stan tipped his head. The action made him look rather like a puppy. Despite his tiredness and frustration, the sight made Ford’s mouth tip into a smile.

“I don’t suppose you can charm unicorns as well as you charm old people into giving you sweets?”

“Hey, I don’t make ‘em give me stuff, they just wanna! All I gotta do is play it up a bit.” Then Stan seemed to register the first statement. “Whoa, hold up. Did you say unicorns?”

“Yes, but believe me, they’re not quite as pleasant as the kind you’re imagining. And they very much dislike parting with their hair.” Ford’s lip curled. “Quite irritating, actually.”

“Where did you find unicorns?” Stan demanded excitedly, slipping off the bed to rush to Ford and grab his coat in chubby fists.

“The forest, of course. Gravity Falls is home to numerous creatures not found anywhere else in the world. Why do you think I moved here?” Ford couldn’t quite hold in a snort at the way his brother’s eyes sparkled. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen any gnomes already. They often sneak in to raid the pantry.”

“Are they here now? Can I see ‘em?” Stanley gasped out in a rush.

“No. I do have some sketches in my journal though…”

Stanley let out a whoop and darted past him. Ford watched him scramble up the stairs to where Ford’s room was. How did he… no, he’d woken up in Ford’s room, of course he knew where it was.

“Stanley!” Ford called after him. “Stan, you should be in bed!”

“I’m not tired!”

Oh, for the love of…

Ford sighed and followed, albeit at a slower pace. He had no idea how they’d had that much energy as children. It seemed boundless.

At any rate, he doubted Stanley would be getting to sleep any time soon, and he had to keep an eye on the child to make sure he didn’t get into any trouble. At least his presence shouldn’t hinder Ford too much. Stan could draw or look at pictures or whatever children did while Ford worked on finding a cure.

“FO-ORD!” Stanley yelled. “Come on, hurry up! You got so many books here! Are there mermaids in this weird place too? Oh my gosh there’s mermaids aren’t there? Which one’s your diary thing? I wanna SEE!”

“Coming.” Ford huffed out another sigh and picked up the pace.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “It Can’t Hurt to Try.”

My brain wanted to write this today, and so this is what I have written. I hope you all enjoy :)

I realize I have sort of Neglected Adam’s past, though I am not sure how I did that, so today I wanted to write some more.

More than three years ago.

“Mom, you don’t have to really…. I’m ok.” Martha turned to look at Adam  and the expression on her face shut him up instantly. He slid back in his seat slouching against the car interior. Off to his left side, his new service dog, who he had named waffles, was lying politely across the seat, her head resting on his thigh, her service vest bright red in the noonday sun streaming in through the window.

The car rumbled under them looking out of place in a city of sleek hover cars. Their tires rolled to a stop at an intersection, as a crash nexus wove itself into existence before the waiting line of cars. Running red lights was a near impossibility in the city and had reduced vehicular accidents by 25%.

Marha turned to look at him over the back of the seat, “Adam let your father and I worry about finances, you just relax.”

He sat up in his seat again pushing his crutches to rest against the window, “But mom do you know how much those cost, I looked it up and….” “Shhhh.” Martha held up a finger, “Just sshhh, your father and I own the house and the car. We could make ends meet if your father was working at the Burger Barn, and I was sitting at home twiddling my thumbs.” 

Adam’s usually Laconic father grunted his agreement, “Besides, this is why your mother and I have a separate account for medical emergencies.”

“But what if YOU have a medical emergency.” he protested thinking about the farm and how easy it would be for his father to get caught in an accident with the massive farming equipment they used.”

“Im old.” his father said, though he wasn’t very old at all.

“What does that have to do with-”

“Boy, just shut up, you’re mother and I have made a decision because we love our kids, and if that means selling the damn house and living in a tent we are going to do it.”

Adam lapsed into silence again. His father’s tone broached no argument. A whimper came from somewhere below him, and he looked down to see that Waffles had scooted so her paws and head were resting on his leg, her tail beat against  the car seat, and she looked at him with big golden eyes.

Her paws were a might bit large for her, but that was because she wasn’t even a year old yet, but even so she was still the best girl. She whimpered again, reminding him to relax and he took a few breaths.

Adam wasn’t so good at dealing with stress these days, though Waffles turning up in his life had been a marked improvement. The doctors said he had finally turned a corner with his mental health, though they suggested he look into getting a real prosthetic if he wanted to recover any further.

They said it would be good for his morale.

He glanced down at his current prosthetic, no more than a black rod of metal with a spring loaded joint and a fake foot at the end. It was army issue, so complete garbage, and he still had to use crutches when wearing it with the amount he tended to trip. He imagined being able to run again…. To really do anything again, and looked down at his body, which had grown thin and skeletal over the past few months of PTSD recovery.

He hadn’t been eating all that much, and his desire to workout had faded with it, instead he had spent most of his time in a hypervigilant state of alertness that left little time for things like eating or working out. When waffles came along, that had morphed into him lying in bed for days on end sleeping on and off while listening to music or listening to his collection of old Star Trek movies on Repeat.

It had been a hard transition to being functional again, which just meant that he was eating now, and went on walks in the morning with waffles. 

He was determined to make it all the way, though he couldn’t say he approved all that much of his parents throwing away so much money on a fancy prosthetic. An older model would have done, but they insisted that they wanted the best. 

The car ground to a stop in the parking garage outside of the Elmridge University robotics lab, and his mother walked around one side to open the door for him as he adjusted his crutches and stepped out into the musty underground air. Waffles leaped out behind him, sticking tight to his left side.

“You good?” His mother asked, and he nodded limping his way after them as they made it towards the doors.

Students at this university had been working on prosthetic technology for the pat fifty years, and their minds had spawned some of the greatest breakthroughs in medical technology the world over. Now, they were asking for people like him to come and test their machines. However things didn’t always come cheap and you had to rely on being rich, or getting some kind of funding from a wealthy benefactor. 

Adam Vir, who was not rich and had no wealth benefactors was instead relying on his parents and their medical savings, which they had been squirreling away for the past twenty years or more. He estimated that the account would be completely drained by the time they were done here, and the thought made him sick to his stomach.

Waffles touched his hand with her wet nose, reminding him to breathe again.

They made it all the way to the doors and into the university hallway. Adam looked around with some interest. He had what might be considered the equivalent of a masters degree or higher in aviation, but he had never stepped foot inside a university.

He thought he would have liked it, and had to brush away the regret that he had never gone for real.

The flight academy had been enough though.

Though it was likely he would never fly again. Waffles whimpered and jumped up on her back paws seeing his distress and working to keep his mind off of it. He took another deep breath. She was right, he just needed to relax.

Together with his family they walked down the hall and into the waiting room of room 125 where they made him rest in one of the hard plastic chairs as they went up to the desk. He rubbed Waffle’s ears, and she rumbled at him lightly.

“And you all must be with Adam Vir.”

They nodded in agreement.

Adam looked up as the girl came out from behind the desk. She had long black hair tied up in a messy ponytail and wore a band T-shirt over a striped long sleeve shirt. She wore glasses, was his age, and was very cute.

He had to look down at the floor.

She knelt next to him, “Can I?” She asked 

Still looking away he untied the rubber band holding the pant leg closed and pulled it back so she could see the stump of his leg.

She pulled something from her back pocket and pressed it up against the old wound. It was cold and soft and he grimaced as he looked down. When she pulled back he realized she had been taking a mold of his leg. She smiled at him, “Just twenty more minutes and we can have you come back.”

He nodded and they let her go. His parents sat on either side of them, his mom took him by the shoulder and shook, “Isn’t this exciting.”

Adam gave a weak smile.

His father picked up a robotics magazine and began to read, showing Adam things of interest as he read them. Adam’s stomach churned with nerves.

After less than fifteen minutes, the girl skipped back into the room, “We’re ready for you.” She announced, and slowly, he moved to his feet limping ack behind the desk and following her down a short hallway and into a large open room.

Here there was a small indoor track, some obstacles, and even a physical therapy table.

A cluster of students sat around the table waiting for them, headed by an older heavyset professor with a short grey beard and a lanyard hanging around his neck.

He reached out to shake their hands as they approached.

Adam glanced at a sleek silver case sitting on the PT table next to the man.

The old professor grinned at him, “Are you ready?”

The students clustered inward eagerly. This was likely the first time one of their creations was going to be used.

Adam nodded nervously, and the man reached forward, snapping the case open and in to reveal….

Adam muttered in slight surprise. The leg looked, good, something straight out of I-robot. It was sleek and elegant with silvered matt titanium and plexiglass casing to fill out the shape of a leg. He could see the fibrous strands of rubberized metal that acted as muscle underneath the plexiglass.

“Wow.”

“Do you like it? My students worked very hard on this project, and the best part is the neron interfacing net that cradles the leg in place and suctions it onto the skin. All across the plexiglass fronting there are microsensors built to detect heat, cold, pressure and vibration. The entire foot is designed to work like a human foot and all the tooes can flex individually. He picked up the leg, reached down and grabbed the foot, behding it around the ankle with a movement as smooth as ice, “The ankle joint can rotate in all the proper directions, and the most revolutionary part, the interface, should collect signals being sent through your neurons to your missing leg, pick those up and interpret them to move the leg just as your own brain would, and better yet send feedback signals in the reverse direction.”

He clapped Adam on the shoulder, “In other words, it will FEEL like a real leg, how does that sound.”

Adam’s mouth opened and then closed and then opened again, “Um…. amazing but…. Impossible if I am being honest.”.

“Well, moment of truth isn’t it.”

He nodded sitting down on the PT bench and rolling up his pant leg again. He tried to ignore all the people watching him, and listened to the professor as he instructed him on how to put it on. It socketed right over his  old injury and as it did he felt an immediate and sudden vibration run through his body as if the leg were whirring to life.

And when it did he froze.

He stared down at the leg, and slowly, with all the memory his brain still had, he flexed the toes.

The sensation was instantaneous and glorious. He put his hand over his mouth fighting back tears that began welling into his eyes.

His parents gasped in delight and an overabundance of emotion as the others at back in silence. His mother hugged him tight as did his father, all three of them staring at the machine, which moved on his command. 

Before he knew it he was grinning, turning to look around at everyone even as he had to wipe tears from his cheeks.

He could feel again!

The relief was so complete and so overwhelming that he couldn’t pick between laughing or crying

“Take it slow.” The professor said, but he hardly heard him, and with a wobbly step he slowly climbed to his feet. He began to laugh and his parents laughed with him hugging him and shaking him with excited exceleration as he took his first step. He closed his eyes in near ecstasy as the foot bent under his weight, the ankle flexed,and the toes splayed out over the ground.

He dropped his crutches to the floor ignoring the urging of the professor who was only half heartedly telling him to slow down.

He took another step, and then another and then another, slow and wobbly at first but then muscle memory took over after that.

His brain remembered, it remembered and despite months with a missing leg, it woke up the part of his brain charged to deal with that movement, and despite what must have been atrophy after months of misuse, it began to fire again.

He broke into a jog, as his father ran next to him, and then the jog turned into a run, his father fell behind as he broke into a full out sprint around the small indoor track. Laughing the whole way as the leg matched him. The students here cheering and clapping and hugging each other as they watched him interact with their creation excitedly shaking each other and screaming.

Adam, forgetting momentarily how to stop running, ended up tripping on his good foot, flailing around for a moment and falling to the floor.

He didn’t stop laughing though, and crawled back to his feet, with all the ease he might have had when he had both legs.

Waffles  barked and wagged her tail furiously as she ran to join him, hopping and bounding over the floor as he played a game of chase with her immediately forcing the leg to its full potential as they made quick turns, stopped and started and leaped into the air. He ran up and down stairs and jumped over their obstacles feeling the shock through his feet and ankles.

Unfortunately for him, months of sitting on his ass hadn’t exactly made him all that athletic and he came to a stop eventually panting like waffles only to grab every one of the students in turn and hug them in an embrace so tight it might have fractured ribs.

He was so excited, so grateful, and so unbelievably relieved.

It was an incredible moment, for him, for the students, for his parents, and for his professor.

He limped into that building but skipped out on his new leg.

Getting in the car its as if he had taken a one eighty in personality. His quiet sullen demeanor from before was replaced with something his parents hadn’t seen in ages.

The ability to not shut up.

He talked a mile a minute in his excitement yammering fit to talk their ears right off, and they let him. It was good to hear him back to his old self for once. His father was smiling more than he had in a long while, and on his left side, facing away from his son and his wife, a tear rolled down his cheek.

***

He wasn’t overly sure what he was doing. 

He didn’t have high hopes that they would even take him back. After all, He was set to be honorably discharged later that week, seeing as the UNSC had finally gotten around to dealing with the men and women injured during operation Steel Eye, but he had decided not to do that. He wanted to go back, and he had the paperwork to prove he was mentally stable enough to do so.

Now it was just down to whether they would let him work with a missing leg.

He nervously made his way onto the fort Harmony base where he had been stationed so long ago. Off in the distance he could hear the dull roaring of jet engines as they readied for takeoff, and watched as columns of other soldiers marched in the early morning sun. Light was spilling across, warm and yellow over the dw colored grass as he made his way towards the central building.

He stepped inside and passed a couple other officers  in the hallway as he walked up to the offices.

He looked down at the paper he held in his hand.

He had only meant the captain once, and that was very briefly, but he hoped that the man would be willing to hear him out. He paused outside the man’s open door, and then peered inside. The captain was sitting at his desk frowning at the papers stacked before him, tapping his fingernail against the counter. Light glittered off his completely shaved head and dark skin.

He knocked quietly and stepped inside.

“Sir?”

The man looked up frowning at Adam without much recognition.

“Yes?”

“Um, Lieutenant Adam Vir, sir…. I was hoping to speak with you.”

The man sat back in his seat and frowned again, “Adam V-”

He paused, “Wait.”

He rummaged in his desk and pulled out a set of papers, glancing at the name at the top before setting them down, “Ah yes, Adam, I was just getting to your discharge for-” he glanced down at the paper again, and then back up at Adam, and then back down again. Adam stood politely behind the single wooden chair and waited.

When the man didn’t speak Adam awkwardly cleared his throat, “About those papers sir….I…. well I was meaning to talk to you about those.”

“Yes I was going to si-”

Adam shook his head cutting the man off, “No sir, I…. I don’t want you to sign them.”

There was a pause, “You don’t?”

“Yes sir.”

He set the papers down on the desk.

“You have the opportunity to be honorably discharged for services rendered and you…. Want to stay?”

He saw the incredulity on the man’s face as he spoke.

The guy must have thought he was stupid. 

The man looked over the desk at him <”Says you lost a leg during the Drev war kid.”

Adam shifted uncomfortably, “Well yes sir.’

“Then by all rights we HAVE to discharge you.”

“No, I got a new one.”

“A new one what?”

“I have a new leg, sir, just as good as the old one. I can pass all the tests, physical, mental whatever you want me to do sir, please, just give me a chance.”

The man stared at him, Adam stared back, “You’re missing a leg kid.”

“Not anymore I’m not. UNSC regulations say that people who have had stem cell organs from their own body transplanted don’t need to be discharged, well this is similar to that. I didn’t have a leg, and now I do, and one that works just as well as the old one therefore it shouldn’t matter.”

He didn’t mean to argue with the Captain, but well that’s what it kind of turned into.

The argument must have been loud enough to attract the attention of some of the other officers and a voice from the door behind them had both of them pull up short, “Is everything alright here.”

Adam turned and his eyes went wide, “Captain Kelly!”

She stepped into full view and his eyes grew wider. He saluted sharply, “Oh, sorry, Major.”

SHe looked at him with her head tilted, “I'll be damned, lieutenant, what are you doing back here.: She looked him up and down, “And in one piece or so it seems.”

“Advanced robotics ma’am…. Maybe you can help us?”

She frowned, “Go on.”

The Captain cut in, “The boy doesn’t want to be discharged. If anything that proves he must be smoking crack.”

Adam frowned, “No Ijust….” he trailed off, “I loved my job…. Before the, losing my leg, bit.” he turned to Major Kelly, “Please Ma’am i’ll prove it. Better than I was before, honest”

She frowned, “It is…. Unprecedented, but…. There aren’t really any rules regarding advanced robotics that I can think of. We will have to talk it over.”

Turns out talking it over meant months of arguing semantics with bureaucrats and even more months of testing and proving that he was, in fact capable of operating like normal. They tested everything, including his prosthetic’s ability to handle G forces…. And he finally got to fly again. It was only by a small margin that he managed to convince them to let him back in, and even then he was relegated to guard detail on what the human medical core was calling an oxyclinic, where a couple of enterprising humans learned that spooning aliens actually helped to treat some mental disturbances in other species like the alien version of depression.

Turned out it was pretty good for him considering he had developed a small fear of aliens since his last encounter. When he wasn’t guarding the clinic, he volunteered to work for them in order to overcome his fear.

He was slowly getting back to normal.

***

Major Kelly sat at her desk looking at the schematics for the new ship under construction. The UNSC Enterprise had been completely decommissioned after engineers determined her to have too many fatal flaws to allow her to fly again. Kelly had only been captain for a little over a year before she had been pulled, and this was her chance to get back on the horse. She looked down at the papers, the schematics and then the second letter from the UN which offered her a second alternative.

A promotion to Admiral, and control over what would soon be a rising fleet of UNSC ships.

It was a hard decision to make. Every fiber in her body wanted to fly again, to see the stars again, and she was halfway to writing her agreement on the captain’s contract when she stopped. She had to think about it, if she took the promotion and gave up the ship, she would never fly again…. But she would have control over the rising UNSC fleet. Under her control she was sure she could help those rising captains avoid the bureaucratic bullshit that was sure to come after them.

In essence, they had one chance to do this right, 

And more chances to get in good with the GA. If she took the position, she could fill it with someone she trusted to back the men and get the job done.

herself .

She stared at the two papers torn between her own desire and the path she knew that was right.

It was a matter of milliseconds that allowed her to agree to the promotion, and leave flying behind. It hurt every fiber of her being and even as she sat warm tears dripped onto the schematics of the ship that would have been hers if she had asked for it.

However, her decision made, she was promoted in short order as Admiral of the UNSC rising fleet, and thus had the power to make suggestions for who should take the ship in her stead. She made a decision pretty early on, and reached out a hand to the GA in helping to come to their decision. It was all about making a good impression on their newfound friends, and lending them the UNSC’s first operational ship under new fleet command would, not only give the captain of that ship the opportunity to school themselves in the ways of alien races,  but it would leave the GA with a greater inclination of friendship.

She was right in her assumptions, and the GA was more than pleased to have some say in choosing the human captain who would be lent out to them on a probationary bases, as a PR move and as a tactical manuver for the UNSC to learn more about these alien races.

Now she had to compile her list of possible candidates.

There were ten names on that list.

All of them had to be capable of flying the ship, at least and all of them had to have some experience with interacting with alien lifeforms.

Looking at her list, however, she realized that not many people on that list had those capabilities. Sure they could fly but most of them only ever met an alien in passing.

It was sitting in her office late one night agonizing over the names that one popped into her head. She sat up in her chair and stared past her desk lamp and out the window into the darkness.

It was a strange idea.

Crazy almost.

Probably ill advised, but, out of all the people she knew, he was certainly CAPABLE of flying a ship…. And he WAS the most experienced person hse knew with aliens. Perhaps THE most experienced person in the galaxy. 

But no…

He was so young, far too young.

But…. why?

It’s not like he hadn’t proven himself, he was loyal, unstoppable and personable, which goodness knows they needed when it came to alien interactions. Looking down at her paper there were more than half of those men and women she wouldn’t trust at a birthday party let alone at a GA diplomatic event.

She added his name to the list. It couldn’t hurt, could it?

[discotreque]

LwD 1.10, “No Small Parts”

Well, that was the most fun I've had watching Star Trek in literally a quarter of a century.

I had high hopes for this series. I love TAS, largely because of its wacky outsized concepts that could only have worked in animation—not that they all did work, but the potential was so apparent to me, even as a kid reading the Alan Dean Foster novelizations—and as an adult, there's something about the imagination of Lower Decks's FX setpieces that transcends even the glorious CGI bonanzas of Discovery.

Pause for a confession. I've long pushed back against criticism of serialization in new Trek. That's just how TV is now, okay? Might as well complain about it being in widescreen. But I'm backing down a little, because I've realized there is something about Star Trek that's inextricable from at least a partially-episodic format. And while Picard was telling a different kind of story, I can't deny that my favourite episodes of Disco have been the ones with a mostly self-contained A-plot. After 10 delightfully episodic instalments of LwD, its focus on long-term development of characters instead of a season-spanning puzzle-plot (okay, mostly just Mariner, but we only have 10 × 22 minutes and she is the star) has been downright refreshing.

So here we are, at the end of the most consistent and well-executed Season 1 of a Star Trek series since, arguably, Those Old Scientists. And sure, if they'd had to produce another... yikes, 42 episodes? Then sure, they probably would have dropped a clunker or two—but they didn't, and winning on a technicality is still winning. I'm practically vibrating with excitement for Disco to come back next week, but damn, I'm going to miss this little show while it's on hiatus.

Spoilers below:

Something I've been keeping track of finally paid off this week! (Which never happens to me, lol.) The destruction of the USS Solvang marked the first present-day death(s) of any Starfleet officer on Lower Decks, the only other on-screen killing at all being a flashback in "Cupid's Errant Arrow". Which makes sense, being (a) a comedy, and (b) about typically "expendable" characters: it hasn't been afraid to flirt with a little darkness here and there, but killing people off at Star Trek's usual pace wouldn't just be wrong for the tone, it would be downright bizarre.

But... people die on Star Trek. That's one of the core themes of the show, really: space is full of knowledge and beauty, but also danger and terror, and believing that the former is worth the risk of the latter is (according to Trek) one of humanity's most noble traits. I'm the least bloodthirsty TV watcher I know, but the longer we went with a body count of nil—ships completely evacuated before they were destroyed, main characters hilariously maimed without permanent consequences, etc.—well, I didn't mind per se, but the absence of truly deadly stakes was definitely getting conspicuous.

Turns out they were saving it up for maximum impact. And holy fuck, I've never felt such a pit in my stomach watching a ship get destroyed that wasn't named Enterprise. It felt grim and brutal and somehow both much too quick and dreadfully inevitable—and yeah, it looked extremely fucking cool—and I'd like every other Star Trek property for the rest of time to take notes under a large bold heading labeled RESTRAINT.

Comedy doesn't need to do this, but my favourite comedy does, and in a way that few other art forms can even approach: lower my emotional defences by making me laugh, endear character(s) to me with goofy-but-relatable antics—then BAM, sucker-punch me in the motherfucking feels. M*A*S*H is probably the classic example on TV, Futurama was notorious for it, and even Archer has pulled it off a few times; it's also a staple of some of my favourite standup. I wasn't sure if Lower Decks was going to go there in Season 1—and wasn't sure if they'd earn it—but I knew if they did, that they'd nail it, and damn. Feels good to be right.

Last batch of notes for the season!!! I rambled enough already, so let's do it liveblog-style:

I fucking KNEW they were going to use "archive" visuals from TAS at some point, I KNEW IT :D

"THOSE OLD SCIENTISTS" ahahahahahahahahahahahaha

I like chill and confident Boimler a lot? You can really see—

oh bRADWARD NOOOOO

That opening shot of the Solvang tracking down to the red giant was extremely Discovery-esque... minus the motion sickness, that is

A lady captain AND a lady first officer? That's—oh hey, it's Captain Dayton's brand-new ship. Hahaha, that means they're totally fucked, right?.

Yep! They sure a—umm, wh—shit, okay, but—oh no—no, you can't—wait DON'T

...fuck

FUCK.

Narrator: "And then Amy needed a five-hour break."

[live-action Star Trek showrunner voice] "Gee, Mike! Why does CBS let you have two cold opens?"

Okay, yes, the bit with Rutherford cycling through all the different attitudes in his implant was transparently an excuse for Eugene Cardero to vamp while waiting for something to do in the story, but as far as I'm concerned they can contrive a reason for him to do a bunch of different silly Rutherfords in a row any time they damn well want, because that was classic!!!

EXOCOMP EXOCOMP EXOCOMP EXOCOMP

AND THE EXOCOMP IS PAINTED LIKE THE EXOCOMP IS WEARING A LITTLE EXOCOMP-SIZED STARFLEET UNIFORM

EXOCOMP!!!!!

The slow burn and now the payoff of the Mariner-is-Freeman's-secret-daughter plot has been executed so well. I'm beyond impressed with this writer's room, y'all—they are threading a hell of a needle here

"Wolf 359 was an inside job" would have been a spit-take if I'd had anything in my mouth

...how many memos do you think Starfleet Command has had to issue asking people to stop calling the USS Sacramento "the Sac"?

CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW THEY'VE DECORATED THE SHUTTLECRAFT SEQUOIA THOUGH

Is, uh, is it weird if I'm starting to ship Tendi and Peanut Hamper a little? It is weird, isn't it. I knew it was weird...

Coital barbs??? I take back everything I said about wanting to know more about Shaxs/T'Ana.

The "good officer" version of Mariner is... kind of hot, tbh! But Tawny Newsome has done such a great job of building this character all season that her voice getting uncharacteristically clipped and martial and "sir! yes, sir!" is also deeply, deeply weird

Ah, so this is literally exactly like when TNG (and DS9) would bring in, and then blow up, a never-before-seen Galaxy-class ship, just to underscore that we're facing a real threat this week, baby. And hey, it fucking worked—my heart was in my throat, omg, for the reveal of the—

PAKLEDS?????????

The fucking PAKLEDS have been gluing weapons to their ships for the last 15 years. GREAT.

(We interrupt the SHIP BEING SLICED INTO SCRAP for an interesting bit of world-building: on Earth, the traditional First Contact Day meal is salmon!)

"I need a dangerous, half-baked solution that breaks Starfleet codes and totally pisses me off! That's an order." I'm starting to think Captain Freeman might actually be overqualified for the Cerritos, y'all—she's REALLY awesome

OH SHIT IT'S BADGEY, this is a TERRIBLE IDEA

"How much contraband have you hidden on my ship?" "I don't know! A lot!"

Awwww, Boims!!!

AHAHAHAHAHAHA, FUCK THIS, PEANUT HAMPER OUT

BADGEY NOOOOO

AUGHHHHH WHAT THE CHRIST DID HE JUST—BUT—RUTHERFORD'S IMPLANT????

RUTHERFORD!!!!!!!!!!

SHAXS!!!!!!

F U C K ! ! ! ! !

ahaIOPugdfhagntpgjrq90e5mgu90qe5;oigoqgw4ouegrw5SP;IAEHURVa IT’S THE TITAN???????????

IT'S CAPTAIN WILLIAM T. RIKER ON THE MOTHERFUCKING TITAN??????????

i'm screaming I'M SCREAMINGGGGGG​TGGGTGQER;​LBHAOIBVNV;​OAPBIJNVagr;h;​oagruipuwtnaetbaetgq35ghqet

I'M SO GLAD THIS WASN'T SPOILED FOR ME WTF

I AM WEEPING LIKE A CHILD

...

(Just a brief 20-minute pause this time)

And oh wow, seeing Will and Deanna hits different after Picard too, in a few different ways, which I may even get into later now that my heartrate is back to normal, lmao

Oh, I am always here for some jokes at the expense of the Sovereign class. The Enterprise-E sucked. They should have built a new bigger model of the D and new Galaxy-class interiors for the TNG movies, and I will die on that hill

OKAY, FINE, YOU GOT ME, RUTHERFORD × TENDI WOULD BE ADORABLE AND THIS IS ACTUALLY A PRETTY GOOD SETUP FOR IT

Awwww, Shaxs though :( Congrats on the single most badass death in Star Trek history, dude. The Prophets would—well, the actual Prophets would probably be slightly confused about most of it, but Kira Nerys would be proud of you and I feel like that probably counts for more. RIP, Papa Bear

I am here all damn DAY for the Mariner–Riker parallels, ahahahahaha

Pausing it to record my prediction that Boimler's commitment to not caring about rank anymore is going to last 3... 2...

Yep.

Bradward, how DARE YOU.

"Those guys had a long road, getting from there to here." OH FOR THE LOVE OF—

What a brilliant way to resolve and renew the various character arcs and relationships moving into Season 2! The writers could easily have brought everything back to status quo—chaotic Mariner fighting with her mom and being a bad influence on Boimler, etc.—and done another 10 just like these, but I suspect that wouldn't have been ambitious enough for these writers. What a blast. I cannot wait for more.

Thanks for following along, friends! Stay tuned for my (similarly patchy and amateur) coverage of Discovery, starting next week!

[fullmarvelheart]

Wakanda

Pairing: Avengers x Enhanced!OFC

Word Count: 3,000

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of violence, mentions of past trama

A/N: Welcome to Chapter 5 of Blue Starlight. I hope you all enjoy the story as well as the way I wrote the characters! The gif is not my own. All rights to the original creator. I hope you guys enjoy!

Series Masterlist

The plane lands and I'm almost blinded by the bright sunlight that reflects in off the tarmac as the ramp is lowered down.

Waiting for us is whom I'm assuming is the King, based on what Cap briefed us over, along with his personal guards. When Cap told us about the Dora Milaje, to say I was impressed is a gross understatement. I knew they were the fiercest warriors in Wakanda but seeing them up close, they're almost as intimidating as Natasha is. Even the Kingsguard looks exceptionally deadly.

"Should we bow?" Banner asks Rhodey as they exit the jet before me.

"Yeah, he's a king." Rhodey responds in an almost serious tone. Which apparently Banner doesn't catch onto.

As the Captain greets King T'Challa, Banner clears his throat and starts to bow.

"What are you doing?" Rhodey questions loudly enough to catch the King's attention.

"Uh, we- we don't do that here." The King says, somewhat awkwardly.

I chuckle to myself as the group begins to walk.

"So how big of an assault should we expect?" I go to answer the king but am cut off.

"Uh sir-sir, I think you should expect quite a big assault." Banner says pushing his way to the front while I roll my eyes.

Shut up. You don't even have the slightest idea.

"Thanos will most likely send one of his support ships, like the one that was in New York not too long ago. He calls them Q-Ships. He won't send his full army here, just what is deemed to be enough to overwhelm the forces on Earth, so the stone can be retrieved." I explain loudly but lower my voice as I get closer to the King, who looks at me curiously.

"How are we looking?" Natasha asks softly, diverting attention away from me, thankfully.

"You will have my Kingsguard, the Border Tribe, the Dora Milaje, and..."

"A semi-stable 100-year-old man." A new voice says walking up to us.

I take in a sharp breath and freeze. The Winter Soldier. Please don't let him still be with HYDRA! That's not something else I want to deal with today. But, he's smiling and doesn't look anything like the last time I saw him. He's not glaring at anything and he has plenty of emotions that I notice, just with one glance. He outwardly looks happy, healthy, but I can see pain and guilt still present in his steel blue eyes.

I can see it because I recognize it in myself.

As both Cap and him share a friendly embrace, I see Sam move into my periphery, though I don't acknowledge him.

"Are you alright?" He asks in a whisper.

I blink out of my frozen state and give him a tight smile and nod. As I'm turning back around, I see Natasha give me a curious look before turning back towards the Captain.

"How you been Buck?"

"Uh, not bad, for the end of the world." He says solemnly, yet with a small smile

I swear, this is the most I've ever heard him speak in one go. His voice isn't raspy from misuse anymore either. Maybe he's-

As if he can feel my eyes burning holes into the side of his head, he turns to face me. His eyes widen in recognition as his face changes from shock, to confusion, to anger, to regret, and then suspicion, all within a second.

"It's good to see you again, Blue." He says skeptically.

"You too, Soldier." I say in the same tone, brushing my fingertips over the hilt of a dagger on my thigh.

He glances down, catching my movements which freeze immediately.

"You remember...?" I ask softly, not knowing if I need the confirmation for his sake,... or mine.

"I remember everything." His piercing gaze moves back to me, his features stiff and cautious, waiting for me to make a move.

"Blue?" Natasha inquires, trying to lessen the tension.

"My ability..." My explanation comes out more timid than I would like as I move my hand away from the blade and give her a shrug.

Come on! Surely he's not more terrifying than Thanos! At least this one I know I can stop.

"There won't be any problems, right?" Cap asks seriously, after clearing his throat.

The Winter Soldier, or Buck I guess, says no. I can only shake my head.

"Good. Coms on and Rhodey, suit up. Saddie, I want you out here while we go in with Vision, incase anything happens." I nod in understanding as he, Natasha, and Dr. Banner follow the King and his men inside where Wanda and Vision had disappeared earlier.

I watch them trek inside while a knot forms in my stomach.

"You're nervous."

"Huh?" I turn to find Buck staring at me curiously.

"You used to make that face whenever the men were in the room. Whenever he was in the room." He explains.

I sigh and wrap my arms around my stomach while letting my head hang over.

"Can you blame me? This whole situation is something I was hoping to avoid. Plus, I wasn't exactly expecting to see you and when I did... I didn't know what would happen, or what to expect." I keep my gaze fixated on the pavement below me as I hear him take in a deep breath. Though, I know he was thinking the same thing as I was. "But I'm terrified. Like I was then." I admit with a whisper, looking up at him.

He hums, walking closer to me.

"What should I call you?" I ask suddenly causing him to snap his eyes to mine and stop.

He hesitates looking at the ground before back at me.

"Bucky please, Saddie." He says teasingly.

I roll my eyes but crack a small smile. So Buck is a nickname then. Didn't know he knew the Captain that way...

"Your arm is different." I note as I look at the black metal appendage edged with gold markings. Much different from the previous silver one with the infamous red star.

He hums thoughtfully, looking down at it with a small nervous smile.

"I like it, it suits you." I tell him sincerely as I turn away from him, not waiting for his reaction.

I walk over to Sam and begin to talk to him while Bucky joins us with a rifle one of the Kingsguard gave to him. Rhodey appears in his armor and things begin to click in my head as I remember Sam and Rhodey's hero names. Falcon and War Machine. Definitely not who I'd expect to be next to at a time like this.

At one point, I decide to sit crisscross on the tarmac with my fingertips pressed into the pavement and my eyes closed. It's almost like I'm in a meditative state. I feel the energy running through this city, running under it. There's an endless supply far below me, that I manage to tap into.

It's immensely powerful!

"What ya doing there, Saddie?" Sam calls out. I realize there's probably blue wisps circling around my hands or even arms.

"Recharging and resting." I say, distantly.

"Meditating." Bucky answers at the same time, causing me to huff and send him, where I think he is, a playful glare.

"Are you already tired, kid?" Rhodey jabs humorously through the ear piece.

"I'm a creature that relies on energy for power. If my stored supply runs out and I can't tap into a source fast enough, I have to rely on the power my body holds. Meaning, I'd lose consciousness soon after I'd start pulling from my own life-force. Thanos has an army coming for Earth, and I want as much power as I can hold." I tell them, still in my meditative state. "Plus, relaxing like this allows me to extend my powers beyond Earth."

"Creature?" Sam mumbles in question to himself.

"What does that mean?" Bucky asks curiously in reference to my abilities while talking over Sam. He still doesn't know the full extent.

"It means that I can sense when they arrive." I tell them, ignoring Sam's notice of my slip. Though, with that and what I said in the aircraft, he should be piecing it together soon, if he allows his mind to focus on it.

They don't ask anymore questions after that, and leave me to myself. After what feels like several minutes later, I feel a very strong hum of power moving towards Earth, and quickly. I call my power back to me and absorb as much of the energy as I can from below me, I can see the bright blue growing brighter from behind my eyelids.

"Saddie?" Bucky sounds worried.

My eyes shoot open as I jump to my feet, looking towards the sky.

"Saddie!" Sam calls, trying to get my attention.

"They're here." I say fearfully, not moving my eyes.

I summon an energy ball as I see one of their ships quickly descending straight for us.

"Hey, Cap, we got a situation here." Sam says while looking to where I am.

That wasn't enough time to get the stone out safely!

I prepare to launch the ball in my hands when the dropship pings off the shield, exploding instantly. The force of the strike is absorbed back into the shield.

"God, I love this place." Bucky says in stark amusement while I reabsorb the power in my hand.

"Yeah, don't start celebrating yet, guys. We got more incoming outside the dome." Rhodey warns as the rest fall fast, impacting the Earth.

I feel the vibrations from the impact rattling though my bones and my breathing becomes harsher. The shockwaves bounce off the dome, making me feel only the tiniest bit safer.

"Is this what you were expecting?" Sam asks, looking at me.

I nod slowly with wide and fearful eyes, unable to speak. Though, how do you speak when one of your worst nightmares is occurring before your very eyes and is becoming reality?

Alarms blare through the city and the dread I have been feeling for some time now, grows in the pit of my stomach to the point it becomes nauseating. Unfortunately for me, I joined this fight, so I can't back out now. I swallow back whatever fear I can and focus on the chaos around me.

After several minutes, the Captain, Natasha, Dr. Banner, King T'Challa, and his warriors come running out of where they led Vision and Wanda. Dr. Banner goes straight to where a big red and gold suit had been laid out as warriors rush out to the tarmac.

"You two," Nat gestures to me and Bucky. "Come with me."

We chase after her into a transport ship that is filling up with other warriors of the Kingsguard. I see Cap and T'Challa board theirs with half of the Dora Milaje. When we get in, Natasha stands up front with Bucky right behind her, and me on his right, like it used to be. As much as I hate the memories, the familiarity of a fight and his presence is comforting.

Sam and Rhodey take off and fly above us as we all head towards the front line while we begin to merge with other ships on the way.

"How we looking, Bruce?" Natasha asks through the coms.

"Yeah, I think I'm getting the hang of it." I hear what sounds like rockets through my ear piece and cringe at the loudness "Wow! This is amazing man. It's like being the Hulk without actually..." His loud enthusiastic voice is cut short as I hear him fall.

I try to stop myself from giggling at him but can't help but slightly laugh out loud when I hear Bucky's chuckles beside me.

"I'm ok, I'm ok." I hear, but before I smile again, I actually notice just how many of the dropships there are... and just how big they look from here. I've never seen them in person, just heard stories.

My stomach lurches at the sight. There will be so many. Can we even win this?

"I've got two heat signatures breaking through the tree line." Rhodey calls out.

I move forward slightly, in hopes of recognizing which two of the puppets Thanos sent here. Bucky gently grabs my arm, snapping me out of my head, and gives me a questioning look. I move back to his side but keep my eyes set on the edge of the dome in front of me, not looking at Bucky. I'm not sure if I'd be able to hide my fear if I do. Rhodey and Sam do a fly over as they begin to circle back around.

The Captain, King T'Challa, and the Dora Milaje pile out of a transport. My transport group follows and Natasha, Bucky, and I merge with them. One of the legions begins to chant as we move forward. Though I can't distinguish the words over the sound of my blood pumping in my ears. Natasha comes up next to me and gives me a small assuring smile. I try my best to do the same, though I'm sure it's more of a grimace. We form a line and I finally spot the two of the Black Order that Thanos sent. I scowl and clench my fists at the sight and memory of those two.

"Do you think there's any chance of surrender?" Natasha muses.

"No, it's not the way of the Black Order." I say with a slight growl.

"Well, there's always a chance." Captain says, but it's not reassuring.

He looks at me and motions for me to follow as him, Natasha, and King T'Challa start to walk in the direction of the dome's edge. I swallow the lump in my throat and proceed to fall into line with them.

Cull Obsidian and Proxima Midnight become clearer the closer we move to them, and I try to push back my fear again. While Cull stands several feet tall than the other, with a much broader stance and deadlier appearing body and weapon, it's Proxima I fear the most. This sight of the midnight blue and black hair, brown horns, black and blue war paint, and lifeless grey eyes that make me tremble slightly. Proxima drags her sword along the dome's edge, almost hypnotized by it, watching the power crackle along her blade. She finally stops when we're at the edge, only separated by the dome.

Cull and Proxima snarl once they set their eyes on me and my lip twitches up in annoyance.

"Where's your other friend?" Natasha quips, and I have no idea which other one she's referring to.

"You will pay for his life with yours." Proxima says in the most emotionless tone I've heard her use. Her mechanical voice sends an unpleasant shiver down my spine. "Thanos will have that stone." She moves closer, as to intimidate. But so do I.

"That's not going to happen." Captain says, seemingly unbothered but determined.

"I will make sure of it." I growl.

Proxima directs her gaze to me.

"The traitor... or at least, one of them." She muses, a gleam flashes in those deadly eyes as she smirks at me. "You are nothing without your other half. A child in regards to your abilities. Weak." I know she's trying to get a rise out of me, I know it, but it's working.

Her words stroke the grief and self-doubt I had buried for this fight, making it rear it's ugly head. Before I get the chance to even move, King T'Challa speaks as Natasha moves me back.

"You are in Wakanda now. Thanos will have nothing but dust and blood." I look at the King with wide eyes, knowing he doesn't realize just who the Mad Titan is.

"We have blood to spare." Proxima states before striking her sword up into the air.

I scowl at her, but that falls into a frown when the drop ships begin to whirl and extend. We quickly make our way back to the frontlines.

"Are you ok?" Natasha asks as me move back towards the group.

"No, not really. But I'll be able to fight." I tell her, gathering what courage I can. She gives me a hesitant nod, but says nothing else. "I really hate her." I grumble, which earns me a small chuckle from Nat

I try to clear my mind and focus on my powers on the rest of the way back. I focus on what I feel, where it is, and how I can use that to my advantage, like I was taught. We get back to our forces as Bucky looks on edge but doesn't look away from the ships.

"They surrender?" He asks sardonically, knowing the answer.

"Not exactly." Captain breathes as I move to Natasha's side.

I feel the ship release the army that lurches inside.

"Here we go." I nervously breathe.

Falcon flies along the edge, circling as a scout, but I can already feel the pounding of their sharp and deadly paws vibrating against the ground. As they get closer, the thunderous pounding reaches my ears over the sound of my own heartbeat. I absorb the little bits of kinetic energy from them as they run. I feel Natasha's stare on my loose fingers which begin to glow a slight blue.

King T'Challa begins a battle chant as I feel the army slow at the edge of the tree line. Proxima strikes her sword down, letting it fall out of the air, and the army begins their charge forwards. There's more of them, more than I imagined. And they spill out of the tree line like a tidal wave of death, charging towards the dome.

[earthfluuke]

after my first saratine fic, @sarawatine and i talked about the idea of tine being an actual meadow nymph and sarawat being a hunter/explorer sent out into the wilderness by his town, and...this happened.

i based some of nymph!tine off of the nymphs from greek mythology, but for the most part, he’s whatever i made him up to be.

this is very different from what i usually write, but i hope you all enjoy it! ♡

He was sent here to get a lay of the land, look for resources they could use, scavenge for something valuable. And Sarawat can certainly say he has found the latter.

A pretty, pretty boy, draped in a white tunic, looks at him with the widest eyes he has ever seen. He’s almost positive he can see his reflection in them mixed with fear. He had been tending to a dying tree when Sarawat stumbled upon him, and when he’d caught sight of him, he stilled. He hasn’t moved since, petrified frozen.

Sarawat is unsure of why he does, but he takes a tentative step closer. Poor thing jerks, pale hands tightening around the roots he’d been caring for. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he tries, but it’s hard to reassure him with the knife in his hand and weapon belt on his waist.

Tossing the knife a good distance away, he unhooks the belt and lets it drop to the ground. His hands raise in a final promise of safety, and that’s when the boy finally stands up. He still holds on to the tree, like a clutch, but the fear in his eyes is replaced with curiosity. Eventually, he comes over to inspect him, sticking his nose in every crack and crevice to make sure he really means no harm, and Sarawat lets him.

…

His name is Tine. He doesn’t know how he can know for sure, seeing as he hasn’t said a word to him, but the wind had whispered it to him the second time he’d made his trek up to his meadow. For a spirit of nature, Sarawat supposes that’s as good of a sign as any.

Nymphs are meant to be a thing of legend, something you tell young children about at bed time. He almost doesn’t believe Tine is one, until he sees him blossom a flower in his pasture and offer it to him with a bright smile.

Sarawat supposes it isn’t too much of a surprise. Nymphs are known for their remarkable beauty, and this boy is the most beautiful creature – human, mythical, or otherwise – he’s ever seen. Skin the paleness of a white orchid, lips the pink of cherry blossoms, he matches the crown of flowers that always sits atop his head. He’s very much a prince in that way; he looks the part and has the garb to match.

How he goes from hunting him to pursuing him, Sarawat doesn’t know. But every day without fail, he finds himself in that meadow, sunrise to sunset. Part of him knows he should stop, but every time he makes it to the top of the hill and Tine is there waiting for him, he knows there’s no way he can.

…

Strumming a few test chords as he tunes his guitar, Sarawat lets his head fall back against the trunk of the tree he’s leaning on. The weather is cool, the breeze is light, and the grass is soft beneath his skin. It’s an altogether perfect day.

There’s a sudden weight on his legs, pulling him upright and out of his trance. Tine may be on top of him, but his eyes are elsewhere, namely the instrument in his lap. He plucks a string if only to see the light lift through his face. The wonder he sees in things Sarawat considers ordinary only adds to his beauty.

“It’s a guitar. It’s used to play music, see?” He plays a few more notes, and when Tine leans even closer to the sound hole, seemingly to see where the noise is coming from, Sarawat finds himself asking, “Do you want to learn how?”

Before Tine can barrel into him with excitement, he spreads his legs and lets him get comfortable between them. He puts the guitar in Tine’s lap and positions his hands correctly. Tine is tall with lanky limbs, but that doesn’t stop Sarawat from wrapping his arm around his waist to help him strum along to a simple, slow melody.

He loses track of time, finding it almost impossibly distracting to have Tine’s back pressed into his chest and being unable to do anything about it. So he allows Tine to mess around with the strings on his own while he busies himself with burying his nose in the back of his neck. Inhaling deep, he stays there until the sun goes down.

…

Sarawat shields his face from what feels like the hundredth apple thrown at him. All the stories his parents had read to him had missed one very important detail: for as gorgeous nymphs are, they are twice as stubborn.

“What did I do?” he asks helplessly. It’s foolish to, seeing as Tine can’t respond to him. All he can do is guess until he stumbles on one that’s right. “I can’t bring you treats every single time I come here. The others will get suspicious. Or is it because I saw you bathing in the river the other day?” He gets an extra-large apple aimed directly at his shoulder for that one.

“I can’t read your mind; you’re going to have to give me a bit of help here. Did I step on your new blossoms? Scare off some of your animal friends into grazing in a different field?” The apples don’t stop, keeping him as far from the answer as he had been from the start. “Come on! What could I have done! I haven’t been here in over a week!”

He expects the next assault to come, but he’s left waiting. Lowering his arms, he looks up in the tree branches Tine has taken shelter in. His head is turned, petulant scowl to his lips. His avoidance is telling, and Sarawat cannot help but smile.

Approaching the tree, he reaches a hand up towards him. “You needy thing. I’m sorry, yeah? Is that what you want to hear? You’ve given me a couple of pretty good bruises if that helps.”

Tine doesn’t budge, determined to keep his pettiness strong. Sarawat sighs and turns on his heel. In the hopes of him taking the bait, he says, “Well, if you’re really that angry with me, I guess I should just go.”

He doesn’t make it far, only half a step, before he crashes to the ground in a heap. Like a savage beast, Tine had jumped from his branch onto his back. He must have thought that would keep him from leaving. Groaning, Sarawat lets his face fall into the grass. He swears he’s going to rewrite those stories just to capture Tine’s stubbornness.

…

Cupping Tine’s hands in his, Sarawat rubs his thumb over the bright red callouses forming on the tips of his fingers. Tine had thrust them into his face – as though he was to blame and therefore needed to fix them – with an unhappy pout.

“I told you that if you didn’t take a break, the strings would hurt your fingers,” he scolds. His mindless nymph only stares at him, wide eyes apologetic and pleading. There’s little he can do after that. He’s a weak man with an even weaker heart; he can’t deny Tine anything.

Raising his fingers to his lips, he presses gentle kisses to each sore, following with, “You’ve got to be more careful. We can’t have anything ruin your pretty hands.”

For once, Tine is the one struck shocked. Dazed eyes lock onto him, and it’s a nice feeling to have him look at him like that, as though he’ll willingly hang the moon, the stars, and the rest of the night sky for him. And he will, if Tine only asks.

…

“No,” Sarawat says, putting his hand on Tine’s chest and pushing him back towards his tree. “I’ve already told you; you can’t come back with me.”

He turns to go but stops when he hears footsteps following him. “Tine,” he snaps, hoping to get through the spirit’s thick skull. “What part of you can’t come back with me do you not understand? Do you know what will happen if the rest of the town sees you? At best, they’ll sell you off to some rich family like a rare prize. If they’re selfish enough, they’ll cut each of your limbs to see how much they’re worth. Do you get it now?”

It isn’t until he’s heaving out hard breaths that he looks back at Tine. Immediately, his anger is replaced with concern. Hands balled against his stomach, he’s hunched into himself. It seems as though he wants to look away, but his gaze is locked on Sarawat, eyes holding the same fear they had the first day they’d met.

Sirens go off, and Sarawat is moving quickly. Taking Tine’s face in his hand, he whispers quick apologies. His goal is to protect him, and he did the exact opposite. How is he meant to get him to understand that everyone else is the danger when he is the one dealing each fatal blow?

“I’m sorry,” he coos again and again. “I just don’t want them to hurt you. And I know them, Tine; they will, the first opportunity they get. I can’t have them hurt you, okay? I can’t.” His fingers spread out, through his hair and to his ears. “I’m sorry, just please. Don’t look at me like that.”

The quiver in his voice is what makes Tine reach up and mirror him. His palms are soft, warm like the light he radiates. There are no other words shared, but when Sarawat pulls back to look at him, his eyes aren’t as heavy but easier to read. They tell him ‘I understand; thank you.’

…

Sarawat isn’t sure how Tine finds it, the hidden away cave with an opening at the top to let the moon light in, but dwelling on it is the last thing on his mind. The first is the skin of Tine’s neck under his lips. It’s as soft as the rest of him, and he can feel vibrations every time he takes in a sharp breath.

He’s already gotten him out of his tunic, taken the time to admire him (and got slapped in the chest for it), and there’s not much else left to do except love him. And he does. Oh, does he ever. It’s so difficult not to when he smells like flowers and looks like sunshine and feels like heaven.

Caged between Tine’s curled up legs, Sarawat rises to lean over his face and presses their foreheads together. Tine practically glows under the stars, and Sarawat can’t help himself. He kisses him in full, starting at his lips before making his way down. “I’ve got you,” he promises. “I’m never going to let you go. My sweet, perfect Tine.”

Tine clutches at his back, holding him close, as though to say he has him too. They have each other, and it’s such a glorious feeling, to hold and be held.

…

Distracting himself with a new song, Sarawat glances up every so often from his strings to Tine. He’s been busy at work, adamant to keep whatever he’s so focused on hidden from him. His nymph is in his own class of adorable, so Sarawat humors him, leaving him be while he plays for him.

It’s when he’s not looking that Tine makes his secret known. Crawling over Sarawat’s legs like he so enjoys doing, he holds up a flower crown. Two branches are weaved together in a plaited pattern, the spaces filled with baby blue and cream colored flowers. It’s a breathtaking creation, but he expects nothing less from a nature spirit.

He thinks he just wants to show off his work and earn some praise, but Tine keeps thrusting it into his chest. Pointing at himself, Sarawat raises an eyebrow. “It’s for me?” he asks, and Tine nods happily.

Placing it on top of his head, he rearranges it in his hair until it sits the way he likes. Sarawat can’t see himself, but he can see Tine. His hands are clasped together in front of him, and there’s a wide smile spreading across his cheeks. He’s fully content, and he cannot ask for much more than that.

“We match now,” Sarawat says, returning his smile. Carding his fingers through Tine’s hair, he lets his fingers brush over his own flower crown, the same one he had been wearing the day he’d ran into him. Some would call it fate that they met; others would say it was luck. Sarawat doesn’t care what it is. All that matters is that they found each other.

Tine leans in expectantly, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. He gives him a quick kiss and then another. And another. It turns into a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, until Tine’s a giggling mess in his lap. He doesn’t stop, prepared to spend the rest of the day – his life – kissing this pretty nymph.

But Tine beats him to it. Pressing him onto his back, pushing his guitar aside in the process, he lays atop his chest and kisses him, long and deep. Sarawat’s hands find their way around him; they run up and down, over the fabric of his tunic to the hair on the back of his neck.

Everything is right. The sun shines down, beaming a halo around the two of them as the birds chirp from the branches of Tine’s tree. The leaves above keep them cool, and the grass beneath cushions them as they cuddle against each other. And most importantly, Sarawat has Tine nosing at his neck and cozying up against him. In this moment, there’s nothing more he can ask for.

[lununnunna]

American Doll || Dabi x Reader

fluff in which dabi celebrates your american holiday just for you

(idk how 2 put things under the cut so im sorry if it turns out long and ends up on ur dash)

you were beaming, jittery with excitement as you held dabi’s warm hand in yours, allowing him to lead you through the unfamiliar trail he claimed to know like the back of his hand. your other, unoccupied hand lifted to grasp the strap of your backpack, heavy with blankets for the outing you two would be having.

after a while of trekking through the long shadows of trees cast by the setting sun, you reached a ledge of sorts, water tower in view. dabi stopped just beside it, letting go of your hand to shrug off the bag on his shoulders, leaving you to admire the view of the city you had from here.

“its beautiful,” you breathed, to which your boyfriend merely responded with a grumble, occupied with shuffling through his bag.

you turned, slipping your own bag from your shoulders, beginning to lay out the thick blanket and anchoring the corners with nearby rocks. just as you pulled out the other blanket, dabi joined your side, cheeky grin pulling at his lips.

“so, babe, you ready to light these shits the fuck up?” he referred to the arrange of several illegal fireworks he had spread out, dropping his now empty backpack onto the blanket.

you grinned, nodding eagerly. “more than ready.”

he chuckled softly, pulling you by the waist to press a quick peck to your forehead. “just be prepared to run if anyone decides to come check out all the commotion.”

with that, he playfully ruffled your hair, ignoring your irritated huffs and squeals of protest to grab the first he had on his list— roman candles. he grabbed your hand, tugging you close.

“ever played with these before?” he asked, placing your hand on the stick.

you shook your head no.

dabi hummed, shifting behind you to clasp his hands over yours, angling the firework away from your body and towards the sky. “theyre pretty fun to shoot at people, but i wouldn’t recommend that to someone as sweet as you.” he rested his chin atop your head. “now, just hold on tight, and keep your arms straight out. dont let go, and dont flinch away. they have a quite a few shots in em, so letting go early is a big no-no. most people just stick them in the ground, but i think theyre more fun to hold.”

“of course you would be doing things like that,” you teased lightly, tightening your grip on the stick as he pressed his shoulders against your ears. you looked up to him in confusion.

“they might be loud,” he explained shortly, not even looking down to you. his left hand pulled away, index finger lighting with a small flame. “here it goes.”

his finger lit the fuse, and after a good couple seconds, the firework went off. you caught yourself flinching slightly, suddenly grateful that dabi was there to keep you steady. with each shot that flew into the sky, you felt your heart jump and your body fill with a rush of excitement. you watched with awe as the candles burst in the sky. after nine, ten shots lit up above the nearly set sun, dabi took the empty firework and tossed it aside carelessly.

“shouldnt you be more careful with that? i dont want to start a fire,” you voiced to him, looking at him with concern. he was bent over, and when he rose, he quirked a brow at you. “why do you think i made you pack a ton of water bottles?”

“oh.” was all you could say. you felt dumb as he bit a hole into the top of the water bottle he held in his hand, spraying the firework thoroughly. when he was finished, he pinched your cheeks.

“stop thinking like that, baby. i know youre probably thinking all sorts of bad things about yourself. so stop.” he kissed your lips lovingly, before pulling away and flicking your forehead. “now cmon, lets finish off the candles and boring fountains nd shit so we can get to the good stuff.”

after several of the smaller explosives were gone through, with a short pause due to dabi burning his hand when foolishly picking up a dud, he was now pulling out the thousand roll of firecrackers.

“this one is gonna sound like a fucking machine gun, so we might be getting some attention after this one. we’ll have to set off the mortars pretty quickly afterwards just in case,” dabi commented, unfurling the cheese roll looking firework. he grinned, telling you to step back as he lit the fuse. he quickly made his way to your side, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing a firm kiss to your temple without ever looking away from the now erupting firecrackers.

you couldnt help squeezing onto dabis arms, the loud, fast crackles and pops making your heart pound in your chest. your ears will definitely be ringing after this.

dabis chest rumbled with gleeful laughter, his arms squeezing your waist tighter and his stapled cheek rubbing against yours. you couldnt help but to laugh alongside him, swelling with happiness at how much he seemed to be enjoying himself, after your begging and pleading and his complaints and protests when you suggested celebrating the fourth together. you were pleasantly surprised to realize the fire-user had experience with fireworks— though you really shouldnt be surprised, considering he was probably a bit of a troublemaker as a teenager; especially after his mention of shooting roman candles at people.

you were pulled from your thoughts as he left your side to douse the firecrackers in water, after he was sure they were all over, and he began to line up the remaining fireworks— the mortars. these ones, he seemed particularly excited for, which is probably why he saved them for last.

once they were all set up, you heard him let out a small cackle-like laugh as he hurriedly lit them one by one. he was darting back to your side, grinning so wide you couldnt help but to worry if one of his staples might tear— but you hardly had time to fret over him, as he was eneveloping you once more, though this time he was between your legs and lifting you onto his shoulders. you nearly let out a scream, fingers threading tightly in his hair, legs squeezing around his head. he didnt seem fazed all that much, allowing you to calm down and adjust yourself so you werent strangling him anymore.

by now, the fireworks were lighting up the sky in rapid succession, your boyfriends laughter drowned by the volume of the explosions. it almost felt surreal, sitting here on dabis shoulders, bathing in an array of colorful flares, his rumbling laughter vibrating your calves and his large hands squeezing your thighs. you felt at peace, watching the blasts you know he bought specifically for you. you were filled with warmth admiring the shapes of hearts and stars filling the sky.

it wasnt long before the fireworks went out, and you were on the ground once again as dabi cleaned up the fire hazard. you settled on packing up the blankets you didnt even use.

once the area was all clean and dealt with, dabi took your hand in his, a surprisingly gentle look on his face as he pulled you against his broad chest.

“happy fourth of july, my little american doll.”

he kissed you firmly, warmly, lips molding to yours as if he was channeling all the love in his being to give to you. you melted into his touch.

“i love you, dabi. thank you for doing this for me.”

[shakespeareanwannabe]

Play by Play

Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x F!OC/Santiago Garcia x Rebecca Cooke

Summary:  Santi gets in way too deep with this woman that he barely knows, but finds that sometimes a leap of faith can be worth it.

Warnings: References to parental issues, age gap in a relationship (both participants are well over the age of consent), child abuse/child trauma, misogyny, swearing, PTSD, low self-esteem

A/N: Hi everyone! So, I started writing this story way out of order. Started with Protective Instincts, jumped to Best Laid Plans, went backwards to Strange Comforts, then came all the way back to the beginning with New Beginnings. But that’s because I was just writing them as they came to me (or, if I’m being honest, as @darksideofclarke provided me with golden headcanons that I just expanded on). But now, I’ve sat down and written a general plan for this multichapter story that is turning out to be so astoundingly different from everything else I’ve ever written. 

So, I’ll be posting in chronological order now, and I’ll make an announcement here in the A/N about where Protective Instincts, Strange Comforts, and Best Laid Plans fit into the whole scheme of things.

Anyway, here’s chapter 2!

                                                 **********

“Hey Jackie,” Santi greeted as he strolled through the front door of the clinic.

“Evening, Santiago. How’re you?” the red headed receptionist replied with a smile, looking up briefly before resuming her typing.

“Same old, same old,” he replied, eyes scanning the clinic. “How’re John and the kids?”

She smiled brightly at him. “Lorelai got accepted to Clemson with a scholarship!”

“That’s amazing, you must be so proud,” he replied, turning his attention back to her when he didn’t find who he was looking for.

“Why is Jackie proud?”

He smiled and felt his face heat up as he turned to face Rebecca, who was just slightly limping through the front door. She was dressed in her usual artfully professional work attire and toting a gym bag that was undoubtedly stuffed with her workout clothes.

“Hey Bex,” he greeted as he slid over to her. “Want some help with that?”

“Ugh, please,” she whined. “I spent the day running after three kindergarten classes, and my hip and back are aching.”

Santi relieved her of the bag and offered her his elbow, a slight tremor running up his spine as she leaned into him.

Three months. That’s how long he’d been going to physiotherapy with Steve. It also happened to be exactly how long he’d been working up the courage to ask Rebecca out.

That first day they met, he’d assumed it was the same kind of visceral reaction he’d had with other women in the past. She was stunningly beautiful, sarcastic, and witty. In other words, just his type. But he wasn’t looking for anything at that moment. He’d just gotten out of a year of trying the domestic thing with Yovanna, and it had crashed and burned spectacularly. He had a new home; he had his friends surrounding him once more. He was good. He was solid. He decided then and there not to do anything to screw up the upward trajectory he was on. That, plus he didn’t want to make things awkward for Charlie, who had a business to run.

So, he’d ignored it. Pushed down the desire to engage and romance, and focused instead on trying to get his knees back under him. But then, their appointment times had lined up and they spent their entire sessions chatting with each other and sassing Charlie. Then it happened again. And again. And, before long, Santi found himself listening in on Rebecca when she booked her appointment times with Charlie so he could book the same slots with Steve.

Three times a week for three months, he spent two hours talking and laughing with this resilient, funny, and kind woman.

That first week had been the introductory stuff.

                                                **********

“So, what are you in for?” she asked, a sly grin on her face.

He grimaced. “Does a lifetime of poor choices count?”

She snorted, burying her face in her arms in an attempt to hide her embarrassment at the unladylike sound. “I’m pretty sure that’s why most of us are here.”

He nodded slowly in acquiescence. “Even you?”

She sighed as she settled further into her table, the heat from the heating pad soothing her sore muscles. “I got into a bad car wreck seven months ago. Idiot driver T-boned me when I was on my way back to work from an in-school art class. Fractured my hip, got a nasty concussion, and a wicked case of whiplash. I got lucky when the concussion symptoms stopped after a few weeks, but I had to come here to get my butt kicked to fix my hip and neck.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say. Being military, it was sometimes easy to forget that the civilians they were trying so desperately to protect could also be taken down by something as simple as crossing the street or taking a drive.

Rebecca leaned herself up on her elbows to fix him with a thoughtful look. “You know what? You’re the first person to say that to me.”

“Seriously?”

She nodded slowly as she relaxed back into the pillow beneath her. “My mom took the ‘Woe is me, my poor baby is hurt’ route and the doctors were more concerned with making sure I was physically okay than checking in on my emotional state. So, thank you for that.”

He shrugged as easily as he could lying down. “My buddy Will always says that sometimes the best thing you can offer someone are words, so they know you’re there.”

“Will sounds like a smart guy. How’d you two meet?”

“We were put into the same squad in the military. Worked together for years.”

“Ah, I shoulda guessed you were military,” she groaned as she shifted slightly, moving quickly to catch the heating pad before it slipped. “You’ve got that kinda look.”

“You mean the beat to shit look?” he sighed, turning his head away from her to stare at the ceiling fan rotating slowly above him.

A poke in the arm startled his attention back to her. She had strained herself across the gap between the tables, barely able to poke his arm with her middle finger without sliding off.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she replied gently. “I just meant that you look like the kind of guy who has seen too much bad in this world. Which isn’t fair. Nobody should have to carry that kind of burden.” Santi struggled to swallow; his emotions all caught up in his throat and his skin tingling from the slight brush of her finger against his arm. “I’m not gonna say ‘thank you for your service’, because I feel like that’s just an empty platitude at this point. But I will say that I hope you find a way to make that burden just a little lighter.”

He looked over at her again and smiled. “Thank you.”

                                              **********

Okay, so the introductory stuff got heavier than Santi anticipated. Parental problems, traumatic events, talk of his service. He was in heavy with this girl and he didn’t even know her last name.

That came in week two.

                                              **********

“Basketball or baseball?”

“Baseball. Same question.”

“Baseball. Hockey or football?”

“Football. Same question.”

“Hockey. Cats or dogs?” Rebecca grunted as she kicked her leg out, struggling against the sliding weights attached to her injured leg by a cuff and a cord.

“Dogs. Same question to you,” Santi replied, voice distorted as he squatted on the FitVibe.

“Dogs. You know, you can’t just say ‘same question’ every time it’s your turn. It kind of defeats the purpose of the game,” she gasped as she finished her first set, twisting around to grab her water bottle from the chair behind her.

Santi shrugged as the machine stopped vibrating, giving him 90 seconds to rest before his next set started.

“Did you have a dog growing up?” he questioned as he sipped from his own bottle.

She nodded as she gulped down her icy water, Santi trying and failing to keep his eyes off her delicate neck and chest, which were gleaming with a sheen of sweat. “A St. Bernard. Cookie. I loved that dog, but I hated his name. I mean, really? Cookie Cooke? What were my parents thinking?”

Santi chuckled as his machine began counting down to start the next set. “Probably that it was cute? Who knows? Your turn…” He grunted as he carefully squatted as the pad began to shake again. He closed his eyes against the twinge of pain and missed Rebecca blatantly staring at his ass before beginning her next set.

“Star Wars or Star Trek?”

“Star Wars. Books or movies?”

“Both. Goonies or Stand by Me?”

“Can’t go wrong with Goonies.”

“Ugh, and here I was just thinking that you had good taste! Who in their right mind picks Goonies over Stand by Me?” she teased.

He shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye. Even blurry from the vibrations coursing through his body, she was the prettiest girl he’d seen in a long time.

“Never said I was in my right mind, sweetheart,” he winked and that giggle that he was so enchanted by escaped her lips again.

                                              **********

Week three was when he really tried to pump the breaks on his rapidly developing feelings for her. Not only had Yovanna sent him a box of his stuff via airmail, but he became privy to some information that assured him that this thing between them would never work.

                                              **********

“Don’t tell me you’re done already!” he called from the Kin-Com as Rebecca practically skipped over to the table closest to him. She had her good days and her bad days with her injured leg, and Santi liked chatting with her the past nine days, but he loved chatting with her on her good days. There was this spark, this energy she radiated when she was feeling good that he just wanted to bathe in.

“This is what you get for showing up late, Santi! You’re strapped into the death machine and I get a massage to wrap things up.” She shot him a bright smile before lying down on the table, just out of his range of sight thanks to the half partition wall that separated the machine from the rest of the clinic.

“Don’t tease the old man, Rebecca,” Charlie cautioned in a faux-mocking tone.

“Hey, if I’m an old man, what does that make you? Frankie is two months older than me!” he pointed out, pressing against the mechanical arm that was slowly manipulating his leg.

“Apparently the term is ‘panther’,” she replied, straight-faced. “Learned that one at ladies’ night after one of my friends had a few too many and found out Frankie’s 10 years older than me. Me, I call it lucky.”

“Yeah, you better,” he warned as the machine stopped moving. A quick look at the computer screen told him he had finished his set for the day, and he quickly unstrapped himself and hopped down, walking slightly creakily to the table next to where Charlie was carefully massaging and manipulating Rebecca’s hip.

“Your fiancé’s ten years older than you, Chuck?” Rebecca asked, her eyes closed as she tried to relax her aching joints.

Charlie shot Santi an unamused glare as he lowered himself onto the table and laid back, Steve approaching with the cryo-cuffs and ice machine.

“Yeah, Frankie’s 40 and I’m 30. Why?” she asked, an accusation hiding deep in her voice as her body tensed up.

Inwardly, Santi was nodding approvingly. Frankie sometimes got too in his own head about his age, especially in relation to his fiancée’s, and Santi knew how much Frankie doubted himself when it came to their relationship. Charlie was a successful business owner and college graduate. Frankie was a retired soldier who almost lost his pilot’s license because he’d been desperate for money when his girlfriend got pregnant and knew just how lucrative drug running could be. It wasn’t difficult to see why Frankie felt so insecure about the relationship, but Charlie was so good at getting him out of that headspace, and even better about shutting down anyone who had anything negative to say about her man.

“Nothing!” Rebecca was quick to reply. “I was just curious. Age is just a number, right? Besides, I saw you two together when he came to pick you up that one time, remember? You two are cute as hell. He just doesn’t look 40.” Rebecca rolled her head to look at Santi, and he felt his own hackles raise a little, suddenly self-conscious of his greying hair and his weak knees. Then, she smiled softly at him and, if he wasn’t fooling himself, a warm affection infused her gaze. “Neither do you.”

He felt all the blood rush to his face and once again had to bat down the idea of asking her out. A box full of old mail and knickknacks had just arrived on his porch that morning from Australia. Domesticity didn’t work for him, and even casually seeing someone felt like too much of an effort. Still, there was something about that look in her eyes, the easy repartee they had going on, the support they gave each other during their workouts, that told him that, if he was going to try again, she was the one to try with.

“Hey Becky!” a loud voice boomed across the clinic. “Where you at?”

Rebecca smiled apologetically at him and Charlie before raising her voice just a little to call back, “I’m over here!” She turned her attention back to them, looking almost sadly at Santi as she said, “Sorry guys, that’s my date for tonight.”

A tall guy sauntered over from the reception desk and Santi felt himself reacting instinctively.

He was tall, well over 6 foot, and wearing a fancy, well-fitted navy suit with a white button down underneath, no tie and the first two buttons undone.

“Ah, there’s my girl!” he leaned down and gave her a claiming kiss, almost like he knew that Santi was watching.

“Uh, hi Derek. I thought you were going to wait outside?” she asked, looking away from them all as she raised a hand to her cheek.

“I was, doll, but I’ve been out there for twenty minutes. Our reservation is set for 7:30, and it takes ten minutes to drive out there, so go get yourself cute and let’s go.”

“Uh…” Rebecca looked between Santi and Charlie while worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Santi had never wanted so badly to punch someone he hadn’t even officially met. He wanted to speak up, tell Derek that Rebecca was already cute in her leggings and off-the-shoulder t-shirt. Tell him that he can’t just barge in and interrupt an appointment in a place of business.

Charlie leaned into his line of sight and subtly shook her head and, deep down, he knew she was right. If he punched him, or called him out, he would be just as bad. Plus, what right did he have? He’d spent a few hours with this woman and had zero claim on her time or her attention.

“It’s okay, Rebecca. We’re done for today anyway. You can use the staff bathroom to wash up if you’d like,” Charlie assured, helping Rebecca off the table.

“Okay, thanks Charlie. Santi?” He slowly slid his eyes up to meet hers and read the apology there clear as day. “I’ll see you next week, okay?”

He cleared his throat. “Sure thing. See you then.”

Rebecca smiled, a hint of relief overtaking her features as she sighed. “Good. Have a good weekend everybody!”

She headed towards the staff bathroom with her gym bag in tow and ‘Derek’ left, presumably to go and wait in the car like he was supposed to.

“Frat boy lookin’ douche,” Santi grumbled under his breath.

“Yeah, and the bag it came in,” Charlie muttered as she wiped down Rebecca’s table.

“Isn’t he a little young for her?” Santi asked rhetorically. “He looks like he just stepped off the stage at college graduation.”

“Dude, she’s like, 25. They’re probably the same age.” Charlie flung the white towel she had been using over her shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that. Patient confidentiality and all that.”

Santi felt his heart sink but told himself it was for the best. Now he had a good reason for not asking her out. What 25-year-old would want to date a broken-down old man anyway?

                                              **********

Week four didn’t happen, and it was the one time Santiago Garcia considered himself a coward.

He’d promised. He’d explicitly told her that he would see her the following week, but he’d called at the last second and rescheduled with Steve for times when he knew she would be at work.

He just didn’t know how to face her. Yes, he had no claim to her time or attention. Yes, he’d spent a grand total of 18 hours in her presence. No, he had never explicitly asked if she was seeing anyone. And, yes, he had sworn off dating for a while, so he had no right to get his back up about her having a date.

And yet, the thought of seeing her, all smiley and happy after her date with ‘Derek’ made him sick to his stomach.

Week five he tried to reschedule again. He picked a time slot that aligned with the closing of the museum she worked at, knowing she often stayed a little longer after closing to chat with coworkers and stare at the art. He should have known, however, that things rarely ever turned out the way he wanted them to.

                                              **********

“Have you been avoiding me?”

The soft voice made him trip over his feet, his left foot tangling in the rungs of the rope ladder he was currently working with.

He looked up and met Rebecca’s soft eyes, tinged with sadness. He sighed and walked around her, stooping to pick up his water bottle before perching himself on a padded wooden block.

“No. Why?”

“Because I haven’t seen you in a week and Charlie wouldn’t tell me why,” she huffed, wrapping her arms around her chest as she moved to lean against the wall across from him.

“I was busy.”

“Really? Huh,” she chuckled sarcastically. “So, this has nothing to do with Derek coming in here?”

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “Nope.”

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Okay, Santiago. Whatever…” She turned and began to walk away, out of the back room where he was working out and back into the main gym area.

It was then that he noticed her clothing. A really pretty black blouse with a purple and red floral pattern and a black pencil skirt that pulled his eyes straight to her ass, and no red gym bag hanging from her arm.

“You not staying to work out?”

She turned back to him and laughed humorlessly. “No. I called reception and asked if you were coming in today. Gwen wasn’t going to say, but then Jackie got on the phone and told me you were here. Apparently, she’s got a soft spot for you. So, I left work early because I couldn’t stand not knowing if you were mad at me.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mumbled looking down at the silky fabric of his gym shorts, guilt beginning to gnaw at his core.

“Oh, I’m getting that message loud and clear,” she snapped, marching back over to him and getting right up in his face. “But I did. Because I was worried that I had offended you with my age comment, or that I made you uncomfortable by saying that you didn’t look your age, or that I somehow upset you by not telling you that I was, unfortunately, going on a date that night.”

He stood up, standing nose to nose with her. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we both know you don’t owe me anything. I hope you and Derek had a wonderful time together.”

“Screw you,” she seethed.

Santi scoffed and shook his head, turning away from her to escape into the bathroom.

Once he had the door locked behind him, he sighed heavily and splashed cold water on his face.

This. This was why he didn’t want to seriously date anyone. He inevitably would screw things up. Or, worse, he’d ruin things before he even had the chance to really start with someone.

Fuck, Yovanna had been right. He somehow always managed to dim whatever light there was around him. Rebecca’s warmth and energy were so bright, so addicting, that he had thought it possible to bask in them without hurting her. She was like the Sun, drawing him in even when he wanted to stay away. Nobody could hurt the Sun. It was so warm and so bright and so uplifting that it couldn’t be damaged. Yet, there he was.

Santi sighed and stared at himself in the mirror, resolving to fix things next week. He’d switch back to his regular time and pray to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in that she would be willing to hear him out. That was his long-term plan. His immediate plan was to get through the day’s session and go home to drink that bottle of whisky he’d been saving.

Opening the door, he took two steps onto the rubber flooring of the back room and froze.

Soft sobs echoed in the airy space, and he felt his heart sink down to his toes as he followed the sound back to that padded block, finding Rebecca hunched over on it, a hand pressed delicately to her mouth as she tried to muffle the sound.

He grimaced to himself, knowing he was the cause of her distress. Hesitantly, he reached out and tried to place a gentle hand on her shoulder, but Rebecca caught sight of his shoes first and jerked back in surprise, looking up at him with tears gleaming like diamonds in her eyes under the harsh florescent lights.

He slowly crouched down in front of her, balancing on the balls of his feet.

“I’m an idiot,” he started, and felt his heart lift slightly as she choked on a laugh. “And I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head at him, desperately swiping at her tears. “No, you were right. We barely know each other, so we don’t owe each other anything. I had no right to get mad at you. For all I know, you had a family emergency that made you switch your appointment times.”

Santi was already shaking his head. “Your instincts were good, sweetheart. I did change times to avoid you, but not because I was mad at you.”

“The age comments—”

“Were sweet,” he finished for her, meeting her gaze for the first time since he had lowered himself down. “If you had said anything bad about Frankie, I wouldn’t have had time to argue with you before Charlie jumped down your throat.” She laughed again and his heart lifted just a tad higher. “And I appreciate you saying I don’t look my age. I always think the grey gives me away,” he added wryly.

“It suits you,” she rebutted quickly. “Not many people look good with the salt and pepper, grey thing. All I can think of are Idris Elba, George Clooney and you.”

Santi laughed loudly. “Well, I will take that compliment.”

“Good,” she nodded decisively. “Now get off your knees before Steve comes and yells at you.”

She shifted over on the block and he laboriously heaved himself to his feet, coming to sit next to her, a few inches of space between their bodies. They sat in a cloud of quiet calm, both knowing that there was more to resolve but unwilling to break the silence.

“Maybe it’s not my place, but I just think you can do a lot better than Douchebag Derek,” Santi finally said. “No offense,” he added quickly, silently berating himself for the slip.

She giggled at the nickname. “No offense taken. It was actually my first time ever meeting him,” she admitted quietly.

Pope’s mind rapidly went over the brief interaction and he felt his blood begin to boil. “But…”

She nodded sadly. “I know. He’s the son of the museum curator, so I felt like I couldn’t turn him down without affecting my job. And you know how much I love my job.”

He did know. She was the educational liaison for the local art museum. She led field trips that came through the museum, explaining different art pieces and their historical and artistic significance, while also leading the students through art lessons on how to either imitate an artist’s style or create their own styles. Occasionally, she would also make trips to low-income schools in the area through an outreach program, going into classrooms to teach art lessons and give the teachers a break. It was on her way back from one of those in school visits that she got into her car accident, but it hadn’t diminished her enthusiasm for her work. In fact, it had made her desperate to get back into the museum and back into the classroom.

“But he kissed you. And he called you Becky,” Santi commented, confused.

Rebecca allowed her head to fall into her palm. “I know…apparently his mom really talked me up and made me seem really desperate and really into him. Plus, he seems to think he’s God’s gift to women, so it was the perfect storm of misogynistic crap.”

Santi was shaking his head. “Next time, tell me. I don’t care if you have to do it in front of the guy, just let me know and I’ll get him out of your hair in ten seconds, tops.”

She sighed and shuffled closer to him. “Thanks Santi. It’s nice to know that someone has my back.” She ended up pressed right against his side and gently lowered her head to his shoulder.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

                                              **********

That day marked the end of Santi sticking to his guns about not dating. After that, it became an increasingly difficult game that he was playing with himself.

Get closer to her, get to know her more, be that shoulder for her to lean on when she needed it, but don’t cross that line. Just because she said he didn’t look his age; it didn’t mean she wanted to be with someone his age. It didn’t reduce the 15-year age gap between them. She said it was nice to have someone have her back, so that’s who he became. Her constant cheerleader, her confidant, her friend. It was the first female friend Santi had had since Charlie. Before Charlie, never.

They exchanged numbers that day, and soon his days became filled with texting her different stories about his day, like how he ended up at the hospital with Benny because the idiot accidentally put a nail through his finger when he was helping nail down Santi’s new kitchen floor, or how he couldn’t move after a session where Steve had him in the therapy pool for 45 minutes. She’d send him funny quotes she heard her ‘kids’ say on field trips or in the classroom, or photos of paintings in the museum with ridiculous captions.

After she laid her head on his shoulder, he knew he loved her. After she sent him a photo of Queen Elizabeth the First’s portrait with the caption “wanna thank your mother for a butt like that”, he knew he was in love with her. And after she showed him a picture of her childhood dog Cookie and her at age 6, he knew he was drowning in her and that his only salvation would be asking her out.

Still, he kept drowning for months.

“Santi?” He turned his attention to Rebecca, still leaning gently on his arm as they stood outside the change room. “You okay? I lost you there for a second.”

“Yeah, Bex, I’m fine,” he smiled warmly at her and felt a silent thrill go through him when she got a little flustered. “Uh, Jackie was excited because Lorelai got accepted at Clemson.”

“Wow, good for her.” They both paused, a slight awkwardness hanging over them. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you out there?”

“Oh…uh, yeah.”

The door closed with a quiet click and Santi wanted to kick himself. They had spent weeks dancing around this thing, and it was pissing him off to no end.

He had never been like this. Not since he asked out Libby Stiles in the fourth grade. Why was this one girl sending his head spinning? Okay, he knew why, but it wasn’t fair. He could ask out any girl he ran into, except the one he wanted.

“Hey!” Santi turned around at the hissed greeting and found Charlie pumping up an exercise ball behind him. “If you don’t ask her out, I am going to ask her out for you!” she whispered.

Santi took a cautionary glance back at the door before stepping over to her. “What are you talking about?”

“Cut the shit, Santi!” she huffed quietly. “You think I haven’t noticed that all of your appointment times line up with hers? Or that you spend more time talking to her than you do actually doing your stretches? Or that you get this sad sap look in your eyes when you look at her?”

“And what the fuck do you know about it, Charlie?” he snarled under his breath.

“Because it’s the same way I look at Frankie, you dork!” she smirked. “It’s the same way Frankie looks at me, it’s the way Benny looks at every fucking Ring Girl who walks by. Oh, and it’s the same way she looks at you when you’re not paying attention. Now, get this ridiculous sexual tension out of my clinic and ask her out!”

“How?” he exhaled. “And what do we do? Where do I take her?”

“Jesus, Santi…” she breathed, straightening herself and running her arm over her sweaty forehead. “Who are you and what did you do with Santiago Garcia?”

He rolled his eyes and stomped over to the stationary bike. A minute later, Charlie rejoined him after adding the exercise ball to the ball bin.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she murmured softly, one hand on his back.

“I know,” he apologized, grinning at her and nudging her with his elbow.

“It’s just clear as fucking day, Santi. What’s holding you up?” Charlie crossed her arms and leaned against the handlebars of the bike he was riding. “And don’t say it’s the age gap. Not to me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Is 15 years not a good enough reason, Chuck?”

She shrugged, leaning down to rest her chin on her arms. “Not to me it isn’t. Besides, Santi, that girl is into you.”

“Right, yeah. These looks she’s been giving me. Okay.”

“Jesus…” Charlie swore under her breath, Santi chuckling as he recognized a few Spanish curses mixed in with the English. Charlie really was Frankie’s lady. “Okay, you didn’t hear this from me, right?” Santi nodded, leaning in as far as the bike would allow him. “Those first few weeks, before you started stalking her schedule to get the same time slots? She would call in and ask Jackie what times you were coming so she could book the same times as you. That’s why Jackie told her you were in here that day you made her fucking cry in my back room. Jackie’s a hopeless romantic and has wanted you two idiots to get together from the start.”

Santi sat back, feeling like the wind had just been knocked out of him. “S-seriously?”

Charlie nodded, a smirk on her face. “Yep. And if you ask her out this week, I win the jackpot.”

“You guys have been betting on us?” he hissed, leaning forward again.

“Oh, please. Like you and the Millers weren’t taking bets on when Frankie would finally pop the question, and I know for a fact you pulled the strings on that one to turn things in your favor, Mr. Best Man,” she rolled her eyes. “Look, ask her out today and I’ll use the winnings to cover your tab at the Beer Garden tonight. Deal?”

Santi fixed her with a suspicious look. “Is this you wanting to win or is this you actually having my best interest at heart?”

Charlie gave him a light smack on the back of the head as she moved away to her desk, conveniently located between the main gym and the back room, with the therapy pool behind her.

“You know me better than that, Santiago. Now get your girl, please.”

                                              **********

Charlie was right. She was always right. It was one of the things that drove Santiago up the fucking wall. Frankie and Charlie were the perfect pair because, between the two of them, they were right one hundred percent of the time. Ben needed advice for his next fight? Forget Will, he was going to Frankie and Frankie’s future wife. Will revamped his speech and needed someone to read it over? Send it to Mr. and Future Mrs. Morales. Santi needed to pick paint colours? He just handed the paint chips to the couple of let them go wild. When they argued, it drove Frankie nuts because his lady had a knack for being right about almost everything. (The one time she was wrong in all their years of dating was when she claimed that Mateo would be a little girl, and Frankie wasn’t going to let her live that down as long as they lived.)

This time, she was right about Santi having to ask Rebecca out, and Santi was sure that ‘Fish would have the same advice if he were to call him up. This hurry up and wait bullshit was driving him crazy, so he needed to do it now, for his own peace of mind.

“Hey, man,” Steve hustled up to him, worry etched across his face.

“Hey Steve, you okay?”

He was already shaking his head. “My brother just called. Our mom took a nasty spill down the stairs. I’m really sorry, but I’m gonna have to cut this short. You’re basically done anyway; I was just gonna do some laser work with you but we can do that on Monday. I talked to Charlie; she can set you up with the cryo cuffs.”

“Yeah, man. No worries. Hope your mom is okay.”

“Thanks, man.”

Santi watched Steve leave for a minute before getting off the glider and heading into the back room, where he knew Charlie and Rebecca were.

“Hey Santi,” Charlie called from the goalpost set up in the corner. “Did Steve talk to you?”

“Yeah. Shame about his mom.”

Charlie nodded emphatically. “She’s a sweet lady. I’ve got my fingers crossed for her.”

“Me too…” Santi watched as Charlie bent to attach a weight to Bex’s foot. “You want me to go grab a table, Chuck? No rush.”

“Sure, if you want,” she replied distractedly. “Or…I was just gonna have Rebecca kick some soccer balls to work on her range of motion. Maybe you could goal keep for her?” she shot him a sly smile.

“I’d love that,” Rebecca piped up, a touch of embarrassment washing over her at her too-enthusiastic tone. “I mean, if you’re free.”

“Sure. Yeah, I can do that,” he agreed awkwardly, moving across the room to stand in the net.

“Alright then. Rebecca, you’re in good hands. Have fun you two.” Charlie turned and sauntered away, turning back once to mouth “Ask her out, dumbass” at him.

“You ever play soccer, Bex?” he asked, adjusting his stance so he stood in the middle of the goalpost.

“Ha, no,” she replied, kicking the soccer ball over to him. “My physical exercise is limited to yoga and swimming. Anything involving a ball or a racquet or running? That would be a no from me.” Santi kicked the ball back to her as it reached his feet. “You?”

“I played some when we would go visit my cousins in Colombia, and I played for my fifth-grade team in school, but that was about it. Sometimes we would play with some of the village kids when we were in Afghanistan. Give ‘em a taste of normal for a few minutes.”

She smiled sweetly as she returned the ball to him, leg moving a little steadier this time. “That’s really great of you.”

“Not really,” he shrugged, sliding over a step to stop the ball before kicking it back to her. “We were the ones fucking up their country. It was the very least we could do. But, god, Tom hated when we did that.”

She scoffed. “Well, that’s not fair of him. Those kids deserve something at least a little fun after all the crap they have to deal with.”

Santi grunted in agreement. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Bex laughed once, low and devoid of joy. “Oh but I do.” Santi stopped the ball and meandered over to her, looking at her questioningly. “Santi, most of my job revolves around kids. You’d be surprised how many of them tell me that their daddies hit them or their mommies throw things at them or that their grandparents intentionally starve them for being bad.” Tears welled up in her eyes and Santi quenched the urge to wrap her in his arms. “I’ve made more CPS calls than I can count and, the worst part is, I never know if that kid is safe after I make the call. Santi, there’s a reason my trunk is full of kid sized snack packs, granola bars, juice boxes. The museum doesn’t cover any of it, but at least I know that, when I walk into a classroom or those kids walk into my museum, they’ll feel safe and loved, and they won’t have to worry about food for at least a day.”

“Jesus, Bex,” he sighed, a small, sad smile on his face. “And they call us the heroes.”

She let out a tear-filled laugh and wiped at the single tear that had managed to escape. “We all do our part, Santi. You play soccer with kids in war torn countries. I feed the ones who get left behind at home.”

Rebecca turned away from him, heading for the main gym when he reached out and grabbed her elbow gently, giving it a squeeze as he turned her towards him and doing his best to ignore the electricity that ran up and down his arm at her touch.

He sighed and released her, his hand coming up to rub at the curls on the back of his head.

“Look, stop me if this is way off base, but if I don’t say this I’m gonna go crazy. I…I really like you, and I’ve wanted to ask you out for a while but, uh…” he smiled wryly and chuckled, hating how she made him feel like an inexperienced teenage boy.

“Santi?” Rebecca stepped closer and entwined her fingers with his remaining hand, giving it a tight squeeze.

“Do you want to go to the Beer Garden with me tonight?” he burst, the words falling out of his mouth. “A, uh, a bunch of us are going tonight. My old squad, Charlie and Frankie. Would you like to come with us? I mean,” he felt his cheeks heat up. “Would you like to come with me? As my date?”

A sweet, giddy giggle surged past her lips. “I’d love to.”

“Really?”

She squeezed his hand, more laughter bubbling up from her lips. “Yeah. I…I’ve been trying to build up the nerve to ask you out for coffee for the last, like, month.”

“Maybe if tonight goes well we could go for coffee next week?” he asked hopefully.

She sighed and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

“Awesome,” he breathed. “I’ll pick you up at 8?”

“That sounds perfect.”

                                              **********

Tags list (open): @darksideofclarke, @writefightandflightclub, @eternallyvenus, @rae-rae-patcha, @himbopoes, @sophoclese, @phoenixhalliwell, @buckstaposition

[jowritesthingss]

Un-Convention-al

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairing(s): Logince (Logic | Logan + Creativity | Roman)

Rating: Teen (for swearing and Remus being Remus)

Content Warning(s): some swearing, a couple of typical Remus-like comments (nothing too bad here tho), food

Length: 3,679 words

Brief Summary: Soulmate September, day one! While at a convention, Roman ponders his rather unconventional soulmark. And maybe, just maybe...he might find the person whose name is encoded onto his arm.

TS Masterlist + AO3 Links

*

“Heyy, Spock!”

Roman rolled his eyes as his brother raced over to a black-haired, pointy-eared cosplayer. This had to be the stupidest thing he had ever done, and this wasn’t the first time Remus had dragged him into weird shit, so that was really saying something.

Watching as Remus spoke excitedly with the dude, Roman couldn’t help but wonder why he had allowed his brother to drag him to one of his nerd convention thingies. The only acceptable thing about this was that this Captain James T. Kirk character was obviously exactly like him, so even if he was acting as some geeky TV show character, at least it was a valorous protagonist, he supposed.

Roman tapped his foot impatiently, looking around the hotel lobby at all of the booths advertising anime and mango and cartoons and whatnot. Yeah, yeah, he was supposed to be supportive of his brother and whatnot after everything, but couldn’t he have held off the supporting thing until tomorrow, at least? Roman could’ve—should’ve—been across town, meeting that famous soulmate linguist guy that was in town, but nooo.

Remus snagged the cosplayer by the wrist and dragged him over, grinning madly underneath his facial prosthetics. Which, of course Remus had to choose one of the weird characters to cosplay—what was his name? Wolf? Wharf? “You two match! We gotta get a picture!”

“Very well.” Sighing and rolling his eyes, Roman acquiesced, moving over to the poor kid. He slung one terra-cotta arm around the kid’s shoulder, striking up a pose. Best to let Remus have and do what he wanted without fighting too too much; then maybe he’d get tired sooner and they could leave sooner.

Remus backed up, bringing out his phone to take the picture. “All right, say tribble!” Remus called to them.”

“Say what?” Roman puzzled, while the cosplayer said, “That is highly nonsensical and—”

The flash of the camera interrupted them both.

“Fuck yeah,” Remus enthused. He looked appraisingly between Roman and the other cosplayer, and nope, Roman did not like that look one bit. Remus always got that look when he was up to no good. “Say, Spocksie,” he drawled, “if you’re not meeting up with anyone, wanna hang with us today?”

“I could’t possibly intrude in such a manner,” Spock tried to politely decline, weakly attempting to disentangle himself from Roman.

Wait but no, that was actually a good idea for once. If this guy stuck around with them, Roman wouldn’t have to deal with Remus on his own. He could share in the shame.

“Oh, but I insist!” Roman said quickly, tightening his hold ever so slightly. He winked, hoping his stunning self could win over the nerd. “As your captain, I command you,” he joked. Wait, uh. Kirk was Spock’s captain, right? Gosh, there were too many Star Trek series to keep track of. How did Remus do it?

“I...very well, if you insist,” the cosplayer said carefully. “If you truly do not mind.”

“Of course we don’t mind!” Roman let go of the guy to splay a hand across his yellow-clad chest. “I’m sure you’ll love the chance to bask in my glorious presence.”

Spock turned to look at Remus, who was practically vibrating with energy. “Tell, me, is he in character or is he always like this?” He raised an eyebrow. “I do not recall Captain Kirk being so...self-absorbed.”

Roman squawked as beside him Remus howled with laughter, and maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

---

To retaliate for the whole “self-absorbed” comment, Roman sentenced the Spock cosplayer to sitting in a panel for an hour with Remus, while Roman aimlessly played on his phone outside the auditorium, thankful that they only had two tickets and that the rest of the tickets had sold out before they got there.

Judging from the smile on the kid’s face as he and Remus walked out of the door, debating amongst each other, he realized that sitting in a stuffy, crowded fandom panel was probably paradise for a nerd, not a punishment. Ah, well. At least he’d had time to try looking up some new online translators, even if he’d had no luck actually translating what he’d been trying to translate for five years now.

As he stood to meet the two, Roman’s right hand slipped over to his left wrist, where it slipped under the sleeve of his sleeved yellow command shirt and unconsciously began rubbing at the characters tattooed across his skin.

Soulmates were something that everyone had, and without fail, the name of your soulmate appeared on your wrist at thirteen, so there was nothing to be confused about there. And there were so many different languages and writing systems out there that having a name written in a different language or in different characters wasn’t out-of-the-ordinary, either.

What was out-of-the-ordinary, however, was that nobody could decipher the characters written across Roman’s arm.

Five years since he turned thirteen, five years since those weird-looking letters appeared on his wrist—five years of family and friends and schoolmates and teachers and even linguists gaping at them, five years of not being able to figure out what they said, what name and secret they held.

And who knows? Maybe if Roman had gone to meet that linguist instead, today could’ve been the day he finally figured it out.

But no, that wasn’t Remus’ fault. Remus had planned on this con for over a year now. He couldn’t take his frustration out on Remus.

“Did you have fun, nerds?” he asked as he strode up to them.

“I got to ask about pon farr.” Remus grinned leeringly, and Roman wasn’t exactly sure what he was talking about, but he was fairly certain that he didn’t want to know. “And Spocky-wocky here totally nerded out about Klingon.”

“Oh. Uh. Excellent,” Roman said jerkily. Did he want to know what that was, either?

His grumbling stomach made the decision that no, he most decidedly did not. At least, not for the moment.

“Why don’t we find something to eat?” Roman asked the two. “I don’t know about you two, but I myself am famished.”

Remus immediately turned and flounced away from the two of them. “Sounds dee-lightful to me, broski. I saw this stand selling astronaut food!”

Roman and the cosplayer—Roman really would have to ask his name at some point, he couldn’t just keep calling them “Spock”—hurried after Remus, and soon enough, the three were eating (more like gagging on) freeze-dried ice cream, animatedly discussing Kirk and some gal Uhura who apparently had been part of the first interracial kiss on television (“Could be gayer,” Roman said. “Could be gayer,” Remus agreed, staring mournfully at the empty packet in his hand. He had been the only one to actually enjoy the space food.)

The conversation had moved to Kirk and Spock, Remus adamantly insisting that the two had been more than friends and coworkers. He and the Spock cosplayer had a rather lively debate over it—none of which Roman understood in the slightest, so he let himself get distracted. He couldn’t help but wonder what the cosplayer would look like beneath the cosplay. The guy’s bright eyes were mighty pretty while he argued with Remus.

Mid-sentence, Remus’ eyes drifted over to Roman, and he looked away, hoping his staring hadn’t been caught. He wasn’t one to look at people that weren’t his soulmate—all the same, when you didn’t know what your soulmate’s name was, it was quite hard not to. If Remus got any ideas, though, Roman was doomed.

Sure enough, That Look appeared in Remus’ mischievous brown eyes, and he abruptly interrupted the debate to announce that he was going to go buy some more food, racing off before either Roman or the Spock cosplayer could respond.

Roman and the cosplayer instinctively turned to exchange a glance with each other, then Roman quickly looked away, flushing. Now he’d realized that the dude was kinda attractive for a nerd, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Great.

“So,” Roman said awkwardly in an attempt to break the awkward silence between the two. He fought the urge to run a hand through his hair, reminding him that Remus’ soulmate would murder him if he messed up the borrowed blond wig.

“So,” the Spock agreed. He paused before continuing, glancing between Roman and Remus. “The two of you are...friends? Boyfriends?”

“Ew. Oh, god, no.” Roman gagged. “Ew ew ew.” He looked across the floor at his brother, standing in line to buy some odd foreign candy or something. “He’s my brother.”

Spock nodded sagely, staring as Remus paid for a handful of...something. “Your brother?”

Roman watched Remus shove the entire handful of candy in his mouth, gagging. “...He’s adopted.”

Roman caught Remus’ eye from across the room, and Remus grinned at him, his deep brown cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk as chunks of something slipped out of his mouth.

“Very adopted,” Roman emphasized.

The cosplayer let out a light chuckle, and oh, that was a nice sound. “You’re clearly out of your depth here. You are a good brother for indulging him in this.”

“I...suppose,” Roman said slowly, tamping down on the sudden rush of guilt over having wanted so badly to leave the convention. “So, do you have any siblings?”

The Spock nodded. “I have a younger brother of my own. Unfortunately, he lives across the country with our mother, so he could not come today.”

“Oh.” Roman blinked. Oh, shit. Had he just brought up a sore subject? Shit. “I’m sorry.”

“It is quite all right,” the cosplayer said mildly. “When we graduate, we have plans to attend the same university, and we see each other enough on holidays.”

“That’s good! That’s good,” Roman said. Oh, by Zeus’ thunderbolt, why were his attempts at maintaining conversation so miserable today? Usually he was so good at this.

Across the floor, Remus seemed quite content eating on his own, not coming back to the two of them standing so awkwardly together. He couldn’t rely on Remus to figure out some dorky topic to talk about.

Finally, grasping at straws, Roman lowered himself to asking about nerdstuffs. “So what was that thing Remus you were talking about during the panel? Cling wrap?”

The cosplayer looked mildly affronted, and dammit, if Roman fucked up again—

“Are you referring to Klingon?” he asked, cocking his head slightly to the side.

“Yeah! That!” Roman rushed out. “What’s that?”

The Spock gazed at him in wonderment. “You truly know nothing about Star Trek, do you.”

Roman shrugged helplessly.

“Klingon is a species of alien, alongside a language,” the cosplayer said, moving his hand up to his face and jerking it away at the last second. “Apologies, I forgot that I was wearing contacts for this cosplay.” He cleared his throat. “Your brother is cosplaying as one of the few Klingon characters, Worf. The Klingons are portrayed largely as bloodthirsty antagonists throughout the series.”

“Ah.” So that was why Remus had chosen to be one of them.

“Personally, I myself am more fascinated in their language than I am anything else,” the Spock explained. “They actually hired a linguist to create an entire language and alphabet for the series. Klingon is one of the most widely-spoken fictitious languages.”

Wait. Roman frowned, confused. “People speak fictitious languages?”

“Well, yes, of course,” the cosplayer said evenly. “All language is made-up, and besides, it is logical that dedicated fans would pick up some throughout the television shows. I myself speak a bit.”

Roman snorted. “What do ya know.” Maybe that’s something he would have to add on his list of language to look up—he had almost exhausted dead languages and alphabets, might as well see if his stupid soulmark matched a fake language. It wasn’t like it could hurt anything; he wasn’t going to find them regardless.

“Aw, you’re not making out?” Remus was back, standing in front of them once more.

“I—no, of course not!” Roman blustered.

“Why ever would you think—” the cosplayer stammered at the same time.

Remus grinned widely at them, flashing a pearly white, seemingly threatening smile.

“Wow! Would you look at the time!” Roman exclaimed loudly, not looking at all at the time. “Why don’t we go and look at some of the booths and tables, Commander Spock!” He grabbed the other cosplayer’s hand and rushed the two of them away as a snickering Remus followed from a distance.

As the trio navigated the crowds of people and tables of merch, Roman ignored the fluttery feeling in his stomach and the childish glee over how the cosplayer had yet to pull his hand out of Roman’s.

---

Before Roman knew it, the end of the day had reached them, and they were ushered out alongside other convention-goers. The rest of the day had passed much more quickly than he had expected, with someone else to share his grief over Remus being Remus, and good hour or two he had completely forgotten why he’d been sulking about going in the first place.

Roman, Remus, and the cosplayer that Roman still hadn’t gotten the name of lingered on the sidewalk outside of the Marriott. There was no real reason for them to stay, but despite the Spock cosplayer’s nerdiness, Roman had discovered a shared interest in Broadway and analyzing Disney, and he almost wanted to ask for the guy’s number, awkward and embarrassing as it was.

But Remus thankfully beat him to the punch. “Say, Jabberspocky, can I get your number? My brother over there is too boring, so he never likes to talk about nerd things. I could use more cute geeks in my life!”

The Spock nodded. “That would be amenable,” he agreed. “It has been most invigorating to discuss the intricacies of the Star Trek universe with you.” The cosplayer swung around to look at Roman, looking almost...nervous? “Would you like to exchange numbers as well? You are a worthy debate opponent when it comes to Disney media.”

“Oh.” That was a compliment, right? Well, Roman was taking it as a compliment. He preened. “Of course! It would be an honor! ...For you, of course.” He grinned jokingly.

The cosplayer rolled his eyes good-naturedly, fishing his phone out of his back pocket, unlocking it, and handing it to Roman. “If you wouldn’t mind filling out your contact information, please.”

“Most certainly!” Roman pulled out his own phone and tossed it at the Spock cosplayer, who just barely caught it with his fingertips. Aw, cute, the nerd was clumsy. He focused in on the phone in his hands, typing in his name and his phone number. “There we go.”

When the cosplayer took his phone back, he glimpsed briefly at their contacts in his phone, then glanced away.

He froze.

Baffled, Roman watched as the cosplayer’s wide eyes retrained themselves down on the cell phone screen.

“Is...is everything all right?” Roman asked, feeling a spark of worry. Did they somehow know each other from elsewhere? Had he or Remus done or said something in the past?

“Oh, my,” the cosplayer said in a slightly-strangled voice. “We...I never asked what your names are, did I?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Roman mock-bowed. “Roman Sanders, at your service.” He gestured over at his brother, grinning. “And that oaf is Remus.”

“Oh, my,” the cosplayer repeated, breathless. He looked almost anxiously up at Roman. “My name is Logan Lehrer.”

Roman smiled reassuringly. “A most lovely name!”

“Is it....” The Spock cosplayer—no, Logan—hesitated. “Is it, by any chance, a familiar name?”

Furrowing his brow slightly, Roman pondered it. “...I don’t believe so,” he said at long last. “Why? Do we know each other from elementary school, or middle school, perhaps?”

“No, I just—” Logan sucked in a breath. He fiddled with the hem of his blue science shirt. “May I—” he said haltingly. “May I see your wrist?”

“My wrist?” Roman tilted his head, bewildered. He held out his right wrist. “Why?”

“No, no, I mean your—here.” Logan reached out a shaky hand, gently grasping at Roman’s left wrist. And—oh.

Oh.

Roman held his breath as Logan slowly tugged back his sleeve. There was no way—was there? Or...maybe?

Logan stared at the white symbols etched across Roman’s tannish brown skin. The five symbols, Roman now realized. Five symbols, five letters...just like Logan’s name, maybe?

Then Logan began to laugh.

Roman blinked. He had only known the guy for, like, six hours, max, but the quiet, reserved nerd he had seen so far did not seem like the type to burst into mad fits of laughter.

“Are—are you all right?” Roman asked, totally lost. What was happening here?”

“Oh my—” Logan wheezed, and Roman now was genuinely concerned. Should he call an ambulance? Should he go back inside and find the medics they had at the event?

“Whatever is going on that’s so funny?” Roman questioned.

Trying and failing to speak through the chuckles running through his body, Logan rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and practically shoved his wrist in Roman’s face, still trembling from laughter and nearly whacking him in the face.

“Oi—” Roman prepared to snap, mildly offended, but the name written across Logan’s wrist caught the words in his throat.

Roman.

Sweet Sif, Roman was Logan’s soulmate. That meant—

That meant Logan was Roman’s soulmate. That mean that, whatever language it was written in, Logan’s name was written on his arm. Logan’s. Logan.

“It’s,” Logan wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye, straightening up and slowly composing himself again. “Th-that is my name on your wrist, Roman.”

“It is?” he heard himself say dumbly, as if from a distance away, still not sure that this was really happening.

“It is,” Logan confirmed. He carefully lifted Roman’s wrist to his face and traced the characters with a thin fingertip.

Roman bit back a whimper. Oh, god, he never wanted Logan to stop touching him. Hell if that sounded inappropriate.

“This is my name,” Logan said, struggling to maintain a straight face, “in Klingon.”

Roman was silent for a good minute, processing this information, until finally he realized, “Wait, Klingon? Like, that made-up alien nerd language?”

Logan’s cool facade cracked, and he grinned down at Roman’s wrist, cheeks a rosy red. “Indeed, it is ‘that made-up alien nerd language’ Klingon.”

“Why the hell...?” Roman wondered, bemused.

“I am afraid that I have no idea,” Logan informed him, still scrutinizing Roman’s wrist. “There have been records of soulmate names being written in Ancient Greek and the like before, but I don’t think anyone has recorded any in Klingon before.”

Roman could have puzzled over this for ages more, but as it finally occurred to him, this was his soulmate standing in front of him. Shouldn’t he do something about that?

Wriggling his left wrist out of Logan’s loose grasp, he cupped the other teen’s face gently in his hands. Logan’s pale whitish green makeup was coming off in his hands, and the two of them no doubt looked ridiculous from an outsider’s perspective, but he found that it didn’t matter to him in the moment.

“I must say,” Roman said quietly. “While unexpected, this is most certainly not an unwelcome development.” A suave grin danced its way across his face. “I’ve been eyeing you all day, cutie.”

Logan’s breath puffed out softly against Roman’s face. “I....” The loquacious cosplayer seemed lost for words again as he pressed closer. “I—”

“Oh, go get a room already!” a warbly voice interrupted them.

Roman and Logan sprang apart, their cheeks heating up equally in embarrassment.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Remus grumped. “I’m still here.” After a moment, though, he brightened. “Oh, wait! This means you two can go on double dates with me and Janus and we can make out and embarrass you!”

“Please, do not,” Roman groaned, He reached out for Logan once more, reveling in the tiny squeak he let out, and he buried his face in Logan’s hair. “You ruin everything, asshole.” It was a playful jab, though; without Remus there to drag him to the convention, he might not have ever even met Logan.

So it had been a good thing after all that Roman had gone with Remus to this geeky convention thing, instead of to hear that linguist’s lecture. All the linguists in the world couldn’t have helped him beyond deciphering the words on his wrist. All the linguists in the world couldn’t have quite literally grabbed his soulmate by the arm and dragged him over, like Remus did.

“Thank god!” Remus realized, gleeful. “This means you’ll finally stop complaining about being lonely forever!”

“We’re soulmates,” Logan realized, sluggish. “We—I have your name on my wrist. You have my name on your wrist.”

“Oh my god,” Roman realized, dismayed. “This means I have a nerd language stuck on my arm for the rest of my life!”

Although, if it meant being with Logan for the rest of his life...perhaps a permanent nerd tattoo was a small price to pay.

Roman untangled himself from Logan and pulled away, biting back a grin when Logan instinctively chased after him. “Wanna come get milkshakes with us?”

“That would be satisfactory.” Logan nodded his assent. “However, we might want to take off our cosplays first.”

“Nah,” Roman dismissed. As a theatre kid he’d been to plenty of Steak ’n Shakes in full stage makeup, and he was pretty sure all the local Cookouts knew his order by heart at this point. “That’s part of the fun!”

Roman reached out and grasped Logan’s hand in his own, pulling him with as Remus began honest-to-god skipping to the car. The three broke into easy banter about the best milkshake flavors, and this time Roman couldn’t hold back the grin as Logan passionately decried the practice of dipping fries in shakes.

A small price to pay, indeed.

Fin

Day 1 || Day 2

*

Day one of @tsshipmonth2020​ ’s Soulmate September! I’m almost an hour late in my time zone, but hey! It’s still September first in Alaska, so this totally counts as on time! ...Right?

Want to be added onto any of my taglists? Shoot me an ask or a message here or via my other social media!

[notinthemaps]

Healing through the Himalayas

    I was unnerved at the thought of these mountains, aging near 50 million years old, full of history and wealth. There above lies rigid peaks and soaring heights, strong waters and vivid sharp-edged granite building the homes of the wild. The comprehension of beauty is influenced by comparison, however, there’s not a damn thing on the planet deserving enough to be compared to the Himalayas. They’re alive and awake, growing every day, shaped and shifted by avalanches and tremors and growing rivers fed by melting glaciers and the snow leopards, one of the only carnivores of the Himalayas, lies present yet silent, symbolic and representative to the creator of nature. There’s something alive here, hidden in plain sight, echoing out and drawing me closer. Something I feel I can reach yet is impossible to touch. Something I so long to search for, whatever it may be. 

I reached for the benefit of the beauty of nature over the fear of the unknown. Unable to sleep, I drifted between anxious shakes and these visions of eagles gliding along the soaring heights of the mountain range, Himalayan mountain sheep grazing in herds leaping between dry bushes and through the in-betweens, I saw a blurred vision of my father. Maybe the unearthliness and historic existence measure the markings of spirit within the Himalayas. I’ve always liked to believe that there’s an existential energy out there that lies between Earth and the resting world. One that holds the past souls but prevails in the present. One that doesn’t speak a human language but communicates well. Perhaps a world we still find ourselves in. Perhaps this alerting energy that bellows in nature.

The awareness and truth of suffering, the first of buddha’s teachings lie known across the land of the Himalayas and have fallen upon my lap, left to assimilate.  

I packed his ashes into a locket and I arrived late at night in a slow, small airport. There were crowds of taxi drivers yelling across the fence. I walked, exhaustedly, as they followed the travelers and me out to the parking lot. I hopped into a jeep with a quiet older gentleman who spoke little English. Too tired to put effort into a conversation, I watched the dirt roads ahead of us full of potholes. I paid most of my attention to avoid hitting my head against the windows until I arrived at the hostel. I fell asleep quickly on the top floor that had windows wrapping around the entire building that would once allow the sun to wake me as it rose.

In the morning, I lied awaiting the rest of the city to slowly waken as I craved the chance for a warm cup of tea. I stared out the window as the sun rose above Swayambhu, a temple full of greedy monkeys, one that embodies 365 steps to achieve its beauty. While the beauty lies in every corner through Nepal, it seems we had much walking to do to reach the most beautiful parts of the country.

An eye rub and groan across the room was noticed in the corner of my eye as I watched crows fly from building to building. He greets himself, a Tibetan man, 25 years old that did not know english very well spoke with me through google translate. He welcomed me to Kathmandu and stumbled across his words as he asked if I’d like to join him for breakfast. He guided me along to a restaurant through tall buildings, often a bit lopsided and accompanying cracks. The streets were hung with prayer flags and tourist shops were opening their doors. Namaste. Namaste. Namaste as we walked down the road. When he had finally reached the restaurant, no bigger than the average American sized bathroom, built by plastic chairs and wobbly tables. I enjoyed a rice meal and some tea and a slow conversation over google translate before he headed off to work that day. He asked me what I wanted to do that day and I pointed at Swayambhu. I hopped into a taxi and began the steps up 365 stairs. I followed the monkeys, soaked in the sun above the city with my eyes closed and welcomed the vibration of prayer wheels as they were spun by tourists and locals. I was here, accompanied by reason and purpose. Time was no longer a ticking clock, but a gift on this pursuit of searching and understanding this echo that led me to Nepal. I had no intention of leaving this place quickly. Many know how fascinated with leaving I had become. I had always wanted to leave. Run, in fact. But here, I don’t want to leave here.

The second noble truth: determining the cause of suffering. Desire and ignorance lying at the root.

After growing tired of the smog of the city, it was time to climb. I packed my bag with 2 pants, 2 shirts, a water purifier, a sleeping bag, some hiking boots, and a couple of layers to keep me warm through the next two weeks. It was enough and there are places in the world where you constantly feel like what you have isn’t enough. It feels good to strip down to the necessities of humankind. No one to compare riches and debts to. What matters from here is faith in yourself, trust in nature and to continue putting one foot in front of the other.

The trek began with a few hours walking through rice fields. It was colorful and quiet. I walked behind my Nepali guide who had curly hair and a passion for mountains. They were his home after all. He was shy and between the sounds of footsteps jumping over puddles and cattle grazing nearby, the habitual warming questions were soliloquized between. After all, I am spending the next two weeks with this man. I must get to know him and find the reason these mountains echo to him, what his reason is for climbing them for a living despite their obvious beauty. Perhaps for my own desire for clarity. I found out that he’s scared of dogs and swings, loves smoking weed and thought the phrase “Why not, coconut?!” was hilarious. We hopped around the trail until we finally reached the village we were staying at for the night. We shared some raksi, a traditional Nepali liquor, accompanied by dal baht, a traditional rice dish, that I fell in love with. And we laughed and laughed as the raski settled in and stared at the stars until our eyes grew heavy. I fell asleep to the sound of the Ngadi or “river” and the high pitch noise of the crickets.

Again, I rose with the sun, purified some water from the tap and walked alongside the river. This time for 8 hours to the town of Chamche. We took a stop at the base of this massive waterfall to cool down. In an attempt to get closer, I stepped on a grass patch that was not supported. I fell down the side of the cliff, completely burring myself with mud and grass. The mist was blinding being this close to the falls but I screamed and lifted my hand as high as the dirt allowed and was pulled up with nothing but a few scrapes, a sore foot and ankle, some leeches and a whole lot of luck. Upon arrival to Chamche, eating another serving of dal baht, he had the decency to ask me if I’m tired after walking 8 hours with a sore foot and ankle and I honestly didn’t know if he was serious or not but he looked at me waiting in silence for an answer. The day was best described by the words I wrote in my journal: I am climbing these mountains with a goddamn mountain goat.

I woke up to a throbbing foot and cramping calves. 5 hours today. I can do this. I ate lunch under an apple tree and dropped my sunglasses in the toilet or let’s say a full ‘hole in the ground’. Lovely. He said repeatedly “Bistārī, Bistārī” or “slowly, slowly.” He was right and he probably saw my frustration and felt it through my silence. Climbing mountains aren’t meant to be a race. Climbing mountains aren’t meant to be easy. If they were, no one would do it. I finally grew the courage to ask him why he does it. He said it’s in his Nepali blood. And they’re beautiful. He wants to own a tour company one day. And through his rambles, he eventually began to tell me how he started climbing mountains with his brother who passed away in a motorcycle accident two years ago. This was his connection and his dedication to his passing. I didn’t have words to respond and to break the silence, he pointed to the left of us and said: “that’s Annapurna 2.” I counted the rest of my steps with the Nepali words he taught me, “Ēka, du'ī, tīna, cāra, pām̐ca, cha..” and he corrected me as I went on with my mispronunciation.

I stayed up later than usual that night, despite how exhausted I was. It’s been a wave of emotions. This traveling is. Within a mountain lies the heavyweight of awareness due to the lack of distractions. Hours and hours of walking with nothing but your thoughts are the most draining part of it all. The conquerable part of it lies within a sufferer who climbs them anyway and does the difficult achievement of simply surviving.

Today, I fluctuated between ‘why am I doing this’ to ‘I’m so happy I’m doing this’. Today, I sat in a cafe and grew annoyed by a group of Israeli hikers complain about how they found a worm in their pasta. Today, I rolled my eyes to a couple of Americans moan about how they don’t have a private “bathroom.” Now despite being in the middle of the mountains on a trek that will reach near 17,000 feet, I have found myself more irritated with these people than I have with the fact that I have pulled hairs out of the past 3 meals I’ve eaten. Contemplation over whether to be disgusted or impressed with myself began. Is the lack of toilet paper I’ve used in the past few months of traveling impressing or? Is the cracking sounds that my socks make as I put them on in the morning disgusting? What about how comfortable I became peeing on the side of a road or trail? I’d say it’s impressive but I will leave that for each individual to decide.

The next few days, I spent plenty of hours practicing more Nepali, laid in the grass to watch the eagles fly in circles above, hiked up to lake Tilicho lake, the highest lake in the world to listen to ice crack and fall into the lake, and played an indefinite amount of card games with other trekkers. Oh, and ate all the dal baht I could possibly eat.

And when it was finally time to summit, we woke at 4 am before the sun, to a snowstorm and all I heard were the words, “Bistārī” or “Lagabhaga”. Almost. And my god, I have never hated a word more. When I reached the top and saw the tip of the Nepal flag, I walked as close as I could before I eventually collapsed to my knees. 17,769 feet. I cried after over a week of wondering if I’ll make it, if it’s worth it and constantly questioning why the hell I was doing it.  

And it was for this. For the historic human instinct of healing through nature. The feeling of confronting the reflection in the walls of the mountains and the spirits that lay between them. For my dad. For the first time the entire trek, my backpack had felt like nothing and my foot had stopped throbbing. To be humbled and disciplined. To become more human. Enamored by the mountain range, my attitude changed. For so long I carried this feeling of defeat or numbness that I reconciled as avoidance and throughout the trail, there was nothing I could use to hide from myself.

I looked at my guide as he twirled and looked up at the mountains around us. “For you, my brother” he whispered. I hugged him and clenched my locket. We both laughed and fell into the piles of snow as we danced and yelled. All this mountain range was before we started was something beautiful that led to the sky and I looked up and thanked them for becoming so much more than that. 

An end of suffering.

[the-irish-mayhem]

Let’s start off Fosterson Week with a bang, shall we? ;) For Day 1′s Missing Scenes theme.

After several years of unresolved sexual tension, Jane and Thor are in quite a rush to rectify the situation. [or, I’ve got about 32 asks sitting in my askbox asking for “first time Fosterson smut” so it’s high time I delivered. A little less than 4k of unedited smut. I rushed a little to get it out semi-on time for Fosterson Week, so pardon any dumb mistakes/bad writing.]

Read on AO3

not your average star trek fanfiction.

Thor might not be the most perceptive man to have ever lived, but to say that he feels acutely attuned to the way Jane is nearly vibrating with tension beside him would be an understatement. Perhaps it’s because he himself is just as tense as she, but he’d wager his awareness is born more from his desire for her than anything else.

He can tell that she’s trying to not seem like she’s rushing Darcy, Erik, and the young man named Ian out of the apartment, but Darcy seems miraculously able to read the room, and extracts a promise from Jane to meet her at the “lab-slash-your-mom’s-house” the following afternoon. The trio leaves shortly after that, and he and Jane are left alone.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Jane doesn’t allow it. She seizes the front of his armor and drags his mouth down to hers. Unexpected, yes, but welcome. He leans down into her, relishing the taste of her mouth. She’s not like he remembers--the reality is so much more lush and wet and wanting than he remembers from their first kiss. Her smell, her taste--details he’d hardly been able to commit to memory before fate had forced them apart so soon after it had forced them together.

He decides then that he wants to spend as much time as she will allow memorizing the taste and smell and feel of her. To have it so completely for such a brief moment, only to lose it again, would be akin to torture.

They broke apart, and an almost pained noise sounds from Thor’s throat.

“I know we have a lot to talk about,” Jane says, her breath warming his lips and he desperately wants to kiss her again. “But details can wait because I know that I want you.”

“And I, you.”

She pulls him down again, her strength surprising him, but he doesn’t fight her. He loves her conviction, her certainty, her directness. She knows what she wants, and he feels a warmth swell in his chest because what she wants is him.

She pulls back once more, and he chases her lips before she speaks again. “Condoms,” she blurts.

“Come again?”

“Do you have condoms on Asgard?”

The Allspeak helpfully allows him to understand her meaning. “Yes, though they are typically meant for callow youths who haven’t learned to yet control their fertility.”

Jane pulls back further, the tension in her body held in check for a moment as she looks at him with a strange look on her face. “Haven’t learned... fertility control.”

“Yes. It’s a subtle magic, but one that all must learn.”

Jane laughs, slapping a hand over her forehead and looking at the ceiling. “Aliens,” she says. She looks back at him. “And I suppose sexually transmitted disease aren’t a thing?”

“Oh, they are,” he says. “But, as it is, I suffer from none.”

Jane’s hand on her forehead goes to cover her eyes and she chuckles again. “All my Star Trek fanfiction fantasies are coming true.”

“Sorry?”

She pulls her hand away from her eyes and it finds its way to his shoulder, still smiling. She’s beautiful. “Nothing. I’ll tell you some other time.”

“Jane, if you are more comfortable using the condoms, I will not object. I will do anything to ensure your unconditional pleasure--”

She interrupts his speech with another kiss, much like their first, hard and messy and toothy, and she pulls back much, much too soon. “That’s sweet. And hot. But I’m all for ditching condoms, especially because I don’t actually have any right now. Come on,” she grabs his hand and turns them, leading him towards her bedchamber.

She freezes in the entryway, which he takes as an invitation to start kissing her neck from his excellent vantage point behind her.

“Don’t judge the mess,” she says, a bit breathy.

“What mess?” he murmurs into her skin. She giggles.

“You’re kind of perfect sometimes.”

She steps forward, but Thor snakes an arm around her waist so that he can follow her, his lips still trailing along her neck and jaw.

Jane melts back into his embrace and makes a sound that he swears is the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. “We’re gonna--” She sighs again. “We’re gonna have to take our clothes off at some point if we want this to happen.” She freezes a little in his arms. “Wait, clothes off is a thing for Asgardians, right?”

Thor chuckles. “Aye. Unless you’re in a hurry, then only the necessary bits are removed.”

“Sounds about right,” Jane says, and finally nudges away from him. “And hopefully we’ll be able to revisit that necessary bits conversation later,” she says with a heavy gaze over his armor.

“It would be my utmost pleasure,” he says, purposefully deepening his voice and delighting in the visible shiver it elicits from her.

Jane shucks her loose sweater and tosses it on a chair that is filled with other discarded clothing items, swiftly followed by her shirt.

Thor, following suit, reaches for his magic, and static electricity goes over his body as his armor phases out and leaves him standing in the thin shirt and pants he typically wears underneath when in his full armor and mail.

He looks to Jane again, only to find her staring at him with fascination in her eyes. “I have literally so many questions,” she says.

He winks at her. “I am very willing to let you study me in great, great detail.” He steps forward, eyes sweeping over her. “As long as I might return the favor.”

“Yes to all of that,” Jane says, and takes a fistful of his shirt in her hands and pulls him towards her. He laughs into her lips as they meet again at her demanding hands, and he cups her face in his, fingertips twining into the fine strands of her hair.

Those hands release his shirt and trail down his waist, a meandering but quick journey to the fabric’s edge, and she slips them underneath. Her hands are warm against his skin, and the press of her fingers against him makes him want her skin everywhere. Thankfully, they seem to be thinking the same thing and her hands quickly climb up to his chest, rucking the shirt up with her.

He helps her take it off and toss it aside, their lips only parting long enough to get the garment off of him. It’s like they’re trying to make up for lost time, jam two years of kisses that could have been into a handful of heated minutes. Jane’s hands push him gently, guiding him, and he lets himself be led, stepping backwards until he feels the bed behind him.

He sits, but drops his hands to Jane’s hips before she can follow him. A true tragedy it is to lose her mouth on his, but-- “I want to look at you,” he says softly, and his right thumb runs over the soft skin over her hip bone, just above the hem of the jeans. Her skin is a soft tan, looks more like something she was born with rather than something earned in the sun. The soft, fine hairs over her stomach are raised at the slight chill of the room, and he follows the line of her abdomen up to where her breasts are concealed by what looks like a soft warrior’s binder. He swallows heavily when he notes that her nipples are poking through the fabric.

His left hand climbs up, his fingers questing beneath the soft, elastic band, running just barely into the valley between her breasts. She’s so smooth under his fingers, like refined fleece, and he wants to see her. He meets her gaze, her pupils blown wide making dark eyes even darker, and she’s staring hungrily down at him and he knows what the answer to his question will be before he even asks it-- “Jane, can I see?”

She nods. He pushes his hand higher, forcing the material up until her dusky nipples are visible. “You’re gorgeous,” he sighs. She helps him dispense with the garment, and it’s Thor’s turn to pull her, moving her slight weight onto his lap with his hands anchoring her hips. The position puts her nipples perfectly in line with his mouth, and presses her heated core against his own. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he repeats once more. As Thor leans forward to take a nipple in his mouth, Jane braces her elbows on his shoulders to give herself the necessary leverage to start grinding down on him. Her jeans are thicker than he’d prefer, but the roughness of the fabric creates an intoxicating friction against his thin trousers. Her moan is soft, a sharp, excited exhalation, when he sucks a bit harder, letting his teeth come into play. His hand leaves her hip to come up to the other. One of her hands fists in his hair in response, pulling lightly at his scalp; he growls at the sensation.

Her hips start to work in double time, and there’s a moment where he’s half convinced she’s going to find a way to fuck him through the layers of fabric that still stand between them. She breathes his name out, and that’s the catalyst to him wrapping an arm around her back and lifting her up. He places her down on the bed, and she’s looking at him with wide eyes and swollen lips and he’s hit with a wave of white hot desire running across his skin and ending at his cock.

Her hips thrust up against his again, a frustrated sound coming from her when he halts the movement with his hands.

“Pants?” Thor asks.

“Pants,” Jane answers, as though she suddenly remembered that they are not actually naked yet.

They each race to get off each other’s pants; Thor manages to get her jeans and panties halfway down her thighs, but Jane is quicker on the draw and has his pants to his knees and his cock in her hand in the same amount of time.

He shudders, lost in the sensation of her hand stroking him in firm rhythm. He buries his face against her neck, letting himself get lost in it for a few moments.

“Jane,” he moans, “Stars, Jane Foster, you will kill me.”

He maintains the presence of mind to let his own hand return the favor, finding her core and his first touch tells him just how wet she is. He feels a deep pride that she wants him, and it’s so different from how his conquests used to be, this desire for her so unique that it almost feels like a first in that sense too.

“Fuck,” she gasps when he finds her clit, and he likes that--likes that he can make her curse when he does something good for her.

“Yes,” he responds, and despite her hand’s rhythm on his cock going erratic, he feels rock hard just watching her face, feeling her warm wetness against his fingers. “Let me hear you, darling.”

“I need you inside me,” she gasps, hips still writhing up and against his questing fingers. She thighs strain against the jeans still around her thighs, and she makes a frustrated sound. “Fuck, the pants need to come all the way off first.” They both scramble to ditch their partially removed garments, and they are both fully naked. Thor props himself up on an elbow at her side, free hand returning to her soaked quim.

“Inside you like this?” he asks, and slides a single finger inside her. Her answering groan is gratifying in the highest degree, and his hips flex unconsciously towards her in response. Her face is tipped back, eyes squeezed shut in wild ecstasy.

“That’s--” She chokes when he presses his finger upwards teasingly before settling back into a normal pace. “That’s great, but--”

Her eyes pop open and she looks up at him, the ecstasy from earlier replaced by confusion. “Asgardians have like... I mean-- you... shit--” she chokes again when he presses up harder, and swipes his thumb over her clit.

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” he says, leaning down to kiss her. “Ask your question.”

“Intercourse for you guys,” she says. “It’s like--I’m not violating some taboo by saying I want this inside me?” She takes his cock in hand again, and he hisses, overly warm and sensitive to her touch.

“Not at all,��� Thor says, making his swipes across her clit a little more aggressive on his next few passes. Her inner walls clench around his finger and by any and every god that has ever existed, he wants the same as she does. He can’t help but offer a little cheek, “I’d say that’s a common request during this type of activity.”

“God, your sentence structure is sexy,” she says.

He barks a laugh in spite of his current state of arousal, and he decides then that he very much likes sex with Jane Foster.

He adds a second finger, careful to make sure he doesn’t thrust them in too fast, but he can feel the stretch, and he doesn’t miss the slight wince that zips across her face before she can hide it.

“It’s fine,” she says, apparently reading his concern. “It’s just been a while.”

“For me as well.”

“We’ll just have to go easy on each other.”

“Not too easy, I hope,” he says.

She smiles, breaking in a gasp for a moment when he hits a particularly sensitive spot and swipes her clit at the same time.

“God, get in me,” she says then, eyes fixed to his. “I’ve had enough orgasms fantasizing about this over the past two years to last a lifetime, so I want the real thing.” She winces again, “Sorry, I get honest when I’m horny.”

He withdraws his fingers, trailing her wetness up her belly a ways before he reaches a nipple. He draws a wet finger around and around, smearing her juices there before diving down to take that nipple in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Jane whines. “Oh, fuck.”

He breaks away with an obscene pop. “It’s silly to apologize when I have been doing the same thing.”

“Jesus, fuck, okay then we need to stop talking about it and do it because if I have a shitty orgasm without anything inside me because I’m literally so turned on I’m--”

He doesn’t let her finish. With quick and efficient movements born of years of practice, he lines up his cock and pushes inside her with one swift movement.

The sound she makes is a high-pitched whine of relief, and he has to still for a moment, just being with her challenging his stamina in a way he hasn’t felt in many years.

“Jane,” he says, voice rough and shaky, “fuck, you are so hot and wet around me.”

Jane’s answering groan is deep, and he feels her hands tighten on his back. Her walls flutter around him, and he realizes with a start that she likes it when he talks.

He starts to move, just a few shallow strokes, and Jane gasps, “I am so fucking close.”

“Let’s get you there, then, shall we?”

“Please.”

He encourages her to hitch her legs around his waist and then braces himself above her. It doesn’t take much to push her over the edge this first time. He doesn’t go too hard or too fast, just a steady in and out, trying to find an angle that she likes. He finds an angle that has him grinding down on her clit and she’s gone, one of her hands fisting in his hair and pulling him down to kiss her to swallow her sounds of pleasure. Her walls clamp down on him like a vise and he has to break away from her lips to gasp at the feeling of her.

Thor fucks her through it gently, easing her down. Jane’s pants come deep and relaxed, and sweat glistens at her collarbones. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs.

Jane shifts under him, and she squeezes around him. “Did you come? Or do Asgardians stay erect after orgasm? Or is this part of the fertility magic thing? Or--”

“I haven’t come yet, no. And it’s a good thing, because if you can so thoroughly ask questions, then I clearly haven’t fucked you well enough.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Oh. Um. Ok. Uh, I might not... I might not be able to come again. I’ve always been one and done, but if you--”

He swoops down to kiss her. “I think I’ve just been issued a challenge.”

“Thor--”

“And as it would happen, I am very competitive.”

“If you want to try, then please be my guest.” She giggles a little, her smile sated and relaxed. He would change that.

Before she can protest, he is pulling out of her and then stretching himself across the foot of her bed. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze with his large frame, so he grasps her legs and drags her to the edge of the bed. He settles on his knees at the foot of it. She props herself up on her elbows to watch him.

“You spoke of fantasizing earlier,” he says, kissing the inside of her thighs in turn. “And I have fantasized of tasting you. Seeing what kinds of sounds fall from your mouth when I try to draw them out. See how good you taste on my tongue. Can I, Jane?” he asks, the musky scent of her filling his nose. “Can I taste you?”

Her breathing has changed from relaxed to sharp. She nods.

He doesn’t bother teasing her. It’s not about getting her worked up again--it’s about pushing her straight to another edge. So he loops his arms around her thighs, spreads her open, and sucks her clit into his mouth.

“Shit!” Jane exclaims, and he notices it’s not a pleasurable curse.

“Sensitive?” he asks.

“A bit. I didn’t--I didn’t hate that, but maybe just go a little easy for now?”

He tenderly licks her in apology, realizing that a bit of a teasing might be necessary for Jane. In this, he has infinite patience, and settles in. He looks up at her over the expanse of her belly to find, much to his surprise and satisfaction, that one of her hands has found a nipple, and her fingers lazily circle and tweak it.

He listens to her breathing, listens as it begins to grow quicker, louder, morphing into sighs and moans as his licks become more focused and pointed. He sucks her into his mouth again, this time her answering “Shit” is drawn out. He grins against her, and then sucks harder.

Her free hand reflexively shoots down to his head, pressing him deeper and harder into her, her hips flexing into his face.

“God,” she gasps. “This is new.”

Thor moans into her, and moves one of his arms down and away so that he can touch himself.

Jane seems to realize what he’s doing and says, “Fuck, that’s hot.” Then she’s pulling at his hair. “Get back in me this instant.”

Jane sits up and gestures at the pillows. “You got to be on top last time,” she says with a little pout.

“For five minutes!” Thor protests.

“Then we’ll switch halfway.”

Thor grumbles a little, but agrees, and Jane wastes no time after mounting him to slide herself down onto his cock. She braces herself on his chest, trying to find a motion that she likes. She settles on a steady rock that brings her clit down against him with every other pass, and her volume grows along with his own.

"Fuck, god, fuck, that's so good," she's mumbling above him, and he's answering her back, "You feel so good, you're so wet, fuck, fuck, fuck."

It's not the most articulate either of them have ever been, and Thor can’t seem to get his words out in the right order, or even in complete sentences; the way the thought forms in his head is so much more coherent than the fragmented fuck and Jane and so wet and so good that keep coming out.

It's when Jane stops with the words entirely that Thor thinks she's close, just sharp whines and loud moans and, by the stars, is it working for him.

He flips them, making Jane squawk in surprise, but the on-the-edge sounds she was making before quickly pick back up when Thor lifts one of her legs over his shoulder, and picks up a harder and faster rhythm compared to what they had before.

And he knows he has her, he has the wordless moans and gasps, her clenching hands, she’s right there, almost there, and so he tries to give her that last nudge, tries to put his words together in some semblance of a cohesive degree of seductiveness. He tells her I can still taste you on my lips and you taste amazing and you’re so beautiful and you feel so good wrapped around me and come for me, Jane and come all over my cock, show me how much you want this, show me, fuck, stars, you feel amazing

And then she is shouting her release to the ceiling, and it’s only a handful of strokes before he’s following her over the edge, holding back no longer and feeling the pleasure run through him like his lightning.

They rock together for a few more beats before they separate, kissing sweetly before Thor pulls out.

Jane sighs, her eyelids heavy, as they settle on their backs next to each other. She throws an arm over his stomach.

“I don’t know if I have the energy for a proper cuddle.” She raises her hand. “High five. That was... That was pretty good.”

He eyes her raised hand. “Only ‘pretty good?’”

She wiggles her fingers. “Really good.”

He high fives her.

A beat passes before he asks, “When you were talking about Star Trek fanfiction earlier--” Before he can get the rest of his question out Jane starts to laugh. It’s an infectious sound, delightfully warm and full. “What?” he asks through a wide grin.

She looks over at him. “Do the words ‘tentacle porn’ mean anything to you?”

“Er, I think the Allspeak wasn’t designed to parse that one.”

Jane just cackles. “I’ll explain it later. Let’s just--let’s just bask for a minute.”

[breanime]

Rewrite the Stars (Part Four)

WARNING: Things get steamy in this chapter, lemon-y if you will. Quite tart, as it were. ;) Read with caution.

*gif not mine* 

You followed Caspian into the forest, watching the way he held his shoulders as he walked ahead of you. The two of you walked in silence for most of your trek, taking your time in surveying the island and charting your course on the map you’d brought with you. You knew him well enough to know that he was tense, upset even, and you wondered if Adeline’s presence really did bother him that much.

“Perhaps it would have been a good idea to leave Adeline on the Dawn Treader after all,” you said lightly.

Caspian made an assenting noise. “Not just her,” he said, a petulant tone to his voice.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if I weren’t king, I would have drawn my sword on Nip,” he said back.

You blinked, confused. “What did he do?”

Caspian turned to you, stopping so abruptly that you almost ran into his back. His eyes were stormy and wild. “He—I—” Caspian turned away from you, running a hand through his dark hair. He turned back to you. “Do you—do you like him, Y/N?”

You shrugged, unsure what was going on. “He’s nice enough,” you said, “He still has a lot to learn about sailing, but he’s a hard worker and he tries to—”

“No,” Caspian interrupted, taking a step closer to you, “I mean do you… Do you think he could be…” He shook his head, flexing his hands at his sides as he spoke. “…He’s clearly interested in you.”

You made a face. “Caspian, he’s basically a child,” you said.

“He made you laugh…” He grumbled as he stepped over some twigs.

“Because he’s so ridiculous…” You blinked, realizing what was happening. “Caspian are you—do you think I’m interested in Nip?” You would have laughed if it wasn’t so overwhelmingly idiotic. Caspian licked his lips and looked away from you, an embarrassed look on his face. “Caspian,” you said slowly, “Answer me. Do you think I’m interested in Nip?”

Caspian ran a hand through his hair. “No… I…”

You did laugh then. “You think I could possibly look at another man—let alone Nip—when I’m in love with you?”

Caspian’s face broke out in a smile, and he hopped over to you. “I suppose that doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?” He asked shyly.

“No,” you chuckled, “it does not.”

Caspian laughed again before reaching for your hand. Your heart sped up when he grasped it. “It’s…” He cleared his throat. “It’s getting dark out,” he reasoned, “we should be careful where we step.”

You nodded, trying to hide the smile on your face. This was…you were simply trying to stay safe, that’s all. It was perfectly innocent. It was, in fact, getting dark, and you didn’t want to trip. The two of you walked, hand-in-hand as you went deeper into the forest. Caspian kept the conversation going by asking you about your opinion on the island and complimenting the work you’ve done on the ship. It was easy, as always, to talk with him. Caspian made you feel like you were the only person in the world, with his attentive gaze and soft smile. As you walked through the lush forest, you realized that you wanted to hold his hand forever, to be close with him forever. It was a dream, but you decided to let yourself live it for just a moment.

That is, until the rain started.

It was only a few drops at first, and the trees shielded you from most of it. But it soon became a full-on storm. Leaves and debris flew in the wind, and you and Caspian huddled together under a tree to get away from the worst of it.

“We should head back,” you said, arms wrapped around yourself to keep warm.

Caspian shook his head as he rubbed your sides with his large hands. “It’s too far a trip,” he said back, “It’d be too dangerous.” He took out his telescope, and you wondered if he could even see anything in the dark or through the rain. “There’s a cave not too far from here,” he looked down at you, “Can you make it?”

Your teeth were chattering, but you nodded. “Of course,” you said, “Lead the way.”

Caspian grabbed your hand and led you through the trees. The wind was whipping up now, and you both had to shield your eyes in order to see in front of you. The wind was bad, but the rain was worse. It was freezing cold, and you regretted wearing a sleeveless shirt. Caspian’s shirt was melded to his body from the rain, but at least it covered his arms. He turned back to look at you as you stumbled through the forest. “We’re almost there,” he shouted over the rain, “Can you see it?”

You squinted your eyes and looked past his face. You could see the outline of a cave a few yards ahead. “I see it!” You reported back.

He smiled at you, and he looked like he was about to say something when he took a step…

…and ran into a branch.

Caspian hit the ground with a thud, and you screamed out of reflex. You crouched down next to him and felt his pulse—he was knocked out, but he would be fine. You had to get him out of the rain before he took sick, and you still didn’t know what kind of creatures inhabited the island. You slicked your hair back, taking a few steadying breaths. You could try to fashion some kind of stretcher, but you didn’t have the necessary supplies—or the time. Squinting against the rain, you peered out into the darkness and tried to gauge just how far the cave was. Caspian was much bigger than you, but you would have to try to lift him. Grunting, you threw Caspian’s arm over your shoulder and pushed yourself up, putting all of your strength into your legs. Caspian sagged against you, and you felt his wet hair tickle your neck. Carefully, you took the first step. The ground was slippery with mud, and you were shivering even as you hugged Caspian’s body close to yours. It took everything in you to carry you both to the cave; every step seemed to take a full minute, and you nearly slipped more than once, but you didn’t drop him. You held onto Caspian tight. Your body was beyond aching now, it was vibrating with pain. But you kept on; you were determined to get him somewhere safe. Your eyes were starting to give out, so you moved by instinct to compensate for it. Finally, you were close enough to see the cave, and you let out a sigh of relief.

“We’re almost there,” you whispered to Caspian, your voice hoarse, “I’m going to look after you, I promise.”

You dragged Caspian into the mouth of the cave, laying him down once you got most of him out of the rain. You put your hands under his arms and pulled him the rest of the way in the cave until your back hit the stone wall. You only had a few supplies in your pack: some bread, a canteen of water, rope, a map, and an extra dagger. None of that was helpful to you now. You dug in Caspian’s pack and saw that he was more prepared. He had a rolled-up blanket at the bottom, and though it was slightly damp, it was better than nothing. You considered starting a fire as you draped the blanket over him, but the wood from the trees was much too damp. And, even though you were chilled to the bone, it might not be a good idea to start a fire until you were certain there were no other threats on the island—besides the weather, of course. Very carefully, you laid down next to Caspian, getting under the blanket with him. His body was warm next to yours, and you ran your fingers across his forehead. A flash of lightning outside illuminated the cave, and you could see that there was a bruise already forming on his forehead.

You sighed. “Sleep well, Caspian,” you whispered, looking down at him with nothing but love in your heart, “I’ll be right here when you wake up.” Carefully, you pressed a light kiss to his forehead, lips lingering over the bruise. You snuggled him close to you, laying his head on your chest and running your fingers through his wet hair. You were still shivering, but Caspian ran hot, and his body heat began to soothe you. You felt your eyes get heavy, and you tightened your grip on your king, the man you loved. The rain pounded against the rocks and trees outside, and the noises made you even sleepier. You wanted to stay awake and to properly guard Caspian, but you were so tired. You kept one hand in his hair and put the other near his neck, pressing two fingers to his pulse point. You let the steady rhythm, coupled with his light breathing and sound of the rain, lull you to sleep.

“Y/N?”

You blinked yourself awake, looking up to see Caspian looking down at you. Your hand was still in his hair, and his hand was on your cheek, warm and gentle. “Caspian,” you whispered back, staring into his dark eyes, “Are you alright?”

He nodded before glancing towards the mouth of the cave. It was still dark and rainy outside. “I’m fine, thank you,” his hand caressed your face, “And you? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” you answered, “I’m alright.”

“You’re freezing,” he said back, a frown on his face, “We need to start a fire.”

“Is that wise?” You asked, sitting up. You immediately missed having his hand on your face. “What if it attracts attention?”

Caspian was already up and gathering fallen branches from the edge of the cave. He turned to you with a smile. “I thought you liked danger.”

You couldn’t help but smile back. You watched as Caspian put together a small fire-pit, silently impressed as he easily brought the flames to life. You scooted closer to the fire, wrapping your arms around yourself and grinned over at Caspian. He was sitting across from you, staring back at you.

“You’re shivering,” he said, voice low.

“I’ll be fine,” you answered, holding your hands out in front of the fire, “as soon as I dry out.”

Caspian looked back at the rain outside before turning back to you. “It doesn’t look like the rain will let up any time soon…”

“The others should be fine,” you replied, “the tents are sturdy, and the beach is safe.”

“Yes, but…” He licked his lips.

“But what?”

“It’s just that… It’s very cold, and the rain is only getting worse,” he spoke slowly, and you saw his hands flex in his lap, “and you… You’re shivering, you look very cold, Y/N.”

“I am very cold,” you said with a slight smile.

“Yes, and… Perhaps we should… Huddle together,” he suggested shyly, “Just to keep warm,” he added quickly. His cheeks were turning red.

You licked your lips. It made sense—and you were freezing cold, after all. “Well,” you shrugged, trying to keep your voice level, “there is only one blanket… It makes sense.”

Caspian bounced over to you, and you laughed. He slid down next to you and wrapped you in his arms. Giggling, you pulled the blanket up and around both of your shoulders. You had to cuddle in close to ensure that you both got enough blankets. Caspian pulled you onto his chest, hooking his chin on the top of your head. His eyes were warmer than any fire could hope to be when he looked down at you, a smile on his face.

“I suppose I should properly thank you for bringing us here,” he said.

“Mm,” you smiled back, “you mean for saving you?”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “You didn’t save me.”

“I didn’t?” You blinked up at him, feigning confusion. “But I picked you up from the forest floor, carried you all the way up here, and made sure you didn’t freeze to death,” you grinned, “That seems quite like saving.”

“My hero,” he said, laughing.

His laugh warmed you to the core. You reached up and brushed his hair away from his forehead and surveyed the dull purple bruise there. “Does it hurt?” You asked softly.

He shrugged and tightened his hold around your shoulders. “I’ve had worse,” he looked down at you, a sadness in his brown eyes, “compared to…that, this is nothing.”

You sighed. You knew exactly what he was talking about. You felt the same pain he felt—and for what? For both of you to be unhappy, to be close but so far from each other? For him to marry Adeline or someone like her while you watched from afar? Is that what you wanted for your life? Is that what you wanted for him? “I cried myself to sleep so many nights,” you said, voice soft, “thinking of you.” Caspian’s eyes widened, but you went on before he could say anything. “All I want is to be with you,” you admitted, brushing your fingers against his bruised forehead, “And I used to think that just being around you was enough; being apart of your Kingsguard and sailing with you, seeing you every day…I thought it would be enough to just be near you, but it’s not,” you sighed again, feeling tears prick your eyes, “It hurts so bad, Caspian, feeling this way about you and not being able to be with you, not being able to make you happy…”

“You make me happy,” he swore, sitting up slightly. Caspian put his large hand on your face, leaning over and staring directly into your watery eyes. “You make me so happy, Y/N.”

“All I want is to be with you,” you said, blinking back the tears, “All I want is to fly with you, to fall with you, to sail and laugh and fight with you,” you shook your head, “but it feels impossible.”

“It’s not impossible,” he said back, eyes firm. “Y/N, I love you. Nothing can keep us apart, as long as you say you want me, then you can have me,” he let out a breathy laugh, “By Aslan, Y/N, you have me now. You are the one I was meant to find. You,” he repeated, “not Susan, not Adeline, not any noble woman or princess or anyone else—you are my destiny, Y/N, I know it. And I think that I am yours.”

You swallowed. Your heart was beating a mile a minute, and you were determined to listen to it over your head—for once. “People will say that I am not fit to be by your side,” you said slowly, “They will say that I am a poor man’s daughter, that I come from nothing—”

“—And I will tell them that you are Y/N,” he said back, “A fierce warrior, a brilliant sailor, and the most remarkable person I have ever met.” He smiled softly down at you, brushing his knuckle against your cheek. “In all truth, I don’t deserve you.”

“I love you,” you said, breathless.

“I love you, too,” Caspian said back, eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled.

You wanted to talk more—wanted to make sure that he was sure that this—you—were what he wanted, but you needed to feel his lips on yours more. You put your hands on either side of his face and pulled him towards you. You sighed into the kiss, and Caspian rolled you over so that he was on top of you. His body pressed against yours and you wrapped your arms around him, trying to bring him closer. Your toes curled when he slid his tongue in your mouth, and you both heard and felt him groan when you moved your leg to wrap around his waist. “Caspian,” you sighed, mouth still on his.

“Yes, my love?” He said back, kissing your chin as he spoke.

Your eyes were closed, and you leaned your head back, taking in shallow breaths as you felt his soft lips trail down your chin and to your neck. “Caspian,” you tried again, hands fisting his shirt at his shoulders. Words were escaping you, and you heard Caspian chuckle as he kissed your neck.

“Yes,” he said again, kissing back up your neck and brushing his lips against yours, “my love?”

“Caspian,” you were whining now.

“Yes?” Caspian kissed you again before burying his face in your neck. “My love?” You could feel his smile against your skin. “My darling?” His breath was sweet and warm, and his hair was draping down over you, “My beloved?”

You were shaking—but it had nothing to do with the cold. In fact, you felt like every inch of you was on fire at the moment. You moaned—a pathetic, desperate sound—as Caspian’s large hand slid under the hem of your shirt, gripping your hip. “C—Caspian!”

He kissed you, and your tongues rolled together at the same time your hips did. You could feel his hardness against your leg. Caspian pulled back, staring down at you, love clear in his eyes. “Is this too much?” He asked you, rubbing his nose against yours.

“No,” you answered back, pulling him down into another kiss. You slid your hands underneath his shirt and felt another shiver go through you. His back was hard and muscular under your touch. “Caspian…”

He chuckled as he looked down at you, and you felt your heart jump with the amount of love that went through you as you looked back up at him. “Y/N,” he said back.

You caressed his face with your hand, staring into the eyes of the man you loved. He loved you back. He wanted to be with you, and you wanted to be with him. All the fear, the hesitation, the doubt that you’d been feeling all evaporated as you looked at his smiling face. This was the face you wanted to wake up to every morning, this was the man of your dreams. He was your destiny. “Caspian,” you whispered, eyes never leaving his, “Please.”

That was all you needed to say. Caspian bent down and captured your lips in a kiss that had you both moaning. His hands roamed your body, and every bit of skin he touched felt blessed. You rolled your hips upwards, and felt Caspian groan every time you did. He licked into your mouth and gripped your hips tighter. Grunting, you sat up and pulled at his shirt. Caspian chuckled as he moved to assist you. His shirt was still a bit damp, so it was sticking to his skin. You, in your impatience, would have torn it had Caspian not struggled out of it on his own. Caspian watched you watch him, a soft smile on his face. You drank in the sight of him, breathless at his beauty. Carefully, you ran your hands down his heaving chest, trying to memorize each and every sensation. You pulled him back down to you and kissed him, soft and slow. Caspian sighed into the kiss, and you smiled. His hands were trailing up and down your body, and you moaned when you felt his hand slip under your shirt and cup your breast. Caspian’s tongue rolled against yours, and you wanted nothing more than to feel him inside of you.

You started to pull his pants down at the same time he lifted your shirt up and wrapped his lips around your nipple. You jumped—the feeling of his warm mouth against your cold nipple was incredible, and you gripped onto his shoulders, keeping him close. You called his name when he switched nipples, and probably gave him quite a few scratches when you yanked his pants down. Caspian pulled you up, mouth still on yours, and helped you out of your clothes. The process took much longer than you would have liked—partly because both of your clothes were soaked and stuck to your skin, and partly because neither of you could bear to stop kissing for more than a couple of seconds—but you were both naked soon enough. Caspian groaned when you wrapped your leg around his waist again, and he gripped your thigh, holding you in place as he slid into you.

You saw stars.

Caspian felt incredible—there was a slight tug of pain at first, but it was immediately followed by an enormous surge of pleasure. You gasped into his mouth, rocking your hips with his and digging your nails into his skin. He was moaning into your mouth when he wasn’t kissing you, and he had one hand on the small of your back and the other on the side of your face, keeping your mouth on his. Your moans and cries were louder than the rain and the crackling of the fire, but it wouldn’t have mattered if they weren’t: Caspian was all you could focus on. Your legs were shaking, and you could feel tears prickling at the edges of your eyes as your body experiences waves and waves of pleasure. Caspian’s thrusts were getting wilder and rougher, and you grabbed a fistful of his hair, spurring him on.

“I…” Caspian’s voice was rough and breathless—you liked hearing his voice sound like that. “I don’t—I can’t last much longer, my love,” he said, groaning when you wrapped your other leg around his waist.

You moaned, biting your lips, as you felt him go deeper. “Caspian, my love,” you gasped back, feeling like your entire body was electric, “My one love, my entire love!” You broke out into a scream then as your orgasm hit you—going through you like a lightening bolt. Caspian cried out above you before pulling out and releasing his seed on your stomach.

Breathless, weightless, you floated on a cloud of pure ecstasy. You were acutely aware of Caspian kissing you again before he cleaned you off. His touch was feather-light, and you heard him speaking sweetly to you, his voice low and soft. Gently, he slid your pants back on for you and put you in his shirt. You watched, slightly dazed, as Caspian got up and poked the fire. His pants were hanging low on his hips, and you licked your lips. Those hips. He turned to you and laughed, crawling back over to you and covering you both in the blanket.

“I can see you thinking those filthy thoughts,” he said, kissing your forehead as he held you to his chest.

“I… I’m not… I’m only…” You licked your lips, taking in the sweet sound of his laughter.

“You can’t seem to form words, my love,” he said through a laugh.

“I like when you call me ‘my love’,” you said back.

Caspian’s face broke out into a smile. He leaned down and kissed you. “Then I shall call you that every day,” he promised, kissing you as he spoke, “On the Dawn Treader,” he kissed you, “at the castle,” another kiss, “every day… Unless,” he kissed you again, “I am busy calling you my Queen.”

Your eyes widened. “Caspian—”

“Marry me,” he said, eyes and face serious, “Marry me, Y/N.” He shook his head. “I can’t live without you.”

You blinked up at him—your brain was screaming ‘no’, ‘you can’t do it’, ‘he deserves better’, but as you looked up into the earnest eyes of the man, the king, you loved, you knew none of that mattered. You had let your insecurities control you for too long, had let your fears and assumptions keep you from the only man you’d ever love. No more.

Now, together, you would rewrite the stars. ****************************************************************************************

We’re almost done with this one, guys! Please let me know how you think of this one! Also, pour one out for your girl Adeline cause she lost the battle and the whole damn war. Thank you for reading!

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