#i remember feeling all of this pain so acutely and it being mirrored in every transmasc around me

[upthebracket]

i have to say as a former "gay transmasc" all these "forcedmasc" posts starting to go round tumblr and pinterest are so revealing of the mindset of many with that identity, because they capture its driving anxiety in such a blatant, unvarnished way: the view of the female body as innately inferior, disgusting or even monstrous, and the male body as the perfect eroticised ideal. many of the posts state outright that the female body is just a pale imitation of the male body, and because it's physically weaker, it's lesser and the girl has to destroy it in order to become powerful, in control and free (things that only a man can be). for example:

it's very similar to what i understand thinspo posting to be, both in terms of the actual visual content – images of the ideal masculine figure paired with encouragement towards that goal – and the underlying message. this would make sense because they're both partially responses to misogynistic shaming – a girl who has been shamed for not living up to the feminine ideal will either try her hardest to do so (i.e. through an eating disorder) or decide that it's impossible for her, so she's going to be defiant and do the opposite (i.e. try to become a man).

i've also noticed that the language used is often very religious or spiritual – using biblical metaphors and talking about "becoming" or being "reborn" in the christian sense; the sinful, corrupt self being symbolically killed to make way for the heavenly self:

to a person with regular self-esteem this is clearly irrational, because they can acknowledge that no matter how they change their appearance they're still going to be the same person ("no matter where you go, there you are"). it reads like a mentally unstable person trying to cope with big existential dilemmas such as the fact of being judged by others, or the fact their body will change without their permission and eventually they'll die; and turning to a religious ideology to cope.

for decades writers and filmmakers have tried to impress upon people the danger of being your own god, of trying to reinvent yourself out of accordance with nature and acting as your own voyeur and critic. you see it in recent films like the substance and in classic novels such as the great gatsby and the picture of dorian gray (which transmascs tend to be quite tellingly obsessed with).

but i fear that as someone who's been there and done that, if i tried to put this to a forcedmasc-er i'd get the same response you'd get from an evangelical being told that their infallible god (the ideal male form) is in fact fallible, or perhaps even non-existent. i'd be dismissed at best and labelled a heretic and dogpiled at worst. and doctors and surgeons don't see any of this because they're not on tumblr or pinterest! all they see are clearly unhappy teens and young people walking through the doors saying they want to be the opposite sex.

[pynkhues]

I've been obsessed with "to your beacon in the gloom" (definitely one of the five most beautiful, hottest, vivid, and psychologically acute fics I've ever read), and I am a truly insane amount of happy that you're writing a fic where they have the magnus discussion and apparently do lots of other things, I truly cannot wait--I want more of Louis and Lestat from you, always. But I also wanted to say how amazing Hold Me Close and Hold Me Fast is. You're genuinely an incredible writer, you're one of those writers where I feel like, this prose is as fantastic and insightful and vivid as a lot of acclaimed novels I read. This fic is so creative and sure-handed, the way you move back and forth through different versions of Lestat in Louis' imagination -- it's just such a high level of skill, I'm in awe. And then how devastating it is to read the way you capture Louis' love for Lestat, his lust for him and the ache for his beauty, and above all his desperation to be close to him and these futile efforts to dig deeper and find out more about the person he loves so much, when that's impossible now. This passage particularly gutted me: 

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

“What did Magnus do to you?”

It’s instant, the way all impishness vanishes from Lestat’s face, and he’s not wounded like he was before, but his eyes are glassy, his mouth a little open, like he has to leave it that way to remember how to breathe.

“What do you think he did to me?”

And Louis remembers that night when he told them the little details, the scraps of something bigger. Remembers the room and the dead boys just like him and the tower and the week in the maw of a monster, and there are too many gaps and Louis needs to know every way Magnus ever touched him almost as much as he needs to never, ever know.

In front of him, Lestat’s hand trembles, as he raises a hand, touches his lips, but - - Lestat didn’t tremble, not like that, and it’s quick, the picture. Claudia, touching her lipstick up in the mirror, her hand shaking.

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

I'm so glad you're writing about Lestat and Louis dealing with Magnus. I need that. This passage is just unbearably wrenching, and "Louis needs to know every way Magnus ever touched him almost as much as he needs to never, ever know" captures something so visceral about dealing with this kind of pain and trauma. And connecting the Lestat-hallucination's trembling hand to Claudia (which was such a devastating moment in the show)...brilliant. 

Anon! This is such a beautiful ask to receive, thank you. I feel like that first fic in a new fandom is always so tricky, because in so many ways you're learning how to write the characters, and I was probably a bit ambitious with that one given the place Louis and Lestat are, so to know that you liked it so much is just - - yes, a bit magic. Thank you again.

And yeah! It's been interesting to try and get into both their heads for a conversation about Magnus given the way information about Lestat's past has typically had to be provoked out of him in the show - particularly Paul and Lestat's confrontation about Lestat's relationship with God and his father in the pilot and, of course, the in-show conversation about Magnus only being had as a part of the deal to move back home. I'm hoping it'll feel built to in a way that's pretty authentic in the fic and not something just plunged into (I finished editing the first scene last night, and I'm a little worried it's a bit long and people are going to be like 'what?' haha, as it's Louis at a gallery and doesn't involve Lestat at all, but I hope it feels it feeds into everything that happens afterwards). We'll see though!

[queen-of-obsessing]

I wanna write my blorbos from my original wip but its 4 in the morning and I'm too lazy to drag out my computer so y'all getting it here...it's so out of context lol

tw for violence, PTSD, general depressing vibes

The nightmares were getting worse. Since arriving at the old cottage, James had struggled to sleep. Something about the peaceful silence of the woods only made his mind torment him more. Every night it was different. Das getting stabbed in the throat, Evelyn getting beheaded. Every night it was a new horror, memories of battles gone by contorted by fear.

But here in a comfy twin sized bed, with the bay window overlooking moonlit trees, and the tranquil buzzing of fireflies, a new nightmare awaited him.

This one wasn't particularly terrifying, at least  not at first. James was walking down the hallway of Evelyn's castle, a drink in hand, as he always did, on his way to find David somewhere in the maze of hallways. He wanted to tell him something, and searched for him in all the many rooms, until he came to his own.

By all rights it looked the same as it always did before he ended his engagement and left - same bed with the orange quilt, same curtains, and same full body mirror positioned by the closet.

It was in this mirror where he caught sight of himself, and it was enough to freeze his blood. His skin, artifically pale by powder, his lips tinted. The exhaustion and pain. It was him as a slave. He would know that face anywhere, but hardly recognized it as his own. It felt like a century ago since he was a slave to an evil queen, and the pallor of face powder was all he had known.

He tried to wash it off. He grabbed a washbasin and scrubbed furiously, a desperate attempt to cleanse himself of it. Bit it would not wash off. It was a tattoo, embeded into him. Her cruelty, a stain on his soul.

He woke up screaming.

David whipped his head from the window. He had been sitting there all night, watching James as he slept. He knew he shouldn't have, but he knew how hard it was for his friend to find rest. David knew it acutely because he couldn't either. The past haunted him, too.

So, when James awoke in a cold sweat, crying out with a pain that squeezed David's chest so tightly he feared it may it may explode, he already knew what happened, and rushed to his side.

"James?" He whispered, clutching his shoulder.

His friend was distraught, pale even in the  moonlight, reflecting the tears on his cheeks. "It was - I was -" he tried to explain, but couldn't. The panic was all consuming.

"I know, it's alright," David said, pulling his shaking form to himself. "You're okay." He stretched an arm across his chest, holding him to him, and resting his cheek atop his messy red hair. "I'm here."

James could still see his lifeless face in his mind's eye every time he shut his eyes, but against David's chest, hearing the steady sound of his heartbeat, the fear began to subside. "Is it still gone?" He whispered, gripping David's arm that was pressed across him.

David knew exactly what he meant, and reached for his wrist, lightly tracing the area where his slave number was once tattooed into his skin, before they asked Victor to medically remove it. "It's gone," he confirmed. "You're safe now. She's dead, remember?"

James shut his eyes once more, listening to the sound of his voice. He would know it anywhere, even if the world was ending, and he had lost all sense of sight or sound, he would still know it. Feel it as he felt it now, vibrating his chest and filling his bones. His lips on his hair, breathing slowly and steadily.

Despite David being his safe haven, as he always is, James still felt the need to explain himself. You can't just wake up in the middle of the night screaming and not explain. "It was another dream," he attempted, despite how his chest tightened at the thought of it. "I dreamt I was..."

"You don't need to explain," David said, firmly. "Don't force yourself to."

He lifted his head slightly. "But I woke you up-"

His friend shook his head. "Don't. I was already awake."

James glanced away, still tucked into his arms. He hated what he was going to ask but knew he had to. "Can you stay?" He hated how small his voice sounded, how desperate. He hated David knowing that the mere idea of him leaving his side made him irrationally angry, not after he rejected him just two weeks prior. But a lot can change in two weeks, and it had for him. He knew how he felt, he was just terrified to admit it, and even now asking him to stay, he was still terrified. But David being David, he somehow managed to wrap around his fear and stifle it so that all he felt was a calm peace. It had been that way from the start.

"Always," was all he said.

James was in awe of its simplicity.

[the-darklings]

╱ i only love it when you touch me, not feel me.

pairing: jean & clara verse: npfh word count: 3.1k+ warnings: nsft, bathroom/mirror sex (because that's who they are as people), rough sex (but they're both so into it I'm not sure it even counts), cockwarming. notes: so this was written all the way back in January but it's the first piece of what I considered to be the real beginning of their dynamic (which I've expanded upon in ASE) despite writing them a lot prior to this point. it's also the first time I ever tried to write from jean's pov so enjoy. this is not super explicit and more character exploration because apparently smut is good for those. as always, any feedback is loved and appreciated 🌿 ✨

He’s never cared much for his name.

Or, more accurately, never cared what sentiment it was spoken with. He’s heard his name being called lovingly, with hatred, suspicion, fear, and hatred alike. Moaned desperately and worshipped—latter he’s always preferred the most.

“I'm not going to touch you unless you beg.”

Clara, however, has an infuriatingly persistent ability to make him crave his own name. From her mouth specifically.

Jean could fuck her until she’s barely coherent and it still won’t be enough. This woman fights and fights, and doesn’t give him an inch of ground. All liquid flame and viciousness, and he can’t help but wonder where the hell she’s been hiding all this time.

With Camorra, a sly voice reminds him, Giovanni De Stefano’s deadly little matchstick. So good at death.

She is. She's a master at death and maybe that’s what makes this so fun, so good, and addictive. Why he irritatingly finds his blood burning whenever he sees her. Why he looks forward to every occasion their bodies touch. Whenever those dark eyes fixate on him and pin him in place, a monster deep down stirs, purrs at her presence. His desire is a monster with its own life, its own insatiable appetite for her.

Jean prefers when she pins him with her lithe body—eyes flashing and teeth bared, a powerful but dangerous package of hunger.

He had expected her to be meek. Broken. Especially after Tokyo. She’s proven to be anything but. Even at her worst, she’s still a sharpened blade. A danger, a promise of destruction. Damaged, certainly, but unbroken and unyielding. The more he learns about Tokyo the more his head rings with but one downright greedy thought.

The Viper hasn’t taken another lover since then. No one has touched her or tasted her since her rebirth. No one has fucked her, brought her to the edge, made her moan and shudder. Given her an escape and a release. Satisfied her.

No one knows the scrunch of her nose or the way her lips part softly. A whisper of air slipping free with every slow, lingering kiss against her throat.

Expect him.

His hips stutter at that thought. It always makes him feel good. To know that he alone has claimed some tiny part of her. Jean knows full well it’s only because she allowed him to claim it but that’s its own kind of buzz. He likes how she burns. How she yields only when she wants to. Liquid flame melting into his body like she was made to fit in his arms.

It’s sex at the end of the day. It doesn’t have to or even need to have meaning—he would know—but she makes it mean something. Emotions aside, she challenges him with such acute precision, he can’t help but come and meet her in the middle; an unending battle of wills. For all the dullness and predictability of their world, she’s a tempest, utterly untamed.

“And would you prefer if I begged?” he whispers against the shell of her ear, watching their reflection—the way they fit, the way she leans into him, trust, trust, trust, that he won’t let her fall, and they exist in these tiny victories. “Mmh? Ma vipére.”

He hums with a wolfish grin, his words throaty, pressing another greedy kiss against the back of her neck, then side, his lips dragging over her soft skin. “For you, I might,” he adds slyly, meeting her stare in the bathroom mirror again.

He might be losing, but she's losing quicker.

Clara doesn’t answer right away—a clever, careful thing that she is, his viper—and they watch each other for a moment, his pace slowing.

The bathroom door is closed, secured with one of her blades, they don’t need to rush but Jean wants to. He can savour her later, in their bed, where she’s his and his alone, where he can do everything to her. If only because he knows she’s no better. Because any scrap of pleasure she will return with an intensity that will leave him bloody.

She has in the past. His back is a colourful tale of her ravenous hunger. The Viper likes to mark him. It likely pleases her, to know she has her venom in his system in the form of her sultry whispers, kisses and moans. Blazing eyes and coil of her limbs around his.

Clara’s stare is, as usual, burning—an almost physical thing. Even like this, with him so deep inside her—and fuck if she isn’t hot, and slick, and welcoming in ways he quite remember fitting with others, and there've been plenty—she doesn’t lose her proud edge. She enjoys it, getting under his skin. Pushing him. Melting the ice, she once murmured with her mouth pressed against the taut skin of his lower stomach and sinking ever lower. Testing his self-control with her mouth wrapped around him, and her tongue searing and wet; a viper delighting in her poison spreading so effectively.

It does say something about his self-control because, despite the temptation, he doesn’t simply fuck into her until they’re both lost in pleasure so deep they can’t get out of it.

The skin of her chest is flushed, her swollen lips parted, her expression slacker with pleasure but she still stares him down.

His fingers sink into the cut of her hip, pushing her harder against the cold marble of the bathroom sinks, rolling his own hips, and it makes her shudder in his hold. So Jean presses another hungry kiss to her pulse, lets his teeth scrape against it, sucking on it. Prodding at the weak spot masterfully. He can be mean, too. She likes it when he is. Just as much as he likes it when she lets those sharper edges of hers out.

Her strong legs hold her upright but she clenches around him in reply and fuck, fuck, fuck, what is it about her?

All he wants to do is bend her over this fucking counter and fuck her until she’s screaming his name. Not that it would do him much good. Clara is as likely to let him do it as she is to graze her blade across his throat for trying. He would be lying if he said the thought of that fight doesn’t thrill him, makes him want to try it anyway. He’s only managed to get a drop on her like this a few times. Sink himself into her from behind so deeply she hadn’t been able to shake him off till she was sated and panting with pleasure.

Then, of course, the viper had tightened her grip on him in return, paying him back in kind with her bite and her venom.

The bite he enjoys a little too much. The venom is becoming… a concern.

He’s worked for years to remove any ties, any weaknesses, from his life. No one can ever have anything on him. He’s the one with the web, he’s the one who controls others. Sly implication and whispers and they’re oh, so destructive but she…

Jean snaps himself inside her, pulsing and so hard he has to grit his teeth. Clara’s hand seeks purchase desperately, her fingers snapping behind herself. Breathing deeply, she lets her nails sink into the back of his neck—firm, near painful—and he hisses through his teeth, pulling away from the hollow of her neck.

“You would like it, won’t you?” he gasps into her ear, and her nails sink deeper, so he fucks her harder. His hips are merciless against the soft skin of her thighs. Yet Clara stands unmoving, near silently goading him with her resilience and coyness. She’s so fucking wet. He’ll need a cigarette after this, or three. “On my hands and knees, non? Vicious vipère. Give in first.”

“No.”

He almost laughs at that. At the caustic hiss of her voice. Of course, she won’t. It’s why even though he’s gotten her, it makes him wonder if he truly has. If he ever will.

The more he has her, the more he wants her. And it’s a dangerous thing. To want, to crave, to hoard her the way he does.

“Then I’ll just fuck you harder, chérie.”

He wraps around her tighter, nibbling on the shell of her ear, dragging his other hand between her thighs. He feels the muscle there, the strength, he likes those legs around his waist and head too. Usually when her taste is hot on his tongue and she’s a squirming, hateful mess above him, tearing at his hair as hard as she can while she grinds onto his face.

He sucks on the curve of her neck at the memory, nibbling, wanting nothing more than to mark her with his teeth as she marked him this morning. Crinkled eyes and a content smile when she curled around him after. A predator satisfied with her hunt.

She’s addictive.

Usually, it’s the other way around. Maybe still is. But he can’t let it go much further than this. A carnal need and nothing more than that.

If he knew about this, about her…

Jean doesn’t allow the thought conclusion.

She’s nothing, he repeats to himself with every push and every strangled exhale, just a means to an end.

She never once looks away.

Clara gazes at them, takes in the way he moves in her, her eyes hooded and intent. Daring him. Even after she confessed to him how that man used to watch her. How it made her abhor every touch, despise being watched. She watches him—them, joined, with his fingers hard against her clit, drawing more of those little gasps of pleasure that sound like music to him—and he can’t help but stare too.

He should take advantage of the weakness, prod it and scrub at it until he can bend her to his will, but he loves her fire too much. Covets it like a man starved—and they both are, aren’t they—starved for more. Each other.

He wants her. For more than just a quick fuck. More than just a means by which he can bury his problems. Just more, more, more. And it sickens him, but it also makes him feel strangely relieved as well, that realisation. The acceptance of it. He would never admit it to anyone but himself but he does. It forces him to feel raw, unbalanced. He hasn’t felt like this in years. He hates it but it also makes him feel high, alive.

In revenge, he sucks on the smooth skin again, lets his teeth bite and nibble, releasing her hip and burying his fingers in her pulled-back hair. Chestnut strands loosen in his iron grasp and he only does it because he knows for a fact she doesn’t have any sharp pointy metal hidden up there. He watched her get ready. Her graceful, supple body was an open invitation for him. A sight to admire, and he did. He worshipped her with his attention, letting her know without a word how every curve and every freckle of hers sang to him. Beguiled him further.

He pulls on Clara’s hair, forcing her chin upwards, at an angle, and she still defies him. Still glares and brims with power.

A strangled pant escapes her at the change of angle, in how he slams back into her, her nails slicing into his neck. Jean hopes she draws blood even if he would have to get creative about explanations later.

“Jean.”

It’s a breathy, bewitching thing—snaring him, pulling him deeper into her, and he audibly gasps a breath, feeling even more starved. Now he wishes to claim a litany of those tiny, appreciative exhales of his name. He feels the muscles in his lower stomach grow tauter with every thrust, with every taste of her skin, and the sounds of their shared pleasure.

They penetrate the air, echoing off the walls, and they are as animalistic and as intensive as the pleasure they create.

“What?” he groans appreciatively, their eyes still locked, and heat between them sweltering. She drives him insane. He’s removed emotional attachments from himself years ago—didn’t even realise he’s still capable of them—but nothing about her, them, makes sense. She’s the one thing he can’t predict or control. “What do you want? Tell me.”

Drive me to the edge, he wants to goad her, tugging on her hair again, and he manages to dislodge a moan from the back of her throat, push me, claim what you want.

“You,” she whispers in teeth-clenched defeat but to him, it’s a symphony. This time, he won. He knows she’ll get him back. Twice as badly most likely. But saints above, did he win? She’s so open and warm, the scent of jasmines and earth mixing with his cologne and musk of sex, and he pushes into her deeper till they’re completely pressed into each other. Moulded into one being. “You.”

He feels every tense muscle in her body, and his fingers slip from her hair, curving around her throat instead, and a flutter of a smile appears, coy and knowing.

Fuck.

The things this woman does to him.

He speeds the already merciless pace until she’s a shivering mess inside his embrace, clinging out of sheer stubbornness alone. Deeper, deeper, deeper—a cruel part of him is set on planting himself inside her very marrows, so she will never be able to feel or know another lover. Not even the Italian, a voice deep down snarls. It’s so wholly and truly selfish yet he craves it. If he is to lose this game between them, he will make her lose first. Make this need between them mutual until neither of them knows where one ends and the other begins.

Jean can’t look away from her, certainly not when pushes and pushes, not when he feels her throat bob under his hand as she swallows. Wanting and needing and trusting his touch. He feels her quivering, her muscles tightening, whispering to him that—

Her orgasm washes over her like a tidal wave—slow but so intense that for the first time, he feels Clara’s legs tremble. His hold on her constricts, steadying her, and his viper withers in his embrace, a beautiful undoing. He lets her ride her orgasm out, watching her mouth, her fluttering lashes, the bead of sweat clinging between the dip of her breasts.

It's then—watching her, memorising how she looks like this; relaxed and glowing—that his own orgasm finally overpowers him. For a moment, Jean finds himself robbed of sight because she washes everything away. He spills himself inside her, letting her feel his pleasure this time. He moans for her, splinters for her, lets the world fade away just for a moment.

This is his gift, he wants to tell her then, the fact that when it’s them, it’s just them alone. There’s nothing else outside of her and he’s never allowed another this close, not since…

But he can’t adequately put that into words for her, nor does he want to. She can’t know. He hopes there will never be a day when he has to explain everything to her.

If she knew him—saw all the festering darkness like a rotting carcass out in the open—she would hate him. It would be better if she did. Maybe her hatred would make it easier to let her go.

He can’t think of that right now.

Instead Jean sinks his teeth into the slim arch of her throat, savouring the appreciative gasp she releases, dragging her nails down the side of his neck. He promised her this morning he will return the favour sooner rather than later after all.

He laps at the bite with his tongue—heat, sweat, and remnants of her soap tingling his tongue—and looks up from beneath his lashes. Her eyes appear black with pleasure. He can barely see blue in his own.

Two monsters, a thought comes then, unbidden. It’s as pleasant as it is seductive. Mainly because he knows he’s right. Cut from the same cloth, sewn into being by similar hardships, and capable of such awful things.

He’s still semi-hard inside of her but his grip on her throat loosens—and the thought she trusts him enough to let him touch her like this is thrilling enough—his palm journeying downwards. Clara sighs quietly when his palm settles against her lower stomach, and he pushes gently, savouring the breathless gasp that follows. He has to choke one back himself. She feels like heaven. Or hell. A mix of both. Still, he keeps pressing, letting the pressure sit there, feeling himself twitching inside her. Them, joined together at the seams, and the heat between them overbearing. They could go again but he doesn’t want to move just yet. It feels good to be inside her like this; a promise of more gratification sitting snugly between them.

His nose drags up the length of her neck, and he buries his face in Clara’s hair, inhaling deeply. She’s wearing his favourite perfume tonight. Something warm and deep with jasmines blooming in his lungs. If it were her, she would go on a whole monologue, breaking each chemical ingredient down and every scent used in creating it.

He likes her distracted, mind-boggling dialogues. Then nearly scoffs at the mere thought. Since when? Since when does he give a shit about something like that? It serves no purpose to him and he doesn’t waste time on things that don’t.

Because it’s her, comes the sinking realization, because she says these things, so they matter.

Merde.

He tenses when her hand settles on top of his, pushing once, harder. Another soft sigh leaves her while Jean doesn’t bother biting back his groan of appreciation at the flare of fierce hot pleasure.

Clara’s mesmeric expression arrests something inside of him when he spots it. For a second, his vision blurs and the black dress drips into white, and she wears that same peaceful expression as she sinks into a river and doesn’t resurface. A dream that haunts him near-nightly now.

He blinks and then he’s back in the bathroom, his arms still around her. She’s here, with him, and his grip constricts further. He can make it work. He’ll find a way.

When has he ever compromised?

She means nothing, he tries to convince himself once again now that he’s back from his high.

But as he peers her—tiniest of smiles on her face, her freckles a roadmap for him to re-examine, loose strands of dark hair framing her flushed cheeks—a voice scratches itself from deep inside his chest.

A voice he hasn't heard in years, not since he called somewhere earthier and greener his home.

Liar.

an: head empty, just them. I could go on about them for five calendar months but hope you all enjoyed this little peek inside his head. ASE does contain Jean's pov so you'll def be seeing/learning more about him outside of just smut dfjhgdfg

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Gentle

number 3 on the poll was ‘the softest yennskier smut i can muster’ and y’all i don’t know that i’ve ever written softer smut? idk, y’all be the judge of that

shoutout to @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde for betaing this fic for me and being lovely and encouraging 💖

Warnings: well its smut, fwb to lovers, yen is scared of vulnerability and getting burned, penetrative sex, oral sex, m/f but don’t y’all think for a second these two aren’t bi as fuck. i don’t wanna hear any of that ‘but its a straight ship comfy!!!’ from anyone. understand? good.

______________________

“Bard, don’t start with me tonight.”

“Too late,” Jaskier hummed, looking up at her from where he was sprawled on the bed. He was, admittedly, a rather pleasing sight. His chest covered in a thick layer of hair and his legs long and lean. He looked like something one would paint. And he was lying on her bed, nearly naked, looking at her with a coy smile that held... too much. 

Yennefer didn’t often think things were too anything- painful, expensive, annoying- but this man was too sincere in everything he did, including wooing her. He called it wooing. She called it ‘following me around like an orphan pup’. 

Either way she’d already partially given in. She thought she was firm in her boundaries though, repeatedly claiming they were just fucking. This was just revenge and fun. She would not fall for anyone, especially not after the way all of her past relationships had ended in disaster.

She settled into her nighttime routine, taking out her earrings and wiping away her lipstick at the borrowed -not stolen- vanity across from the bed in the borrowed -not stolen- master suite she’d been staying in, “I am not one for love. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“You’re almost as much of a hopeless romantic as me,” Jaskier laughed, rolling so he was sitting at the end of the bed facing her.

She could see him in the mirror over her shoulder but resolutely ignored him. There was a long stretch of silence where he watched her take away all the different things she adorned herself with. From eyeliner to jewelry to the way she curled her hair, it was a very carefully constructed facade and she feared he may have seen through it. 

As she stood, he reached out and caught her hand, tugging her to stand in front of him. She raised an eyebrow, expecting a remark about her body, maybe even something about a strip tease before bed. But the bard continually surprised her.

“What’s wrong with a little vulnerability?”

She sighed and pulled her hand back, crossing her arms over her dressing gown and rocking back on her heels, “Do we need to do this right now?” 

Jaskier stood, so close that she could feel the warmth radiating off him, but he kept his hands to himself as much as she could see he wanted to touch her, “You don’t want to know someone? To let them take care of you for once?”

“No.” Her stare was resolute but her voice wavered, even on such a small word.

“Why not?”

She pursed her lips and held back the immediate insult she’d thought. He deserved an answer if she really was going to let him stay, and she knew she would. Whatever the reason, she found she didn’t want to be without him anymore.

“It hurts,” she whispered, hoping he would understand and let her be. Or better yet distract her. 

He ran his hand down her arm, fingertips dancing across her skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. He said nothing, just watched and waited, completely open and patient and infuriating in his persistence. She could easily go for the kill, both metaphorically and literally, but she knew she wouldn’t. This was the first person in decades who had bothered with her. She didn’t count Geralt anymore. There was so much magic and Destiny and manipulation tangled up in their relationship that she’d lost track of any sincerity. 

No, the bard was genuine. He didn’t have any other motive but to love her. And the thought terrified her. 

She shook her head and looked at the ground, “You don’t understand. I haven’t… I’ve never had a love that ended well.”

Jaskier smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear, “Only the shitty ones do.”

A puff of air left her before she could conceal her amusement.

“You don’t have to be scared. I want to be gentle with you. In every way. I want you to know what it’s like to be taken care of,” Jaskier’s whisper spoke directly to the part of her she’d kept locked away for far too long. The part of her that yearned to be held for nothing other than lying close; that wanted sweet nothings and breathless kisses and actual lovemaking, not just goal oriented sex. 

Her tongue worked of its own accord, used to acting only in defense, “How many times have you used that line?” 

A moment of hurt flashed over Jaskier’s face before those big blue eyes were framed with a kind of sadness only someone who’d known the sting of neglect could understand, “Not once.” 

She searched his eyes for something, anything that she could use to push him away, but found nothing. For once her choice was simple; take what is freely and sincerely offered, or continue on miserable and alone. 

For once, she took a risk. 

Yennefer draped her arms over his shoulders, tilting her chin up to level him with what she hoped was the pleading expression she was going for, “Just don’t lie to me.” 

Jaskier pressed their foreheads together and rested his hands on her hips, “I won’t.” 

It had been a lifetime since Yennefer had believed someone like she believed Jaskier and it settled achingly into the pit of her stomach. She leaned in and stood on her tiptoes, brushing their lips together as she took a shaky breath in. 

When they finally kissed it was… calm. There was no unquenchable fire sparking in her belly, no stirring need to cling to him as if she’d never see him again. They were simply together, and the realization made her giggle.

Jaskier rested a hand at her jaw, brushing his thumb over her cheek as he nervously chuckled along, “What?”

She bit her lip and stared up at him through her lashes, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, “It’s nothing…”

“Hmm, doesn’t seem like nothing,” Jaskier’s tone was light as he sat back onto the bed, pulling her to straddle his hips, “What’s so funny?”

“S’not funny,” she sighed, pausing to kiss him again, feeling the same sense of calm, “Just... nice.”

“Just nice?” Jaskier was beaming up at her as he held her close to him, “I think I can do better than nice.”

She raised her eyebrows and grinned, brushing his fringe out of his eyes, “It wasn’t a challenge.”

He tilted his head back and forth and scrunched his nose as if to argue before laying back on the bed and pulling her with him. She braced herself on her elbows, one on each side of his head, as he trailed his hands up and down her sides. 

This kiss was different.

This kiss set her whole body on fire, not the desperate kind that made her frantic, but a slow, hot-burning flame that she wanted to sink into and let consume her. 

Jaskier clutched her to him as he rolled them over, gently brushing her hair out of her face and placing feather light kisses over her cheeks, eyes, brow, chin, everywhere he could reach. She sighed when he finally kissed her lips, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling. 

Jaksier chuckled, “Mmm, greedy? Impatient?”

“Whichever you like,” Yennefer gasped, not quite slipping the teasing tone in with her words, distracted as he sucked a dark red mark right behind her ear. She tugged at the hem of his smalls and he quickly kicked them off, giving her a pointed look. 

“You promised better than nice,” she countered, giving a small shrug as he hovered over her again.

He hummed as he moved down her neck, chest, and finally made it to her silk robe, “Shall we get rid of this? Don’t- Don’t do it yourself,” he grabbed her hands and pinned them by her head, not with much force but she still felt a heat pool in her core, “I want to.”

She nodded and stared at him in awe as he carefully untied the delicate silk belt and softly, oh so fucking softly, brushed the material over her shoulder. The cool slide on her skin sent shivers down her spine and his warm, calloused fingers were a delicious contrast. 

He skipped her breasts completely, kissing a trail down over her stomach, leaving a small circle of delicate kisses around her navel as he held her hips almost reverently. Unlike his normally teasing habits, he wasted no time in freeing her from her simple lingerie, holding her thighs where he wanted and leaving more kisses along the inside of her knee. Every now and then his fringe would brush over the delicate skin and Yennefer would gasp, reaching for him, any part of him, as if it would ground her and dull the feeling of lightning traveling beneath her skin to a manageable shock. Even when she got her hand in his hair, it didn’t change how she gasped when his tongue tickled the crease of her hips or how she shivered when he nosed along the soft curls between her legs. 

“J-Julian,” She keened, then bit her lip and stared at the ceiling in mute horror. She remembered vividly when he’d shouted at several different people for using that name, for pretending to know him well enough. 

He licked up her folds, making sure to look her in the eyes as he spoke, “Say it again.”

Her breath hitched when he spread her apart and flicked his tongue over her clit, it was no trouble at all to let out a needy sigh of his name over and over again. 

When she tensed her thighs, he held them open, and when her hands curled into fists in his hair, he only groaned. He worked slowly, and any other time she would be annoyed at his pace, but this time she relaxed and let him take care of her. Let him delicately stretch her until he felt she was ready as his free hand stroked any bit of soft bare skin he could reach. 

“Julian, please,” she begged, and for once it wasn’t performative. She needed him. Needed him so acutely she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d do if she couldn’t have him in her immediately. 

He rested his forehead on her hip, breathing heavy as he slowly circled her clit with his thumb, “Tell me what you want.”

“You know,” she whined, clenching around his fingers. She’d deny it in the morning, but she whined. It almost startled her when she realised that, like this, she was completely at his disposal and she didn’t mind one bit. Anything he said she would agree to, anything he did, she would follow his lead. 

He crawled up her body, leaving kisses in his wake, her skin on fire wherever they touched, “Let me hear it?"

“I need you, all of you. Please?”

Jaskier’s breath came out shaky before he kissed her, “You’ll have everything I am,” he whispered.

For a moment she wondered if she was supposed to hear his words. They sounded almost like a confession, so softly spoken that it was almost impossible to tell he’d said anything at all. But she was quickly distracted by his tongue on her lips as they kissed and his cock sliding through her slick folds. She moaned softly, her hands sweeping up his chest to cup his jaw and hold him close. 

Nothing else mattered. Not their troubles, not their heartbreak, not the politics they’d found themselves in the middle of. The other person was all they had the consciousness for and they completely consumed each other. 

Jaskier finally broke away gasping and adjusted so the head of his cock was positioned at her entrance. He looked into her eyes and before he could ask, she breathed a soft “yes” and kissed his nose. Their foreheads rested together as he slowly pushed in, blue eyes locked with violet as they both gasped and hissed. Neither of them moaned wantonly like before, neither of them put on a show, and certainly no one grunted in frustration. They moved in a gentle rhythm together, each taking the time to really feel the other and hold them close. 

For the first time in such a long time, Yennefer was content.

She didn’t realize she’d squeezed her eyes shut until Jaskier kissed her again, probably several minutes later, and whispered, “Look at me.”

He looked at her like she was his only guide, only anchor keeping him in this world. There was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and his cheeks were as rosy as his kiss-swollen lips and Yennefer wished she could capture the image forever. She thought of painting him again, if only she could paint worth shit.  

He kissed her again and breathed, “close,” as he picked up his pace. She nodded, wrapping one leg around his hips and reaching between them to circle her clit as he thrust. 

She came first with a gasp and soft “oh” as she did her best to keep her eyes on him, let alone open. She truly didn’t remember the last time she was so quiet when she orgasmed, or the last time she caressed her lover instead of digging her nails into their back. Her body shivered, but it wasn’t earth shattering. Nothing about it would be memorable aside from the way he looked at her. 

The adoration and unbridled passion behind his gaze would haunt her forever. Only time would tell if she’d be glad to see his ghost. 

She wrapped her other leg around him as the fog began to lift, leaving her just on the pleasant side of over-sensitive. Jaskier buried his face in her neck as she smoothed her hands over his back, trailing her fingers down his spine and turning to kiss his temple. She cradled his head to her as he came, body shaking as he whispered her name like a prayer. 

Her hands roamed his body, reveling in the softness of his skin and the power held in his frame as she gently soothed any tightness in his muscles. After a while she settled to carding her fingers through his hair as he rested his cheek on her collarbone. He’d slipped out as he softened, but they laid still, Yen enjoying the comforting weight while Jaskier recovered. 

“Are you alright?” she whispered her question, tucking her chin in to try to get a look at his face. 

He just hummed and nodded, turning his head to face her with a dreamy smile.

A bright smile spread across her features and she kissed his forehead, “Do I get to call you Julian now?”

One of his arms snaked up under her back as he snuggled in closer, “Only you.”

Yennefer paused, holding her breath as she debated whether what she thought was worth saying.

“Spit it out, love,” Jaskier spoke through a yawn.

She let out a breathy laugh and wrapped her arms around his shoulders before she whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Wanting to… to take care of me.”

[louiseleblancdiggory]

Speedy one night stand

Ok, so this is an old scene that i never posted because I never thought it was good enough, but since I wanted to post smth before ‘Tis the Damn Season, here it goes! I’m sorry for any typos, it’s 3 am and I don’t have the patience to proof read rn. There are mentions of a car accident but I swear it is not a sad or angsty scene. It’s bad and not at all a believable situation, but I hope it’s ok enough to be mildly enjoyable!

Aelin was having a spectacular day.

She had woken up around six, laying near the hottest man to ever walk on this Earth. In the previous night, she had drank enough to practically guarantee her a bitch hangover, but apparently her beautiful, silver-haired stranger had fucked it right out of her. A few times.

Not so proudly, Aelin sneaked out of his house without making a single sound. Maybe she should have stayed, maybe asked for his name. But she was also almost sure she had given him her number yesterday, and so if he wanted to continue things, he could call her. If not… Well, it had been a fun night.

Understatement of the fucking century.

And thanks to her stranger, once she got home, Aelin felt energized and inspired enough to finally give the painting a try.

The painting had become Aelin’s nightmare for the past year and a half. She had the idea, had the ability, but didn’t know how to do it, how to tackle it. She tried a few times every few days, and left the room hating it more and more. The painting started to be a mock to her abilities— she would finish other works, beautiful works, and yet the messy canvas would always stare at her from the corner of the room.

Aelin was mainly a sculptor, not a painter, and so she didn’t even know why it bothered her so much but it did. Oh, it most certainly did.

For the past eighteen months, staring at that taunting canvas was like staring at yourself on the mirror for too long. The vision started to blur, and it didn’t look real, evoked a deep panic.

For the past eighteen months, Aelin hated that fucking painting.

And yet, when she got home earlier, all she could think is that she might be able to finish it. The painting was supposed to be of Oakwald, a beautiful forest that extended for the whole expanse of the west of Terrasen. She hadn’t been at home for so long now, and all she wanted was a painting of how she remembered the forest to be. She wanted to capture its light, its life. She wanted it to look exactly how it was in her memory, but the colors never seemed right. Her fondness of the memory was becoming stained with that stupid canvas.

All she needed was the right palette.

And he had walked in a bar and sat by her side yesterday.

Her stranger was the literal embodiment of her memory, so much so that for a split second, Aelin had thought she had gone officially insane. His silver-grey hair was the exact shade of the sky on the cloudy mornings when she and her dad would go for a walk. Eyes a combination of a few shades of green and small specks of brown that reminded her of how the trees were. His demeanor was cold, and yet Aelin found him somehow so welcoming— just like she felt back at Oakwald, back home.

Her stranger had given her the thing she had needed for the past eighteen months, even if he hadn’t given her even his name.

Aelin was staring proudly at the now finished painting when the phone rang. She was glad her roommate wasn’t at home to witness her staring at the painting for that long like a crazy person, and honestly hoped it was Lysandra calling to ask if she wanted to go out and grab something to eat.

Or maybe it’s your stranger.

Aelin forced herself to shove every single spark of hope down until they were nothing more than cinders. To be honest, Aelin knew that she probably wouldn’t get a call from him. It was his first day in town, they both had been drunk, and, even though the sex had been great, her stranger didn’t seem like the dating type.

At least not the dating type with a woman who left his house unannounced at six in the morning after leaving him with no note other than her number that could potentially be wrong since said woman was already tipsy when she gave it to him.

A fucking shame.

“Hey.” Aelin said, putting the phone to her ear as she looked for her car keys. She wanted to be in the elevator by the time the word “eat” left Lys’s mouth.

“Is this Aelin?” A female voice she had never heard in her life asked, uncertainty and hesitation lacing every word.

Aelin withdrew the phone from her ear and looked at the unknown number.

Aelin rarely gave her phone number to strangers, and lately it had only been to…

Oh fucking shit.

He had a girlfriend?

Fuck fuck fuck.

“Hum, yes?” Aelin sounded as uncertain as the girl. “I’m sorry, but who is this?”

Maybe it wasn’t what she thought. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe—

“Do you know a Rowan?”

Well.

“Maybe?” Aelin wanted to bang her head against a wall. Almost seven months without touching a guy, and the first one in her way back to the land of the social people had a girlfriend. At least she knew his name now. Rowan seemed fitting, matched his appearance somehow. “Silver hair, green eyes, looks really pissed even when he’s sleeping?”

Please say no.

“Oh, yes.” The woman said, sounding… relieved? “I’m doctor Towers, and—“

“Doctor?” Aelin blurted out, all anger and nervousness being substituted for confusion. “Doctor?”

“Yes. Well, actually an intern since I’m still halfway through my first year here and—“

“I swear I mean no offense, but I am a little confused.” Aelin interrupted her after she started mumbling. “You’re Rowan’s girlfriend?”

“No!” The woman shouted loud enough that Aelin had to take the phone from her ear. “Gods, no. I thought you were his girlfriend.”

A moment of silence passed through the two women.

“What the fuck?” Was everything Aelin managed to say. She cleared her throat, mind trying to catch up with what was happening. “Why would you think that?”

“You’re the only contact on his phone.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

“I am.”

“You are.”

“I— Why are you calling me?” Aelin shook her head, her grip on her keys strong enough that started to be painful. She didn’t know if this was some type of joke her friends were pulling on her, or if Rowan was just some sick asshole that was fucking with her now that he had her number but she sure as hell wasn’t enjoying the experience.

“Well, you see.” She cleared her throat, voice tone becoming more serious, more professional. “Rowan was admitted into the Torre’s hospital a few hours ago. He was involved in an accident, and all the emergency contacts we could find are not in town as of now. I know it is not protocol, and I’m breaking so many rules here, but I went through his phone to see if I could find a contact of someone who was around. We didn’t know if his injuries were serious or not, but…”

Doctor Towers didn’t finish the sentence, and dread mixing with some type of anxiety started rolling inside Aelin’s stomach. “But?”

She didn’t respond the question, instead changing the subject. “You’re the only contact, Miss Aelin.”

Aelin slowly sat down, the dead silence of the apartment mixing with the expectant silence from Doctor Towers. She didn’t know the guy, didn’t even know his name until two minutes ago, and yet the image of the painting in the other room kept flashing in her mind, the colors in the canvas mixing with the colors she saw on his face. “I— Is he alive?”

“Yes, yes. He’s in surgery, I believe.” The initial apprehension came back to the woman’s voice. “I don’t know, actually. Again, just an intern. People don’t tell me much here.”

“And I suppose hiding somewhere after stealing a patient’s phone isn’t the best way to pick up on any information they might be sharing in the halls right now.” Aelin said, some amusement for the girl showing through her voice. “Where are you? Storage room?”

“Coma patient room.” Doctor Towers laughed nervously. “I thought I was helping.”

“It’s fine.” Aelin said even though she didn’t feel it.

The line went silent once more, and after a minute, Aelin said. “Well, bye, I guess.”

“Wait.” The doctor’s apprehensive voice sounded again. “Couldn’t you… Can you still come? Even if you’re just his friend?”

Aelin sat frozen on her chair. “I’m not his friend.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Ok. Sorry. Have a great night, Miss Aelin.”

Before Aelin could respond, the call was ended.

—————

The first thing Rowan noticed when he opened his eyes was that he was not at the rented apartment he and the rest of his friends had gotten for the summer.

The lights were too white and too artificial, the bed too uncomfortable to be the same one he had slept the previous night.

And there was also the fact it felt as if he had been thrown from the top of a building, broken every single bone in the impact and, somehow, survived.

He tried opening his eyes a little bit more and acute pain shot to his brain.

Unfortunately. Unfortunately survived.

Shit, maybe he was in hell.

“I don’t know if the struggle is amusing or pathetic.” A low and sultry voice sounded from the left corner of the room. “Maybe try not staring directly into the light and then try opening your eyes.”

Rowan turned his head to where the soft voice had come from, pain burning his neck with the movement but he found himself incapable of not looking at her direction. But the woman was right, and Rowan managed to open his eyes enough to see her seating in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs, legs crossed in front of her and fingers laced on top of her stomach.

Rowan mentally scratched his last thought. If he had actually died, that certainly was tilting a lot more towards heaven than hell even with the killing pain.

“Fuck, I think I died.” Rowan blurted out.

“I’ll pretend you just compared me to an angel, not to the devil.” She said, getting up and walking in his direction. Despite her hurt tone, she was smiling as she approached his bed. “It’s the least you could do after you ruined my perfectly perfect day. I was having a blast, you know?”

Hell, heaven, or Earth— it honestly didn’t fucking matter because the pain was the same, but her voice seemed to soothe his muscled, make the pain secondary to the pleasure of listening to her voice.

“Yeah?” Rowan rasped out, hoping she would continue talking.

“Oh, yeah.” She sat by the edge of the bed, straightening his sheets. The light wasn’t so blinding anymore, and he could see every detail on her face.

Heaven. Definitely heaven.

“I’m an artist, you know. Sculptor mostly, but I’m a decent painter. There’s this painting I’ve been trying to get done for over a year now, and today I did not only make progress I liked, but I also finished it. I thought today was going to be a terrible day, you know? Yesterday I found out my flight back home had been canceled and I would only be able to get another one by the end of summer, so I went to a bar and planned on getting drunk. Today was a day for tears and hangovers.”

“But?” Rowan asked automatically, all too focused on the woman sitting next to him.

She smiled, raising a hand to brush his hair from his face, fingers intertwining with the shoulder-length knots he most certainly had after whatever it was that had happened. She seemed too focused on her hand gently undoing the knots, but thankfully kept talking. “But I met this guy, you know? Definitely not from here, accent gave it away immediately. Also not from where I am from. Just that made him interesting enough. And,” she turned her eyes to him, eyes glinting with mischief. “Very, very fucking hot. That definitely made him even more interesting.”

“What a guy.” Rowan could feel some of the life coming back to his body, and even managed to weakly match the grin she had on her face.

“Oh, yes, what a guy. Fucked the hangover and artistic block right out of me. A hero, if you will.” Her grin extended into a smile, and she shook her head. “So imagine how ruined my day was when I got a call saying my amazing bar guy had been in a car accident.”

Rowan let out a broken laugh, his ribs screaming in pain when he did so. “So irresponsible of him.”

She assented solemnly. “And there I was, hoping he would have called me to go out on a date. I’m not picky but hospital is a huge downgrade from mind blowing sex in his expensive apartment.”

Rowan laughed again, not even caring about the pain.  “I’m sure the guy would have asked you if you hand’t left the expensive apartment at the crackass of dawn without telling him.”

“And instead of calling he let his car be smashed by a fucking truck to get my attention? Tsk, tsk, tsk… Maybe I didn’t dodge a bullet with this idiot.”

Rowan’s lips were taken by a grin. “Well it worked, didn’t it?”

“Next time try something a little less dramatic.” She said, eyes narrowing but Rowan could see how she was trying to contain a smile.

“The girl really seemed into dramatics tho. Gave it away last night when she—“

“Since I didn’t know your name until your doctor called me, Rowan, I’ll save you the embarrassment of asking mine.” She interrupted him, slender fingers going from his hair to the top of his lips. “I’m Aelin.”

“Aelin.” He said against the finger sushing him. “May I ask how you got here?”

She blushed a little, taking the finger from his mouth and straightening her spine. “I was the only contact in your list. They called me.”

“Lost my phone in the airport yesterday and had to buy a new one. Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, small nose frowning. “You’re very talkative for someone who could barely open his eyes a few minutes ago.”

“Am I?” Rowan said, hoping to push some of her buttons. Consciousness had been coming back slowly, and Rowan certainly remembered every single detail. Remembered being pissed by losing his phone, impatient because he would have to wait two more days for his friends to arrive.

Remembered all the pissy and impatience leaving his body once he sat on the bar by the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She had been quick-mouthed, with no filter, and absolutely hypnotizing. She wasn’t just fucking beautiful, but also funny, smart, and had the ability to make him forget every single thing that was making him irritated.

And the rest of the night… It was a shame Rowan was bedridden, he certainly wouldn’t mind reenacting last night again.

And again. And again.

And again.

Rowan had wondered earlier if she had been that amazing because he was drunk. The answer was obviously no.

Aelin pursed her lips, red coloring her cheeks. She cleared her throat, rolling her eyes. “The doctor guilty tripped me.”

“Yeah?” Rowan knew he was smiling like an idiot.

“She said you were in surgery and she didn’t know how serious.” Aelin finally looked him straight in the eyes, and Rowan noticed how beautiful hers were. “No one deserves to have no one in this situation. She said your friends were out of town, and the girl sounded desperate enough that it sounded as if you were fucking died. Again, no one deserves to die alone. Specially someone this good in bed.”

It took Rowan a second to understand everything she had just said. When the last sentence finally registered on his brain, Rowan laughed. Aelin shook her head, a small smile appearing again.

“Also, you’re the first guy I slept with in seven months. Letting you die alone seemed like bad luck.”

“I am honored you put so much consideration into coming to stay with me.”

“Shut it.”

“If it makes you feel less embarrassed—“

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“I would have come too. Make sure my best fuck wasn’t dead.”

“Awn, best fuck? You’ll make me tear up like this, Ro. So romantic.” Aelin pretended to clean fake tears the moment the doctor in darker scrubs and a few on lighter ones entered the room.

“Good to see you awake, Mr Whitethorn.” The man smiled at him, checking his charts. “It’s always good to see wives crying of happiness rather than sadness around here.”

“Of course.” Rowan agreed, turning to Aelin and raising an eyebrow.

“They wouldn’t let me stay if I wasn’t family.” She whispered low enough so that only Rowan would hear. Her face slowly broke into a grin, and she winked at him before turning to the doctor. “So he’ll be fine, right, doctor?”

Rowan had to bite his cheeks from laughing at how obviously fake she sounded, but no one other than him noticed. “Yes, yes. Other than a fracture to his right wrist, your husband is completely fine. Some bruising and soreness that painkillers can help, but nothing major. You two are free to enjoy your vacations when he’s discharged tomorrow.”

“Oh, great.” Rowan said, nodding seriously. “My wife here has just informed me that a hospital is no adequate place for a first date.”

All the people in the room laughed, thinking Rowan meant their first date in Antica.

Not their first date ever.

“I’ll leave you two. Anything you need, ask a nurse and they will page me.” The doctor in darker scrubs said, leaving the room with all the ones in lighter scrubs following.

“Where do you live?” Rowan asked the moment the doctor was out.

Aelin turned to him, fingers going back to his silver hair. “Have been living here for the past two years in an art internship. Going back to Orynth, Terrasen by the end of the summer.” She curled a strand around her finger before looking to his face. “You?”

“Have been and will continue to be a very happy resident of Orynth.” Rowan said, a smirk appearing on his lips. “Definitely happier after the summer.”

“Haven’t even asked me out and you’re already thinking about the end of the summer.” Aelin shook her head and clicked her tongue even though she was smiling. “No surprise you got into a car accident, so speedy.”

His smirk grew into a smile. “My dear wife, would you like to go on a date with me?”

She narrowed her eyes, taking her sweet, sweet time to answer. “I’ll think about it.”

“And, seeing how the doctor talked about all my grave injuries—“

“Grave.” She snorted.

“Do I get kisses to feel better?” Rowan’s tone was full of mockery and some laughter.

“If I kiss every place you’re hurting after being hit by a fucking truck, I think we’d be here for a long while.”

“You didn’t complain yesterday.”

Aelin half laughed, half snorted. Rolling her eyes, she bent forward, and even though she was trying very hard not to, Rowan could see the start of a smile just before she pressed her lips against his. They were sweeter and softer than he remembered, and despite the pain on his arms and specially on his right wrist, Rowan raised his hands and put them in her golden strawberry hair.

“One more thing.” He said against her mouth.

“Has anyone ever told you that you ask for too much?” Aelin said impatiently.

“As our situation is already as fucking weird as it’s gonna get—“

“You don’t say!” Aelin said, voice dripping with so much fake surprise Rowan couldn’t stop but smirk up at her.

“As our situation is already as fucking weird as it’s gonna get,” he repeated forcefully, eyes narrowing at her as her smile widened. “Tomorrow, when my friends arrive.”

“Yes?”

“Can you please still pretend you’re my wife?”

Aelin stared at him blankly for a moment before letting out a full, lovely laugh. The bed shook with her laughter, and Rowan joined her— a little weakly due to the pain, but joined her nonetheless. She bent down to kiss him again, nodding as she did so. “Of course. What type of person would I be if I didn’t help such injured person find some happiness in their lives?”

Rowan kissed her back, fingers playing with her hair. “So this means you’ll go out with me?”

“We’ll see.”

.

.

.

.

.

@in-love-with-caramel-macchiato @jlinez @courtofjurdan @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @ladywitchling @lexflame @sleeping-and-books @annejulianneh111 @perseusannabeth @linshryver @mu-si-ca-l @camilamartinezdunne @dank-queen7 @minaidss @starborn-faerie-queen @booksofthemoon @loveofbooksandwine @jesstargaryenqueen @bluejaberry @multifandommessblog @yesdreamblog @superspiritfestival @ireallyshouldsleeprn @woollycat22 @julemmaes @claralady @abookishfreak @faerie-queen-fireheart @morganofthewildfire @queen-of-glass @heirofthenightcourt @booksbqueen @heirofthrnightcourt004 @fromthelibraryofemilyj @rowaelinismyotp

* if your name is in bold i cannot tag you

[aquilaofarkham]

title: mishpachah rating: T+ word count: 3,085 summary: Five years after rebuilding the manor—and the birth of a new Belmont into the world—Trevor decides to share an old recipe with his newfound family.

For @fibulaa 💛  Thanks so much for commissioning me!

READ HERE

The first bread Trevor Belmont ate while living his newly orphaned vagabond life was so dry it cut at the inner walls of his throat. He swallowed each bite with grimace after grimace, knowing that despite the pain, the already hardened child of thirteen could stave off starvation for a little while longer. Until he tasted the faintest tinge of copper on his ruined tongue.

Putting those years far behind, he now stands in front of a wooden counter, blurry eyed and with a yawn reminiscent of a sun drunk cat. It seems clean at first glance but in every corner Trevor notices fragments of past meals which he tried wiping away once they were finished and placed on a more pristine table meant for family. Bits of salt, half minced vegetables, and crumbs of bread much softer than the ones belonging to a later childhood he would rather forget. This kitchen, warm in its early morning sunlight, was the final instalment of the manor, newly risen from the ashes. Or rather, simply rebuilt thanks to the calloused, blistered, and splintered hands. No more ruined stone, no more fire blackened beams holding together little less than an architectural skeleton. The somewhat mirror image of Trevor’s lost home has been faring better than the castle. Too many memories, fresh, ranging from bitter to incomprehensible.

Slowly, he grows conscious of his surroundings and his own self. A continuing habit of being the first to wake not just in this manor hold but in life. Reluctantly opening his eyes prior to dawn covering the landscape while still traveling alone only to drag a pair of worn boots back along a similar muddy road. Trevor never wanted to wake up before the sun. He just couldn’t bear to stay in the same place for much longer whether due to the laundry list of dangers or more often than not, his newfound hatred of whichever backwater hamlet he unfortunately found himself in.

He’s happy to wake up early. Happy to never feel a need to leave or escape, happy to know that lack of food replaced with pints of liquid pleasure mixed with death will never plague him again. Happy to prepare breakfast in a hot iron pot over a well stoked fire. What he thought he lost forever has come back, along with new additions to the family he’s carved out.

Another presence bounds her way into the kitchen and ambushes Trevor from behind. He’s not old—not yet, he’ll give it time—but years of drinking have made their permanent stay, dulling the more acute senses. Makes it easier for a five-year-old to catch him off guard. Trevor’s eyes bolt open as tiny arms hold him in a tight cage.

“Good morning, papa!”

His ears ring at the sound of Mirele’s loud voice, but at least he won’t have to worry about nodding off. He stares down at the youngest Belmont who looks as though someone had split Trevor and Sypha straight down their centres into four pieces and sewed each differing half onto the other in order to create a new person. A homunculi of messy dark chocolate hair, bright eyes shining with blue ice, full rosy cheeks somehow conspicuously smeared with some sort of dirt or jam, and enough energy to wear out an electric powered jackrabbit. 

“How’s my little monster doing this morning?” Everything Trevor says is laced with his own personal touch of affection and Mirele loves it.

“Mama and papa are still asleep. Help me wake them up! Pleaseeee?”

This doesn’t surprise him; Sypha has always preferred to savour her last moments of sleep longer than normal and Alucard is… well, Alucard.

“Tell you what.” Trevor places a lid onto the simmering pot with a heavy clank. “While this heats up for our breakfast, we’ll go wake up those lazy bones.”

“Right!” Hand in smaller hand, the two make their way upstairs into the shadowy master bedchamber. Curtains drawn with only a sliver of light cutting its singular path across the floor and over two distinct lumps covered by blankets and furs. They seem conjoined, linked in each other’s arms, unaware that a third party has been missing for long enough. Mirele plunges into the room first, jumping onto the bed as all children do when parents refuse to join the land of the conscious. She playfully shoves and cuddles her way between the two bodies who sink deeper beneath the covers, lazily moaning like ghosts.

“Mama! Papa! Wake up! It’s time to get up!”

Trevor hopes that his tactic of throwing open the weighted curtains works in a more effective manner. Listening to the rising chorus of wordless protests coming from behind, he’s pleased with the results. “Never thought I would be the one setting a good example for our daughter.”

“Do not get cheeky, especially this early.” Sypha’s response spills out like running water. It’s clear her mind isn’t quite all there yet. But she can scoop Mirele into her arms, find every ticklish spot, and illicit giggles that only canines might hear. “At least we both know how to have fun, right my sweet?”

“Vampires… nocturnal…” A deeper, muffled voice emerges from under one of the pillows.

“Something you’d like to share with us, Alucard?” Trevor quips, amused at how the other father of the household can never seem to shake off his morning dishevelment. Perhaps sleeping in a coffin would help—a very large one so he doesn’t have to be alone. Alucard reluctantly removes the pillow as tangled heaps of gold fall over his face.

“Vampires are supposed to be nocturnal. Would you rather I burst into ashes upon contact with the sun? Think of our girls, Trevor.”

“We’ve all seen you in the sun before, it’s about as dangerous as a clove of garlic.”

“I have my own means of physical protection. Far beyond your measly human comprehension, love.”

“Personally, I’ve been able to comprehend you plenty.”

Mirele stares up at Sypha, her bushy brows furrowed. “What does… comp… sshhheshion mean?”

“It’s just another word your fathers use whenever either of them want to feel smart.” 

Alucard gives Sypha a gentle pinch on either side of her abdomen. “I thought you were on my side.”

“What about my side?” Trevor asks, excelling at the greatest strength he possesses—the ability to never take anything seriously, only when he must.

“I’m hungry,” Mirele speaks up. “Hungry and bored. Can we eat now?”

--

This life is not normal, but then again it is. It always has been for them. Normal once meant coming together because of violence, encroaching darkness, and some flimsy prophecy stringing them along one dead body at a time. A prophecy which never said what had to be done after they followed it to the hard earned letter. Perhaps that’s why Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard floundered afterwards. No instruction on how to live their upturned lives.

Fuck prophecy.

They made this life by their own standards and in accordance with their own desires. They loved how they wanted to love and no prophecy could have foreseen Mirele. How she calls for her father while both Trevor and Alucard turn their heads at the same exact second. How she quickly calms herself when presented with a bowl of warm oatmeal drowning in honey and wild fruits hand plucked from the surrounding forest. But it’s not enough. Nothing ever is for someone always growing, always wanting more from life at such a young age.

“Can I have bread?”

Trevor, half way through his bitter coffee, turns to Sypha then Alucard as all three parental figures exchange glances. They haven’t the heart to tell Mirele. No bread at the ready, only the necessary ingredients and a considerable amount of flour bags to blanket Enisala. There’s the option of making it themselves, yet it depends on a certain someone’s capacity for patience.

“How do you feel about baking our own?” Trevor’s voice wavers, which he tries to mask with his characteristic dry tone. It’s been a long time since he’s made bread. Then again, helping the manor cooks was a somewhat selfish endeavour as it meant extra servings for the baby of the Belmonts. Yet his proposal goes over well with Mirele, whose inherited eyes light up at the prospect of trying something new.

“I wanna make bread! Can we? Can we please?”

“When was the last time you baked anything, Trevor?” Alucard asks, genuinely curious and with a healthy dose of skepticism. “You still won’t tell us much about anything concerning your former life, let alone the sort of foods your family ate.”

Trevor feels a twinge in his gut—still better than a punch. His two lovers, even his daughter, they only know of his mother; a matriarch in her own right. They know her name, the monsters she killed, and not much else. Trevor’s excuses: he doesn’t remember anything about her, despite the fact that he does. He didn’t know her for very long or very well, so there’s no point in missing her. Trevor did know Sonia and he does miss her, sometimes more than he can handle. Then the easiest excuse: it’s just another self-preservation tactic.

Out of this inner reflection comes an idea. It breaks tradition in a way. For the Belmonts and other Jewish families, everything is passed down through the mother—recipes, forms of worship, blood memories, centuries old tactics of bruising one’s knuckles and temples. Trevor doesn’t think this slight deviation from his culture’s norm will make him any less of what he’s always been. Mirele will simply have to pick up where he left off when she’s grown.

He doesn’t want to think about that now. She’s only five after all. One lesson at a time. 

“Alright. Gather round, pupils. The bread we’re making isn’t just any bread. Forget everything you know and everything you’ve been taught because this will be the closest thing to heaven you’ll ever taste.”

“How dramatic…” Sypha mutters under her breath. Alucard joins her amusement with a subdued chuckle. 

“I believe you were partially his influence.”

Trevor knows how much trouble he’ll be in if he puts Mirele through the most agonizing cruelty of waiting a second longer than necessary. Fearful of her pint-sized wrath, he gives everyone the order to start gathering ingredients: flour, eggs, honey, and some indulgent herbs to make this particular bread something special. As much of a strategic leader in the kitchen as he is when the world is coming to an end. With everything spread out on the countertops, Trevor guides his family step by step through the only recipe he remembers. He calls this bread “challah”, which Mirele immediately strains her freshly green vocal chords, trying to pronounce the word exactly as her father does. She quickly gives up and focuses on mixing the ingredients with an intense look—almost to a fault as bits of sloppy dough fly out of the bowl. Good. This enthusiasm is what Trevor wants to see.

Kneaded and allowed time to rise, the next step is the most important. Trevor divides the dough into four halves, then again, and again until each participant has their own handful of raw unbaked strips. 

“We have to braid them?” Mirele asks following his explanation. 

“That’s right. It’s what makes this bread different from all the rest.”

“Just like when papa let’s me braid his pretty hair!”

Every pair of eyes turns to Alucard, whose smile widens in that way which causes his eyes to shut tightly. Fangs happily bared as he pulls Mirele into his flour and dough covered arms while she giggles in delight. After they all return to work, her loaf turns out the same way as the braids she gives to him—lopsided, uneven, lacking a few outsticking stray hairs, but filled with affection and genuine resolve.

Three loaves are placed into the oven, including a fourth crudely constructed but still adequately done piece. Mirele is now more willing to play the waiting game—so she claims. Sitting in front of the oven while staring directly into its insides, utterly fascinated, oblivious to her surroundings. Unaware that her three parents are whispering behind her back. Eventually, Sypha has to gently pull her away with her bottom dragging along the kitchen floor.

“How about you and I do something a little more interesting while your fathers keep watch over things.”

“But what about the c… the calla!”

“Don’t worry, they will look after it. And we are not going far, my sweet.”

“We’ll make sure nothing burns down.” Trevor assures, despite it being Sypha who usually revels in cinders and ashes, intentionally or not.

The two retreat down the corridor past diamond shaped stained windows and into one of the manor’s smaller libraries where the cabinets reach the high ceiling painted in deep blue hues. Scattered from corner to corner are constellations of stars and midnight clouds obscuring each phase of the moon. Once when Alucard found Mirele curiously asleep atop a number of pillows when she should have been in her own bed, it was his decision to paint the library in new colours. Sypha moves aside an entire shelf of thick volumes as though trying to find a carefully hidden switch that will lead them into a secret chamber. It’s what Mirele hopes but turns mildly disappointed when the books do not in fact magically shift to reveal a stone passageway. Her soured anticipation is only countered when Sypha places a box on the desk.

“Can you guess what’s inside?”

“Is it treasure?”

“Close! You are almost right.” Sypha opens the lid just as Pandora did except there are no horrors, no evils to be wrought upon humanity. Mirele peeks inside and her eyes shine with the glistening silver of trinkets, pendants, and talismans. She resists the innate urge to reach her hands, still white with flour, into the box only to briefly experience the sensation of holding one between her fingers. Even children know when something is sacred.

“These belonged to your grandparents. They used them for protection and strength. A long time ago, before you were born, their home burned down and everything was destroyed.”

“Papa’s home?”

Sypha nods, grateful that this story now has its happy ending, slight as it may be. “However, when your other father started building the manor we live in, he found this box trapped amongst all the rubble. It managed to survive.”

“What do they say?”

Mirele points to one pendant molded in the shape of a sword. Inscribed along the curve of its ash-riddled blade are the Hebrew names of angels which must have been muttered by Sonia or Gabriel. The longer Mirele stares, attempting to decipher yet another new language, the brighter her cheeks grow red with frustration. Her mother acts quick just as her eyes begin to water. 

“It’s alright if you don’t understand what any of them say.”

“I can learn! Please, mama? I promise I’ll study really hard!”

Sypha’s lips curl as Mirele continues her begging. Oh the mind of a child. How quickly it changes.

--

The kitchen feels hotter, wafting through the air. Enveloping the room and everything caught between its walls. Trevor stands by the oven, a thick cloth ready in his hand. It shouldn’t take much longer. At least there’s no stench of something burning. Almost makes him pine for the days of his family’s massive stone oven and how he would sneak around at night and pick out leftover morsels from inside like an insatiable mouse. Not unlike the actual beasts which he hunted throughout the hallways before moving onto larger prey typical of a Belmonts’ work—or as large as his own runtish body mass could handle.

Minutes of quiet pass, still eyeing the loaves with a keen gaze. Trevor’s concentration soon broken by the feeling of two arms wrapping around his softening yet still robust midsection. Slow and careful, until his back is pressed against an equally broad chest.

“Can I help you?” He asks as Alucard buries his face into the curvature of his shoulder blades.

“You’re already helping.” The dhampir, unchanging in his physical appearance (a revelation both Trevor and Sypha refuse to acknowledge for the time being), tightens his embrace.

“Something wrong?”

“No… I just enjoy feeling how much softer and warmer you’ve become.”

Trevor’s cheeks blush ever so pinker and not because of the oven’s heat. By now he should be used to Alucard’s sudden bouts of outward affection.

“You even smell better.”

There it is. Trevor thought he would be waiting forever to hear that little jab, though said with nothing but a good heart.

“That might be the herbs you’re smelling.”

Alucard shifts around so that the two of them are side by side, cheek to cheek, as he chuckles in Trevor’s ear. “Come here.”

He doesn’t offer a kiss, not where Trevor was expecting. Instead of his lips, Alucard singles out every patch of stray flour on his face, kissing, wiping, even licking them clean. Cheek, jawline, and nose. Trevor’s expression twists into a ticklish, surprisingly delighted facade. 

“You’re a half vampire, not a cat.”

“Better to clean you now than later.”

“Always so fucking odd…”

“You love it.”

Much to his lucky stars, Trevor manages one curse mere seconds before Sypha and Mirele return. They let their daughter speak at a breakneck speed neither one can fully comprehend—something about silver pieces and whether they can teach her a new language—until one series of questions finally sticks.

“Is the bread ready yet? Can we eat it now? Can we please?”

Trevor placates Mirele by revealing the fruits of their joint hard earned labour: four freshly baked and perfectly shined challah loaves each representative of whoever did the braiding. She bounces in her chair before simmering down to an excited tremble once Trevor warns her of how they need to cool. In order to make this more of a meal, he rummages about in search of two other beacons from his childhood. He’s rewarded with one of the few fresh apples they have left while Sypha, ever in tune with his inner thoughts, grabs another small pot of honey for him.

Trevor thanks her by gently running his palm across her lower abdomen, over the growing bump. He keeps it there for just a second longer, a subtle gesture of love noticed by Sypha. Fingertips intertwined with each other, they join Alucard and Mirele at the table as the midday sun shines golden through the windows.

[neutron-stars-collision]

The Art of Inversion

Neil x Reader

Chapter 24 - If You Want Me... 

Masterlist; Chapter 23

Summary: Tension reaches its boiling point when you overhear an unfortunate conversation. With unexpected allies, you attempt to break the impasse once and for all.

Warnings: ANGST (still but... well you’ll see ;)); at few points R! is being a little dramatic which can be triggering if you’ve been dealing with intrusive thoughts (nothing too bad though); swearing.

Author’s Notes: Finally! It’s been a wild ride... and god am I happy i’ve managed. This part took a lot of effort but I quite like what I came up with... even if sometimes it gets too angsty. Can’t wait for what’s coming next, however... :)))) Hope you enjoy and all feedback is always appreciated! <3 

The shooting range on the icebreaker was a strange place. It occupied a large proportion of the deck floor in the accommodation part of the ship, next to the turnstile and sparring grounds. With darkness swallowing every corner that was not lit up by the blinking fluorescents, it was a perfect place to hide. Soon it became your go-to solace when things got difficult, and the only other idea you could come up with involved going outside without the oxygen mask attached. You did not want to go that far. Yet. Target practice became your favourite occupation. It was simple and did not involve talking to people that could give you worrying looks or comment on the dark circles underneath your eyes. Sleep was no longer a thing, with you catching three-hour-long naps at best, in between never-ending worrying and staring at the ceiling, reminiscing the past. The constant headaches were something you soldiered through, accepting them as a part of reality. The worst part of that new life was the fact that you and Neil stopped talking to each other altogether. Not even empty pleasantries could get through the stone-cold awkwardness and tension capable of killing you before the heartache would. After a day of near-misses and horrifying mistakes that culminated with you accidentally spilling boiling water all over the sweater when Neil entered the galley, you both mastered the art of hiding. You only saw him once afterwards, sitting at the table in the corner of the canteen. That was almost two days ago, and you were thankful.

Once you went through the assigned daily rounds, you moved onto the task of cleaning the guns and rifles. Polishing the metal cases and arranging the bullets was as close to therapy as it could get. With the repetitive action occupying your brain, there was no time to get emotional over things you could not change. Only at the shooting range, you did not feel so utterly hopeless. So terribly unloved. A sudden noise by the airlock made you look up. Conveniently the air in the range was sealed so that you need not to worry about oxygen masks during the target practice. It also meant you got approximately five seconds warning to check the identity of the intruder. This time you were surprised.

“Hi, Y/N. Thought I’d find you here” TP’s dark gaze slid over you cautiously.

Taking off the mask, he joined you at the makeshift table, looking at the arsenal you have spread over the surface. You eyed him with curiosity. That was unexpected. So far, he has never interacted with you outside of the meetings. And every time he did, you could not stop thinking about how much he knew. Who did he see when he looked at you?

“Afternoon” shaking off the reverie, you offered him a tight smile, “Is it afternoon?” glancing at the watch, you grimaced, “Oh,”

The last time you checked, it was 3 pm. The blue numbers on your wrist were mercilessly ticking away. 8:30 pm. How the fuck. TP caught your silent crisis as he asked:

“How long have you been down here?” looking up, you encountered a glimmer of worry in his eyes.

Interesting.

“Umm, five hours?” it felt like the best estimate.

It was probably longer. But he need not know that.

“Jesus,” wincing, he directed his taxing gaze back onto you, “When was the last time you had food?” tone strictly business.

The truth was that you did not remember. With everything falling apart and losing meaning, food became an afterthought. Half the time you would realise you only had one meal around 1 am, forcing you to tiptoe to the kitchen and grab something from the cupboard. A hungry stomach was nothing compared to all the other issues. It could be ignored.

“Breakfast. I’m not hungry though,” brushing off the concern you chose defiance, “Is this an interrogation?” you arched one eyebrow and cocked the gun you have wiped clean.

TP snorted at your comedic timing.

“No, I come here in peace” he raised his hands in defeat and added, “To see if you’re… alright” the hesitation made you scoff.

“You know that I’m not. Because things are generally far from alright,” letting annoyance slip into the sentence, you let go of the tools and met his gaze with coldness.

The deepening frown was concerning. You were being unfair. After all, it was not him who has caused all this pain. Remorse nipped at your heart as you sighed heavily.

“Sorry, that was unnecessary,” he accepted your apologetic smile with a nod, giving the courage to continue, “And I’m also sorry that you all have to witness that mess in the meetings. I’d rather it stayed between him and me... but he seems to disagree” you shrugged.

Sometimes you did wonder why Neil seemed so intent on making your arguments a public spectacle. Whether that was a part of the intricate plan to make you look like an idiot or a result of his emotions boiling over. Not that it mattered. Everyone on the team knew what the deal was anyway. A poor, naïve you, desperately in love with someone who could not care less. Nothing out of the ordinary. Judging by TP’s passing frown, for him too the topic was rather uncomfortable. He took a long moment to respond, looking for answers in the rows of bullets you have arranged on the table.

“Not going to lie, it’s awkward, but at least I know what’s going on, and I can offer to listen” he met your gaze with newly found determination.

Okay… Confiding in TP was quite low on the list of things you expected to have the opportunity of doing. But then so was having to convince Neil not to get himself killed for the sake of the operation. Anything goes.

“Aren’t you taking a side?” that suspicious voice in your head was difficult to get rid of, “Agreeing with him that I’m stupid, emotional, and overall a burden?” you recited the memorized litany of epithets with a stone-cold expression.

The words have lost their meanings after you have put them apart in the quiet of your mind. Now they were just sounds, incapable of inflicting pain. It was the least that could be done.

“He went too far with that” TP winced, his eyes expressing traces of disapproval, “I might not know you well, but you’re none of these things,” a sympathetic smile softening the tone.

An open hand. An olive branch. Why not? Taking a deep breath, you got ready to open up before the most unexpecting of allies.

“In a way, he was right though…” you looked down, trying to find the needed strength, “I am stupid because I have allowed myself to care too much for him” there it is, “And now I’m paying for it” when you met his eyes again, you found nothing but thoughtfulness.

It was something you thought about often as well. The fact that Neil was right, you did care, and that it was perhaps the reason for your demise. But who could blame you for falling for the bastard looking like the devil? And equally charming too.

“Maybe it’s a little too forward, but-” TP’s tentative tone made you grin.

In moments like this, you acutely remembered that he was still a rookie. Not used to the half-truths and strange tenets you accepted as your credo. His innocence was adorable even.

“In this profession, a it’s sometimes nice to say the truth. Shoot away” you waved your hand dismissively, anticipating the question.

There is a first time for everything.

“Fair point” he mirrored your smile before asking, “Do you love him?”

Plain and simple. Ignoring the panic, you took a moment to ponder the answer. It was… obvious. You told Neil as much twice before, and no amount of pretending and lies could ever undo it. The words were his. Just as you were. Unfortunately.

“I’d want to say no, that I got over it, but… Yes, I do,” you offered the answer with a helpless frown, “Think any idiot can see it” noticing a hint of embarrassment briefly you patted TP’s shoulder, “No matter how much he hurts me, I always find myself wishing things could be… like they once were”

Whatever that meant. In truth, you wanted more. You wanted to wake up next to him every morning. You wanted affirmations of love every day as you tasted his coffee-stained lips. You wanted to lie in his embrace, feeling desired and loved. But most of all, you wanted to be able to lace up your fingers with his, following the instincts that became your second nature. To card your fingers through his silky golden strands and to give him everything he would desire. You wanted to be his. He was supposed to be yours. Or was the universe wrong?

Thoughts of that kind could be lethal. Shaking yourself awake, you met TP’s eyes. Apart from the lack of surprise at your admission, you noticed something strange. A passing realization. As though he has heard something similar before but was afraid to speak up. Once again, you found yourself wondering what Neil told him. What did he mean by ‘things you and I should explain to each other’? For a moment, you wanted to jump head in and ask. But what good would knowing the truth be when you could not act on it? As though aware of your increasing dilemma, the man spoke up again.

“I’m sorry for Oslo” your eyes widened at the reminder.

“Why?” blurting out the question, you eyed him cautiously.

The deepening discomfort radiating off him confirmed your assumptions. That was it. He knew what nearly happened that night. And he was flustered about his role in it. That was not the conversation you ever expected to have.

“I can’t help but think that maybe if I hadn’t… interrupted you, it would’ve-” he stumbled over the sentence somewhat endearingly.

Perhaps it was the lack of care that made you say the next words. Or maybe just the fact that nothing mattered anymore, and so who could judge you for the purest form of honesty.

“Doubt it,” interrupting him with a sour smile, you added, “Maybe it’s good you knocked then… Least he doesn’t have absolutely everything” noticing the alarm painted on TP’s face, you blushed.

Yep, too far. Still true, however.

“I’m sorry, you didn’t have to know that much” you brushed off the sudden awkwardness with a sincere apology.

“I can pretend I’ve never heard it” it was his turn to give a reassuring shoulder squeeze.

You could feel the strange companionship forming. Sure you did not mind. Relaxing back in the chair, you spoke up:

“Thanks,” as TP also visibly reclined, you brought up the thought that was not letting go of your mind, “I don’t know how much he has told you about… this,” gesturing vaguely, you bit your lip.

Somehow you knew that he would not betray Neil by sharing with you everything that has been said. But even crumbs would do…

“Quite a bit,” you watched him closely, intrigued by the hesitation, “Enough for me to know that you’re someone I can trust and that he had reasons to be acting that happy in Tallinn before the action” oh.

That painful pang in your heart was heart to ignore. You winced, feeling the steady gaze fixed on your face. The analysis was mutual. Neil, happy, back in Tallinn. Because of you. You have lost too much.

“What do you mean?” treading carefully, you asked the safest of questions.

A small smile on his face showed you just how obvious you were. Lovesick idiot.

“Hours he has spent texting someone, phone calls he would pick up instantly and then come back grinning like a madman” TP offered you examples with a glimmer in his eyes “It only clicked when we were inverting, and I asked him about you” the blush on your cheeks deepened under his taxing gaze “Suddenly all of that made sense if you were in Estonia with us” he shrugged, finishing the thought.

Oh my god. While you experienced it all firsthand during those chaotic yet hopeful days in the safehouse when everything seemed to have infinite potential, hearing about it from someone else’s perspective felt strange. Almost like a slap in the face. Because it only confirmed what you knew – he once loved you. Once.

“Well, it seems like he has changed his mind…” you muttered, feeling the resentment settle in.

You wondered whether one day it would stop hurting. If you could ever get over this and find someone else. That darkest part of your brain knew the answer well enough. Nothing could come close. And nothing ever would.

“Or he’s just an idiot” the cheeriness felt forced.

But judging by the way TP was staring at you, you could tell it was his attempt at dispersing the sudden melancholy. It was strange to see him worried about you of all people. Perhaps your shit attempts at diverting everyone’s attention from your declining mentality were failing. And that was a reason to be concerned.

“That too,” plastering on an unconvincing smile, you stifled a yawn.

That caught his attention.

“You should get some rest” upon further thought, he added, “And food,”

The intensity of his look was stifling. You hated being the centre of attention. Especially in moments like this when you felt vulnerable, an object of pity and unease. Stupid, weak, and useless. The sabotaging voice came out in full force, making you want nothing but to curl up in bed and disappear. Not yet, however.

“Yes, sir” you raised your hand in mock salute.

Your face fell when instead of a laugh, you got a frown in response. Oopsie.

“I’m serious” TP seemed to consider something quickly before placing his hand on your forearm, “I’m… I’ve been a little worried about you” he met your eyes with a clear purpose.

Shit. That is exactly what you wanted to avoid. Being seen as pathetic and a burden. Internally, you cursed yourself for not being strong enough. For letting anyone see the cracks. You would not let them see you shatter into pieces.

“I’m doing fine,” mustering the happiest of grins, you tried to mask the urgency.

Please buy the bullshit.

“Are you?” he didn’t. Before your brain could fully arrive at the panic station, his inquisitive expression softened. You held his gaze for a beat, hoping to convey everything. Hoping to convince him to let the conversation go. It worked for TP gave a final taxing look before backing off. You exhaled slowly, relaxing a little. Maybe the worst was over…

“Before we go… there’s one more thing I wanted to talk to you about…” TP changed the subject, looking down at the table “The lock. You want to go with him”

It was not exactly a question, yet you knew he expected an answer. That one you could easily give him. It was obvious, even if you have never said it out loud. Up till now.

“Yes... Maybe it is an impulsive and stupid thing to do, but I can’t let him do it alone. I can’t let him get killed” the word felt foreign in your mouth.

As though ‘Neil’ and ‘death’ were two irrelevant concepts that did not fit together even in theory. They could not. You would not allow it. And you were willing to accept the worst of risks to make sure it would not happen. Hell, you would even fight against fate and time to assure that.

“I’d rather avoid that too” TP’s quiet comment made you look up, “He deserves so much more than…” there was something startling in his gaze.

As though he has stopped himself before saying too much. Much more than what? And why was he looking at you like that? Like you were missing something tragic, and his heart was breaking for your loss. You felt like going insane. TP cleared his throat awkwardly, resuming the conversation, not at all fluently:

“I don’t buy the whole ‘what’s happened, happened’. What does that even mean?” the irritation shining through his strange tone was distracting.

“Don’t ask me,” you shrugged, “I like to think there’s a different solution to this. One that doesn’t involve Neil sacrificing himself. And I need to be there with him because if it comes to it… I’d take that bullet for him” you did not know where the honesty came from.

Or why you would admit something that fundamental to TP. His response was just as anticipated – a gasp and widened eyes. Nibbling on your lower lip, you broke the eye contact and chose to stare at the forgotten gun lying on the table. It was the truth, so why did admitting it feel so… radical?

“Are you sure?” when he found his voice again, it was hoarse.

“It’s that kind of love,” you replied, still unable to meet his gaze.

You never expected to reveal yourself like that to TP. Wheeler? Maybe. Even Kat seemed like a probable option, but not the boss himself. And especially not at this stage of his story. Yet he was there, willing to listen, and that was enough. You would deal with the consequences later, in your mind that would undoubtedly rebel against such a display of fragility.

“I don’t want it to sound patronizing… but you’re still young. There might be someone else for you along the line if Neil-” his voice broke through your reverie as you interrupted him with a start.

“I know” finally, you raised your head again, showing the sincerity of expression, “But something tells me it’s him or nothing. Call it fate or insanity” biting back a dry chuckle, you felt a single tear form in the corner of your eye.

That was something you have spent most of the time thinking about. At the start, you desperately wanted to believe that you would get over this. That it was just another disappointment, and like before, eventually you would forget about those blue eyes and maniacal grin. But your heart knew better, constantly reminding you that it was not that simple. That Neil was not someone you just forget. Because how could you?

“Reality?” TP’s eyes were filled with thoughtfulness.

“Perhaps,” you cracked a smile, feeling heaviness in your heart lift by an inch.

Always something. Another yawn ended the delicate moment seconds later, making you scowl in annoyance. What was the point of tiredness when you could not even rest properly? TP laughed at your pained expression and got up:

“Now, you into the kitchen. And try to get some sleep” he offered you a hand which you took and stood up.

“I’ll try” a lie, “Thank you… for checking in and listening” sheepishly, you tried to find any words of gratitude.

“I owed you that after those hours in Oslo, filled with plans, coffees, and awful songs you’d sing to entertain us” the knowing smirk suggested that he did remember what you hoped would be forever forgotten.

MTV in Norwegian. Your knackered brain deciding that singing along to ‘Like a Virgin’ and ABBA was what had to be done to make everyone smile. Mistakes have been made.

“Don’t remind me,” TP laughed as you smacked him on the shoulder.

*** You did not sleep after you bid goodbye to TP. That night too was spent tossing and turning in bed, thinking about how everything could have crumbled so quickly. It has only been weeks since Tallinn. In fact, looking from the linear point of view, it has not even happened yet. The normal you have been enjoying the confusion of those days before Oslo when everything was difficult yet hopeful. Too good to be true, at times. Well, now you knew that those moments never lasted too long.

The next morning you quickly grabbed breakfast and sneaked into the sparring area, hoping to catch a few minutes with the punching bag before the troops would take over space. However, that day it was not meant to be.

You heard the voices as soon as you opened the airlock and entered the large room. It was divided into a few sections, each devoted to a different training exercise. To your advantage, each was also separated with a thin plastic screen. Cautiously, you approached the nearest divider, trying to determine whether your mind was not playing any tricks. After one second, you knew. TP and Neil were having a rather heated conversation on the other side of the screen. A sparring ground was the place you least expected to encounter them. And yet… You wanted to turn away and leave before more damage could be done, but the moment you heard the boss’s voice, you froze on the spot:

“Why are you so hard on her?” TP’s question rung out clear in the highly domed room “The only crime she has committed was falling in love with you. I don’t think that’s worth all that pain you’re inflicting”

There was no doubt as to who he meant. Your heart sank. Oh my god. On one hand, it was encouraging to know someone was fighting for your side and pointing out the unnecessary torture Neil was so keen on. But the fact that they were discussing the nature of your feelings was terrifying. Listening on felt wrong, yet you could not move away.

“It would be better for her if she hadn’t” Neil’s cold tone made your blood turn to ice.

There was something frightening in how distant he sounded. As though he was nothing like the man you fell in love with, only a cold impostor that borrowed his face and voice. He was right.

“Why? You told me that you love-” TP’s voice rose, incredulity tinging every single word.

Neil told him his feelings. You expected that, and it still felt like a punch. You leaned on the wall for support.

“It doesn’t matter what I said” the biting edge to Neil’s voice was new, “Or how I feel. The sooner she gets over it, the better for all of us” he threw it without caution, as though he was done with your bullshit.

With the fact that you were stupid enough to love him. He did not want your love. Never did. The crushing weight on your chest would not give way.

“You’re cruel” TP was surprised, as though he could not believe what he was hearing.

“That’s mercy” Neil was begging for the conversation to be over, “Cruelty would be letting her entertain the idea that we can...” he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Christ. All those nights spent wishing for answers, and when they came you wanted to forget you ever heard it. It was foolish to believe anything could ever happen between you.

“But why? Neil, you are in love with her” TP raised his voice yet again, utterly done with whatever the blonde bastard was doing.

You could not care less. Nothing mattered anymore. But you did not expect the very next punch. Or the pain you would feel.

“I’m not” clear-cut rejection; nothing to interpret “I don’t love her. There’s no need to look at me like I’m a monster”

Enough. You heard enough. The pain was as bad as ever as you walked away. Your mind set on one simple thing - tea. Yes, that would solve it.

*** Going to the galley felt as though you were stuck within a dream you could not shake off. Half-aware of your surroundings, you nearly walked into Dominic, whose survival instincts kept him off your path. Muttering apologies, you undid the zip lock and sauntered into the kitchen without a care in the world. With a start, you noticed Kat sat at the table. She gave you a welcoming half-smile as she sipped the tea from the metal cup. Your autopilot stuttered, overwhelmed by the company. Blocking off any attempts at thinking, you followed the muscle memory. Setting the kettle on. Putting teabag into the mug. Earl Grey because it reminded you of those morning kisses in London. No. Wrong memory. You shook your head, waiting for the water to boil. The fridge was too loud, the buzz making thoughts appear. Sighing, you leaned on the counter. Your eyes were burning, the sensation increasing with every single blink. It was alright. So why did it feel like the world was ending?

The kettle switched off. Without sparing a single thought to the reality, you poured the water in, watching with fascination as the teabag floated up. Kat’s spoon let out a clink as she placed it on the edge of the plate. You jumped up, startled. That was enough to break through your carefully woven barrier. The thoughts came rushing in. Neil didn’t love you. Your chest tightened as the next breath came out strained. The air was gone. Your hands shook as you tried to take out the teabag. Fuck. Everything was over. A single gasp was all you could manage before you shattered. The tears fell down your cheeks in a steady stream, blurring everything with tragedy. Choked sobs shook your frame as you desperately tried to hold on. To sanity. To reality. Anything to make the pain go away. But it would not disappear, only getting stronger. As though through the glass, you could hear someone say your name. Voice tinted with worry and urgency. But you did not care. The sobs turned into a howl as you slid down to the floor. The sounds coming from your throat sounded foreign and harsh, tearing at your vocal cords mercilessly. Oh my god. That was the break you always feared. There was no end to tears falling down your cheeks onto the floor and beneath your shirt. Slowly breathing became almost impossible, forcing out those pathetic half sniffles that only made everything worse. You wanted to do something. Anything. To make it stop. To forget. To lose the ability to feel things. Your fingers clawed at nothingness, barely losing against the desire to make all that internal pain physical. By any means necessary. Because then at least you could blame it on something concrete. And not just heartbreak. A word you despised because it sounded weak. Stupid. Easily avoidable for everyone but not you. A lost cause. A failure.

“Hey…” warm fingers gently touched your shoulder.

You raised your head. The pounding headache and lack of oxygen, making everything seem twice as difficult. Kat’s blue eyes bore into yours with concern. You have made quite the show. Self-preservation told you to get up and leave, save yourself some shame. But you would not even know where to go. Or what to do. You did not trust yourself to make reasonable choices.

“Are you alright?” Kat’s voice brought you back to the present moment.

An anchor. Maybe this could work… She was still eyeing you closely, unsure about how to act but wanting to be helpful.

“Mmmm no,” you sent her a broken smile, grateful for the handkerchief she handed, “But it’s okay. Sorry about this. I didn’t mean to-” you gestured vaguely, knowing she would catch on.

Tears were still flowing steady, threatening with dehydration should this continue. But at least the wailing subsided to quiet sobs interrupting your sentence every few words.

“Don’t apologise, we all break sometimes,” Kat squeezed your shoulder, joining you on the floor, “Do you want to talk about it?”

It was tempting. Even if terrifying. But you felt like maybe she could be the listener you needed. Someone objective enough, without any ties to Neil or you. Someone safe to confide in that would keep your secrets in safekeeping. But…

“What if someone comes in?” grasping the most idiotic of excuses, you glanced at the airlock with apprehension.

You could just about imagine what would have happened should Neil walk in during your conversation. Your heart would not take it.

“We’ll just tell them to leave,” Kat’s cheeky tone made you turn to her, “I think they’re all a little afraid of me for some reason,” she added, with a small smirk.

She crossed her long legs and sat next to you with both your backs supported by the cupboard doors.

“As they should be,” you replied, feeling strangely at ease, considering everything.

That spark in her eyes was worth the stress over being too forward for someone you barely knew.

“So…” she nudged you with her shoulder as further encouragement.

There was no more escaping it. You took a deep breath, urging your heart to stay strong. Words started spilling out without sense or order.

“Is just... the world is potentially ending in a few days, and here I am crying over the fact that someone doesn’t love me” your throat contracted upon the word as though it was forbidden “I should’ve known better. He never could want someone like me because why would he” more tears as you realised the ultimate truth “I’m not extraordinary. It all feels so stupid, pathetic. But I can’t get over it because I still love him. And I don’t know how to stop” you finished the rant on a sob that forced you to cover your face with your hands.

There it was. Out in the open. You wondered how you could have ever been naïve enough to think your feelings could be reciprocated. For him, it was just a crush. Amplified by the troubles you had to face and the recent difficulties. Nothing more. You were conveniently there when he needed someone to lean on. But if it came to it, he would never choose you.

“It’s about Neil, isn’t it?” something in her voice made you meet her gaze.

You were that obvious, huh? A panicked thought convinced you that everyone on the bloody ship knew about your weakness for the blonde bastard. Yes, even that mess sergeant that always gave you a sorry smile when you approached the counter at mealtimes. Before you could spiral down another wretched rabbit hole, you asked the most innocent of questions:

“How do you know?”

There was no point in trying to convince Kat she got it wrong. She seemed to consider something for a moment before she looked at you with newly found resilience:

“Let me tell you a story,”

You quirked your eyebrow, confused and intrigued. Might as well… Nodding at her silent question, you rested your head against the cupboard. Dried tears tinged your chapped lips with salt.

“When we were in Oslo, staying in a hotel for two nights, TP went out, and Neil stayed with me” she set up the scene with a neutral tone, “We talked a lot about everything really. He asked me about Andrei...” you glanced at Kat, noticing a passing grimace, “Normally I would shut off, but there was that calm curiosity about him, and I didn’t mind saying too much” she admitted with a sheepish smile.

You knew the feeling well, always telling Neil too much because he was such an excellent listener. Confiding even the darkest of secrets and thoughts never felt like anything significant when he reacted with that same confidence and acceptance. That was one of the reasons why the fall was unavoidable.

“Neil has that sort of effect on people,” you returned her smile, shrugging slightly.

Kat patted your hand gently, noting the look on your face. The infatuation and yearning you could not get rid of whenever you did as much as spare a thought towards him.

“I can tell... the point is that he mentioned you, as well” your eyes widened as she paused, “His friend, as he referred to you but not without stumbling over the word a little” she grinned upon your struck expression, “He told me about your role in this. That you’re an asset, excellent sharpshooter, brave as hell and equally reckless at times” my god

You blushed, feeling Kat’s taxing gaze. Friend? Suppose that’s one way of introducing you to people. It was fascinating to know that even after the mess of Tallinn, Neil valued your contributions to the mission. That he would mention you to anyone. Favourably, at that.

“Sounds about right,” frowning, you pondered the implications of her words, “So you knew who I was that morning on the bridge?” the sudden realisation felt refreshing.

That explained her looks directed at you and Neil back then. The visible consternation about the matter of your relationship.

“Yes, it clicked pretty quickly” upon your perplexed gaze, she picked up the story, “I could tell that there was more underneath all the praise. There was that longing in his eyes and a spark that lit up only for you,” Kat added, smiling as you gasped, “I asked whether love was allowed in your line of business” there was boldness in her eyes that made your heart clench. Something important was coming, “He said yes, but it’s dangerous and best avoided. Only that’s not always possible. Sometimes it gets you, and before you realise you can’t breathe another word without missing that one essential person. Your heart doesn’t belong to you anymore, and nothing can be done” oh my god.

You stared at the floor as her words sunk in. It felt surreal, as though you have wandered into a dream. A good one. But dreams could only last so long… Shaking off the haze, you glanced at the woman sat next to you. She was observing you with an enigmatic smirk gracing her features.

“He said that?” your voice came out raspy.

Just a clarification. In case you have misunderstood. But Kat was not surprised.

“Yes,” she nodded, that same sympathetic expression on her face, “Considering what I’ve seen with you and him... there’s only one person he could’ve meant” your heart dropped, as though unused to the idea “I understood it that morning on the bridge when despite the awkwardness, he was willing to defy everyone else for your sake”

Your mind wandered back. Neil’s constant presence by your side, his hand touching the small of your back and then staying there for longer than necessary. His support and trust placed in your hands without hesitation. Right now, even something that insignificant felt unattainable. But it did happen. Could it be that he meant you? Unable to withstand the whirlwind of emotions, you stood up. Pacing in the tiny room, a protest came up, spilling out of your mouth:

“But I just heard him tell TP that he doesn’t love me” you swallowed hard as the reminder of the reality hit.

It was one thing to know it. Another to put it into words once again. You felt like screaming, demanding answers from the main culprit of this whole mess. But it was too dangerous. Another heartbreak could be lethal in its consequences.

“Sometimes we lie to ourselves to save the pain” the quiet certainty of Kat’s voice kept you grounded.

It felt risky to believe that he was pushing you away out of fear. But what if… No. You met her inquisitive gaze, hoping to convey the confusion and desperation. She must have understood for she added:

“He’s still coming to check up on me every evening, and the last two days he’s been a little… strange” the meaningful pause felt like bait.

One that you did not hesitate to take.

“How do you mean?” stopping mindless trotting, you sat down on the stool.

“Quiet, wistful, as though something was troubling him, threatening to spill out if he wasn’t too careful” a long taxing look; it sounded familiar, “Trust me, I don’t mean to give you false hope, I just thought you should know that before deciding on any further action” Kat got up and approached you.

Placing a hand on your shoulder, she squeezed it. You felt immensely grateful. Even if a little speechless… Because all of that was a lot to take in. You desperately needed a long afternoon spent in bed, staring at the ceiling and processing the eventful morning. Was it still morning?

“It means a lot, I’m not sure how I could repay you” finding the words again, you gave her a helpless smile.

“Just try to be happy. And don’t give up on things that seem too good to be true. Sometimes those are most worth keeping around” the depth of melancholy in her eyes was startling, “What will you do now?” the tentative tone assured you of the intent behind the question.

It was Kat’s way of saying: don’t do anything stupid. You could not promise that to anyone. The wounds were too fresh; emotions barely kept under control. Anything could happen. But you did not want to alarm her.

“I’m not sure. Think, probably” an unconvincing nonchalance had to do, as unprecedented honesty took voice “But I’m beginning to realise that if I won’t be able to… have him… I’ll just let him be. He deserves the best more than anybody else” you finished the thought and met her eyes.

A passing shock you found there was intriguing. As though your words reminded her of something, and she needed an additional moment to recover. God knows what sort of secrets everybody held on this god-forsaken ship… If the weight of the past and the unsaid could sink boats, it would have been long over. For everyone.

*** You thanked the gods (and Ives) for letting the topic of the lock wait out a little longer. Instead, the next morning’s meeting concerned the splinter unit, the who, and the how. As a result for once, no voice has been raised throughout the two hours spent on the bridge. Nothing much has been decided, but you did not mind. The burden of the last few days rested on your shoulders, preventing sleep or any form of relaxation. The word ‘tired’ did not even begin to describe it. But duties had to be put ahead of any personal issues and so you took part in the confab as usual. Seeing Neil after everything felt like a stab straight in the heart. His silence and the complete lack of acknowledgment of your existence were the added twist of the hilt.

The moment the meeting was over, you bolted out of the door in desperate need of fresh air. It was bound to rain later as the entire deck was covered in strange puddles that formed out of nothing. Perks of inversion and all that. Lost in thoughts concerning the locks, blonde bastards, and the torture of love as a concept and a feeling, you forgot about the golden rule of inverted rainfalls in the making – caution upon stepping on the wet surfaces. Turning around the corner, your foot slipped. Fuck. All you could do was flail your hands helplessly while praying that the fall will not be painful and that it will not detach the oxygen tank. Suffocation was not the death of your choice.

Suddenly the fall was interrupted with a strong grip on your waist. Hands pulling you upright, back to standing. The hold felt familiar. And forbidden. Turning to face the saviour, you were struck by the sight of the blue eyes that haunted your every waking hour. Every dream too. He was close, with hands wrapped around your waist securely. Somehow this felt worse than the fall. You half expected Neil to let go any second now, step away and yell at you for being clumsy. Or maybe just for existing. But he was still there. One of his hands slipped down onto your hip. Speechless, you kept on gazing into his eyes, trying to understand what was going on. All you could see was increasing the confusion. Desire. The boundless depths were drawing you in. Neil pulled you closer. Something in his face made you believe that if it was not for the oxygen masks, he would have kissed you. His gaze roamed across your features, intense, relentless, as though he could never have enough of you. It felt like being stripped bare, left exposed and vulnerable. Despite trying, you were unable to put up a guard, showing him all that he was not supposed to know instead. Everything you tried to hide and deny, bury deep inside so it could be forgotten. Well not anymore… Whatever Neil saw in your eyes woke him up. You noticed a passing frown, replaced with increasing shock. And then horror. What the hell. Before you could even process what happened, he let go and took a hasty step back. He looked sick, pale with fear and panic. Then, just as you tried to find any relevant words, Neil spoke:

“Be more careful next time,” cold and curt as though nothing happened.

He walked off briskly, disappearing into the darkness of the training grounds. What the fuck? A single drop flew up from the deck, splashing onto your chin. The rain has begun. You felt strange. Suddenly mourning the fact that you have been saved from suffocation. It would have been simpler. Less painful. Less terrifying.

*** No matter the hours passing by, or the thousands of different grounding techniques you have attempted, nothing was helping. Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, you wanted a multitude of things. To get blackout drunk in the hope of forgetting this morning ever happened. (You checked the galley, utterly disappointed to have found nothing with the necessary voltage). You wanted to talk to someone, briefly considering visiting Kat further down the corridor. But that would have meant being even more vulnerable. And a burden. So nope. At one point, you once again considered marching outside without the mask, letting the inverted lung membranes and fucked up rain do the rest. But you did not want to end the life itself. That was not all that bad. You liked your job, the various people you have met along the way. It was only that the current predicament was… unbearable. There had to be a different option.

Then mindless pacing replaced the stillness of lying down. Window, door, and back again. To be repeated for at least an hour. Your thoughts swirling around everything that has been said. Everything that happened. Kat’s story. The look in Neil’s eyes. What if… what if? The unknowns kept multiplying in your head, driving you insane with the extent of what you did not understand. You always hated those moments of suspense. Unsure whether to give up, let go and try to move on, or to keep trying, hoping. Your heart could never process them well without breaking and shattering into millions of pieces. Fuck.

There was one way out of it. One that you tried to push to the back of your head for the few past hours because it was too terrifying. But you were slowly running out of alternatives. One look out of the window told you that you had spent at least six hours like this. It would not do. It was either him or nothing. But you could not survive the insufferable without knowing which one it was. Taking a deep breath, you stopped in the middle of the cabin. This is it. You knew what had to be done. You put on the sweater as though in a trance, making sure to repeat silly affirmations in the quiet of your mind. It had to be alright. If it wasn’t, there were always the seals left…

The walk down the short corridor felt like ascending the steps to the guillotine. Only whatever might happen could be worse than beheading. Your hand shook as you rapped on the door to Neil’s cabin. The sound felt like the worst mistake you ever made. It was too late to turn back. After a very long moment, you heard shuffling inside. When the door opened, you were shocked by a few observations all at once. Neil’s eyes were reddened, hair in absolute disarray. When he realised that you were the intruder, his hands automatically went to smooth the strands in some way. Making even more mess in the process. In any different situation, you would have found that endearing. But your heart was too heavy. You eyed him instantaneously, gaze slipping over the fitting black thermal shirt and the joggers with narrowed cuffs. Not helpful. As you glanced back at his face, you noticed the intensifying confusion. That was the chance to speak…

“Can I come in?” a tentative start to make him more likely to agree.

The shock in his blue eyes slowly changed into careful curiosity. Neil gave you a once-over before opening the door wider and stepping back.

“Of course. Friends are allowed to visit each other” a hint of impatience as though he already had enough.

But that was not the most infuriating bit…

“Friends?” you crossed the threshold and met his eyes with the face of stone, “Sure, that’s one way of looking at what we are” the lack of reaction was inspiring, “Or were” you took a look around his room.

Equally small cabin, littered with a few personal objects. His was phone abandoned on the bedside table, a change of clothes on the floor. A naïve idiot would have taken a moment to consider the fact that maybe he was not as well as you thought. But you were past that, desperate to get answers. A reaction. An end to this madness. With resolve ever-increasing, you sat down on the edge of Neil’s bed, ready for the battle ahead. Meeting his perplexed gaze, you let the penny drop:

“I wonder with how many friends have you been kissing on the bed for two hours” a flash of recognition and then a frown.

As expected. But it still hurt.

That moment from the afternoon before the morning plane to Tallinn was one you often replayed in those desperate hours when nothing seemed to help. You were lying in bed in your room back in London, enjoying each other’s company, exchanging kisses like compliments every few minutes. Sometimes Neil would let his hands become more daring in their caress, causing goosebumps all over your skin. Bringing out sighs and making your heart overflow with love and hope that you finally found what you have been looking for. You felt wanted. You talked a lot about the future, sharing different ridiculous plans for how it could play out. Neil promised to visit your prospective farm with the sheep and dogs. Back then, judging by the look in his eyes, you dared dream that perhaps he would want to be a part of those days still to come. Now, looking at the blonde man awkwardly perching on the chair in front of you, nothing made sense. He stayed for the night then, allowing you to hug him close until the morning. You woke up first, watching him for a few minutes. The steady rise and fall of his chest. Relaxed face with hair sticking up. Calm and content. The warmth spreading from your heart inspired you to press a kiss to his lips as a means of wake up. The sight of Neil sleepy-eyed, peering up at you with a fond smile gracing his features was worth much. Maybe even the current tortures…

Facing him now, you could see the frown deepen.

“Painful memory?” you countered, watching him closely for any hints.

A mask was put on well. But there were flashes of something there. A potential… A possibility of getting burned too.

“In a way,” Neil grimaced, avoiding your piercing gaze.

He was uncomfortable, mindlessly picking on the skin around his nails and tapping his foot. That was the signal to keep on pushing. Until he would be forced to be honest.

“That’s a shame. It’s one of my favourite ones” as he looked up, you offered a deadpan smile, “Just like Oslo,” a shrug complemented with a quick scan of his body, “Though I’m not sure about that… ending,” feigning thoughtfulness you ended the harsh scrutiny.

The point was to back him up against the wall without making him throw you out. That tiny voice at the back of your head told you that he would have done that already if you were not in any way important. That voice was too confident.

“What is your point?” Neil bit back, betraying the level of annoyance you have brought with the innocent reminder.

You knew there was no more skirting around the issue. Now or never.

“Why did you do that earlier? Why did you hold me like...” you trailed off, unable to put into words what it felt like.

Like what? Like a lover. Like someone you actually cared about and not just an irritation. Like someone you could want in your life. But you could never say that to him.

“I was being a gentleman” Neil glanced at you with painfully fake indifference, “Women tend to appreciate that,” a shrug that could not fool you.

Women. The spark of jealousy burned bright. Because what if you were just another distraction. Nothing special. But then the things he said to Kat suggested otherwise. You held onto that thought and squared your shoulders. The game was on.

“...Right,” a sceptical glance in his direction before you continued, “Was that look gentlemanly too? Because last time I checked, gentlemen didn’t tend to look at women as though they wanted to…” trailing off, you awaited the response.

That would mean he took the bait. And the case was not yet lost.

“What?” the lazy tone made you meet Neil’s gaze.

He looked… off. As though before you knocked, he was not exactly fine. It was that nervousness and unkempt appearance that betrayed him. On its own accord, your heart gave out a painful thump, anticipating the fact that Neil too might have been hurting. But why? Ignoring the distraction, you found the needed words and dropped them carelessly.

“Devour them” you held his gaze confidently.

The verb felt right. As though Neil was not trusting his instincts, he looked down, breaking the contact. Putting up further guards. Bingo. He scoffed, throwing in cruelty to the mix:

“And here I was thinking you’re over… this” a vague hand gesture to show what this meant.  

You. And him. That something that both was there and was not. Or rather, he wanted it to cease to exist. Only it was not that easy.

“I never said that” putting on the necessary emphasis, you kept on staring at him until he looked up.

Mouth open for another quip. That same steel-blue eyes and clenched jaw. Whatever you have been doing was working. Slowly aggravating him to the point of discomfort. You had to keep the upper hand. Neil seemed to consider something, restlessly fiddling with a pen he picked up from the bedside table. After a beat, he spoke up:

“Why are you here?” weariness in his eyes as he gave out a long exhale.

Easy question… right?

“Because I want answers” it could not be any simpler.

He flinched, letting you see the extent of panic hidden underneath the annoyance and casualness.

“What makes you think I’ve got them?” an arched eyebrow adding the mocking intonation.

The meter of space between you felt like an ocean. He was close enough for you to brush away the strand that has fallen into his eye if you only leaned in. And yet so far that you felt alone, alienated by the cold scrutiny. You had to keep going, tearing at the carefully build up armour hiding him away from you.

“Because you always have words. An abundance of them” you waited till he looked at you again before pressing on “Be it things you probably wish I have forgotten that you have once whispered between kisses” a pause, noticing the boundless unease in the blue eyes “Or all those lovely adjectives you have given me the last couple of days” using the moment of hesitation, you added, “But maybe you were right, and I am stupid, emotional-”

You could give him the whole litany. Your legacy. Exactly how much you were worth in Neil’s eyes. Unless it was a lie…? Before you could begin, Neil raised his hand, interrupting sharply:

“Okay, I get your point” no pride in that frown, almost as though he regretted it, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that” the apology took you by surprise.

As did the sudden change in his face. Neil held your gaze with unusual sheepishness. As if even the act of looking at you was dangerous. Tearing the skin from his lower lip, he was the epitome of insecurity. There was no time to falter.

“Everything?” you prodded, mindful of the poker face you had to maintain.

You could not lose him now. Neil hesitated for a short moment before responding:

“Yes,” another second of eye contact, and he got up, impatiently touching the doorknob “If this is all you wanted, then I’d rather be alone-”

No. You leaped up, reaching out before he could finish the sentence. As your hand landed on his forearm, his eyes snapped to you in shock. He was not expecting you to breach the touch barrier. But there was no other choice. With heart hammering in your chest, you felt your throat tighten. Please not now…

“No,” emotions exposed in the tiny voice crack, “Neil, I’m tired of this, of you not making any fucking sense and expecting me to accept it” pleading, you let your fingers wrap around his wrist.

That had to do. Judging by the terror in his eyes, it was already too much. You could feel your resolve waning. Terrified of the consequences if this backfired. Of what you would have to do if he rejected you once and for good. Of the pain you would have to face then. But you had to be brave. He swallowed hard. You wondered what caused the goosebumps on his skin.

“If this is about earlier, then you’re blowing it out of proportion. Be more reasonable” there was a raw edge to his voice that was new.

You were close now. Enough to force Neil to stare at the ground to avoid looking at you. You noticed those dark circles under his eyes. And the tension spilling out in waves. He was scared of you. And that was a horrifying discovery. Your eyes were burning as you begged your heart to hold on. You had to survive this.

“It’s not just that” betraying the nerves, you took a greedy inhale, “It’s what you told Kat in Oslo. It’s how you look at me” following potentially disastrous instincts, you tipped his chin to meet his eye, “It’s all those sudden switches when you seem so cold and calculating and yet so separated from the real you” running out of breath, you could only stare at Neil.

The widened eyes and parted lips told you exactly how shocked he was. You did feel bad for bringing Kat into it. The argument was too strong to let it go. And it worked if his silent panic was anything to go by. He was desperately searching for words, unable to tear his eyes away from yours as though what you said was a binding charm.

“Why do you think you know the real me?” finally, Neil settled upon the question.

One last attempt at making you forgo this madness. Only there was nothing convincing in his delivery. Eyes hazed, showing you fear and uncertainty. A blood droplet on the lower lip where he tore through the skin. Ignoring the most innate of desires to wipe it off, you cupped his cheek. Neil gasped, frozen in the spot. Could it be working? Sliding your hand down, you interlocked your fingers with his. Everything felt surreal. As if you were not a part of the scene. But you had to persist. To finish what you started.

“Because you once told me that you’ve never lied to me. That I’m very important. Your everything, even” your voice broke again on the last sentence as you tightened your hold over Neil’s hand, “And I understand that you could have changed your mind, but…” you hesitated, feeling him shudder.

Oh my god. Your heart broke for the umpteenth time as the fact dawned on you. Neil was shivering slightly as though he was cold. But there was no draft. Nothing to cause it apart from your presence, words, and the physical touch. A choked sob built up in your throat.

“…why are you trembling when all I’m doing is holding your hand? Am I that revolting?” the questions were interrupted by a sniff you could not hold back any longer; there was time for honesty, “The last few days have been awful, making me want to stupid things just to feel something different than heartbreak. I’m not saying that to get your pity, but if I got it all so wrong then tell me now. Because I’m not sure I can survive much longer like this” after finishing the speech, the tears trailed down your cheeks uninvited.

It was all there for him. Nothing to add. Your heart was beating fast, blood pounding in your ears. For a second, you felt suspended in time, unable to do anything but stare at Neil, who seemed utterly speechless. And then his face fell. Eyes fell shut as he let out a heart-shattering whimper. Tears started falling down his face as you tried to brush them away. You have not seen him that broken since the aftermath of TP’s death. He tugged his hand out of your hold to cover his face, turning away. Christ… The searing pain was back, this time making your heart bleed for Neil. You did not know what to do, powerless and paralyzed with a multitude of thoughts and feelings. After a minute which felt like an eternity, Neil faced you again with red-rimmed eyes and tragedy in his gaze. That was the needed wake-up. Stepping back into action, you placed your hand on his chest. Just over the beating heart. A gentle encouragement.

“I can’t… I can’t tell you that it’s over because I still…” the breathless words tinged with panic and struggle as he fought for every gust of air, “I can’t keep on…” another sob, shaking his whole body “You’re…” a sharp intake followed by instant defeat.

Immeasurable anguish in Neil’s eyes was another reason to find the strength you did not know you had. Maybe it was worth it.

“What? I’m here with you and willing to listen. To do anything but please just make me understand” holding back more tears, you made sure he saw the determination painted on your face.

Slowly you were coming to terms with the reality. You would do anything for him. Anything he asked.

“I don’t know how to…” Neil trailed off, looking for answers all over the floor and ceiling, “I’m tired of having to pretend when you’re all I…” a moment of hesitation as his eyes widened.

He did not intend to say that much. You’re all I… what? Before you could find ways of pressing on, he turned away again and sat down on the bed. A frown etched deep into his forehead. Eyebrows furrowed. Eyes glistening with unshed tears. This was bad. Awkwardly, you shifted from one foot to another. Words were escaping you both.

“Then don’t. I won’t bite” your useless quip was received with an ill-disguised dry chuckle, “Call it naïve, but I don’t think it’s anything we can’t fix if we…” shit.

You knew what was there on the tip of your tongue. It was too early. Fuck knows if he even… But he had to. There was no other force in the universe that could cause this much pain.

“If what?” Neil caught your mistake with strange emotion in his eyes.

As though he wanted you to spell it out. You could not give in. Some words had the potential to destroy, and it was too fragile. A freshly opened wound you still had to mend somehow.

“Don’t make me say it again” a whisper to make him understand your actions.

After a beat, Neil nodded. He seemed exhausted, slouching and staring at the floor unseeingly. That feeling of helplessness threatened to come back with force as you were running out of ideas to make it work. To get him back somehow. Then his voice broke the tense silence:

“Christ…” a long exhale before he looked at you again, “I don’t even know where to begin, but…” resignation passed through his face.

You felt a strange spark of hope flicker in the depths of your heart. It did not look like rejection. It did not look like anything you have ever experienced, and yet it made so much sense. Because after everything you have been through, there was no way this could be easy. Kindling that building fire, you cautiously took a step forward, maintaining the eye contact:

“Yes?” the most neutral of tones, holding the emotions at bay.

Everything not to scare him off. You made it so close. You could give up now. A hint of a sad smile upon Neil’s lips was encouraging…

“Come closer. I want to…” he reached out a hand you gladly took, letting him pull you nearer.

It did not matter what he wanted. Only that you could give it to him. Anything. Everything. Upon the sudden surge of courage, you covered the remaining inches of space and straddled his lap in one smooth movement. Another gasp as Neil glanced at you with obvious amazement. Then, as though he worried that even this was too much, he looked down at where his hands tentatively settled on your hips. This position was familiar. And yet, you felt different, unable to make sense of the myriad of emotions and thoughts occupying your mind. All that mattered was Neil. His hesitant but intimate hold. The hair falling into his eyes. Shallow breaths escaping through the parted lips.

“It’s alright, look at me,” gently you lifted his chin so that you could meet his gaze.

Blue eyes full of longing. For you. Exhaling sharply, you knew well enough what to do. You wound your hands around his waist, drawing him into a tight embrace. That too felt natural. After a second, Neil relaxed, melting into your hug as if that was exactly what was missing. At that moment, with head resting in the crook of his neck, at last feeling as though there was a point in all this, your eyes welled up. No matter the suffering, this had to be it. Your everything. Neil breathed you in, warm puffs of air causing shivers all over your body. There was no point in pretending.

“Please come back to me,” you whispered against his skin, letting tears trail onto his shirt.

Neil tightened his hold, hands roaming over your back, pulling you even closer. All it took was a kiss he pressed onto the exposed skin of your collarbone to make you tremble.

“I never left,” the hesitancy told you he did not believe it either.

“You did. But maybe… I’ll do anything to have you back” the urgency in your voice causing Neil to lean back.

He wiped the stray tears from your cheeks, taking an additional moment to caress your neck with tenderness. You could only lean into his touch, feeling as though whatever might happen has already been decided. There was no way you could let this go. Neil seemed to consider something quickly before he spoke:

“All those words… they fail me when I’m trying to explain what I was doing” his voice was raspy with the weight of emotions, “Or why. Because I’m scared of making it come true. It’s as if once I say it… it might…” he paused, searching for words in your eyes.

“Become real?” you offered, running your fingers through his unruly hair.

You were right. It was all an act. The elation was restrained by worry and love. It didn’t matter.

“Yeah…” Neil swallowed hard, “And then there’s all this mess in my head… The thoughts that just won’t shut up. I’m so fucking tired of… of-” the familiarity of his words causing another flash of pain within your heart “I can’t ask you to-” he cut himself off as though the idea was unspeakable.

You caught a sight of something darker within his gaze. They always said that actions speak louder than words…

“Neil, I said I’ll do anything. I mean it. What do you need?” you met his panicked eyes with resilience.

It took him a longer minute to stop staring at you. To wake up. And then, as simple as it can be:

“You. I need you,” touching his forehead to yours his breath ghosted your lips, “But after everything I did, I wouldn’t expect you to want me… like that” the depth of remorse was heart-breaking.

You already knew what the answer would be. Nothing else mattered. Regrets, worries, and fears had to be abandoned for the sake of this.

“The trouble with the heart is that it doesn’t care what you’ve done. Only that this is you,” smiling lightly, you cupped his cheek, “Just… kiss me. Like you mean it. Like you could love me. And then we’ll see if we can make it work,” unsure where the words came from, you faltered.

But before any vicious doubts could step in, Neil closed the gap. His lips slowly glided over yours, reminding you what it felt like. It did not take much persuading for you to open your mouth, deepening the kiss. It felt like coming home after a long time away. Like that first step over the threshold when one is unsure what they will find. Only to realise that everything is in the right place. That they should have never left. You tangled your fingers in his hair, bringing him even closer. He groaned upon the sensation, teeth grazing over your bottom lip. A sigh escaped your throat as Neil’s hands ventured underneath the sweater. For the first time in a while, everything made sense. You tugged at his shirt just for the sake of it as a means of showing him how wrong he was. You wanted him more than before if that was possible. The kiss consuming you both with its intensity and force. Your tongues participating in their dance, brushing against each other, increasing the intimacy of the moment. It finally felt right. Slow, unhurried, but desperate. Unforgettable.

You did not even know when it ended. One moment you were willing to give up breath if only to make it last longer. The next Neil had you pinned to the bed, breathless and shocked. When you met his gaze, the depth of expression told you what it meant. Finally.

[forcefully-awoken]

Summary: What she feels, so does he. It has its drawbacks, but mostly benefits.

Pairing: Loki x Sylvie

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: slightly dubious consent, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, angst, pining, idiots in love ™

It has to be wrong, the way he looks at her.

Morals stopped mattering to him a long time ago, after all what boundaries can be crossed that you can’t come back from in a few decades, one mistake is nothing in the scope of a life that never seems to end. Hell, he and Thor do the seemingly same song and dance every fifty years like clockwork but at the end of the day the only person allowed to kill Thor is him. Their brotherhood goes beyond petty grievances like pretending to be dead, or trying to take over Midgard.

But, he muses, if that’s how he is with Thor, what the hell is he meant to do with her?

Sylvie is… lovely, in her own way, he thinks. Sometimes it feels like looking into a mirror for the first time, being able to truly see what’s being reflected back at him. In her he sees his vulnerability, the desperation to belong, the harsh way she spits her words as if they can shield her from the world. He sees the softness, too, how fiercely she believes in what she’s doing, how her eyes widen seeing new parts of the universe for the first time, the wonder and joy at being a part of it. An extension of himself, a mirror that can touch back.

And therein lies Loki’s problem.

What is she, if not his? Certainly there’s something wrong, something not quite right about the way he looks at her- like he wants to eat her, wants to know if the same points on her body make her moan the way he does? Will she shudder when there’s a hand trailing up her back as he does? He wants nothing more to find some tiny corner of time and space and spend a week cataloging the differences in their bodies. No warning klaxons go off when he looks into her eyes, even when she’s yelling at him, because deep down they both know- it’s inevitable.

Sylvie feels it too, even if she won’t admit it, even if she stops looking in his eyes, turning her back to him when she finally takes a moment to rest. She’s more resistant to him than he is to her, a byproduct of their respective upbringings, he’s sure. She resists, and resists, and starts petty arguments that go nowhere and don’t mean anything in the end, because while Loki jerks himself off with quiet desperation every night, Sylvie only has this to release the tension.

“For being me, how could you be so stupid?!” Her voice is harsh, vitriol trying it’s hardest to seep into every word of it, but all he does is smile at her and think about the way those pretty pink lips would taste against his own. “Are you even listening to me?” Her hair is sparking, the magic too much to be contained, and he wonders if his ever did that without him noticing. There’s a quip on the edge of his tongue, something he knows will start another fight but instead he turns over on his side- for once putting his back to her.

Loki can hear her huff of frustration, something that oddly sends a shiver of pleasure down his spine, makes heat pool low in his gut. He hasn’t felt this way in years, the rush that comes with lusting after someone. He’s made his way through the realms just like a Prince of Asgard should, but after a certain point the names and faces blend together- and yet there is Sylvie, bright and shining like a supernova, a head above the rest with no comparison.

It’s quiet between them, for a little while, at least. Neither of them have been able to get in a decent amount of sleep in what feels like weeks, but time works differently here at the end of it all. He knows the others are somewhere close- Mobius never lets them out of direct sight it feels like, but if he closes his eyes it feels like it’s just the two of them by their little campfire. Everything seems to fade away, until all he can focus on is his incredibly hard cock between his legs.

“D’you know how twins sometimes have a connection?” Sylvie’s voice cuts through the night, a little bit too loud, drawing a little bit too much attention and she must realize because her voice soften when she continues on, “How they can feel each other’s pain? Well, I can feel that.” She spits the last word, before getting up to stalk off to who knows where.

It’s wrong then, how he sneaks his hand down the front of his pants, gripping his cock tightly, thrusting his hips ever so slightly into his fist. Now that he’s looking for it, he can feel the way his pleasure doubles, how it intensifies if he thinks about it too hard. How his hand doesn’t feel so large, how it feels so much softer than normal. How his breath sounds a little whinier, how the head of his cock feels so much more sensitive. He knows she’s feeling his pleasure as acutely as he is, knows it’s probably driving her crazy, but he can’t stop, he only wants more- more of this sensation, more of her, more of everything. It’s almost too much but he doesn’t stop, chasing his high with a practiced ease, biting his lip so his moans don’t escape him.

A thought occurs as he pulls his hand from his pants, trying hard not to get his release on his clothes. Usually he waves it away, off into nothingness without a second thought but now- if she can feel what he does then how far does that extend?

With a furtive glance around to make sure that truly nobody is watching, Loki’s tongue darts out, taking some of his cum into his mouth.

The taste of him explodes across her tongue.

It’s saltier than she remembers cum tasting, but fuck if it doesn’t just rile her up more. Fucking rat bastard- she knew she shouldn’t have confessed that she could feel the dirty things he did at night when he thought he was alone. What is wrong with him, demanding so much of her mental energy with such… mundane things when everything she’d ever worked for was at stake?

She has half a mind to go back over there and kick him, right at the base of his spine, right where she knows it’ll hurt the most (because that’s where it hurt the most for her) but then he flicks his tongue out again, and it’s all she can do to not shove her own hand down her own pants. She’s beyond such pedestrian things, hasn’t had to service herself like that in a while, not since she set herself off on this path.

Sylvie knows that he thinks that this is half her problem, why she’s so prickly, why she’s so downright mean sometimes. But there’s no time in her life for that, there’s only the drive forward, veering off track and into Loki has thrown things completely out of whack, and she doesn’t need to take anything else on. She doesn’t need to complicate things even more.

At least, that’s what she tells herself on nights like tonight, when there’s an electric current running through her veins, a hook behind her collarbone that pulls her in one specific direction. It won’t be worth it- he’ll look at her differently, he’ll expect too much, she won’t like him anymore after that. Her self loathing is too large and encompassing to let her mind rest even for a moment, and she thinks if she looks hard enough into his eyes that she’ll see that same loathing.

They’re the same person, the very thing that pulls them together drives her away, and that’s all there is to it, for her.

But, fuck, if she doesn’t want to give into it. He’s going at it again, somehow, and it’s so hard for her to resist the urge to just relax back into the sensation and let him carry her to completion without even trying. She can feel the way he’s taking his time now, stroking over his nipples, making hers pebble up in response. She bites her lip so hard it bleeds when he trails a delicate finger down his own throat. He’s not playing fair at all, she thinks, but that’s all she thinks before she finally caves.

She’ll show him who the true God of Mischief is.

One hand slides under her tunic, twisting at her nipple so hard it’s almost painful, and she thinks she can hear his tiny yelp of surprise off in the distance. It’s been so long that she almost has to learn her body all over again, but Loki has shown her so much of what he likes there’s a certain path that’s easier to follow. She pays close attention to one nipple, then the other, until she’s panting and she knows they’ll be sore in the morning- every brush of her clothes against them is going to send a thrill of pleasure through them both.

Carefully, quietly, she pulls her pants down just enough to be able to get a hand in between her thighs with no issues. She’s soaked through her underwear, she realizes when she presses her hand against her core. She slips a finger under them, trailing through her folds and collecting enough of her juices to lift her finger to her own lips, tracing them before sucking her finger clean. Her taste is better, she decides, much sweeter than Loki.

Once her finger is wet enough she slips her underwear down as well, rolling her fingers over her clit with an almost leisurely pace. She’s halfway there already, no need to rush anything at this point. This orgasm should be good enough to carry her on for another few decades if she plays her cards right. Pleasure shoots through her at the first brush of her fingers, an undercurrent she hasn’t indulged in years awakening like it was only yesterday. One circle becomes two, becomes three, becomes an easy rhythm that drives her slowly mad.

Her other hand has the more important job, opening her folds, one finger dipping into her cunt, testing the waters as it were. She’s tight, but so wet and needy that her finger slips in easily, teasingly until she needs to add another. Why doesn’t she do this more often? Her two fingers stroke in and out of her lazily, crooking upwards in search of a spot she knows will have her seeing stars, and Loki spilling all over his pants in shock. The thought of that- making him cum from nothing like a teenage boy drives her forward now.

It’s easy now, her fingers slip out as the others circle her clit. Slow and steady wins the race, as the saying goes, and it’s certainly holding true. Every little movement she makes pushes her closer and closer to the edge, and she’s so focused on her own pleasure she ignores the world around her. She ignores the strange connection she feels to Loki, the way it seems to be vibrating, pulsing with life. She ignores everything but the heat that builds in her, under her skin, the addicting way she needs to feel hersel cum.

She’s so close now, so close to giving in, biting back a sob as her hips rock forward, fucking herself down onto her fingers one last time as she finally, blissfully snaps. It’s overwhelming, nearly, her head just above water. Just enough to come down, just enough to feel it-

She feels, as easily as her own orgasm, the moment Loki’s self control finally snaps.

It’s so easy, almost absurdly so, to track her down. She hasn’t gone far, hidden in a bus (which gives him a second of pause- what the hell?), and for fuck’s sake her pants aren’t even back up.

“What the fuck,” It’s a statement, not a question as Sylvie scrambles to correct her clothing. She could do it with magic- hell, he could use his own to make it all disappear but that wouldn’t satisfy the pounding of his heart, the need to tear at her, to claim her.

“Minx,” Loki growls out, hands coming up to stop her own. He doesn’t feel so much larger than her when they’re standing face to face but now that he’s on top of her, it’s completely different. His hands cover hers entirely, muscles flexing as he grips the front of her shirt and just pulls. She know he doesn’t do it entirely on his own but the result is the same, the material gives way and her chest is bare before him. He doesn’t bother to kiss her, dipping his head down to wrap his lips around one nipple, pulling it between his teeth.

Sylvie hisses in response, hands coming up to tangle in his hair, and she means to push him away, she really does, but all that happens is she pulls him closer, a moan spilling from her lips, loud and wanton. His teeth come into play as he growls, switching to pay attention to the other pert bud, one hand holding him above her, the other gripping the waistband of her pants to shove them down even more, pulling back just enough to look up at her and demand, “Take them off.”

She’s got half a mind to deny him, but it feels so good that she obeys without question. Her pants don’t even come all the way off, just one leg comes free but Loki takes the moment to fit himself between them anyways. He moves lower, one leg thrown over his shoulder to hold her open for him. It would feel embarrassing if it was anybody else staring at her so intensely. Now, though?

“Get on with it, or get out!” That’s all it takes from her for him to cover her cunt with his mouth, tongue swirling over her sensitive bud, going further down to tease at her opening, like he’s trying to drink her down. She lets her eyes close, head drooping back as he takes the lead. His clever tongue returns to her clit, two of his fingers pressing into her, scissoring her open, preparing her. His fingers find that sweet spot inside of her so much easier, and she feels it when he finds it, her groan matching his. He works at her for what feels like forever, keeping her on the edge until she can decide if she wants to cry in frustration or take matters into her own hands.

Loki finally gives into what he wants, making his way up her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the other pushing his pants and underwear down just enough to free his cock. It’s long, thick enough she knows it’ll feel good, with a flushed red tip and pre-cum dripping from it. He doesn’t bother to ask, just lines himself up with her and starts the slow push in.

Both of them exhale a breath neither realized they had been holding when his hips were flush with hers. If the way she feels, and the way tremors run through his body are any indication, this encounter won’t last long. And so, Loki doesn’t hesitate, pulling back until just the tip of him is still inside of her and slamming back in, so hard she’ll feel it for days, and he’ll feel it for longer. It’s a brutal pace, him trying to carve out a piece of her for himself, to write his name in as many ways and shapes and forms on her until she finally gives into what he knows.

He fucks her like it’s a fight, and sucks a bruise on her neck where everyone will see just for the hell of it.

She, in turn, clenches around him just to watch his hips stutter and drags her nails down his back just to watch his pupils dilate.

It’s give and take, push and pull, two halves that are one.

There’s only their moans, the quiet slap of flesh upon flesh in the small space. The others might know what they’re doing, but Loki can’t find it in himself to care, not when Sylvie is making that face, not when her body feels so good. He has to keep fucking her, has to feel her cum on his cock because he’ll go crazy if he doesn’t.

“Please,” One of them gasps out, but neither can tell who. One of Sylvie’s hands snakes between their bodies, rubbing quick, harsh circles around her clit and that’s it for her- she’s cumming again, almost weeping from how good it feels, how complete she is, shuddering and shaking in his arms.

Loki doesn’t last much longer, after her, and the feeling does overwhelm him. He can’t tell where his pleasure ends and hers begin, but maybe it’s the same thing, in the end. He cums deep in her, unable to move back for even a moment. It’s too much, like a punch to the gut, and when it’s finally over he’s panting, breathing heavily like he’s been through battle. He feels like he’s been claimed, all while he thought he was doing the conquering.

Their eyes finally meet, but whatever Sylvie sees in his, she doesn’t like, flinching back away from him like she’s been struck. Something cold claws its way into his chest, making a home there despite how badly he tries to ignore it. He pulls his softening cock out of her with a soft hiss, oversensitive as hell from being with her.

They right their clothes in silence, neither of them looking at the other, though he can feel the way tension rolls off her shoulder in waves.

He doesn’t bother to look back as he leaves.

There’s only their way forward, into glorious purpose.

[twilightofthejedi]

fic: lost in your current like a priceless wine

written for @ahenix !!

thank you sm @trynatalktou for the beta work!

read on ao3: here

summary:

“Or we could just share the bed,” she ventures. his gaze snaps to hers, incredulous. She barrels on hurriedly. “It’s big enough for the both of us, anyways.”

in ep 17, what if chayenzo decided to spend the night in the hotel room after they plotted? and then there was only one bed??

set during episode 17

Cha-young closes the laptop with finality, heading to the table where the tray of food had been set out. She pours a drink into two glasses, and hands one over to Vincenzo where he stands by the large glass window. He smiles, taking the drink from her hand. She leans against the wall, and lifts her brows at him.

“What now?”

“Now we try to get some rest.” He pushes off the wall, and she follows suit. “It’s already late, and we need to be up early tomorrow to see the fruits of our labors.” He grins at her at this, boyish with his enthusiasm.

“All right. If you hand me my room key, I’ll leave first, Mr. Cassano.”

He blinks at her. She frowns at him.

“You didn’t get another room?”

“No. Should I go and get it? I’ll be right back.” He makes to move for the door.

She thinks fast.

“No it’s fine. There are so many couches here anyways. I’ll just make myself comfortable on one of them.”

He looks pained. “No, no it’s fine. I’ll go down and book another room.”

She tries to play it off nonchalantly. “Yah, does money grow on trees for you? I said it’s fine, right? Typical mafia, flaunting how rich you are…”

“All right, all right. Just don’t put your feet up on the coffee table with your shoes on,” he says hurriedly.

Just to be contrary, she sashays over to the couch, not missing how his breath hitches. She flounces on the couch ungracefully, and kicks up her heels-clad feet on the low coffee table, groaning at the relief it brings to be off her feet. Smirking, she looks over at Vincenzo, who looks like he isn’t breathing.

Good.

“What was it that you said?” she asks loudly. He tears his hand through his elegantly styled hair, and she is suddenly seized by the desire to do it herself. To know exactly how the strands of his hair would feel through her fingers.

Focus, Cha-young. You’re supposed to be making him lose his mind, not yours.

He doesn’t seem to notice her racing heartbeat, however. Marching over to her, he takes a hold of her feet and removes her heels, his hands impossibly gentle. Then, he stands abruptly.

“I’m going to wash up. I’ll be done soon,” he says, and she thinks that if all it took to unsettle Vincenzo Cassano was to put her feet up on a coffee table, she would have done it a long time ago.

When he finally emerges, his hair is wet and plastered to his forehead, and all she can think is oh shit.

“You can go ahead, Ms. Hong. I’ll get some blankets for you out of the closet,” he says, and oh, his voice should not be that smooth. She nods, and hopes it doesn’t look like she’s fleeing when she hightails it to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, she steps out, clouds of steam at her feet. He is running a towel through his hair, and she has to look away, because the simple act of him drying his own hair should not be this attractive to her. She finds a water bottle and takes a long drink from it, her throat suddenly dry.

He seems to realize that she has come out of the bathroom.

“Ms. Hong, I can take the couch, don’t worry - you can have the bed.” She looks towards the couch, and sure enough, his shoes are neatly arranged in front of it. This is patently unfair, of course. He’s paying for the extravagant hotel room; he should be allowed to at least sleep on the bed.

From middle school, to law school, to her internship and partnership at a firm, Cha-young has been known for her ability to think fast on her feet. It is, after all, what allowed her to win trial after trial, to the point in which she had secured a position at Wusang, a prestigious firm, at such a young age. She prides herself on this ability.

It comes especially in handy now.

“Or we could just share the bed,” she ventures. his gaze snaps to hers, incredulous. She barrels on hurriedly. “It’s big enough for the both of us, anyways.”

He nods slowly.

“Yes, you’re right. I’ll take this side.” He moves to the side closer to him, and she stares at him, unable to believe her own luck. She unwinds her hair from the twist on the top of her head, and catches him watching her. He quickly looks away, cheeks reddening.

She smiles to herself. Still got it, Hong.

He climbs gingerly underneath the covers, and she follows suit, but with considerably less grace.

They lay there in silence for a few minutes, the only light originating from the Seoul night outside. She is acutely aware of every particle of her body, and every centimeter of distance between them.

Much to her relief, Vincenzo speaks first.

“I never thanked you.”

“For what?” For once, her customary brashness has abandoned her. Maybe it’s something about the unfamiliar environment, or the lambent light gilding his face in soft light. Or maybe it’s the quiet vulnerability in his voice, as he stares up at the smooth plaster of the ceiling, determinedly not looking at her. She props herself up on one elbow, and turns towards him.

“For staying with my mother that day. And then staying with me afterwards. I never thanked you.”

She is taken back momentarily.

“Why would you need to thank me?”

“You didn’t need to do that. That went beyond the professional limits of our partnership.” She suppresses the urge to roll her eyes, but suspects that if she did that, he would take it as some sort of rejection, which she has no desire to do. She decides to be delicate, for once in her life. Her father is probably gaping in heaven. Cha-young being considerate of someone’s feelings? I never thought I would see the day!

“I think, Mr. Cassano, that we’ve gone well beyond the limits of a professional partnership,” she begins carefully. He goes rigid, and turns to face her, mirroring her position.

“Either way, I greatly appreciated your support. I don’t think I could have gotten through it without you.” Despite his words, his tone is stiff, formal.

Cha-young has known Vincenzo long enough to know when he is holding something back. Still, she won’t push him.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving you to face it alone.” Light, unweighted words. Cha-young still remembers the hushed hours of the funeral, how he had stood, head bowed, in his suit with the three stripes on the arm. She hadn’t known what to say, what to do, so she had simply stood there with him, a silent vigil to the maelstrom of his grief.

He inhales a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering closed. “How did you do it, Cha-young-ah?” She is so (pleasantly) shocked at him dropping the honorific that she is rendered completely speechless.

“Do what?”

“How did you go on? I’ve tried to shut out my mind and keep moving, and I’ve tried to keep busy, but then my mind gets quiet and I don’t know what to do. So how did you do it?”

Outside, rain gently hits the glass of the window, and she looks at him, really looks at him for the first time since she had settled under the covers. He always looks handsome, but now he looks almost liquid in the moonlight slanting in through the hastily drawn curtains. His eyes look like storms, shadows whirling around themselves in the dark expanses of his irises, his pupils blown out.

She thinks, rather foolishly, that she wants to kiss him.

“I gave myself a purpose, remember? I vowed revenge, and I didn’t allow myself to stop.” She flops back on her back. “So as far as dealing with grief, I don’t think I can give you good advice. I’m barely dealing with it as it is.” The rain outside picks up, and she huffs a laugh. They’re really two broken people aren’t they? She can’t even offer him any advice, because she is exactly the same as him in that regard.

“So I guess don’t let yourself stop. We’ll figure out what comes next after we’re done doing everything that needs to be done.” She feels bold, all of a sudden. “And we’ll figure it out together. Because I don’t know, either.”

His hand suddenly reaches out, and takes hers. Her entire body feels like it's running through hot water, and she squeezes his hand back.

“That sounds like a good idea. Excellent plan, Ms. Hong. You truly do belong in the mafia,” he says, but his voice is thick.

She laughs, and he smiles, pleased, looking down at their entwined hands. And suddenly, just like that, Cha-young can not wait anymore. The world that they both live in is far too dangerous for her to deny her own feelings any longer. She has enough regrets in her life that she doesn’t want to add to them. She will never be able to live with herself if she doesn’t act now, so she does.

As simple as that.

She leans down, moving her free hand to curl around his neck, and kisses him. He doesn’t hesitate like he did in the gallery, and pulls her into him, and she sinks into the warmth of his chest. He kisses her back and it’s everything that she has ever wanted. If she thought that the kiss in the gallery was amazing, this is simply heady. She thinks that she could get drunk on the feeling, the feeling of his mouth moving against hers, and the sure, steady warmth of him underneath her body.

When she pulls away, his face is soft, and he reaches up to run his thumb over her lips. She runs her fingers through the outrageously soft strands of his hair, and smooths it away from his face.

The rain has slowed down to a gentle backdrop at this moment - this moment that seems to be frozen in time. She leans down to press a kiss to his jaw.

“Go to sleep, jagiya,” she says, daring to call him the word that she has wanted to call him since he lost the bet about the bungeoppang. He smiles at her, slow and luminous, and turns around, his back to her.

She settles behind him, and reaches forward to wrap her arms around him, and press her lips to the nape of his neck. He sighs contentedly, and she can feel it in his chest.

The rain patters on, and Cha-young can not think of a better way to go to sleep.

[saijspellhart]

Hi! How about Blindshipping with prompt 22? With their friends just found out about their relationship

22. A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party. (Blindshipping)

And, I thought I got an ask with 14. But it seems to have vanished from my inbox. So if someone sent 14. This covers that as well.

14. A kiss so desperate that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they are finished. (Puzzleshipping)

Warning: Spicy

Atem thought he was dying. The way his heart kept stuttering and his breath kept failing. A clear sign of oxygen deprivation was the pulse that kept pounding in his ears, and the way his hands were shaking. He stared at himself in the mirror, and wondered how he was going to face Yugi again. He looked absolutely wrecked.

All night had been like this.

All night Yugi had been at his side. Holding his hand at the mall while they had walked among their friends. It was a gesture between best friends, he’d assured himself. Nothing more. But you’d think it was a lie the way his nerves lit up like one of Kaiba’s blinky hi-tech consoles at the mere contact.

After shopping for a gift for Joey’s sister, their group had wandered into the arcade. Their group always found their way into the arcade.

Joey and Tristan had split off to play a racing game. Bakura and Malik had settled into a fighting game, and Teá had taken on the crowds surrounding the DDR machine. Meanwhile Duke and Ryou had found a table to snack on pizza and flirt over dice. Ryou was always hungry, so the pizza was a given, but Atem noted how Duke never even touched a slice. He was too busy talking dice, and being obvious in how he mooned over Ryou. Not that Ryou ever noticed. Maybe soon though.

But that had been the least of his concerns.

Yugi had slipped a hand into Atem’s pocket, groped around, and it was everything Atem had not to whine.

The sheepish grin his light had given him could have melted an ice cap. Yugi had extracted a bill from Atem’s pocket and held it up.

“Want to play with me?” He’d asked, those begging eyes doing terrible things to Atem’s chest.

Atem had about swallowed his own tongue.

“What?” He’d just barely managed to rasp out.

“Metal Slug,” Yugi clarified. And for the first time Atem had noticed that Yugi was pointing to an arcade cabinet with his free hand.

“Of course,” was all Atem had said. Not what he’d wanted to say, but it was the only appropriate words his mouth could form in the moment.

They’d crowded around the arcade machine, fingers mashing buttons, and hands working the joy-sticks furiously. Their elbows bumped, shoulders brushing, and laughter mingling. Atem remembered feeling breathless, light headed. He had wondered if the arcade was stuffier than usual, and after a half an hour he’d wanted to go run his head under some cool water.

Yugi had kept looking at him, smiling. It wasn’t any different than it always had been. But for some reason it had felt different to Atem. It had felt different for months now.

He couldn’t place his finger on why, but those looks had started to make his stomach churn. Heart pound, veins burn. They made his throat constrict.

And then Yugi had placed his head on Atem’s shoulder when they’d lost their last life and exhausted the last of their quarters. It was such an innocent gesture. Just a friend slumping against their best friend, and nuzzling their face into that best friend’s shoulder.

And circling their arms around said friend’s waist.

And suddenly Atem hadn’t been able to breath anymore. He’d placed the most platonic arm around Yugi’s shoulder and patted him fondly.

It had been fine. It was normal. They were normal.

Then they’d all gone to the theater to see a movie together. The thought of sitting between Bakura and Joey had crossed his mind. It would have been far less agonizing that way. But as it turned out, some wretched teens had snuck into the theater, and there hadn’t been enough seats for everyone in the end.

The smaller members of their group had taken to sitting on laps.

Ryou had taken Bakura’s lap until the Yami had kicked him off, citing “a bony butt.” So, Ryou had nearly sat on Tristan’s lap before Duke caught his wrist and dragged him onto his.

Atem swore blushing had commenced, but it had been a little too dark to be sure.

Then Malik had taken that opportunity to occupy Bakura’s newly vacated lap. Apparently Malik’s butt was not as bony as Ryou’s because he had not been kicked out.

And Yugi—bless his tiny little body, and damn his squirmy little hips—had crawled into Atem’s lap without so much as an invitation. He’d settled into place, head nestled against Atem’s shoulder, and it was a wonder he hadn’t heard the traitorous heart hammering violently against his ribs.

The movie had been torture. He didn’t even remember what it was about. All his focus had been on Yugi and his constantly shifting hips. He’d shut his eyes and focused so acutely on not reacting.

Calm. Calm. He was calm. This was fine. They were fine. Just friends.

And then Yugi’s nose had brushed a particularly sensitive spot on his neck. Traced a line just below his ear, and that breath had ghosted so tortuously over his jaw.

Atem had had to clap a hand over his own mouth to keep from keening.

And that was how the night found him in the men’s restroom now. He’d practically dumped Yugi off his lap and rushed out of the the theater.

Thankfully all the movies were in session, and the bathroom was conveniently vacated.

He had the privacy to collect his shattered composure. Piece together his broken thoughts, and will away the painful tent in his leather pants.

“Friends, friends, just friend. Best friends,” Atem whispered over an over like a mantra. He shoved his hands into the running water from the tap, and dragged wet fingers through his sweat-soaked spikes.

The effect made him look like a colorful soggy lion. Hair messed up, spikes drooping, and blonde bangs frayed.

Fan-tucking-fastic, his outsides were finally starting to match the mess of his insides.

“Atem?”

He jumped so badly he about crawled onto the bathroom counter. He couldn’t even recall hearing the bathroom door open, so lost to his own thoughts.

“Y-Yugi!” He managed to choke out, his lower back pressed so painfully into the sharp edge of the counter.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes!” The declaration was probably too strained, too sudden and loud.

Yugi was giving him him weird looks. So it definitely was.

“You don’t look so good,” Yugi pointed out, taking a step forward, but pausing again when Atem flinched. “Did I...did I do something wrong?”

“What? Aibou, no. No.” Atem was gesticulating, waving hands while he spoke. He never gesticulated—unless it was during a game, and he was jabbing fingers about—and Yugi knew this, and it was a dead giveaway that something was indeed wrong.

The pained look of doubt and disbelief darkened Yugi’s features, and made Atem feel wretched.

They were best friends, former soul mates, and his relationship with Yugi meant everything to him. He’d seen the way crushes, and romantic attraction could foil those friendships, and create a rift in relationships. He wanted to die before spoiling the closeness that he shared with Yugi.

And so he kept his traitorous heart to himself. He cursed that his feeling had become something other than platonic. That everyday he lived a lie, telling himself that things were just fine, and normal, even though he burned inside at every touch.

He owed Yugi everything. And he was determined to suck it up and not ruin everything. Even if it meant lying.

“It’s not you-“

“I tried to kiss your neck in the theater, and I’m sorry!” Yugi suddenly blurted out, eyes shut, and fists balled at his side. A furious blush stained his cheeks, nose, and ears. “I’m making things weird between us, and I’m... sorry.”

Words were not finding Atem. His heart had almost certainly stopped. His knees had given out and he was barely holding himself up with his arms braced against the counter. His brain ceased functioning. Atem.exe had quite literally stopped operating.

A tear slithered down Yugi’s red cheek. It was soon followed by a second on the other side. “You’re my best friend, and I’m ruining it because I love you. And everything I do is selfish because to you it’s just friends, and I should want that too, but instead I want you.” He dragged his wrist over his face, mopping away the tears. “I’m really sorry.”

“Yugi...” but the name only came out as a throaty whisper.

Yugi made a choked noise. Clearly struggling not to start sobbing. He was sensitive and cried easily. Something he hated about himself, but shouldn’t. It was something Atem always admired and adored about him. There was a kind of strength in being attuned to your emotions and being able to express them. Atem still struggled to express himself. But it was Yugi that had awakened his humanity again after 3000 years of being detached from it

About to break down, Yugi spun on his heel and started for the door.

Atem snapped his arm out and caught his wrist. The both of them froze.

“I have wanted you for months.” He tightened his grip on Yugi’s wrist as he said this. “And I thought it was me ruining everything. Please don’t cry.”

Yugi broke into a sob and the next thing Atem knew his light had thrown himself into his chest.

Shaking brown arms wrapped Yugi in a crushing embrace. And this time there wasn’t anything held back. Smaller arms snaked around to grab fistfuls of leather at Atem’s back, and for the first time it felt like their hearts were bared, vulnerable, without a guard.

Atem buried his nose in Yugi’s hair and let himself inhale. “I. Thought. I was dying. All. Day.”

“Why?” And there may have been the slightest lace of amusement.

“Because you kept being you. And touching me, and holding my hand, and squirming in my lap like some erotic dancer, and all I wanted to do was kiss you. So. Damn. Badly.”

“Oh,” Yugi mumbled against his collarbone. “So, you did notice.”

Atem’s body went rigid.

“The lap thing...” he breathed. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

A small nose traced the line of his collarbone, eliciting a shiver. “Maybe.” Yugi said, sounding coy.

“Oh Ra.” Atem hugged him closer. “Do you know what you did to me?”

“...no?”

“Then allow me to demonstrate.”

Atem bent and brushed his lips against Yugi’s ear. The hands at his back gripped harder at the leather, and he heard the sharp intake of breath. A chuckle escaped his chest, and he moved to place a kiss against the side of his neck.

Little by little he moved down Yugi’s neck, a kiss here, a lick there. He delighted in the tiniest noises the actions elicited. Everything slow, deliberate, careful. Then a nip at the corner of Yugi’s jaw that caused him to tremble from head to toe.

This game was fun. Atem traced his nose back over Yugi’s ear, breath ghosting, then kissed the two piercings at the top. His light mewled. Very fun.

“P-please kiss me!”

Atem turned his head to oblige, but Yugi already closed the distance between them.

There lips met, and his world clicked into place. This was right. And everything before had been so wrong.

He tilted his head into the kiss, lips moving gently, following his light’s lead. When Yugi’s lips parted, Atem’s followed in kind.

Atem sucked a deep breath through his nose, and groaned when Yugi’s tongue slipped down his throat. A small hand found its way into his hair, yanking, the other hooked around his shoulders.

And then Yugi was climbing him.

It was fortunate he was still next to the counter, or he would have lost his balance. Yugi was off the floor, into his arms, and kissing him so fiercely his toes curled.

Atem’s left hand grabbed Yugi’s ass and hiked him closer, making them both groan from the sudden delicious friction. His right hand gripped his lower back, clawing at the material there, and returning the favor from earlier.

He wouldn’t let go. Couldn’t. Not when he’d yearned this for so long, and now his Aibou was hot and wanting him, kissing him. They were so wrapped up in each other the rest of the world fell away. Nothing mattered but those lips on his.

They slumped against the bathroom counter, Atem’s back supported while Yugi continued to straddle his hips. And they kissed, breathless and starving, a desperate release of all the pent up desires they’d kept hidden for months.

Yugi ground his hips down, making Atem moan. Then he did it again, and Atem broke the kiss to gasp.

The painful erection was back, and he was wearing the worst pants in the world.

In that moment Atem hated leather.

Yugi moved again, and Atem bit into that pale neck to muffle his next undignified noise. There was going to be a mark.

“Aaaatem!”

When Yugi rolled his hips once more, Atem met them with a thrust of his own. It sent them both gasping. Again they moved, then again. Finding a rhythm in meeting the other, a grinding friction, between broken kisses.

“Ah...ah...Gods, A-Aibou,” Atem moaned, dragging lips over his cheek. It felt so good. Agonizing in the leather, but so so good.

Yugi practically rode him through the clothes. Atem took his lips in another open-mouthed kiss. The pain and pleasure became tight in his groin. Tension mounting, his balls clenched, just a bit more, another trust, another grind, a little more and he would...

“What the bloody hell are you two doing in here?”

The door to the bathroom bounced off the wall with the force it had been thrown open.

Atem and Yugi stopped dead. Both men snapped their head around to see Bakura standing in the entrance of the men’s restroom.

“What? What are they doing?” asked a more nasally voice. A second later Malik poked his head over Bakura’s shoulder. “Gross! Get a room guys.”

Atem’s grip loosened, and Yugi slid down his front—both of them wincing from the friction—until feet met the floor once more. Neither stepped apart though, because things were still obviously... up.

Bakura started chuckling, deep dark and from his chest. It echoed through the restroom most eerily. “Consummating your relationship in a public restroom, Pharaoh? Really, I thought you had more class.”

“I-we weren’t-it’s not-“

“I would have done it in the projector booth, personally,” supplied Malik unhelpfully. He tried to squeeze around Bakura who was still taking up the entrance.

But Bakura grabbed his shoulder and dragged him backward before he made it two steps. “Let’s get out of here, Malik. I need a drink. A real one” He nodded at Yugi and Atem adding, “and you two are disgusting.”

“But I need to pee still!” Malik clawed at the doorframe in vain.

They watched him get dragged out of the room, the door swinging shut with their exit, and cutting off the rest of his protests.

Several moments passed in silence, and the situation seemed to crash down on them.

Yugi tentatively glanced up at Atem and worried his bottom lip. Whatever spell had overtaken them before was quickly dissipating in the wake of that intrusion.

“Uh...did you want to finish the movie?”

Atem blinked down at him with a lost expression.

“I have no idea what the movie was even about.”

They finally stepped apart, and another silence passed while they made a half-hearted attempt righting clothes. Neither looked at the other. Atem lamenting the circumstances of their first, second, third kiss, and Yugi realizing he’d been ready to just give it all up in a public restroom.

Finally Atem grabbed his hand and their eyes met again. Something wordless passed.

“Do you want to go home?” Yugi asked.

“Gods yes.”

~0000~

So not all their friends caught them. But Malik will most definitely blab about it to everyone else. Don’t you worry.

You didn’t so much get a drabble as an entire oneshot for this prompt. So... hope ya’ll like it. Feedback is delightful.

[after-avenging-hours]

Out of Time [3]: Steve x Reader

Series Masterlist with dates on chapter releases - tag list will not be used for this series

Summary:  After Steve gets injected with a mysterious substance during a mission gone wrong, you come to find out that the only thing that can save his life is a pure sample of Dr. Erskine’s Super Soldier Serum. Unwilling to let the love of your life die without a fighting chance, you travel through the quantum realm back to 1943. Equipped with little more than your knowledge of past events, you have to figure out just how exactly you’re going to get your hands on that serum. Not only that, but with the infinity stones no longer protecting the reality you’ve come from, there is now a chance that your presence in the past can change the future you’ll return to. Can you succeed without messing things up? And if things go wrong, can you fix it before it’s too late? Or will you run out of time…

Word Count: 6079

Warnings: brief mention of smutty concepts, Steve being a sad puppy, subtle pining

When Steve wakes up in the morning, it’s to a feeling he hasn’t felt in a really long time. Warmth, security, and something a little new to him. He feels the gentle weight of your arm over his waist and the flutter of your breath against his collar bone. He almost doesn’t want to open his eyes for the fear that he’ll wake up from this dream.

He counts to ten before blinking his eyes open and his heart nearly stops at the sight before him. Bathed in the morning sun, your hair frames your face like a glowing halo. You look ethereal and serene, lips parted ever so slightly, your face relaxed. It makes him want to grab his sketchbook if he knew that moving wouldn’t wake you.

He settles for tracing over your features with his gaze. Memorizing every detail, so that he might be able to recreate the image later. He doesn’t know what he did right to have this literal angel fall into his lap. He’d almost been certain that he was going to wake up alone in his bed. That last night had been some sort of fever dream.

Yet, here you are. Asleep in his arms. As real as the air in his lungs.

He really doesn’t want to ruin this moment by waking you, but nature is calling and it would be his damn luck to have an accident in bed while a beautiful woman slept next to him. “Vic,” he whispers, not wanting to startle you. However, he says it a little too soft, and you continue to sleep soundly. Unwinding his arm from around your waist, his fingers curl from the top of your hair and down your temple. “Vic,” he says once again, his voice a little rough from sleep.

You inhale deeply through your nose, your body shifting and rubbing up against his. That makes him go stiff as he becomes acutely aware of the reaction this instills in his own body. “Steve…” his name slips from your parted lips with a pleasured lilt.

His eyes widen and he feels the heat crawling up his neck. “Vic, honey, you gotta wake up,” he urges a little more pressingly. He’s not sure where the term of endearment came from. It just slipped out.

Your eyes flutter and slowly blink open. Your head pulls back, away from his chest, before your eyes lift to his. Your lips split into a smile that rivals the sunlight filtering in through the window. “Morning...” you declare, in a cheerful, yet sleepy voice. Your arm lifts from his waist, so you can rub the tiredness from your eyes and then cover the yawn that escapes. “Oh, you probably need to use the bathroom,” you realize and begin to extract your tangled legs. Even as a Super Soldier, Steve had the tiniest bladder. He always needed to go first thing after waking up.

“Uh… thanks?” He looks a little confused but shuffles out of bed. He gives you one last glance over his shoulders before leaving the room.

You move to sit up, wincing slightly when you feel your stitches tug at your skin. It’s not exactly painful but feels uncomfortable. You’ll get a chance to check on the healing progress later. It might already be time to remove the stitches. Pushing the blankets off your legs, you carefully move to stand, keeping a hand pressed to the covered wound on your front. Once on your feet, you attempt a few simple stretches to test the strength of your torso and the integrity of the wounded area. There’s a very slight soreness, but it’s nearly unnoticeable.

You turn back to the bed and start to pull the sheets back into place. “You don’t have to do that,” Steve voices once again upon entering the room.

You glance up briefly, releasing a huffed laugh. “Force of habit.”

He moves back to his side of the bed, helping you tug the sheets and blankets back into place. You both then grab a pillow each, fluffing them up in the same manner and setting them back at the same time. It’s a morning ritual you’ve grown used to, but Steve gives you a strange look.

“Hey, do you mind if I use your shower?” you ask, both in an attempt to distract him and because you’re sure that your hair has only gotten worse by sleeping in it without washing the hairspray out.

“Oh, sure,” he agrees, stepping back. “And I think I still have one of my Ma’s old dresses that you can wear.” He turns and moves toward his closet, rolling back one of the double doors to reveal an old wooden dresser tucked into the space. He kneels down and opens the bottom drawer, lifting and tucking around a few different items before pulling out a folded cloth in a floral pattern.

He hands the dress to you, which you take graciously. You hold it tight to your chest, the meaning not lost on you at how much he has to trust you to offer his mother’s dress without hesitation. “Thank you, Steve.”

He nods, watching how you clutch the material as if you understand its importance before he meets your gaze. “It takes a while for the water to get hot, and then it doesn’t last very long. Clean towels are in the cupboard to the right of the sink.”

You smile sweetly. “Thanks for the forewarning.”

You step out of the bedroom and head for the living room first to grab the first aid kit, which you left on the couch, before backtracking down the hall into the bathroom. After closing and locking the door, you place the dress gently on the closed toilet seat and begin to unbutton your pajama shirt. It falls unceremoniously off your shoulders and onto the floor.

Stepping toward the sink, you begin to unwrap the bandage from around your waist and carefully peel back the taped gauze pack. You can’t help the chuckle of slight disbelief when you look down at the nearly healed wound. You would never know how Shuri did it, but her gel was an absolute godsend. You’ve used some of it before, but never for something this bad. You’ll have to find a way to thank her once you get back.

You open up your first aid kit and pull out the surgical scissors, cleaning them off with an alcohol wipe, and then start snipping and removing the stitching thread. Getting the stitches on your back wound, while working through the mirror is a bit awkward, but you get it all eventually. You clean the scissors again before putting them back and take out the tube of disinfectant cream. You place that on the counter for later and shed your pajama pants next.

You grab a towel from the cupboard and pull your toiletry bag back out from where you stashed it the night before to grab the items you’ll need for your shower. Stepping into the porcelain tub, you swing the curtain around, the metal rings at the top clinking against the top bar. You spin the nobs to turn on the water and flip the switch to send it from the tub faucet to the showerhead.

The water that comes gushing out is frigid, but you don’t mind too terribly. You’ve had your fair share of cold showers, especially after that time you went on the run with Steve, Sam, and Nat after the Accords broke up the team. You were just happy to have running water against your scalp. It’s also nice to be able to reach up and work the water into your hair without feeling pain from your injury.

By the time you’ve got your shampoo building up a lather on your scalp, the water finally begins to warm. You adjust the knobs as necessary, hoping that by keeping it at a more lukewarm, the heat may last a little longer. This seems to be the right trick because it doesn’t start to cool until you’re just about finished.

Pushing the curtain back, you step onto the thin bath mat. You grab the towel to dry off your body and hair. You know you won’t have access to a blow drier in a man’s apartment, so the towel is the best you’ve got. With the towel wrapped and twisted around the top of your head, you step back up to the sink to apply the disinfectant cream over your wounds, then protect them with a single square, adhesive bandage over each one.

The floral dress is loose enough that you can step into it and pull it up your legs, feeding your arms through the short sleeves, before it settles on your shoulders. A soft lavender scent fills your lungs where it clings to the fabric from its original owner. You smooth your hand down the dress, sending your thoughts to the woman who wore it before you in the hopes that she won’t mind you borrowing it. It always makes you a little sad when you remember that you’ll never have a chance to meet the wonderful woman that raised the man you love. But wearing this dress helps you feel a little more connected, both to her and to Steve.

You pack your toiletries back into the bag and stash it once more before unwinding the towel from your hair and bundling it in your arms along with the borrowed pajamas. You step out of the bathroom and head back for Steve’s room. You find him sitting on the bed, already dressed for the day, and lacing up his boots. He pauses and looks up at your entrance. His lips part in awe, eyes widening.

“Wow…” he mutters quietly enough that you don’t think he noticed the slip.

You feel the heat in your face building. “It’s a beautiful dress,” you tell him sincerely, glancing down the length of the material.

He has to physically shake himself out of his thoughts, mouth closing as he looks away, embarrassed. “She’d be happy to hear that. It was one of her favorites.” He finishes lacing his boots before he stands. “She’d also be happy to see it getting used again.”

He walks over to you, taking the items from your arms and putting them in the hamper basket he has tucked in the corner of the room by the closet.

“Are you going out?” you question, noting his attire.

He nods, turning toward the dresser inside his still-open closet. He opens one of the single top drawers and pulls out a tie. “Yeah, I’m meeting with Bucky.” He turns up the collar of his shirt and hooks the tie around the back of his neck. “I promise I won’t tell him about you,” he quickly puts in, glancing over at you. His body seems to turn of its own accord when you step up to him; his hands falling away when yours take their place on the fabric of the tie.

“I know you won’t.” You assure him, pulling the length of the tie to one side before beginning to wrap the material around itself. “I trust you.”

You finish tying the knot and tighten it neatly to the base of his neck, noting how his Adam’s apple bobs with a thick swallow. Your gaze flicks up, catching the look on his face. He looks just about ready to jump out of his own skin. Your lips turn up into a smile of amusement, though you just barely manage to contain your laugh.

Steve takes a step back, hand smoothing over the length of his tie as his gaze drops from yours. “Um, thanks,” he mutters quietly.

You know you shouldn’t be teasing him like this, but there’s a part of you that can’t help it. Teasing your Steve normally ended with you getting stripped naked and thrown onto the bed. Or pushed up against the wall. Or bent over the couch… All that positive reinforcement for being naughty made it very difficult for you to behave now. Trying to respect his boundaries, you take your own step back to give him a little more space. “If you’re heading out, do you want me to leave too?” you question.

“You don’t have to,” he shakes his head. “You can stay as long as you need, while you recover. I… I trust you, too.” He doesn’t really know why he would admit that to you after only knowing you for half a day. He wasn’t generally a very trusting person. Being an outcast will do that to you. However, you don’t treat him like an outcast. In fact, you’ve been nothing but kind to him and somehow, he can feel in his heart that he really can trust you. He turns once more to the dresser and digs through the other top drawer. “Here,” he offers, holding out a small object in his hand. When you reach to take it, you realize it’s a key. “You can stay if you want. Or you can leave. You can just tuck it under the doormat if you’re gonna go.” Steve has a strange undertone to his words and he won’t meet your gaze. It’s like he knows that by giving you the option to leave on your own, he’ll surely be coming back to an empty apartment.

“Oh, thanks,” you say, unsure what the proper response is here.

“Well, I’m running late, so…” he leaves the words unfinished as he slides the closet door closed and steps around you.

You turn to watch him leave the room with a frown, unsure how his mood soured so quickly. “Steve,” you call after him, stepping into the living room and stopping his movements at the front door.

He looks back at you, hand on the doorknob. You’re not really sure what to say. Before you can come up with anything, he releases a long sigh, gaze dropping. In the next instant, he swings open the door and steps out.

You bite your lip, your heart feeling heavy in your chest. The Steve you know also had issues with saying goodbye. You always thought that it was from plunging into the ice and waking up in a completely different era. That saying goodbye meant there was an uncertainty of ever seeing each other again, and that made him uncomfortable because he knew all too well what it felt like to have an entire life stripped away. You realize now that the scars run even deeper than that. 

You try to think about what the best way to handle this is. You know that you can’t just disappear on him. Even if it’s what you should do, the thought alone makes your stomach squirm and you know that you can’t do that to him.

You step into the kitchen, finding your shirt washed and dried on the small kitchen table. The two bullet holes have also been mended with some thread. You wonder if he had done that while you were in the shower. Your heart clenches. You know how sweet and thoughtful he can be, but he still manages to find ways to surprise you. Even here. You have an idea beginning to form in your mind of how you can repay him for the kindness he’s shown you.

You know that you at least need to track down and check-in with Dr. Erskine. With the way things were left last night, you wouldn’t be surprised if he waited for your return to the recruitment station and by now, he would be assuming the worst. It wouldn’t benefit you at all to have him running to Colonel Phillips to get an investigation started into your whereabouts, only to discover that your records with the SSR didn’t even exist.

But with a key to Steve’s apartment, nothing was preventing you from coming back… After all, it’s not like you exactly had a place to stay. You’d planned to spend your evenings at a hotel, if necessary, but why waste the money?

With your mind made up, you find a smile slowly beginning to grow on your face. Moving back into the bedroom, you grab the rest of your soiled clothing, so you can have it washed and leave it out to dry while you run your errands. You dump your skirt and panties into the sink, only now remembering that you were currently going commando.

It didn’t really bother you since you’ve done it plenty of times before. It was one of your favorite methods of teasing Steve. Also, it certainly helped with the ease of access to accomplish your end goal. You swear the man had a dick made out of gold, and boy, did he know how to use it. You remember asking him where he learned how to thoroughly fuck a woman’s brains out after your first time together. He had laughed, cheeks flushing a little in embarrassment and he told you that he’d had a good teacher. You assumed he meant Barnes. You never did get a chance to thank the man for his thorough lessons.

With the blood washed out of your skirt and underwear, you set them out to dry and head back for the bedroom. You open the pouch from your thigh holster and use a particle disc to enlarge your miniaturized vintage suitcase. Setting it on the ground in the corner of the room, you pop the latches and crack it open, pulling out a fresh set of undies and new stockings. You put on your undies first before sitting on the edge of the bed to slip the stockings up each leg, the elastic tightening just above your knees, and then slide into your heels. You strap your holster back into place, making sure the pouch is secure, before stepping in front of the floor-length mirror leaning against Steve’s wall to make sure it can’t be seen against the fabric of the dress.

You head for the bathroom next, pulling out the hairpins from your toiletry bag. You don’t go quite as “all-out” as you had yesterday, but you get your hair pinned up enough that it’s passable for this day’s fashion. You apply your makeup next, careful with the heavily pigmented lipstick. Once that’s finished, you’re ready to head out.

Stepping out of the apartment, you lock the door behind you and check to make sure no one is around to watch as you lift your skirt and tuck the key into your pouch for safekeeping. Your heels click down the metal staircase as you descend to the street level. You keep your eyes peeled, making sure the men from yesterday, or others, haven’t shown up in droves looking for you.

The coast seems to be clear and you’re able to make it to the street to hail a taxi without issue. You ride to the World Fair, thinking it might be best to start there, instead of showing up at the lab in civilian clothing, expecting to be let in. You pay the cab fare upon arrival and walk straight to the recruitment station. It’s still fairly early in the morning and most of the Fair attractions are still setting up, so there aren’t as many people around as yesterday.

You wonder briefly if it may even be too early before Dr. Erskine would have shown up, but decide to head in any way. A few doctors and nurses are walking around the facility, getting everything prepared. You walk up to a man sitting behind a desk, who you recognize as the head physician.

“Excuse me,” you call to gain his attention.

He barely even gives you a glance before turning back to the papers he’s working on. “What can I do for you, sweetheart?” he asks distractedly.

You have to bite your tongue to keep in the snide remark. “I’m looking for Dr. Erskine, I was here with him yesterday.”

You hear the sound of a curtain getting pushed open behind you. “Vic!”

Turning around, you find just the man you’re looking for. He gestures for you to meet him in the exam room before he shuts the curtain behind you. “Where have you been?” he asks in a hushed, yet urgent, whisper. “I was beginning to think they had taken you. Or worse!”

“I’m alright. I was able to distract them, but they ended up getting away. I wanted to lay low for the night to make sure they wouldn’t come looking for us.” You decide not to tell him about getting shot for fear that he’ll want to see the wound. He is a doctor, after all.

“This is not good,” he sighs with a shake of his head. “Schmidt is getting too close. We have to stop the project.”

You gape at the words coming out of his mouth and quickly try to rectify the situation. “No!” you insist, reaching out to grip his shoulders. “We can’t give up when we’re this close. I know that we will find the man we need for Project Rebirth soon. If we stop now, then Schmidt will win and we can’t let that happen.”

He gives you a doubtful look. “Is that your faith speaking?”

“Yes,” you tell him frankly.

“Okay,” he concedes. “We will keep going, but we have to be careful to make sure those men don’t find the location of the lab.”

You nod to agree, but then your throat constricts when you realize that they’ll find it anyway. You’d nearly forgotten that Erskine doesn’t get out of this alive. He dies just moments after Steve gets turned into a Super Soldier. Shot to death by a Hydra agent. Could you really let that happen still? Knowing that you can save his life?

But on the other hand, that Hydra Agent is a sure fire way to get that spare sample of the serum. You know that he takes it in his escape from the lab. You also know where he’s planning to go, so you can easily intercept him. If you decide to step in and stop the assassination, the chances of anyone letting you just walk out of that lab yourself with the extra serum were about zero.

You feel the conflict burning inside you and you’re not sure what to do. You attempt to push the thought from your mind, knowing you don’t actually have to make a decision right this moment. “They won’t,” you assure him half-heartedly, the lie tasting sour in your mouth. “For now, you should minimize being seen in public and we should have Colonel Phillips send a few extra MPs to watch over the recruitment center.”

He nods in agreement. “And what about you? Why aren’t you in uniform?” he asks, looking down at the dress you wear.

“I had a bit of a scuffle with those men yesterday. Nothing too serious!” you quickly put in when his brows raise. “But my uniform needed to be cleaned afterward. However, this does also give the advantage of being able to blend in. I can watch around the recruitment center to make sure we haven’t been followed and look for suspicious activity.”

Erskine thinks it over for a moment, “Well, you were the one to notice those men yesterday, so I trust your judgment.”

You spend a few hours with him creating a surveillance plan to monitor the recruitment center that will allow you to watch for any Hydra agents, but also not alarm any of the citizens coming to the Fair. After the extra MPs show up, you take your leave, knowing that they will be able to keep the doctor safe in your absence. From there, you head to a grocery store near Steve’s apartment to grab the items you’ll need for his surprise tonight.

-

When Steve walks up the stairs to his apartment later that evening, he’s got his hands tucked deep in his pants pockets and his head hanging low. He’s come home to an empty apartment nearly every day of his adult life, so he doesn’t understand why it feels so difficult now. He can smell something delicious cooking through one of his neighbor’s open windows and it makes his stomach growl. He gets to his front door and pauses. Though the curtains are shut on his window, he can see light filtering through from inside, and if he strains his ears, he’s pretty sure he can hear the radio playing a soft melody.

With brows furrowed, he slides his key in place and unlocks the door. Stepping into his home, the delicious smell from outside hits him hard and fills his lungs with warmth. He blinks in surprise. “…Vic?” he calls out in question, unsure if this is really happening or not.

“In the kitchen!” your voice calls back and he’s pretty sure his heart flutters in his chest. And not in a bad way.

He shuts the door behind himself and moves toward the kitchen. The sight before him is one he never thought he’d see. A woman waiting for him to come home and cooking in his kitchen. You’re standing at the stove, stirring a large pot. The scent of the food smells familiar to him, but he just can’t place it.

“What are you making?” he asks.

You send a smile his way in greeting, “Potato soup.”

He slips his coat off his shoulders, placing it on the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “That use to be my favorite as a kid.”

“Oh really?” you try to sound surprised.

“Yeah,” he reaches to loosen the tie from his neck. “I’ve tried to make it on my own a few times, but I can’t seem to find the right recipe. It doesn’t quite taste the same as when my Ma made it.”

You hum in understanding. “Well, I can’t claim to be as good of a cook as her, but hopefully this soup will measure up.” It’s at that moment that a timer begins ringing. “Oh, that would be the biscuits. Do you mind?” you ask, indicating to the oven mitt you’ve left on the counter.

He jumps in, slipping the mitt onto his hand and opens the oven with the other. He pulls out a tray of biscuits cooked to a perfect golden brown. He places the tray on the stovetop next to where you’re cooking the soup. He then closes the oven door and turns it off. “Do you need help with anything else?” he offers.

“Just bowls and utensils. The soup is almost done. You came home just in time,” you smile at him over your shoulder.

He kind of likes the way you say home. Maybe a little too much. He turns to pull two mismatched bowls out of the cupboard and some spoons from the drawers. He sets the bowls on the counter next to you and takes the spoons to the small two-seater table. He pulls out some cloth napkins and plates for the biscuits, seeing that you already have a plate of butter set out with a butter knife.

“Where did all this food come from?” Steve asks. He’s pretty sure he didn’t have all the ingredients you’d need to make potato soup, and he knows for certain that he’s been out of butter for at least a week.

“I went to the store,” you comment off-hand.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he tells you once again, feeling like a scratched record.

You only laugh. “I know, Steve. But I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” You grab a hand towel to hold one of the bowls as you ladle the hot soup carefully inside. “Take a seat,” you tell him, setting the bowl on the table in front of him.

He knows it’s rude to sit before the lady, but he finds himself complying with your wishes just the same. You pour soup into your own bowl and set it at the table before grabbing the small plates and placing a warm biscuit onto each. Watching you flit around his kitchen like you’ve been there his whole life makes Steve’s entire body ache in ways he’s not used to.

You set the plates down on either side of the table before taking your seat across from him. “Be careful, it’s still pretty hot,” you warn as you take your napkin and set it neatly on your lap. “How was your day out with Bucky?” you ask, figuring small talk will be a good way to pass some time as the soup cools.

“It was good,” he nods, picking up his spoon to stir at the soup in his bowl. “It was kinda nice just being the two of us. He’s been dragging me on all these double dates recently. It’s driving me a little crazy.”

You laugh sweetly. “You’d think your best friend would know your type by now.”

“My type?” he questions, confused.

“You know… the type of woman you’re attracted to.”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t even had a chance to figure that out.”

Your head tilts as you look at him. “You mean you’ve never been attracted to anyone?”

“Well, I have…” he backtracks. “But that’s not the problem. The problem is that they never feel attracted to me. It doesn’t matter what I wear or how I act, next to Bucky I’m just…”

“Steve,” you say gently, reaching your hand across the table to place it over his.

“It’s not a big deal,” he feigns shrugging it off. “I’ve gotten used to being alone.”

You gently squeeze his hand, your heart bleeding for him. You can’t stand the sight of him looking so despondent. To feel resigned to what he thinks is his fate. “You’re not going to be alone forever. I promise that there is someone out there for you. It might take some time, but I know you’ll find happiness.” You might be saying too much, but you hate seeing the sadness in his eyes. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

He releases a dry laugh, eyes glued to where your hand touches his. “Are you one of those people that thinks there’s someone out there for everyone?”

Your thumb swipes back and forth over his skin. “No, but I know you’re a good person, Steve. And good people deserve to find happiness.” You wait for him to build the courage to meet your eyes once more. “I don’t measure a person’s worth based on what they look like or how many people they’ve been on dates with. Your actions, your heart, and your courage are what truly define you.”

“Did you read that on a Hallmark card?” he asks, shooting you a wry smile.

You laugh, pulling your hand back. “No. But it sounds like it should be on one, doesn’t it?”

“A little bit,” he agrees, his smile becoming a little more genuine.

You’re happy to have lifted his spirits and turn to dig into your meal. You cut open your biscuit and fit a slice of butter into its warm center to allow the butter to melt. You watch from the corner of your eye as Steve takes a spoonful of soup and blows gently to cool it off. You nearly hold your breath in anticipation when he raises the spoon to his mouth and gets his first taste.

“Oh my God!” he exclaims around his full mouth, quickly trying to swallow before he speaks further. “This tastes exactly how I remember it when my Ma made this!” He takes another spoonful, closing his eyes and releasing a happy moan with the burst of savory flavor on his tongue. “This is amazing.”

You can’t help but laugh at the child-like giddiness coming from him. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Where did you learn to make this?” he asks after downing another spoonful.

“I actually went through a whole process of trying several different recipes and ways of making it before coming to this particular one.” Your Steve had once mentioned that potato soup had been one of his favorite meals that his mother made for him growing up. When you asked him why he never made it himself, he’d told you that he had never received the recipe from her and didn’t know how to make it the same way. You’d then turned it into your mission to help him find the perfect recipe. It took trying out different variations every other week, until one day, he’d told you that you’d gotten perfectly. At that point, it became a special occasion meal that the two of you would share together.

You’re barely halfway through your own soup by the time he’s scraping at the bottom of his bowl. “Do you mind if I have more?” he asks eagerly.

You grin so wide that your cheeks almost hurt. “There’s plenty left over. Help yourself.” He gets up so quickly that his chair nearly falls over.

You’re pretty sure there’s a saying out there about how nothing quite brings people together like sharing a meal. That certainly seems to be the case with getting Steve to open up to you. As the two of you eat the soup and biscuits, the conversation seems to flow easier and more natural than before. He tells you all sorts of tales about the shenanigans he and Bucky got into growing up and you tell him a few stories from your own childhood.

The sun has long since set and the moon is high in the sky by the time your conversation lulls. At this point, you’re both up and moving about the kitchen. You’re putting away the left-over soup and biscuits while Steve cleans the dishes in the sink.

“Your wound seems to be doing a lot better already,” Steve observes. “I haven’t seen you wince at all tonight.”

You instinctively place a hand to the front of your torso, just over the simple square bandage that lies beneath. The pain was completely gone at this point; that you’d honestly forgotten about it. “I have pain medication that helps,” you quickly come up with an excuse.

“Do you want help checking it?” he offers.

You shake your head, “No, that’s okay. You helped with the worst of it already.”

Steve nods, drying off his hands and setting the towel on its rack by the sink. He exits the kitchen and heads down the hall for the bedroom. You hear him turn on the light with a click. You’re in the middle of cleaning crumbs off the table when you hear him call out to you. “Hey, is this your suitcase?”

Your entire body freezes and your heart jolts. “Shit,” you mutter under your breath, realizing that you left it out from this morning. “Uh… yes,” you respond, straightening up and heading down the hall to stand in the doorway of his room. You try to come up with an excuse quickly, heart pounding in your chest. “Sorry, I know it’s kind of presumptuous. I’m only supposed to be in town until the end of the week. I’ve been staying at a hotel nearby. I was going to wait for you to get back, to make sure it was okay if I stayed here with you, but you had already offered and if I didn’t check out by the afternoon, then I would have had to pay for another night.” You’re rambling at this point. “If you don’t feel comfortable with that, then I can-”

“Oh, no!” Steve jumps in, cutting you off. “I’m not going to kick you out,” he assures you. “As I said, you can stay as long as you need.” His lips turn up into a hint of a smirk. “Besides, I’m starting to get used to your company.”

You release a breath of relief, your pounding heart starting to slow. You give him a shaky smile. “Thanks, Steve.”

“And at least you won’t have to fit yourself into Bucky’s pajamas for a second night in a row,” he jokes, stepping over to his closet as he loosens and removes his tie.

You scoff out a quiet laugh, moving back to finish cleaning the kitchen. You mentally scold yourself for being so lax. No more slip-ups. You can’t let Steve find out the truth about you. You can’t afford to compromise the mission.

Part 4

[whumpzone]

Tomas and Rowe - Part 5

if you saw me last week saying I’m going to upload every friday.... no you didn’t. also- this is the last bit of comfort for a while!! I promise!

Masterpost

taglist: @sola-whumping @just-another-whumper @oceanthesarcasamfox @looptheloup @briars7 @black-polarf @zipadeedooda-drabbles @just-a-raccoon-with-wifi @rosesareviolentlyread @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jazz-0307 @kestrelsparverius @whumpsy-daisies @whumpersworld (thank you all! if you want to be added or removed just ask!)

CW: pet whumpee, aftermath of abuse

-

Rowe’s eyes fluttered open. The small, audibly ticking clock by his bed told him it was quarter past seven. He read it with a small dose of pride- it had taken months, but he had taught himself to tell the time a couple of years ago. He felt odd, twitchy, like he had forgotten something important.

And then it came to him, all at once. His nose was broken. He had duties to perform for his Master. He had slept through the whole night.

The whole night?

He had had a nightmare, of that he knew. Rowe didn’t care to remember what it was about. He didn’t fight it as his waking mind let the details slip away.

Master Tomas had let him sleep, even as he screamed. Kindness beyond understanding. What if- what if it’s not an act-

Rowe quickly stamped out that train of thought. His first task was to make his bed, get himself looking presentable, and then go downstairs and help himself to breakfast.

Once Rowe had prepared his bowl of cereal, he realised that Master Tomas wasn’t around to force Rowe to sit at the table. Kneeling, he tucked himself in against a wall, careful not to let his back touch it. His skin was still raw with whip marks and cuts, despite the bandages Master Tomas had wrapped around it.

Something clattered by the front door, making him jump. Padding over, barefooted, he saw that it was an envelope. His eyes brushed over the letters as he picked it up. He couldn’t want things, he knew that. He knew that. But sometimes- sometimes he hoped that he’d be given a task that required him to read, and someone would teach him how.

Fuck do you need to read for? his old master had said, on the one occasion Rowe had forgotten his place and mentioned it. I like knowing you can’t read my post, Pet. It’s in my interest to keep you dumb.

Rowe put the letter on the kitchen table. His nose ached. He ate his cereal and tried to stop his thoughts running. Rowe was grateful, so grateful for his chores, but he still felt acutely aware of the lack of rules Master Tomas had given him.

When Rowe broke a rule around his old master, he would know about it immediately, a kick or a punch or a swing knocking the lights out of him. But here- Master Tomas was unclear. Did he enjoy making Rowe wait, unsure of his every move, dreading a punishment that could come at any time? He could be breaking so many rules right now, and he wouldn’t even know.

His stomach twisted and he instinctively went to grab his mouth, but fear had made his hand unsteady and he smacked his palm into his nose instead. His mind went white as he doubled over, moaning in pain like an ill-trained, unwanted, damaged Pet. He froze and listened for any signs that he had disturbed Master Tomas, but nothing came.

How much longer could he take this? The list of indulgences that Rowe would have to pay for was growing, and growing, and Master was always so casual about them, and Rowe just wanted to take the punishment and be good. He was so confused and the stress was unbearable when he was left alone with his thoughts. Maybe Master was just waiting for Rowe to break? Maybe if Rowe crawled to him, begging to be hurt, pleading to be beaten raw, Master would be satisfied, and this new and unusual game could be over. Maybe.

. . .

Tomas rolled himself out of bed at eight o’ clock. When he walked into the bathroom, he was happy to see that the mirror was still faint with steam. Rowe had had a shower. It felt surprisingly normal already, having this other person in his house. Looking at the dripping showerhead, he couldn’t help but picture Rowe washing his hair, the bruises on his neck hidden as shampoo ran down him. Unseen, not trembling at Tomas’s feet, able to exist as a person without worrying about what his ‘Master’ thought. It made him feel bittersweet.

He found Rowe dusting the DVD shelf that sat beside the TV, seemingly lost in thought. Tomas picked up the letter and made a point of rustling it. Rowe turned around in surprise and dropped to his knees in an instant, his forehead on the floor.

‘’Master. Good morning. I ap-apologise, I didn’t hear you come downstairs.’’

‘’Good morning. That’s alright- people tell me I tend to walk quietly.’’

‘’M-master, I slept the whole night. Thank y-you for this kindness. I-I-I’m not worthy of it.’’

‘’You are, Rowe. You deserve to rest. Have you eaten?’’

‘’Yes, Master. I- I had cereal.’’

Tomas smiled at this detail. ‘’Good. That’s really good. You can stand back up, Rowe.’’

Rowe unfolded himself fluidly and Tomas, remembering how well it had gone down the last few times he’d done it, reached a hand to the top of his head. Rowe flinched, going stiff all over. Tomas withdrew his hand in surprise and Rowe’s eyes widened.

‘’I-I, I’m sorry, I d-didn’t mean t-to-‘’

‘’It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re still- you’re still being good,’’ Tomas tried hopefully. It didn’t exactly cheer him up, but it confused him enough for him to calm down.

‘’M-master?’’

‘’You’ve had breakfast, you’re washed. You picked up that letter. I’m very pleased.’’

‘’Th-thank you, Master…’’

‘’Cup of tea?’’

‘’Y-yes, of course, Master!’’ Rowe said, hurrying over to the kettle. Tomas had been offering him one but…. this worked too. No point stopping him now. ‘’Make yourself some too, if you want it, Rowe. I’ve no shortage of teabags. One sugar for me, please.’’

‘’Of course, Master.’’

Tomas leaned on the kitchen counter and flapped his letter around idly. It was from the bank. Rowe stood awkwardly, waiting for the kettle to boil. He seemed especially on edge this morning, Tomas noted. Probably his nose giving him grief.

‘’Hey, Rowe, come here please.’’

Rowe obeyed, and Tomas held the envelope out so he could see it. ‘’That’s my first name, there. T-O-M-A-S.’’ He sounded it out, pointing to every letter. Rowe nodded, captivated. ‘’You try.’’

Rowe held out a finger, gently running it under the letters. ‘’T..o..m..a..s.’’

‘’Well done! You just read your first word.’’

Rowe’s breath caught, and for a second Tomas thought he had scared him somehow, but when he looked he saw that Rowe was smiling. ‘’Thank you, Master, thank you, thank you.’’

‘’Shall I teach you how to read?’’

‘’Y-yes! Yes, please. W-why though, Master?’’

‘’Why what?’’

‘’Why teach me to read, Master? I-is there something you need of me that requires it?’’

‘’No, no, I mean, maybe in the future? I just figured I would, since you clearly want to learn.’’

‘’I’m not allowed wants, Master,’’ Rowe said quietly.

Tomas decided to challenge him on this one. Maybe it would help change his train of thought. ‘’Who says?’’

It worked! Sort of. Rowe looked stumped. ‘’P-pets can’t have wants. I don’t deserve them.’’

‘’Did I say that?’’

‘’No, Master…’’

‘’Well, then. It might have been a rule your old master enforced, but do you see him here? I don’t. You can have wants. It’s only natural.’’

‘’I… I see. Of course, Master.’’

‘’Say it after me: I want to learn to read.’’

‘’I w- I want to learn to read, Master.’’

‘’Well, it’s lucky that you have me here to teach you then, right?’’ said Tomas cheerfully, giving Rowe a big smile. He mirrored it weakly, but it was a smile nonetheless. Tomas was overjoyed. This felt like progress.

. . .

All thoughts of begging for his punishment had vanished when Rowe realised Master Tomas was in the room. Master- who was strong enough to pick him up, who stood a head taller than Rowe, whose long stares were enough to make Rowe’s heart pound. Rowe was too weak, he realised. Too scared to offer himself up, place himself willingly at Master’s mercy and plead to be hurt. The thought of it as he looked at Master Tomas took his legs from him, and he thought fast and nosed the floor in submissive greeting. If he could just keep his Master happy for now…

Master Tomas seemed cheerful, Rowe noted. He didn’t ask for any kind of penance for the night’s sleep, but at this point it didn’t surprise Rowe. Master Tomas’s voice was so warm, and gentle, and he let himself be soothed by it as he stood back up.

He shouldn’t have flinched- he really should not have flinched. Master Tomas seemed to like patting Rowe’s head, and the first few times it had felt so nice, and pulling away from Master’s touch was unimaginably disrespectful. The kind of behaviour that would get a Pet thrown out. But it had reminded him so suddenly of the way his hair had been grabbed before his head was smashed into the bedframe. Not that was any excuse. Not that Rowe hadn’t completely deserved to get his nose broken. He was such a failure. ‘’I-I, I’m sorry,’’ he begged pathetically, ‘’I d-didn’t mean t-to’’

‘’It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re still- you’re still being good,’’ Master Tomas said. Rowe couldn’t work any of it out. He surely was not being good, so why- why-

‘’M-master?’’

‘’You’ve had breakfast, you’re washed. You picked up that letter. I’m very pleased.’’

Rowe’s heart stopped pounding quite so hard at this. An explanation always ordered his thoughts. Master was so generous. He still couldn’t quite stamp out the stammer as he replied, ‘’Th-thank you, Master…’’

‘’Cup of tea?’’

‘’Y-yes, of course, Master!’’ Rowe said, practically jumping to attention. A task, he could do this, he could make Master Tomas happy, he could be good. He gripped the kettle firmly as he filled it, ignoring the way it made the burns on his stomach throb. Ignoring the worry this might be a trap, Master might hold Rowe down and pour the boiling water over his skin, ignoring all of that because it was a very simple task and if Rowe didn’t want to get thrown out he had better sort himself out and start behaving right now.

‘’Make yourself some too, if you want it, Rowe. I’ve no shortage of teabags. One sugar for me, please.’’

‘’Of course, Master.’’

Rowe had never had tea before. He decided to try it how Master liked it, spooning sugar into both mugs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Master looking at his letter.

‘’Hey, Rowe, come here please.’’

Rowe walked over, about to kneel when he realised Master was showing him the letter. Please, please don’t make fun of me, don’t make me try to read, you know I can’t- ‘’That’s my first name, there. Tee-Oh-Em-Ay-Es.’’

Rowe blinked. The letters suddenly had names, and sounds. Master Tomas pointed to each in turn. ‘’You try.’’

There was something like excitement rising in his chest. For once he didn’t worry about why Master was doing this. ‘’T..o..m..a..s.’’

‘’Well done!’’ cried Master, and it sounded so genuine, ‘’You just read your first word.’’

Rowe gasped. A peculiar feeling was flooding his chest; it felt warm, and urgent, and it made Rowe actually smile. ‘’Thank you, Master, thank you, thank you.’’

‘’Shall I teach you how to read?’’

‘’Y-yes!’’ he squeaked, far too loudly for a common Pet, ‘’Yes, please. W-why though, Master?’’

‘’Why what?’’

‘’Why teach me to read, Master? I-is there something you need of me that requires it?’’

No matter what it was, Rowe would do it. Master was being so kind. He felt so obedient, so obliged to him. He’d do anything.

‘’No, no, I mean, maybe in the future?’’ Master didn’t owe him an answer, of course he didn’t. ‘’I just figured I would, since you clearly want to learn.’’

‘’I’m not allowed wants, Master,’’ Rowe said immediately. If this was a test, he could do it right. He knew what Master wanted to hear.

Or, at least, he thought he did. ‘’Who says?’’

Rowe couldn’t answer this. It was just how things were! Everyone knew that! ‘’P-pets can’t have wants. I don’t deserve them.’’

‘’Did I say that?’’

‘’No, Master…’’ Was Rowe being disrespectful? This was strange and new and unnerving.

‘’Well, then. It might have been a rule your old master enforced, but do you see him here? I don’t. You can have wants. It’s only natural.’’

Rowe’s brain hurt slightly as it recalibrated. Rowe could want things here. Okay. He could do that. This was a rule, and Rowe could stick to it. ‘’I…I see. Of course, Master.’’

‘’Say it after me: I want to learn to read.’’

Rowe obeyed, even though it went against everything he’d been taught. If he were with his old master he’d have been belted before he even finished the sentence. But he wasn’t. He belonged to Master Tomas now. ‘’I w- I want to learn to read, Master.’’

‘’Well, it’s lucky that you have me here to teach you then, right?’’ Master said brightly. Rowe met his eyes. Master had such a sweet smile- toothy, with no malice behind it. Rowe couldn’t help but smile back. He was allowed to want things! It didn’t make sense, but nothing seemed to make sense here. Rowe struggled to find an angle in which having desires would benefit Master Tomas, but a rule was a rule. The kettle boiled.

Rowe found that he rather liked tea.

. . .

[Hey Kas, I’m gonna go out soon to get some groceries n I don’t really feel okay leaving Rowe home alone. Are you free?? Huge favour I know but if you could come over while I’m out I’ll be rly grateful x]

[What time?]

[In like thirty mins??]

[Sure no prob]

[Thank you!! I owe you one! x]

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (79) || atz

You can’t breathe.

Every inhale and exhale feels like gargantuan effort, not the movements that should come to your body as naturally as well, breathing. Mind swimming, your stomach heaves with each movement as you struggle to focus your gaze, which insists on remaining decidedly hazy.

What happened?

Groaning, you rub a hand across your eyes, fighting back the nausea. There’s an ache in every part of your body, legs burning like they’re on fire. Your head throbs like it’s trying to split itself in half.

“So, you’re awakening.”

Startled, you sit up as fast as you can and your vision swims, black spots breaking out over your vision. Retching, you turn to the side, body shaking and the taste of bile in your throat. When you look back, your heart leaps into your mouth, lips parting in shock.

A pair of liquid green eyes stare back at you, mouth curled into a sad, pained smile.

“You!”

Scrambling backwards is your first instinct, mind blank and your back hits a wall roughly. You yelp in pain and the man’s eyes widen in worry and he reaches out to steady you but you flinch away. He’s an unknown figure that has taken many forms, a young man, an elder, a young boy - who knows what his intentions are? And yet something in you feels at ease with him, the same feeling you get when you step aboard the Treasure and your body matches the rhythm of the ship’s pitch and roll like it’s your own heartbeat.

“Peace be upon you, I have not come to harm you.” The green eyed man says softly, and his voice sounds like the swaying of leaves in the spring wind. Staring up at him, you frown, and decide that he doesn’t look like he’s about to run you through with a blade any second.

What happened before this?

When you try to recall, pain surges once again and you clutch your head, gritting teeth. The memories wash over you, being separated from your master, overhearing the pirates’ plot, being chased and then...

And then running into that man with startlingly similar eyes to your very own captain, dread seeping cold into your veins. He had been dressed much like the townspeople that frequented the town, in dusty cloths and salt crusted sea boots, but that hadn’t been effective in the least in dampening to power you had felt hidden deep within him, like a roiling, pitching storm.

Instantly, you glance about in wariness, anxiety spiking through you. “That man! The one who I met earlier, I-”

When your eyes catch the sight about you, your heart falls into the pit of your stomach.

The harbor has broken down into chaos. What had once been the pier where the marketplace once stood is now a wreckage of wet timber and matchwood and shredded canvas, and shopkeepers shout in panicked voices to each other, picking their way through the rubble The wooden docks have been smashed into matchwood as well, only the bare structures left standing and wood scraps floating about in the grey water.

But the strange man is gone.

Your mouth falls open. “What on earth?”

People call to each other for help, some cursing and some crying, their voices strangely disembodied. The green eyed man lifts his shoulders gently, looking at them. “They won’t be able to see us,” is all he says in a form of explanation, vague and soft. You open your mouth then shut it, head pounding too much to try and understand what exactly is going on.

“What happened?”

“A tidal wave crashed into the shoreline a few minutes ago.” The man says, crouching next to you. His eyes are filled with melancholy, so acute that you feel it in your own chest. “Miraculously, the Treasure was not destroyed.”

“Freak storm.” You mumble under your breath. You want to ask how he can say that with so much surety, but you give up on trying to figure this man out. Something tells you that you won’t be able to. Instead, you curl up, staring at him with a hint of suspicion. “We’ve met so many times, I can’t even fool myself into thinking that this is a coincidence anymore. Who are you?”

“What am I.” He corrects you, with that same mild, unchanging smile. You blink at him, once, twice and then speak again. “Okay then. What are you?”

He smiles again. “I cannot say.”

He’s about as unhelpful as San when it comes to steering the ship, so you give up prying for answers and move onto your next question. “Why are you here?”

At that, his expression falls, green eyes nearly dimming from the spark that vanishes from his eyes. “Any other time, it would have filled my heart with joy to see you, however, the circumstances under which we meet are unfortunate. I have come bearing a warning.”

Your eyebrows pinch, fist clenching. A chill runs through you. “A warning?” You wonder aloud. “Sounds... bad.”

The green eyed man nods sagely. “You are beginning to experience agony with each step you take, are you not?”

You stare at him for a moment, before you put your head in your hands and rub your temples, as if that will rid your head of the dull ache there. Today has been a crazy enough day already, and if something else decides to happen you might walk right off the cliff of insanity and never come back. “I’m... not even going to ask how you know that. Yes, what about it?”

His green eyes don’t waver as they meet yours, and you can’t pull your own gaze away. “You should have guessed by now that your body is starting to fall apart. It will not be long before you lose all control of your legs as well.”

“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” You mumble, running a hand through your hair. For a moment, you wonder if Yeosang would be able to create prosthetic legs for you as well. You’d be more wooden than clay at this rate. “You can’t use your voodoo powers and save me, can you.”

His smile is sad. “I cannot interfere any more than this. It is your journey that you have undertaken, and must continue to do so alone.”

“I’m not alone.” You say sharply, voice firm. For a second, you’re surprised at the unwavering tone of your own words. “I have a crew... a family.”

The man’s eyes widen a fraction, before they curve into gentle half moons, looking as content as you have ever seen them. Warmth settles in your chest. “That is something I am happy to hear. However...”

“However...?”

“You are the one who poses the biggest danger to them right now.”

You taste iron in your mouth. “The Royal Navy... other pirates won’t let us off with such a sweet bounty on my head.” The man does not reply. “Although I wonder what will kill me first, the Royal Navy or my sickness. I suppose you don’t know any way I can save myself?”

He looks at you dead in the eye. “There is a way.”

You nearly choke on air.

“What?” You sputter in shock, whirling to stare at him. “There’s a way I can stay alive? Tell me!”

His expression turns stony. “I cannot.”

Rage flares up in you. Part of you wants to throttle the man in front of you right now. “What do you mean? Perhaps you really do want me die?”

Hurt flashes in his green eyes and instantly your heart sinks. All your anger evaporates in a split second and you reach forward to take his hands in yours, suddenly desperate to retract what you’ve said. “Wait, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, I just... I know you’d never wish any harm upon me, Eorth-”

The second the word leaves your lips, you know you’ve screwed up.

“Ahh!” Your tongue burns, pain so fierce raging in your head that you almost crumple to your knees. You weren’t supposed to say it, you can’t say it. “It hurts!”

The man’s face crumples, and he quickly pulls away from you, rising to his feet. He looks like he wants nothing more than to hold you close, but does not do so. “Your time is nearing its end.” He says quietly, eyes wet with tears. “The hunter is almost upon you. You must succeed before he steals your essence as well, Chin Hae. It’s your only hope.”

“Wait!” You gasp, struggling to sit up. He pauses, and looks at you with an expression so forlorn you almost cry yourself. “You don’t want to tell me, or you can’t tell me?”

The man takes a step back, and suddenly he starts to crumble himself, right before your very eyes. Your mouth falls open in shock at the unbelievable sight. “I cannot. If I did, it would no longer be the way. But now... it is time for you to run before the predator, Chin Hae.”

“Huh?” That’s all you manage to utter, as the man vanishes into thin air, dust blown away by the wind. Distantly, you hear bells ringing frantically, but you feel as if you’re underwater. “Time to run...?”

“Be careful of him... and most of all, beware yourself, Chin Hae.”

The spell shatters, and the sound of the town bells - alarms, you realise - wreck your ears with their desperate ringing. And then you hear the screaming.

“Royal Navy! Royal Navy fast approaching!”

>>>

This day really is shaping up to being one of the craziest days of your very short life.

You tear along the wreckage that is the pier, jumping over piles of timber. The freak storm earlier had caused all of this... and you remember your reflection in the mirror when all of it had started. You wonder if the crazy storm had caused you to have weird visions, or maybe you’d just been struck by lightning and your brain had fried. All you know now is that you need to get back to the Treasure, and you need to get the hell out of here.

As you race down what’s left of the wooden piers, you see other crews scrambling to make their ships seaworthy again, howling to their men to raise the sails and make headway. The appearance of the Royal Navy bodes well for none of them, least of all yours.

Before you reach the dock housing the Treasure, however, white hot pain shoots up your legs and you stumble, nearly crumpling to your knees. You can feel cold sweat dripping from your head, although whether it is from fear or agony, you don’t know.

All of a sudden, a warm arm reaches around you and yanks you to your feet, and you cry out at the agony that tears through them. “Hells, are you okay, Chin Hae?”

You come dangerously close to Wooyoung’s face, gentle eyes brimming with  frantic concern. “Woo?”

“San came back a while back in a panic, saying he lost you and couldn’t find you. He thought you’d be back here with us, but you still hadn’t returned. And then the wave hit, and the Royal Navy... I thought-” He cuts himself off, burying his face in your neck for a second, and you can feel him trembling. “No, it’s alright. You’re safe. What happened?”

“I... I might have sprained my ankle, or something.” You lie through your teeth, guilt seizing your chest. Wooyoung looks horrified, and scoops you up easily, warm arms holding you close to his chest. His heart thuds frantically under warm skin as he turns to run towards the docks, battered planks creaking dangerously under his feet. “Thank the gods I found you. The Treasure is making preparations to set sail.”

You chew your lower lip as you tighten your hold around his neck. “What if... what if you couldn’t find me?”

Wooyoung gives you a flat look. “Captain would have refused to set sail and taken on the entire fleet on his own. And if he didn’t,” he looks straight at you, mouth pressed into a determined line. “Then I would not have left Tortuga at all. I wouldn’t leave without you, so don’t go thinking about silly questions like that, okay? Okay.”

He doesn’t even give you a chance to disagree, you think, and despite the situation you’re in, you let out a tiny laugh. Wooyoung smiles.

“Stop right there!”

Wooyoung grinds to a halt, and you look up in horror to see a man standing at the very end of the pier, between you and where the Treasure is docked. It’s the burly man from earlier, you realise, and there’s a sword in his hands.

You swallow. “Uh oh.”

“Now, boy.” The pirate holds out the massive cutlass, and the blade gleams cruelly in the storm dappled light. “Drop the woman. I don’t want to kill her on accident, when she’s worth so much.”

“I’m afraid she’s worth more than you can afford.” Wooyoung says dryly, although his hold tightens on you, unwilling to let go. “More than money can buy. So I won’t be handing her over to a thug like you. Anyways, shouldn’t you be focusing on running? The Royal Navy is coming, you know.”

Wooyoung isn’t carrying his sword, you realise in horror, and you’ve lost your satchel during the storm earlier. Frantically, you work the straps holding your prosthetic to your arm. It comes loose, buckles clinking.

“Don’t be so stupid, kid.” The pirate levels his sword at the two of you. Wooyoung grits his teeth. “Don’t you know the Royal Navy is offering pardons for anyone who turns her in alive? I’ll never have to live in fear of those bastards again. Hand her over to me peacefully, and you’ll be pardoned too.”

“Wooyoung, walk towards the man, and kick him as hard as you can when I give you the signal.” You murmur under your breath. Wooyoung squeezes your thigh lightly, signifying that he understands. Then he walks forward calmly. He’s putting his trust in you, and you refuse to let him down. “I can be pardoned as well?”

“Of course! There’s an unbelievable amount of wealth too.” He chuckles as Wooyoung draws within striking range, eyes hard. The second he does, the man’s gaze snaps, and in the blink of an eye he’s raised his sword, a triumphant cackle leaving his lips. “But I’ll be taking it all, fool!”

At that second, you hurl your prosthetic right at the man’s head. He shouts as it collides with the man’s face. “Wooyoung, now!”

“I know!” Gripping you tight, Wooyoung is already lifting his leg and kicks the man so hard in the chest that the two of you fall backwards hard, you cradled in his arms. The man, on the other hand, isn’t as lucky and doesn’t have anything to catch him. Instead, he stumbles backwards, realises there’s nothing to step on and falls into the water below with a satisfying splash.

“You’re amazing, Chin Hae.” Wooyoung laughs brightly as he lifts you up again, running down to the docks. The Treasure is within sight, the orange and black flag fluttering at the mast a friendly sight. You only groan, and bury your face in his neck.

“Yeosang is going to kill me.”

“He loves you too much.” Wooyoung replies cheekily, and before you know it, the two of you have cleared the gangplank, feet thudding onto the deck. Your heartbeat seems to sync instantly with the rhythmic pitch and roll of the ship. “Captain, I got her! Let’s go!”

The main deck is in chaos, powder monkeys and gunners rushing about hauling bags of gunpowder, cannon shot, swabbing out the artillery guns and preparing them for a sea battle. You swallow down the panic, look upwards.

“Drop the sails!” Mingi bellows, and in the masts above you see Yunho silhouetted against the sun shouting commands at the rest of the rigging monkeys as they scramble to cut the ropes. At the helm, you see your captain standing with his back straight, red fur coat around his shoulders, cutting a striking figure in the grey light of the storm.

“Crew,” he commands sharply, “Set sail!”

The winds howl, as if in response to his command, and the Treasure surges forward. It’s only then that you notice the number of ships on the wide ocean before you, and your mouth drops open in horror.

It’s an entire fleet.

[brywrites]

Flight Risk IX

Summary: An answer to the age old CM question, “who’s flying the plane?” And the story of a pilot and a profiler. Part IX: In which a profiler and a pilot try their best not to care, featuring an incredibly tacky hotel.

(Series Masterlist) ( Previous |  Next )

----

The case closes. When it’s time to go home, Reid sees her leaning against the wall of the hangar with a book. Their eyes meet. He stops walking, frozen to the ground. And in response, she walks away and disappears into the jet. Neither of them knows what to say. She gives herself over to the sky, he loses himself in paperwork. The jet has never felt so big. Like there are miles between them instead of just mere feet.

Y/N thinks of Peter Pan. “The moment you doubt whether you can fly you cease for ever to be able to do it.” She doesn’t know what they are to each other anymore. Are they still friends? Were they ever at all? Was Arthur right all along? Maybe she simply is made for staying, not with her airplane heart. Hopelessly circling, never quite finding a place to land.

Reid has never had to do this before, to hurt someone in this way. He’s not sure how to reach out to her after putting this distance in place. And so he doesn’t. It doesn’t ease the loneliness. Only Garcia notices the change, when he stops talking about her.

“She told you how she felt, didn’t she?” Penelope asks, her cheerful smile deflating. Reid averts his gaze. The pained look on Garcia’s face mirrors the ache in his chest. “Oh, Reid,” she says. “Do you really still believe that you’re not allowed to be happy?”

“But you looked so happy together,” Yeeqin laments when Y/N tells her what happened. “I just don’t get it.” She and her girlfriend Saoirse offer to key his car, an offer Y/N promptly refuses. They’re both hurting enough as is. And besides, knowing Yeeqin she’d vandalize the wrong car and need someone to bail her out. After the “graffiti incident of 2014,” Y/N has no interest in doing so again.

And so they stay away. Things return to the way they always were – pilots and profilers. Two separate worlds on the same G550 jet. The only exchanges are simply pleasantries or requests from the team to the pilots, but they never come from Reid. Or announcements about takeoff and landing that almost always come from Captain Dobson. On the rare occasions when Y/N’s voice floods into the cabin, he closes his eyes and lets himself imagine that she’s speaking only to him. Sometimes when the agents disembark from the plane, she watches him go from the cockpit window and tries to remember what it was like when they sat so close.

He stops arriving early. She stops reading in the hangar if she’s not on the jet. They both pretend it’s normal. They both pretend it’s possible for them not to care. That it’s easy, that it doesn’t bother them one bit to be apart like this. That it wasn’t better before.

Y/N goes to dinner at Arthur and Malik’s house. Martin and Theresa are there and she runs around the yard with their older children, Carolyn and Benedict, and coos over baby Douglas. They share cocktails and swap stories and it feels so good to be surrounded by her own team, this makeshift family of aviators. She has movie nights in with Yeeqin and goes out with her and Saoirse anytime they invite her along and it’s so nice to be among friends. But then Martin looks at Theresa with all the love in the world and Saoirse falls asleep on Yeeqin’s shoulder in the cab on the way home and it’s acutely apparent to her that something is missing in her life.

Reid distracts himself with work and with books and tells himself that he’s always been just fine this way, with words and obligations instead of laughter over takeout or meetings at coffee shops. But then he discovers Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close in his bottom desk drawer at work, the copy she’d loaned to him and he’d sworn he would remember to give back to her and suddenly he’s trying not to cry in the bullpen and he doesn’t quite know why.

She learns from Arthur, who knew him, that Spencer’s mentor has been killed. And she can see on their next case that he’s hurting. The sadness in his eyes, the exhaustion evident in his slumped posture makes her want to run to him and wrap him in a hug, hold him close like he held her that night on the couch. But she’s not supposed to care about him anymore.

He sees the way she looks back at him as she boards the jet that day, her eyes lingering on him for just a fraction too long, and he thinks that just maybe she’s going to say something to him. But she doesn’t and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. Either way, Gideon’s death seems only to prove his theory – the people he loves get hurt.

When they come home from the bombing case in Indianapolis, he’s drained from a week of mourning and a grueling chess match with Rossi. As Reid stands in the hangar searching for his keys in his bag, he hears, “Doctor Reid,” and turns to see Captain Dobson standing a few feet away.

“Yes?” he asks.

The captain opens his mouth, falters, and then says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” The sentiment is confusing, as he already told Reid this as he boarded the plane three days earlier. But perhaps Dobson has forgotten the conversation. So he thanks the captain and continues on his way.

Y/N and Reid seek solace in their friends, in their books, in the places that make them feel safe. And they try so hard to convince their hearts that they don’t feel anything that they wonder if it was ever even real to begin with. And for a little while, they almost believe it.

But then comes Nashville.

---

“Did you see the picture Martin sent of baby Douglas in his pilot’s cap?” Y/N asks.

“I did,” Arthur says. “It was cute.”

“The cutest thing I’ve ever seen!” she insists. “I wish he could bring the kids by for a visit sometime, I’m sure they’d love to check out the jet. Do you remember being a kid and how they’d let you go visit the flight deck and see how a plane worked? And they’d give you those little plastic pilots wings?”

“Relics of a bygone era,” Arthur sighs. “I’m sure I still have a pair of PanAm Junior Pilot wings stashed in a box somewhere.” The millennium ushered in a new vision of aviation security and sharp pins and strangers in the cockpit simply aren’t considered protocol anymore. “How are we looking?”

Y/N glances at the altimeter and airspeed indicators. “Flying at 46,000 feet. Currently at Mach point nine. Should be about one hour and ten minutes to destination.”

“Let the cabin now we’ve reached out cruising altitude, will you?” Arthur asks. Typically it’s her job to shift the jet into cruise while Arthur makes the announcement, but she nods and takes the speaker.

“Good afternoon passengers, this is your co-pilot speaking. We’ve reached our cruising altitude of 46,000 feet. At this time please feel free to resume using electronic devices and move about the cabin. We expect to be landing in Nashville in about an hour. Skies are clear, should be smooth sailing ahead. In-flight refreshments will not be served, but you’re welcome to help yourselves to anything stocked in the galley.”

A part of her wonders if he thinks of her when he hears her voice. Not that it should matter anymore. Before she can lose herself in her own thoughts, Arthur asks, “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”

“Lincoln,” she decides after a moment to think. “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

Arthur says, “The Terminator,” without missing a beat. The captain is well-versed in cinema, which makes Double Feature one of his favorite in-flight games. The first movie must always be a question, and whoever can come up with the best films in response is declared the winner. Arthur almost always wins, and it’s a challenge to think up films they haven’t already used.

“What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?”

“Hannibal.”

“That’s terrible,” Arthur laughs.

“Dude, Where’s My Car?”

“Brokeback Mountain.”

“Oof, that’s gonna be a long and sad trek to retrieve it,” she sighs. “I’m not prepared for that kind of emotional devastation.” But the game does help to take her mind off of what she’s really feeling. She can lose herself in words and not in wishes. They land GEFF gently on the tarmac in Nashville and when they pull around to the hangar, she doesn’t look out the side window. Y/N stares straight ahead at the horizon. The sky fades from deep royal blue to soft pale periwinkle where the distant skyline rises up to meet it and she loves every single shade in between.

Once the team has departed, she and Arthur walk through the cabin tidying up and making note of anything that needs to be cleaned or restocked prior to takeoff. Arthur won Double Feature (“O Brother Where Art Thou?” “Soylent Green.” “Oh, that is incredibly twisted!”) so it’s her turn to clean the bathroom. Fortunately a short flight like this means it’s fairly clean to begin with. She wipes sanitizes the sink and toilet, empties the paper towel bag, makes sure there’s enough soap and toilet paper. Garbage is deposited in the trash can at the back of the hangar and they return to Geff to grab their own go-bags.

“Listen, Y/L/N,” Arthur says as they lock the cockpit door. “About the IRT job.”

“Arthur,” she cuts him off. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now.” When he looks as though he’s about to protest she adds, “Please. I just want to go to hotel and take a nap and watch whatever silly romcom is on pay per view.”

He nods and says nothing more. They catch a rideshare from the airport together and she stares out the window at the buildings and billboards that line the roads. She already knows what she’s going to do about the offer. She made her decision after her conversation with Spencer. The choice was clear. But she doesn’t want to discuss it yet. She’s not ready.

They step into the lobby of the Graduate Hotel and her mouth falls open. It’s hideous. There’s a fuzzy tapestry – a fuzzy tapestry of a woman with a hat against a pink background that appears to be made out of the same material as a shag rug. The lamps at the concierge desk have hot pink floral patterns on them. A neon installation that looks similar to a vintage gas station sign announces vacancies in bright green and red light. The armchairs are blue velvet and the hanging lights look like tulle skirts. There’s too much happening at once.

“This is the ugliest hotel I’ve ever seen,” she says.

“Well the more affordable ones were nearly full – evidently this is a big weekend for admitted students at Vanderbilt – they had to double up all of the rooms for the team. But the Bureau managed to get us a discount here,” Arthur replies as they stand at the desk waiting for someone to check them in.

“I suppose a bunch of special agents wouldn’t blend in well at a place like this,” she admits. Hopefully they solve the case quickly and she’s not stuck here too long. True to her word she spends the first night relaxing in her room. The bathroom is beautiful – black walls with gold accents and a glass shower. The room itself is another story. The carpet is a rainbow of jewel-toned diamonds in a quilt-like pattern. The walls are pink and white striped, a candelabra sits next to a pink television. White curtains with a vibrant floral pattern line the window and form a hanging behind the bed. The bed, mercifully, has the standard white blankets and white pillows, though there is hot pink chevron quilt draped over the end and an eerie portrait of Dolly Parton stares at her from above the headboard. Y/N shudders.

Penelope Garcia calls her that evening. She’s waiting to hear back from the team and could use some virtual company. “I don’t even know if you’d like this place,” Y/N tells her. “It’s so garishly tacky. Like a sorority girl and her antique-collecting grandmother chose items from their storage closet at random.”

“Oh it can’t be that bad,” Garcia says.

“Penelope, I am ever the optimist. I love quirky, whimsical adventures. But this is something else. The Dolly Parton painting keeps staring at me, I swear!”

“Let me look it up.” There is the sound of fingers frantically typing on a keyboard. “Oh come on now, the lobby is way cute! And the patio? I just – oh. Oh my. Oh those rooms. You’re right. That’s bad. That’s very bad.”

“I told you!”

“That went from cute to crikey very quickly,” she agrees. After takeout for dinner and watching Serendipity, Y/N falls asleep under the unnervingly watchful eye of Dolly. The next day is completely free, and she heads out to explore the city. Wherever she ends up, she tries to take advantage of the adventures available to her. Just blocks from the hotel she discovers Nashville’s Parthenon – a full-scale replica of the Greek temple which hides an art museum inside. She wanders the galleries and stands at the entrance staring up at the pillars holding the roof up. What would it be like to visit the real thing? She wonders how many times the IRT has gone to Greece before. Maybe they’ll end up in Athens sometime this year.

Café Coco is the cutest coffee shop she’s seen in any city, and she grabs tea and a scone before returning to Centennial Park. Beneath the barely blossoming trees she sits and reads Dandelion Wine. It’s beautifully written and full of longing. That longing seeps through the pages and she can feel it in her bones. Nostalgia for times past and places far behind and things that cannot be. Everything that Spencer said it would be. As she reads she tries to imagine which lines would have made him smile or elicited a wistful sigh. Are the parts she loves most the same as the parts he loves most?

Her phone buzzes with a text form Arthur to ask if she wants to get lunch together at the hotel bar, and she shoves the book and her longing back in her bag and walks over to meet him.They step from the tacky lobby into a bar that seems remarkably normal. String lights and chandeliers cast an inviting ambient glow over the wooden tables and chairs. Country music is playing over the speakers. But as they she and Arthur move closer towards an open table, she sees it. The stage.

“What is that?” she asks. There’s a bear, a pig, and a fox in a wig atop a stage that says Cross-Eyed Critters. Each holds an instrument. And it’s then that she realizes the music is coming from them. It’s an animatronic band. Their eyes and mouths move as they sing and their fabricated bodies turn and jerk with the beat. “What?” she asks again, completely dumbfounded. “What?”

Arthur too is speechless. Then he shakes his head and says, “It’s nothing a drink or two won’t make more palatable.” She snaps a photo on her phone and texts it to Garcia, who will surely get a kick out of it.

As they sit down, a voice announces a new song over the speakers. A slightly tipsy looking man in a pair of red cowboy boots comes to stand in front of the stage. He has a microphone. The animatronics begin to play the opening notes of a song, and then the man begins to sing. This is not just a bar with an animatronic band, it’s an animatronic karaoke bar. The man in the red boots belts out an uncomfortably off-key version of a Kenny Rogers song –“You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away and know when to run!”– with just a little too much bravado.

“I think I’ll need that drink sooner rather than later,” Arthur admits begrudgingly. She has to laugh. This hotel, it seems is full of surprises. But the captain is right. When she receives a spiked cream soda and Arthur has a glass of bourbon and there’s a plate of tacos between them, it’s easier to tune out the karaoke band. She can just enjoy her drink and the light and the stories of Arthur’s first flights with the BAU that have her nearly in tears from laughing so hard. For someone who maintains such a serious demeanor most of the time, he knows how to tell a joke incredibly well. She’s always appreciated that about him.

“Y/N, there is something I wanted to talk with you about,” Arthur says. His tone changes and she knows the time for joking is over. “We need to discuss the IRT offer.” Before he can continue, her phone rings. She glances at the screen. It’s Penelope. Y/N sends it to voicemail. There will be time to discuss the disconcerting robot band later when she’s back in her room. Right now, she needs to focus on Arthur. She knows where this is going and he’s right. She can’t keep putting this off forever. She has to talk about this, and everything that it means.

“I’ve already made my decision,” she begins to say. But her phone begins to ring again, and her heart drops into her stomach. This isn’t about the picture. This is urgent. Arthur must realize it too. His eyes trail down to her phone and she hesitantly picks it up.

“It’s Garcia,” she tells him, before answering. “Hello?”

“Y/N, oh thank goodness you picked up.” The analyst’s voice is a little higher than usual, a little more strained. “It’s Reid. He’s in the hospital.”

[lilbabycee]

an hour ago // steve rogers 🥀

↳ summary: steve makes some plans for you that you don’t know about.

↳ relationship: soft dark!steve rogers x reader

↳ word count: 2.4k

↳ warnings: mentions of blood (nothing too graphic), gaslighting, some angst, and some hurt without the comfort

↳ author’s note: hey! i wrote this for the weekly challenge by @captain-a-rogerss​ @donutloverxo​ @optimistic-dinosaur-nacho​ based on the moodboard below - enjoy! ❤️

It was a pretty dress - a lace bodice held up by thin straps, flaring out at the waist into clouds of white tulle that swish around your body like waves and gently brush the smooth skin of your thighs a few inches above your knees. He liked the way that your face brightened when you’d pulled those shoes that you’d had your eye on earlier that week out of the black box that he gave you. You liked it, too - saw your beaming face in a mirror and couldn’t believe that you were the same person staring back at yourself. The shine of your skin was all because of the man standing behind you, arms coiled around your middle and chin resting on your shoulder, the thick hair of a dark blonde beard tickling the sensitive skin of the bare column of your neck. Even though you squirmed in his arms as if you wanted him to let you go, you didn’t - not by any stretch of the imagination. He met your gaze in the mirror and as much as your subconscious tried to fight it, a wide grin split your face in half. 

He likes it when you smile like that - when you aren’t scared of laughing too loud or loving too hard, completely unabashed in your actions because you aren’t worried about what other people think. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your face when you’d slipped into those heels as if they’d always belonged on your feet and walked around with the poise of a woman who was born to wear clothes like these. He’d escorted you down the stairs with your hand in the crook of his elbow and a proud smile on his face that made the bees in your stomach come alive, basking in the attention and slamming against the sides of your body excitedly. You looked but more importantly felt like a princess.

That was at the beginning of the night. 

Now, you’re running, the gusts of wind cracking whips against your wet cheeks and stirring the torn skirt of your dress every which way as the city that never sleeps stares at you from below. The winking lights of the buildings full of people who don’t want to go home glare at you almost mockingly as your bare feet slap against the cold tile. The way that you wind through the foggy paths of confusion distorting the rational thought in your brain is not dissimilar to the way you dodge and weave through the clusters of people in your way, frantic apologies spilling from your lips out of courtesy when you step on a toe or spill a drink. 

Spill a drink - you look down only to be reminded of the ruby-red Cabernet Sauvignon that tarnishes the once-beautiful dress on your body, a color that reminds you so acutely of your own blood that you have to look away, feeling the acidic tang of bile rise in your throat. You can almost smell the pungent odor of copper, certain that you must be imagining it until your eyes zero in your hands - more importantly, the rivulets of red that stream down the fingers of your right hand that is clutching your dress. 

You’d dropped your glass when you’d found out what he’d planned - shattered it, really, but that distinction wasn’t important when you first broke it, nor is it important now. The tiny shards of glass stuck in your skin are no longer the primary source of your pain; rather, that comes from the way that your heart fell out of your body and exploded right there on the floor between the both of you. You’d left the fragmented pieces where you were standing right before you ran away, not even attempting to salvage any of the broken parts before you took off. That coupled with the weight of the heavy ring on your left hand, your chest feels as if it’s caving in on itself. 

You’re getting looks now, low whispers ripple through the well-dressed people who’ve all come here just for you. They try to point discreetly, raised eyebrows and bewildered glares following you as you continue to sprint away from the flocks of party-goers. Running away won’t solve anything, but when he put that ring on your finger you knew you weren’t ready - far from it. So yes, you’re delaying the inevitable but that’ll have to be good enough for now because you’re not at all ready to face your boyfriend.

And then the perfect opportunity arises. You round a corner so quickly that you almost sprain an ankle, only to stop short when you see what’s in front of you. Not only is the area around it completely free of people, but the pool is also fully empty. With a cursory glance over each shoulder, you decide that it’s your best option - stay in there for as long as possible because if someone merely looks out in this direction, they’ll assume that no one is here. You know he’ll find you eventually but you’re panicking, your anxiety bubbling up over the low flame of the anger that festers deep within your body.

So you dive in as gracefully as you can considering your attire but in your haste, it’s only when your hands break the surface of the water that you remember that they are still covered in blood. The thought is left up in the air as soon as your head is underwater. Opening your eyes as best as you can in the chlorinated abyss, you see a darker corner of the pool right across from you where the light doesn’t reach and push yourself towards it, hoping that it’ll conceal you for the time being.

Once you get there, you risk coming back up to take a breath, pushing the water out of your eyes only to scream when your vision is less blurry. A shadowy figure is crouched right in front of you, weight on his toes and elbows resting on his knees with his hands clasped together. Droplets of water roll down your skin and your dress hangs heavy on your body: you’re definitely soaking wet but underneath Steve’s hot gaze, it might as well have been the contrary - the fire burning through his eyes would be more than enough to dry you off.

Your eyes roam his form slowly as you swallow down gulps of air, noticing how not a single strand of his long, slicked-back hair is out of place. His black three-piece suit might as well have been taken straight off of the rack, black tie straight and jacket unwrinkled, and his beard looks as soft as it was when you ran your fingers through it an hour ago. 

The sole indication of his ire is the clench of his jaw, that telltale muscle ticking rhythmically like the hands of the clock on the timer of his patience. 

The left side of his face is shrouded in shadows, but it does nothing to hide the curve of his full lips, a smile that feeds the anger in the pit of your stomach. If you had been asked three days ago - hell, an hour ago - how that smile made you feel, you’d have said that it was the smile of the man who hung the stars in your sky, the man who would steal the moon for you if you asked. 

But that was then. And this is now.

“Found you, sweetheart,” he rumbles, his words fueling his smirk and causing it to spread into a full-blown grin. You’re paralyzed in shock, thinking that you would’ve had more time to mull over your predicament. This doesn’t hinder him; he repositions himself to kneel, giving him more leverage to grasp you underneath the arms and pull you out of the water. You don’t even have it in you to object as he hauls you away from the pool, your fighting spirit exhausted and cold in the crisp night air. You pull your arms into your chest to try and stave off the biting wind as Steve carries you bridal style - you want to laugh at the irony - towards the nearest sofa.

Setting you on his lap - wet dress, be damned - his blue eyes examine your face which you just know is a mess. The makeup that you had so flawlessly applied is more than likely to be streaming down your face, but you don’t care because you’re staring right back at the man you thought you knew with a gaze emptier than the hole in your heart.

“Lemme see your hand, baby,” he murmurs and you acquiesce, handing it to him while your gaze focuses in on the single red rose tucked in the pocket of his jacket. It’s beautiful, to put it simply. It’s so soft, drops of water pooling in between the maze of its petals and caressing it as it trails down the thornless stem. You’d know - you were holding that rose approximately thirty minutes ago as your bridal bouquet.

Steve curses quietly as he turns your hand back and forth in his, the light catching against the shards of glass embedded in your fingers and your palm. His eyes snap to yours and you can feel the reprimand on his tongue before he even opens his mouth, but you have no voice left to stop him so you shake your head instead. Thankfully, he does as he’s told and keeps it to himself. His body is emitting heat in rolling waves and you can feel it seep into your skin, a brief shudder running through you as it does. You instinctively lean into it, momentarily forgetting about his deception. His arm drapes over your body, and he can feel his heart swell at how much you still need him.

The silence stretches between you two for a few minutes longer, your eyes stinging, the harbinger for your tears, until Steve clears his throat quietly. 

“You ran away from me,” he states and without even looking at him, you know that he’s staring at you because the weight of his gaze is almost as crippling as the ring that weighs down your whole body. 

“I did,” you reply simply, running your tongue over your lips. 

“I thought you loved me,” he says softly which makes you so desperately want to roll your eyes. 

“I do,” you speak slowly, unsure whether or not you even believe the words coming out of your own mouth. You know that it’s easier this way, telling him what he needs to hear to placate him. But he’s still perplexed - you can tell because his eyes are the same teal as the swimming pool. 

“No,” he protests, hand coming to grip your waist in a way that sends brief shockwaves of pain across your body. You draw in a gasp between clenched teeth, and your own hands fly up to claw at his arms. “If you loved me, then you’d have wanted to marry me-”

“I do want to marry you,” you try to declare firmly, but you find it increasingly difficult when he keeps holding you tighter and tighter; you know he doesn’t mean to. It doesn’t hurt anymore - the aching in your chest overpowers any other sensation - but it’s more uncomfortable than anything. He’s pulled you so far into his chest that if you were an inch closer, you’d only become another part of his body. You’re still digging your nails into his forearm. “Just not like this.”

“Why not?” he pipes up, his tone deep though whiny. This makes you laugh (inside your head) - he’s almost a breath away from stomping his foot like a petulant child. Instead, his hands press harder into your sides, pushing against your head so that it rests right over his beating heart. His beard brushes against your forehead and where that sensation was pleasurable earlier, in this moment you want to run as far away as possible.

“Because we weren’t even engaged before tonight-”

“But why does that matter? We’ve talked about it - you knew this was going to happen someday-”

“That’s not an excuse, Steve,” you exclaim indignantly. Even though you’re looking right at him, you do not recognize the man holding you so close to him in the slightest. You’ve never heard of anybody’s boyfriend planning them a surprise wedding without even proposing beforehand, but you were under the impression that if you were to hear a story as outrageous as that, it wouldn’t be your life.

It’s hard to believe how wrong you were. 

He looks as if he’s about to speak before he shuts his mouth, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek before nodding slowly. “Okay, honey, okay. You’re right. Not tonight. You’re all worked up and I get it - you need time.”

Now this is the Steve you know. The heaviness that lies in the way he looks at you eases up considerably and you’re relieved that he’s finally making sense. You move to pull the ring off of your finger before he quickly places a hand over yours. Lifting your head in confusion, he looks at you with alarm etched into every feature on his face. 

“Baby,” he laughs, breathless and surprised. “Just because we’re not getting married tonight doesn’t mean that it won’t happen at all. I’ll give you the rest of the night to clear your head but tomorrow is another day. All of these people are in town until the end of the week and I’d hate to have invited them here for no reason. We’ve got plenty of time for you to think about it.”

You open your mouth to reply but he silences you with a kiss, short but passionate. His lips move against yours with pressure and urgency never before seen from the Steve who you love. You’re not sure who this man is. When he pulls away, he presses a kiss on your forehead and pulls your face into his chest so that any words that you try to speak are inaudible. 

“Shhh, doll,” he hushes you, massaging circles into your spine, and your skin crawls when you hear the glee in the tone of his voice. “We’ll get you a new dress and try again tomorrow.”