#i will probably go back and add a patch pocket eventually

[lemongrad]

Its a dressing gown!

This has been a project on and off for a while, but as the weather has started to chill a bit I thought it may be good to get it into some kind of wearable state.

Pattern is a (heavily modified) free coat pattern from mood fabrics, exterior is overdyed linen, lining is cotton flannel, interfaced with cotton batting, and the collar/lapels and cuffs are done in a quilted cotton sateen!

[whelvenwings]

Castiel's grace is missing, and Dean's frustrated - instead of looking for it, all Castiel wants to do is grow his flowers. Eventually, the two of them have to talk about it.

Read it below or here on AO3! Tags: Canon Divergent, Gardener!Cas, Cas' Grace

This fic was inspired by this wonderful art by saminzat, and written as part of the @spnreverse-promptchallenge!

It’s not Heaven. It’s not even close. It’s just a garden, where Castiel is growing things.

If it were Heaven, Castiel thinks, then Dean would be looking a lot happier, those wrinkles around his eyes all eased away. If it were Heaven, there would have been a break in the clouds overhead when Dean arrived.

If it were Heaven, the peach rose would be in bloom, not straggling all green and leggy and ungainly through the picket fence that Castiel had put up to help it grow.

Castiel puts down the secateurs he’s been using to prune the forsythia, and takes off his gardening gloves. He walks over to Dean, acutely aware of the fact that he’s wearing enough sunscreen to make his skin shine, the worn-thin, oversized blue t-shirt he found at a Goodwill that says Thyme to Garden, and a very large sunhat to protect the back of his neck.

Sunburn, he reminds himself, is more uncomfortable than the growing look of mixed amusement and judgement in Dean’s eyes. Even on a cloudy day, his skin will burn if he’s outside for a long time. Something he learned the hard way after becoming human.

“I thought you were researching a case,” Castiel says to Dean as he approaches.

“Done. Thought I’d come say hi.” Dean raises an eyebrow and a half-smile at him in greeting. “So, hi.”

Castiel stops a few feet from him and tips his hat a little further back on his head, so that Dean can clearly see his face.

“Hello,” he says. Dean takes in the hat, the t-shirt, the full gardening ensemble, with one sweeping gaze.

“Looking good,” Dean says.

Castiel looks down at himself, and then solemnly back to Dean.

“Thank you,” he says, with just enough irony in his tone to get Dean to smile. Or it would have been, usually, but today Dean’s expression is sinking back into hard lines. The greyish, muted light seems to lie heavy on him, putting a coldness in his eyes.

Castiel searches his face. Just as he’s about to say something more, Dean breaks their stare, glancing around at the plants nearest him as a light breeze ruffles at them.

“They’ve grown since last time you showed me,” Dean says. He’s holding himself strangely, his fists clenched. Castiel tilts his head to one side, and then looks around with Dean at the garden.

He feels the familiar spark of happiness as he surveys his handiwork. Once, the place had been a sad little patch of chalky, lump-filled earth. Now the flowers drip off their stems like dewdrops, and the soil smells rich, and the leaves tremble their creaky little paths to follow the sun each day. Even the blossomless peach rose has strong roots.

Castiel glances back to Dean, and feels the warmth in his chest sputter out. Dean’s eyeing the plantlife with an expression that doesn’t seem impressed.

“It’s been a while since last time,” Castiel says.

“Yeah. Well, you know.” Dean looks distracted, frowning down at a squat little succulent plant. There’s something bothering him, obviously, and Castiel isn’t sure whether Dean wants to be asked about it or have it be left alone.

“You’re always welcome,” Castiel tries quietly. Dean seems to catch himself, shifting his expression to something more neutral as he turns back to Castiel.

“Yeah,” he says, not as though he particularly believes it, and – in a way that almost manages to seem genuine – not as though he particularly cares.

“You can stay,” Castiel says. “If you want. There’s plenty to do. If you’re not busy.”

Dean puts his hands into his pockets and looks around the garden again, this time with his eyes a little less sharp.

“Nah,” he says. “Nah, I don’t wanna spoil the fun.”

Spoil the fun? Castiel gives Dean a look that he hopes is eloquent, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“I dunno, man,” he says. “Anyway, it’s not really me, is it.”

He looks tired, Castiel thinks.

“Didn’t think it was you, either,” Dean adds after a half-beat. He reaches up unselfconsciously, and then seems to realise what he’s doing at the last moment, and awkwardly flicks the brim of Castiel’s hat with the back of one finger before taking a step away. “Didn’t think you’d ever go in for… you know. Whatever this is.”

Castiel can easily read that expression on Dean’s face. He’s seen it before, in other times, other places. The mixture of bravado and hurt and confusion had made sense when lives had been at stake and grand lies had been unfolding, but this – here, today, in among his roses and sunflowers, Castiel hadn’t expected it. Dean looks betrayed.

And Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He reaches up to his hat, just brushing the brim with the tips of his fingers in the same place Dean touched it.

“I need the hat,” he says. “To keep the sun off my neck.”

“Right,” Dean says. “Yeah.” He looks up at the sky, which is still an overcast grey.

“Even through clouds,” Castiel offers.

“Uh huh. Okay.”

Castiel squints at him.

“You seem angry,” he says. No more dancing around it. Predictably, Dean makes a face, as though the suggestion were ridiculous.

“Nah.”

“Dean.” Castiel fixes him with a look, and Dean shrugs.

“Whatever, man.”

“If something is wrong…” Castiel says.

“Listen, if coming out here and growing your little flowers and everything helps, then that’s fine,” he says. “It’s fine.”

There’s a but coming, and Castiel knows enough to wait for it. Dean looks aimlessly around at the burgeoning plants. His eyes trace the tangle of a buddleia, until he glances back to Castiel, who raises an eyebrow.

Dean’s front drops, the stiffness going out of his shoulders, his hands unclenching.

“But your grace, man,” he says. Castiel looks down at the ground. He should have expected this, he knew. But somehow hearing the words still takes him by surprise.

“What about it,” he says, in a tone that doesn’t really want an answer, but knows it’s going to get one.

Dean’s hands come up, palms facing out, asking a question without words at first.

“Seriously,” he manages after a moment. “What about it? It’s your grace, Cas.”

“I know,” Castiel says.

“It’s gone,” Dean says.

“I know.”

“It’s been months.”

“I…” Castiel sighs. “Yes.”

“You told me it was just gone,” Dean says, ducking his chin slightly to catch Castiel’s eyes. “Like it was no big deal. And now all you do is spend time up here, planting flowers. Not even trying to look for it. I don’t get it, man. And whenever I try to bring it up, you just say –”

“It’s taken care of,” Castiel says, at the same time as Dean mouths the words along with him, his expression exasperated with a spiderweb of hurt threaded through.

“It’s your grace.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “I know it is. But it’s taken care of, Dean. I don’t want…”

He cuts himself off before he says too much, pressing his lips together.

Dean shakes his head. Castiel can see him battling with himself, trying to decide whether he wants to push harder. Castiel keeps his face neutral, hoping Dean will drop it.

“Don’t want what?” Dean says, though, and Castiel feels his heart sink. “You’re human, now. And you’re stuck that way until you get your grace back, but you won’t even…” Dean seems to run out of words. Castiel tries to think of something to say to divert the conversation, take them down a different track.

“I’m doing better at shaving,” he says. “And I’ve learned not to brush my teeth before drinking orange juice.”

Castiel can see the slight smile on Dean’s face, but it’s almost completely buried under the worry and the anger.

“Right,” Dean says.

“Dean…”

“I just don’t get it. The grace… if it’s lost, I can help with that. If it’s destroyed, I can try to help too, or… we’ll figure something out. Or if it’s safe, why won’t you tell me what happened with it?” The strain in Dean’s voice tells Castiel that they’re at the heart of it now, at the reason for the tight shoulders and the clipped answers and the judgemental eyes on his catmint and cosmos. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

Castiel stares at him helplessly. The answers are in the back of his throat, ready to be said, but he can’t open his mouth – can’t get them out. He feels his heart thudding, his human heart. He doesn’t know if he likes that feeling, if he wants it – perhaps not, no more than he wants sunburn, or the taste of orange juice after toothpaste, or blood on his palms when he catches himself on that peach rose’s thorns.

But there’s something he does want. And any chance at – at that – any chance at all, it’s worth the weight of being human. He made a choice and he knows he’d make it, the same one, over and over again.

He thinks it all, but he can’t say it. Dean watches him, angry and confused. Overhead, the clouds lumber their heavy bellies across the sky.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Dean says. Castiel looks away, and Dean takes a step closer. “Cas,” he says. “I swear to god.”

Castiel looks up at him, knowing his own tiredness is right there to be seen on his face – and his sadness, his hurt. Dean’s expression shifts, and he comes even closer.

“What did you do, man? Is it that bad?”

It’s easy to see Dean’s mind working, trying to piece everything together. He’s probably thinking demons, and deals, and treachery, all the things that they’ve been through before. Castiel doesn’t know how to explain to him that he’s wrong without telling him the whole truth. And he can’t tell the whole truth.

“Look,” Dean says, “we’ll figure it out. If you just tell me – tell me where it is, or what happened. Did someone do this? And what… what does all of this have to do with it…” He looks around again at the garden. Castiel closes his eyes for a second, lets the familiar feeling of being here fill him as much as he can let it – the warmth in his chest, the spark.

He knows he should try to talk about it, but he can’t. He can’t.

When he opens his eyes, Dean’s waiting, watching him. Castiel opens his mouth – but nothing comes out.

Dean’s face tightens again.

“Okay,” he says. “So it’s like that. Great, Cas.”

“Dean, it’s –”

“No, it’s fine,” Dean says, his tone taut with bitterness, but his face carefully unbothered. “That’s fine. Deal with it by yourself. That’s always gone so well. And meanwhile, me, I’ll just, what? Wait for you to give me the bad news, I guess. That’s great, Cas. Really. You know, you –”

“Stop,” Castiel asks.

And a little of the fight leaves Dean again. He looks as though he wants to say something else, but doesn’t know what. His face is half apology and half anger.

“It just…” he says. And then waves his hand, like it doesn’t matter anyway.

And it’s the simplicity of the hurt in that gesture that has Castiel throwing all his caution to the wind and saying,

“I don’t want it back.”

Dean stops moving. His eyes fix on Castiel.

“What?” Dean asks.

Castiel’s jaw is tight, but he manages to say again,

“I don’t want it back. My grace. I know where it is. But I don’t want it back.”

All of Dean’s carefully placed anger is gone, suddenly, in his shock. There’s no performance, no strategy, in the way that he steps closer and looks utterly bewildered.

“You don’t?” he says.

“No. I…” Castiel hesitates, and then says, “I took it out myself.”

“You what?”

Castiel lifts one shoulder, a little diffidently. It had been necessary, so he’d done it. As simple as that.

“Cas,” Dean says, and then seems to be at a loss. Castiel doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything to say, so far as he can see.

He’s made his choice. And if he ever regrets it, if he ever wishes things could be different, all he has to do is look at Dean and it pales to nothing.

“Cas… why?” Dean manages eventually, and Castiel breathes out.

He looks at Dean.

Dean stares right back at him, not understanding.

“Did someone make you?” Dean demands. “We can go and look for them, we can –”

“No,” Castiel says. “No. I chose to do it.”

“But Cas…”

“It’s –” Castiel presses his lips together again, trying not to let the expression look pained, even though there’s a flash of hurt through his chest at the thought of trying to say any of it aloud. Saying it would push the two of them, Dean and Castiel, towards a tipping point. A no-takebacks, no room for misunderstanding point. Sharp as a thorn.

And it’s the last thing Castiel wants.

Until they talk about it, anything seems possible. It almost feels real enough. But if they talk, it’ll all be over. Dean will tell him to take back his grace, and Castiel will have to leave. It’ll be over.

“You took it out. What would you do that for,” Dean says. When Castiel doesn’t reply, he reaches out and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says, the word harsh enough to compensate for the touch.

“It’s nothing,” Castiel says.

“Cas.”

“Really, it’s…” Castiel stops. The denial dies in his mouth. He swallows, his eyes on Dean, before he looked down. “I just want to be able to stay with you.”

The last two words are too much – all of it is too much – but they’re out his mouth before he can stop them. Castiel breathes out and waits to feel Dean’s hand loosen its grip, drop away in shock at the unwanted intensity. It’s too much. Castiel knows it’s too much.

But Dean’s hand is still on his shoulder.

“You want to be able to stay?” Dean says.

“Yes.” Castiel says it bluntly, to try to shave off the emotion, make it easier to talk about. Dean’s hand still doesn’t move. Castiel can feel each place Dean’s fingers are digging in slightly through the thin material of his t-shirt. His heart is pounding and he wants to be able to turn it off, quiet it down, hear Dean’s heart instead in the way he could when he had his grace. He wants it with a sudden acuteness, a pang of loss.

“But – you can,” Dean says. “Why would you think you needed to do this?”

Castiel can’t look back up at him.

“Cas,” Dean says.

There’s a band of pain squeezing tightly around Castiel’s chest. He can’t quite seem to get his breath, suddenly.

“I just thought I’d fit better this way,” he says.

“Fit better?” Now Dean moves his hand, pulls back, though he doesn’t go far. “What do you mean?”

“You’re human,” Castiel says. He looks up, meets Dean’s eyes. “Now I am too. I thought, maybe…”

He trails off. He can’t say more. He can’t talk about what he hopes for, what he wants. He can’t.

Dean’s hand is back on his shoulder and the touch is different, now, less insistent. Softer. Castiel can see the gentleness in Dean’s eyes, shy and uncertain, allowed to show just for a few moments.

“We don’t have to be the same,” Dean says.

Castiel doesn’t know how to answer.

“We’ve never been the same,” Dean says. “But we’re still good. Right?”

There are no words in Castiel’s mind, or none that make sense – or none that he can say aloud. He wishes he could give Dean the way that he feels, just drop it into Dean’s mind, show him without having to explain it. The feeling is yes, good, of course we’re good, but there’s more – there’s different things, things I want to be to you, ways I want to be with you. And not telling you feels more and more like lying with every passing day but I don’t know how to tell you without you being suddenly aware that I’ve been wanting you in a different way to how you want me for a very long time, and will you hate me for that? Will you think I’m a liar? Will you send me away? Could I bear that? Could I bear it? If you hated me, how could I bear it?

“I just,” Castiel says, “I just want to be able to stay.” It’s the only part of it that will come out of his mouth.

“You can,” Dean says. “You don’t need… damnit, Cas, you didn’t have to take your own grace out just to be able to stay.”

Castiel nods mutely. Dean’s hand squeezes Castiel’s shoulder.

“So you can put it back, right?” he says. “The grace. You can go get it and put it back?”

“I could.” It comes out more direct and harsh than Castiel intended, and Dean’s grip tightens.

“So…?” he says.

Castiel can’t meet his eyes. He looks to the side, around the garden that he’s created. The flowers that have unfurled for him, trusting, unfussy about what deep love and secrets he’s hiding. The leaves and shoots that grow steadily under the care of his hands, no matter who else those hands wish they could hold.

“Cas,” Dean says again, and gives another squeeze, and then lets go. “Your grace is you, man. All these months, it’s not like you’ve had a good time being human, is it?”

“It’s worth it.”

“Worth it?” Dean echoes.

“If it means we’re the same,” Castiel says. And his reasoning isn’t even clear to Castiel himself, now. It just feels as though if they’re both human, if they both are the same thing, there’s a chance they could both feel the same way, too – it makes no sense, and yet Castiel can’t imagine letting go of the thought.

“We don’t need to be the same,” Dean says, repeating himself with a look that’s crossed between confusion and concern.

“But I…”

Castiel stops talking, cuts himself off. Dean’s eyes search his face.

“You want to be?” Dean says, cautious, hazarding a guess. And when Castiel’s expression tells Dean he’s right, his face goes even more soft with surprise. “Why?”

There isn’t anything that Castiel can say in answer. No explanations he can give that will make sense outside his own mind. All he finds himself doing is looking at Dean – looking at him more openly than he has done in a long time, half tight-lipped and wanting the conversation to end, half hoping that Dean will finally piece it all together. He allows himself to stare, frankly and directly, pushing away the guilt and shame that push at him and tell him to look down, step away, move back, leave. He stares like he once used to all the time, letting down the walls.

There’s Dean, he thinks. There he is. Sometimes the feelings in Castiel grow so big and overwhelming that he forgets the shape of the man at the heart of them. The way Dean cares. The way Dean looks at him right back, matches him – when it comes down to it, never pretends it doesn’t matter to him when it does.

Dean’s mouth opens to form words, but he seems to stop himself. Castiel watches Dean swallow, and feels the familiar swoop and ache in his chest as all his crushing sky-sized love focuses into the smallness of the place on Dean’s throat that he wants to touch.

Dean goes to say something, and then stops.

Castiel looks down at Dean’s lips, and then back up again.

Is it wrong, how much he wants to kiss Dean? The feeling is pressing, immediate, alive. It’s in Castiel’s blood, in his bones. If Dean doesn’t want him too, in the same way, does that make the feeling wrong? Or would it just be acting on it, making Dean aware of it, that would be wrong? But the feeling is a background hum in everything Castiel does. He acts on it even when Dean isn’t with him. He acts on it all the time.

Every passing moment changes the gaze between them. Dean’s waiting for him to talk, not filling in the space with any words this time, but his face keeps sinking further into something that looks dangerously like realisation.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. If how he feels, or what he’s doing, is wrong, then he should look away. He should go away, leave Dean alone, find somewhere else to be. But he couldn’t, he can’t, not until he knows for sure that Dean doesn’t feel even slightly the same way – and he can’t ask, because as soon as he knows Dean doesn’t feel the same way, he’ll have to leave. The thoughts chase their tails in Castiel’s head and he stares and he stares at Dean and he hurts so much that he wants to hit his own chest just for the distraction of a simpler pain.

“You don’t know what?”

“I just don’t know, Dean.”

Dean is watching him carefully, his mouth slightly open, as though trying to figure out how to phrase something he wants to say. There’s a slight tinge of colour to his cheeks, too, Castiel notices.

“Uh,” Dean says. His mouth shapes a ‘w’ like the start of a question, and then closes again, and he frowns – but he doesn’t look away.

He almost knows, Castiel thinks. He’s almost understood. And as soon as Dean understands, it’s over. Unless he feels the same way, which he doesn’t. He can’t. We’re not the same. No matter how hard I try and how much I change, we’re not ever the same.

He needs to cauterise this conversation like a wound, stop all this from happening, but he can’t find the words. Dean’s still watching him. Castiel’s heart is thunder in his head, drowning out his thoughts.

“You look like the whole world’s falling apart,” Dean says eventually. “Not an exaggeration. ‘Cause I’ve seen your face when the world was actually falling apart.” Dean points vaguely with one finger towards Castiel’s face. “And it looked like that.”

Castiel nods mutely, and Dean sighs and glances sharply away, and then back again.

“Come on, Cas, jesus. Something’s up, so whatever it is, just tell me.” He looks at Castiel for a long time, and then he says it again. In a different voice, quieter, with a little rise at the end as though of hope or something equally as stupid for Castiel to consider. “Tell me.”

It’s said in a way that makes Castiel want to believe he’s asking for all the things Castiel wants to give.

Dean’s eyes are wide, too. Like he can’t quite believe what he’s asking.

And Castiel’s human heart is pounding at that tone in his voice, that look on his face, because it feels as though – tentatively – they could be talking about the same thing. The longer Castiel watches Dean’s face, the more he sees it. There are the little flickers of denial, uncertainty, in the way Dean’s eyes narrow for a half-moment. And then there again is the rise of hope in the depth of Dean’s gaze, the openness.

It’s so small and barely-there that Castiel can’t trust it. He can’t know how this ends. It’s a rope thrown into down into his well, though, and with no idea what waits for him at the top, he still puts his hand on it and wonders if he’s strong enough to begin to climb.

“I, um.” He starts to speak, and his voice is low and rough. When he pauses almost immediately, Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, licks his lips. Castiel searches for the words. “I tried staking that peach rose. But it didn’t do any good.”

Dean looks confused. He doesn’t even bother to look down at the rose, just keeps his eyes on Castiel.

“What…” he says.

“It just grew that way,” Castiel says. He can feel a lump in his throat. “Naturally. It wanted to grow that way.”

“Okay,” Dean says, as though slightly concerned for Castiel’s sanity.

“I think sometimes it’s just like that,” Castiel says. He meets Dean’s eyes. “You can try planting them in the place you want them. Cut them back. Put a stake through them.” He resists the sudden, unexpected urge to reach up and touch the place on his chest where, years ago, Dean buried a knife in his heart. He swallows. “But sometimes there are things you can’t control. And even if it’s not… not healthy, or pretty, or the way it’s supposed to go… that’s how they’ll grow. Just towards the place they want to be.”

Dean’s listening intently, but his eyes are clouded with confusion. He looks like he wants to say something, and then stops himself. Castiel can’t blame him for not understanding, when half the point is that he’s talking without getting to the point. He doesn’t want to get to that sharp-split point when his life takes one of two courses, when Dean says one of two things.

“Dean, I…” Castiel says, and his hand reaches out. Unconsciously, awkwardly, the straggling limb of a plant that has never grown the way it should have done. And Castiel goes to catch himself, to stop letting his fingers trail through the air reaching for a place they can’t go – but then Dean takes his hand.

Dean takes his hand, and holds onto it. Not sweetly, not softly. Hard. Like they’re at the top of a cliff and Dean’s afraid of losing his grip and having to watch Castiel fall alone.

Castiel can barely breathe. Against the odds his hand is being held by Dean. Against the way that his words desert him, against the thousands of reasons that the two of them shouldn’t have ever even met, let alone be standing here together in a garden. Against all of it, Castiel’s hand is squeezed tight in Dean’s.

There’s a part of Castiel that’s trying to pinch itself, that’s shaking its head in denial, but Dean’s grip is warm and real.

“Cas,” Dean says. “Do you…”

The question has no ending, but it’s Dean, so the answer is yes. Castiel nods.

Dean’s expression seems, with just the smallest of looks in his eyes, to break apart. He holds onto Castiel’s hand and says nothing, doesn’t move.

“And…” Castiel says, but his throat goes dry. He can do this. He has to do this. If he doesn’t now, he never will. He tries again. “And… you?”

Dean looks momentarily bewildered.

“Yeah, Cas,” he says.

Castiel feels himself go light, so suddenly his stomach flips.

Yeah, Cas, he hears in his head. Yeah, Cas.

On another day, when Castiel hadn’t just told Dean how he feels through a series of oblique angles – when Castiel’s hand wasn’t still being held in the rough warmth of Dean’s – Castiel might have been indignant at that tone in Dean’s voice. As though it had been obvious, when yes, half the time Dean was staring at him like he actually mattered, was ready to die for him – but the rest of the time Dean couldn’t look at him, was ready to die for anything.

Their hands swing a little between them. Just their arm muscles getting a little tired, and their hands moving together. Such a very little thing to happen, Castiel thinks. So very small. After all this time it’s just one hand in another, and it means absolutely crushingly everything, in the way that he’d known it would.

It’s happening, he thinks. It’s happening. We’re the same. We’re the same.

A little clutch of fear that he might change, one day. Wake up and be something else, unexpectedly. Grow again, in a direction Dean doesn’t –

Castiel breathes. It’s alright. He’s torn out his grace for this. He can be the person Dean needs. He can change himself again. Over and over, if needs be.

He holds Dean’s hand. Tight. He can always change again. He can make them the same again. Whatever it takes. For this, for the feeling of Dean's hand in his, it would be worth it, anything would be worth it. But –

Dean’s grip goes slack in his own.

“Wait,” Dean says. “Wait. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Castiel says. He holds tighter. “Nothing.”

Dean’s hand drops Castiel’s. The loosening of his grip is a slow-motion whip crack across Castiel’s chest.

“No?” Dean says, looking at Castiel, asking with the single word whether Castiel doesn’t want anything that just happened. He puts his hands up just a little way, maybe a surrender, maybe just a gesture to show he isn’t touching.

“Wait,” Castiel says, his hand still in place, still reaching. It shows, then, he thinks to himself. That sickle-curve sharpness in his chest, the fear in him that he won’t always be able to fit himself to what Dean wants, it must show. Dean can see it. Castiel lifts his chin, tries to look as though he’s feeling incredibly happy, instead of just incredibly much. “Dean, why are you –”

“Cas…” Dean��s eyes are searching his face, looking for the place where something is wrong. Castiel wants to cut in, insist that nothing is wrong. Take Dean’s hand again, reach for more – he could reach for more, he thinks, and his heart twists, and his head feels light. He could reach for more. Dean might let him. Dean was holding his hand for a moment, there, by choice, as though it really meant something. Castiel’s mouth is dry.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel tries. But his stomach is sinking, even as he’s aching with the terrifying joy of the sudden opening of all the doors he’d always thought were closed for him.

Dean can see that he’s scared. Dean is going to figure it all out. And then those doors will close again.

“I mean…” Dean says. He blinks, shakes his head just slightly. Seems to remember where exactly he is, glancing around at Castiel’s garden. It’s all slipping out of Castiel’s grasp. They’re going to pretend as though the last two minutes never happened, Castiel can feel it.

It’s unbearable. It’s unbearable. The idea of having had it for barely a few seconds, and then losing it. Castiel reaches for words, for anything – something that will show Dean how much it all means to him, how far he’ll go to make it work.

“We’re both human,” he says, almost blurts. “I took out my grace. So we can be… so I can stay.”

Took out, he thinks to himself. What a clinical way to talk about the tearing, the self-destruction, the loss.

Dean just looks at him, mouth slightly open.

This is supposed to be the part where Dean argues, Castiel realises only when it doesn’t come. This is the part where Dean asks me what the hell I was thinking. Tells me to put the grace damn well back where it came from, and to stop making terrible decisions. And then I argue back, and tell him I’ll do what I want to do with my own grace, and I made this choice for him, and I’d do it again.

But Dean isn’t saying anything. He’s just staring. And Castiel stares, too. He can’t argue back when Dean hasn’t started the fight. He can’t push back if Dean never pushed forward. So they stand in silence. The clouds overhead roll on, oblivious to the hearts frantically pounding so far beneath them.

“Cas,” Dean says, and he says it differently to how he’s supposed to – quietly, carefully, handling the name like it’s made of something delicate. “I don’t know what you want me to say, man.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Castiel says.

“But you… you did that…”

Castiel watches him mutely.

“Why?” Dean asks.

So many answers. To be like you. To be near you. To show you I can change for you. Castiel opens his mouth and tries not to say too much.

“For – this,” Castiel says, managing to stop himself saying, for you.

“This?”

“This,” Castiel says, holding Dean’s gaze.

Dean holds his gaze.

“But it – ah. Jesus, Cas, this is hard to talk about.”

Castiel nods. He doesn’t want to let it go – feels sick at the idea of Dean just dropping the subject, and heading back inside, leaving the garden and forgetting all about what they’d said to each other. Chalking it up as somewhere he’d never go again. Too much baggage, too heavy, not worth it.

Dean puffs out his cheeks, though, and breathes out sharply, and says,

“It’s just that, hell, man, you never had to take the grace out to have… you know… anything you wanted out of me.” Dean looks uncertain as he says the last part, as though a little disbelieving that Castiel could want anything from him in particular. “You know that. Right?”

His voice is so different. So gentle in a way that Castiel only barely recognises from the most private of moments they’ve shared. Castiel is suddenly so intensely aware that they’re the only two in the garden, alone with each other. No one else to see them or hear them or judge what they say to each other. It’s a thought that gives him courage.

“I’ve changed for you since the beginning,” Castiel says. Dean opens his mouth, and then closes it, his eyes troubled. Castiel watches him, thinking. “Or –” he starts, as a new thought occurs to him. “Or, changed because of you, at least.”

Dean still looks confused, as though he doesn’t really see the difference. To Castiel, though, it feels clear as day. He changed because he met Dean – without that meeting, he would still be the angel he’d always been. But when he thought about it, the person he changed for was himself. Because it had felt right. Because it felt, period, and that was what he’d wanted.

It loops round and round perfectly in Castiel’s mind. Meeting Dean, the push Castiel needed to start running. And knowing Dean, now, the pull Castiel needs to keep changing, stay with him, stay together.

“I just thought,” Castiel says, when Dean stays silent, “if I could be human like you, then maybe you’d… maybe we could be the same. And stay that way.”

“And you want that,” Dean says.

“Yes.”

“Because…”

“Because,” Castiel says, a little taken aback, “I want… this.”

“But why’d we have to be the same for that? I mean – this?” Dean frowns, as though almost losing track of what he’s trying to say. They’re trying to talk all around it without using any words that are too big.

“Why…” Castiel trails off as he considers the question.

Dean shrugs, in a way that battles to look uncaring and ends up looking heartfelt.

“But… we need to be the same,” Castiel says. He wants them to be close like two leaves on a tree. Closer, two petals on a flower. No, closer still, not even two things. Just one, one plant, growing strong. He wants them that close, that inseparable, after so long being forced apart by fate and circumstance. No would-be gods or divine powers could set them apart if they were one thing. The same.

“But we aren’t the same, Cas,” Dean says, so quietly that Castiel only just hears it over the little burst of breeze that briefly ruffles over them.

Castiel feels his chest clench.

“I’m trying…” he says.

“No, I mean – I mean we can’t be,” Dean says. “I mean, we aren’t, ‘cause we’re… you know… two different people. There it is, you know? Different people. We can’t be exactly the same.”

“But…” Castiel starts, and the word comes out sounding almost angry, so he checks himself and looks down. “But,” he starts again, “if I can just…”

“C’mon,” Dean says, the smallest of smiles softening one side of his mouth. “You wouldn’t really want two of me running around the place, would you?”

“That’s not how I meant it,” Castiel answers, his voice serious, but with a lightness in his eyes to acknowledge Dean’s brush with humour.

“Come to think of it, though,” Dean says, “I’d get a lot more work done on the car if there were two of me. And we could harmonise on Zepp tracks. Maybe you are onto something.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, though he can feel his heart lifting just seeing Dean reaching out for him, trying to make him smile.

“I wouldn’t let you share my toothbrush, though, no way.” Dean looks around the garden. “And this would have to go. Hate to break it to you, but no way are you digging around in the dirt for hours if you’re me. Not unless there’s something to salt and burn at the end of it.”

“I know,” Castiel says, and the words sound little and obstinate, but his hands relax. Dean is looking at him like he gets it – like he sees that curling fear inside Castiel, the one that can’t let them be two different and separate things that just happen by the grace of luck to be next to each other. Because luck runs out, and they both know it. The only way to be sure of staying together, the fear says, is to be so much the same as to be one thing.

But it’s impossible. Castiel can’t be Dean. And Dean’s right, too, because Castiel doesn’t really want to be. He doesn’t want to give up gardening. He doesn’t want to work on Dean’s car. He doesn’t want to share a toothbrush.

He wants to spend time growing things. He wants his own hands in the dirt. He wants – he wants Dean, in the way that he has done since meeting Dean. And he wants to keep wanting.

Even if he didn’t want it, it’s what is. They’re two plants next to each other. Hoping not to be uprooted, hoping for sun, hoping for kind hands that stake them upright and water them even when they won’t flower. Always at the mercy of whatever storms might come, however hard Castiel tries to tangle himself together with Dean, camouflage with him, become just the same.

There are plants that do that, Castiel remembers. Plants that tangle and blend with other plants. They’re weeds. They choke out the first plant, cut off all its light and food until it dies. Two things can’t become one thing without loss. And Castiel doesn’t want to lose Dean – and, he realises quite suddenly, he also doesn’t want to lose himself. There’s so much he wants to do.

Things he might be able to do.

He looks at Dean, who’s watching him piece it all together, giving him time in silence, or maybe just struggling to find more words. But either way, Dean is still here. Dean is in front of him. A moment ago, they were hand in hand.

They could be again.

“You good?” Dean asks, seeming to sense Castiel come to a conclusion.

“Yes,” Castiel says. Dean visibly relaxes, shoulders easing under his coat. Castiel wants to put his hands on those shoulders. He wants to reach out. He wants to touch. He wants, wants, wants, and it feels like still growing, it feels like still changing, it feels like being alive. Like being himself.

He wants to hear Dean’s heartbeat. He wants his grace back. With a sudden absolute certainty, Castiel feels how much he wants his grace back.

He meets Dean’s eyes, and says simply,

“It’s here.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow, catching Castiel’s mood without his meaning.

“It’s here?”

“My grace,” Castiel says. “You were asking where it was. It’s here.”

“Here?” Dean looks confused.

Castiel can feel his mood unfurling, the parts of himself that he’s pushed away and hidden – the parts that have known all along he wants his grace back – finally allowed to breathe, finally being given what they need. He turns his attention to his garden, bending down next to the peach rose that has been so wilfully refusing to blossom.

“I didn’t expect anything to grow when I buried it here,” Castiel says to Dean, over his shoulder. “But then the first flowers came, and so I bought more, and then I put in the fence, and – it helped, being able to come here.” He puts out his hand towards the peach rose, speaking meditatively, almost not quite to Dean at all.

His fingertips brush the tightly closed buds, the sharpness of the thorns. Castiel lets that want for his grace rise up in him, unafraid of the feeling now that he knows it can be acted on. He closes his eyes, and feels for his grace.

It’s right there, waiting for him.

Brilliant and electric. Fast, so fast, and all colours, colours so bright they hiss and spit as they rocket up the stem of the peach rose and through Castiel’s fingers, filling his body with a fierce familiar hum. Castiel breathes in and smells every flower in the garden at once and the breeze and the tang of sap and the rich wetness of the soil and there, behind him, Dean. He breathes out ozone, heady.

He can feel the hat on his head, the way it rests on each hair. He can feel Dean’s closeness, the way the atoms of air jumble between them.

He can feel the sunshine on his face when it finally breaks through the clouds overhead.

The world is turning beneath his feet as it should. The plants around him are creaking as they grow. Dean is breathing a little quicker than usual, and Dean’s heartbeat – there it is. That sound Castiel has missed since the day he tore out his grace. Thud thud, thud thud, thud thud. Castiel closes his eyes more tightly and focuses in on it, loses himself briefly in its rhythm.

“Cas?” Dean says. His voice has all the layers Castiel can hear as an angel. Richer, deeper. He can hear the roughness that comes from the light scarring in Dean’s throat after years of hunting, calling out warnings and yelling in shock. He can hear the exact pitch at which Dean ends the single word, the note that means it’s a question and it’s shy and it’s hopeful and Dean is trying to hide all of it.

The sun is bright when Castiel opens his eyes. There on the peach rose, at the tip of the stem through which he drew out his grace from the earth, is a full-blossom flower. Blushing petals unfurled, just waiting to be looked at, to be touched. Castiel reaches up a finger, and presses it to the velvet centre.

He stands up, and turns to Dean, who’s looking at him with something in his eyes that’s just the same. Newly unfurled, wanting touch.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean’s face relaxes.

“Here all along, huh.” Dean says. “Damn it, Cas. And there was me, worrying where to find it for no goddamn reason.” The words are irritable but Dean’s tone is a betrayal of them, because it’s so gentle, so serious. Serious enough that Castiel doesn’t feel silly when he takes a step forward, closer to Dean.

He meets Dean’s eyes silently, asking a question.

“You still…?” Dean says.

Still what exactly, Castiel wonders. Still want this? Still want you? Still look at you and think about how anything else I’ve tried to care about felt like trying to follow a script written for a part I was never meant to play, but with you caring grows up without me even trying like a wild rose in good earth?

The answer to all of it is yes. It’s Dean, after all. The answer is yes.

Castiel doesn’t use words to say it. Dean barely used them to ask the question, it was all in his eyes and the way he’s still holding his arms slightly out to the sides as though hoping to have a reason to put them around someone, and so Castiel gives him a reason.

The closeness – Castiel has always thought it might be jarring, if it ever happened, to be in Dean’s space like this. Something he’s wanted for so long and imagined so many times that the reality would be strange. But it’s not strange, it’s – it’s just a little slow, and hushed. It’s so quiet in the garden as they come together. Hand touching hand. Then arms reaching up. Castiel’s eyes tracing the lines of Dean’s face, finally having time to do it in as much time as he chooses, because Dean’s going a pleased shade of red under his gaze.

“I, uh,” Dean says, his voice a little hoarse. Castiel tilts his head at a slight angle. “I, uh. I don’t know how to do this. When it’s you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I – I don’t know if you want me to…” Dean’s eyes drop to Castiel’s lips. Through angel’s eyes, Castiel can see the slight tremor in him, the way he leans in just a little and then pulls back, the way his muscles are tightening in uncertainty.

“Yes,” says Castiel simply. He reaches up, and tilts his hat back.

“But you… it’s…” Dean looks at him helplessly.

And Castiel thinks perhaps he understands. This thing between them, the way that Castiel feels, it’s – it’s alive, it’s wider and deeper than the sky. It’s everything. And they’re supposed to, what, kiss about it? As though it were the end of a fairy tale? The end of a second date?

But then, they’ve done all the rest of it before. They’ve done blood and big choices. They’ve done hands grasping for each other against every rule, against all the smart money. And now there’s just this.

There’s just Castiel leaning forwards, and seeing relief and happiness break through on Dean’s face like sunshine for a second, before they kiss.

Castiel feels his wings unfurl.

It’s still not Heaven. It’s not even close. But – Castiel pulls back, and sees the expression on Dean’s face, the way his eyes are wide and unbelieving and so, so happy. But it’s a place, where Castiel is growing things.

[silhouetteofacedar]

Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch. 4: Man Pouts on Couch

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Mulder is not feeling lucky.

In hindsight, he should have suspected something was off today; Scully kept looking at her watch.

It’s Friday, March 13th, and he thought it’d be cute to invite Scully out for a drink again, make a little joke about it becoming a Friday the 13th tradition. This could work, he thinks. His plan is simple; ask her out every once in a while, for some reason or another, with the intention of eventually coming clean and setting up a proper date.

At five o’clock he stands up and stretches with performative nonchalance. “Buy you a drink, Scully?” he asks, cocking his head towards the calendar pinned to the office wall, surrounded by newspaper clippings and grainy photos.

She pauses with her arm halfway into the sleeve of her coat. “I…” She falters and presses her lips together, looking suddenly guilty.

“What is it?” he asks quietly, a pit growing in his stomach.

“I’d love to, Mulder, but I actually have a date tonight.”

The earth stops spinning and Mulder is thrown off balance, hurtling through the atmosphere.

“Oh,” he says softly. “That doctor guy?”

Scully nods, not meeting his gaze. “His name is Mark,” she says. “We’re getting sushi.” She looks up at him then, big blue eyes soft. “A rain check?” she asks hopefully.

She owns him; one look like that and he’d sell his soul to buy her a cup of shitty coffee. “Sure. Another time, then,” Mulder says, gathering up every scrap of composure he has left, patching together a smile for her. “Have fun.”

He goes home and throws himself face down onto the couch.

She has a date. A real date, with a presumably mentally stable human man with a high-value job. And a daughter. A ready-made family, just add water and stir. This Mark guy probably calls her Dana, asks her how her mother’s doing, feeds her bits of sashimi with no threat of aliens or shadow governments in sight. Maybe he’ll kiss her at the end of the night, softly with closed lips like a gentleman.

What stings the most is the fact that this Doctor Mark had the balls to tell Scully outright that he’s interested in her romantically, something Mulder has yet to do.

Mulder knows he should eat, but his stomach is churning and the idea of food sickens him. He’s being dramatic and irrational; it’s just one date. But the implications are weighty, the potential enormous.

He feels bad for being upset. This is good for her; she needs to get out of the basement, connect with other rational people, find some normalcy and balance in her life.

You need those things too, he hears her say in his head.

He brushes it aside. It’s different for him; he created this life for himself. He’s a collapsed star, a black hole of conspiracy and paranoia that sucks in everything that gets too close. The last thing he wants is for her to get lost in his darkness, swallowed by the void like some interstellar debris.

She’d told him that night in Rock Creek Park that she does’t blame him for what’s happened to her, but that doesn’t assuage his guilt. He carries the weight of what she calls her choices, a load she has no intention of sharing with him, awaiting no acknowledgement or thanks.

He’s doing it to himself.

Mulder whiles away the hours on the couch, gazing up at the constellations of pencil marks on his ceiling, tossing his basketball above his head. He drops it on his face twice.

He knows it’s probably only going to make him feel worse, but he’s a glutton for punishment; so at eleven-thirty that night he picks up the phone and calls Scully.

He waits for her to answer, his heart sinking lower with each ring. She’s not picking up. Is she still out? he thinks anxiously. The guy has a kid, so it’s unlikely that they’d stay out too late unless he’s arranged it with his babysitter…

“Hello?” Scully’s slightly husky voice cuts through his thoughts.

“Scully,” he says, tentative relief creeping into his body.

“Mulder, what is it?” she asks. “It’s late. For normal people, anyway. Are you alright?”

“‘M’ fine,” he assures he. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

He hears her hum in understanding. Late night phone calls between them aren’t uncommon, after all. “Have you tried counting sheep?” she asks, not unkindly. “Or slowing your breathing down, focusing on the cadence of inhales and exhales like I showed you?”

He’s wide awake, sitting upright on his couch, still in the slacks and wrinkled button-down he wore to the office that day. “Yes,” he lies. “It’s not helping. There’s too much going on in my head right now.”

“You work too much,” she says gently. “And yet not enough, when deadlines are involved. We’ve got an impressive paperwork backlog-”

“Can we not talk about work right now?” He reaches down and unties his shoes. “Otherwise I’ll never get to sleep.”

“Right.” There’s rustling on her end. She’s in bed, he realizes.

“Did I wake you, Scully?” he asks, trying to hide his surprise.

“It’s fine, Mulder, I was only dozing,” she replies.

“Oh, how was the date?” he asks, as though it only just occurred to him, instead of being the only thing he’s thought about all night.

“It was nice,” she responds, and he drops his head onto the back of the couch in defeat. Shit. Shit shit shit shit-

“We talked about medicine, about cancer, loss. His daughter’s name is Amanda,” she continues. “Her mother - his wife - died when Mandy was only two, so he’s mostly raised her alone.”

“That’s rough,” Mulder says softly. Please don’t make me feel bad for this guy, Scully, I can’t bear it, he thinks.

“Mhm,” she agrees. “And his work at the hospital is pretty grueling, so his mother helps out a lot. I… I told him about Emily.”

“How’d that go?” Mulder asks, concerned. “It’s not the most… plausible-sounding story.”

“I was vague,” she replies. “All I really said was that I had recently reconnected with a child I’d been separated from, right before she died. He didn’t ask for details; he could probably tell it was a fresh wound.”

They’re silent for a moment.

“Do you think you’ll see him again?” Mulder asks quietly. Somehow he already knows what she’s going to say, and he braces himself for the sting of her words as they pierce his heart.

“I… I think I will,” Scully says, sounding distant. “I mean, it’s worth a shot, right?”

She deserves this. She deserves a chance at something ordinary, safe, comfortable.

“Maggie Scully didn’t raise a quitter,” he says with a watery smile she’ll never see.

She chuckles. “No, I suppose she didn’t,” Scully muses. He hears her yawn. “I’m tired out, Mulder. Think you can sleep now?”

“I’ll try,” he says. He’s surprised to feel his eyes beginning to burn with unshed tears. “Thanks for talking to me,” he adds.

“Anytime. Sleep well,” she says warmly, and the line goes dead.

He supposes he brought this on himself by keeping his feelings hidden. He waited too long, playing it safe. He wanted to gauge her feelings before he made any overt moves, and someone else beat him to it.

It’s just one date. But there’s going to be more. By the sound of it, she wants there to be more.

There’s no way he’s going to sleep well tonight.

He’s in a sour mood when he’s summoned to the Gunmen’s… den? lair? headquarters? the next afternoon, by way of one of their patented cryptic phone calls.

Byers unfastens the dozen locks on the door and lets him inside. “Mulder,” he says, ushering him in. “Good to see you.”

Mulder flops down in a rickety desk chair, exhaustion permeating his muscles. “I’m not up for being social today, boys,” he warns. “You said you had information for me?”

“We took the liberty of looking into Agent Scully’s new… uh, friend,” Byers says.

“For safety reason,” Langly adds, seeing Mulder’s lips purse.

“She’s precious cargo,” Frohike says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“How did you find him?” Mulder asks. “I didn’t even know his first name until yesterday.”

“Don’t insult us with your surprise,” Frohike mutters. “We’re experts.”

“We knew he’s a part of the parish Scully attends-“ Byers begins.

“And we knew he’s an ER doc, has a 6 year old daughter, and a dead wife,” Langly cuts in. “That’s plenty to go on.”

“I don’t need to know more than that,” Mulder says, suddenly feeling guilty. “It’s not my business.”

“Maybe not, but we have the info,” Frohike says. “Look, all you need to know is that he seems legit. Name’s Einolander, if you were curious.”

“I wasn’t,” Mulder lies, taking a sunflower seed out of his pocket and biting it pensively.

“Of course not,” Byers says, sounding completely unconvinced.

“You alright, Mulder?” Langly asks. “You look rough.”

“Of course he does,” Frohike hisses in the least subtle whisper of all time. “Scully’s dating someone that’s not him. Cut the guy some slack.”

“You guys don’t know shit,” Mulder grumbles, then backtracks, running his hands over his face. “I’m sorry. I, uh... didn’t sleep well.”

“It’s okay, man,” Langly says.

Frohike nods sagely. ”We know how you feel about her. This can’t be easy for you.”

Mulder wilts in his chair. “How did you know?” he asks pathetically, realizing the jig is up. Has he really been so obvious this whole time? Fucking hell.

“Look, knowing things is our business,” Byers explains. “And we know you. We’ve been around the block with you a few times, and nobody’s meant this much to you. Not even Diana.”

“Plus, Agent Scully is a smokeshow, and you have eyes,” Frohike adds. Byers gives him a jab with his elbow. “Hey, I stand by that,” he declares, rubbing his arm.

“Well thanks anyway, fellas,” Mulder says, standing. “I should get going. The walls in my apartment won’t stare at themselves.”

“Do you want the file we put together on the guy?” Byers asks. “We can make copies.”

Mulder shakes his head. “Keep it. Draw a mustache on his photo or something.” He picks up his coat and slings it over his shoulder. “You kids have fun.”

“If you need anything, just flag us down,” Frohike says, patting Mulder’s back before unlatching the door.

Mulder steps out the door, then turns back. “How old is this guy?”

“Forty-one,” Byers says, flipping through the file. “Five-foot-ten, dark blond hair, brown eyes. Blood type-”

Mulder holds up a hand. “I don’t want to know. Bye, guys.”

He gets a petty, juvenile satisfaction from the fact that he’s two inches taller and four years younger than Dr. Einolander. It’s short-lived, but at this point he’ll take what he can get.

Because he can’t get Scully.

[shortprince-cos]

The Woes Of An Emo

Summary: Virgil tries to take advice, but apparently he's not good at that either. Also, dash of Patton angst.

Warnings: Swearing, slight panic. Tell me if I need to add anything else!

{Masterlist} {Previous}

Chapter 3: Emotional Support Friend

~~~~~

Virgil was nervous as hell.

He was going to talk to someone he barely knows, vent about two guys, and ask for some kind of advice. Why? Because Virgil has no friends and is desperate for help.

Virgil walked into art class with his hands shoved far into the void that is his pockets. He saw Patton Hart sitting in his usual seat, right next to Virgil's.

With a deep breath, Virgil sat down next to Patton.

"Hey Virgil! ...You ok?" Oh god, was it that obvious?

"Oh- um..." Virgil tried to think of some kind of lie, but he knew he needed help with this situation, and Patton was the only option he had. "You want the honest answer?"

Patton looked a little concerned, but put on a soft smile for Virgil. "Of course! Whatever you need to talk about, I'm always right here, ok?"

God, how was Patton this supportive to someone he barely knows?

Virgil held his head in his hands, which were propped on the desk, and took a deep breath before continuing. "I need...advice, and you're really the only person I can go to right now. I know that sounds pathetic, but my parents would get overly excited and my only friend is part of the problem, so...?"

Patton looked surprised, but still comforting and supportive. "Oh! Well, what do you need advice on?"

Virgil sighed again. "There's-" The school bell always had the worst timing. Virgil let his head fall to his desk.

"Virge, we can talk at lunch if you still need it?"

"Yes please."

---

The first three periods flew by pretty fast, much to Virgil's relief.

Virgil took a quick scan of the lunchroom to see Patton enthusiastically waving at him from across the cafeteria. One part of him was embarrassed of all the people that could see that, though, he didn't know why he would be embarrassed. Another part of him was happy that someone treated him like a best friend that they'd had for years. It was welcoming.

That's how he would describe Patton! Someone who was welcoming of almost anyone, like a human version of 'home'.

He walked over to Patton's lunch table to find that Patton was sitting alone. Virgil always thought that Patton would be the one that everyone would want to hang around with, but turns out that maybe he was wrong.

Maybe that's why Patton was always so friendly. He was trying to make a friend too.

Virgil sat down next to Patton and opened his lunch box, eating and hoping to prolong the inevitable conversation. Patton seemed to pick up on this and started eating his lunch as well.

After a couple minutes of comfortable silence -well, as silent as a full lunchroom could be- then Virgil decided that he should probably talk about what he came here to talk about.

"So...I guess I need advice on..." Virgil took another deep breath. "Two guys."

"As in, they're mean to you, or, you have a crush on them?"

Virgil groaned, then buried his head in his arms, almost becoming one with the table. "Crush."

"Aww Virgil! That's great! Who are they?"

Virgil brought his head back up to look at Patton. "No, it's terrible! I...I only have a crush on one, but he has a boyfriend already, and the other guy asked me on a date, and I said 'YES' FOR SOME REASON!"

"Oh. So...you're stuck with a boy you don't want to be with?" Patton questioned with concerned eyes.

Virgil thought for a moment. "Well...Roman isn't that bad, but, I feel like I'm kind of 'betraying' Princey, if you get what I mean."

"...Princey?" Oh crap. Now Virgil would have to tell Patton that he has a crush on someone he met online and Patton would think he's a friendless weirdo and he would hate him and Virgil would never have a real life friend and he won't help Virgil with his problem and-

"Virgil, breathe for me." Patton had put a hand on Virgil's in an attempt to calm him down, and it was working.

Virgil got his breathing under control and looked back at Patton, instead of the table that he had been staring at for who knows how long. "Sorry."

"Hey, it's ok! It's my fault for asking, I'm the one who should be saying sorry. So, sorry." Patton looked a little guilty, clearly feeling bad for asking about Princey.

"Thanks, Pat. But I guess I owe you some kind of explanation." Virgil hesitated before deciding to continue. "Princey...is my online friend. I also have a crush on him. I know it sounds weird but-"

“Virge, before you continue, please only tell me if you want to! I would hate you to regret this later, and you don’t owe me anything kiddo! I’m your friend, not your bookie.”

Virgil took another breath, weighing his options. "Ok."

So, Virgil told him everything. Well, not everything, but most of his strange situation.

---

He walked into theatre class and prayed that Roman wouldn't be there for whatever reason. But, of course, Roman was there. Wonderful.

Roman was talking to some other actors in the corner of the room, clearly in his element.

The room was actually called 'The black box' because the walls were painted black, and for whatever other reasons the theatre industry decided to call it that. In the center of the room had a circle of chairs instead of desks, probably so moving them for theatre warm ups would be easier.

Virgil quickly put his hood up to avoid being spotted by Roman, and sat facing the opposite direction.

Eventually, the bell rung, and class began.

In the corner of his eye, he saw someone with a white jean jacket sit down next to him. The jacket was basically non-existent thanks to the many patches covering most of it, and Virgil realized that he had definitely seen this jacket before.

Crap.

"Hey, Virgil! How are you?" ​Roman asked casually, smiling wide. God, stop being so cute!

Wait, 'cute'?!

"I'm...fine." Very convincing. "You?"

Roman immediately brightened. "I'm amazing! The cast list for the musical is being announced today, and I'm fairly certain that I got the lead!" Roman practically bounced in his seat while explaining; clearly excited about the news.

Of course, Virgil knew that Roman would get the lead -he's gotten every lead since freshman year- but that didn't stop the small smile that spread on Virgil's face when he saw how Roman basically glowed with anticipation.

'No, stop. Don't get excited. We're breaking his heart today, remember?' He told himself.

Virgil swallowed down the guilt that was creeping up in his throat. Or maybe that was vomit. "Roman...about the date tomorrow?" Virgil started, already wincing at the thought of breaking this poor boy's heart.

Roman lit up again. "Yeah?"

Virgil was about to open his mouth when the teacher decided to start the class, splitting the techs and the actors.

Virgil was mortified. Today is Friday, meaning the date was tomorrow, meaning he just lost his only chance today to cancel the date.

He had to go on the date. Oh god.

Fourth period was long over by the time Virgil had gotten his thoughts in order. He needed an actual plan. He couldn't go through with the date. No way. He didn't want to lead Roman on, but he also didn't want to break his heart.

Oh god, what should he do?

Patton. He needed to talk to Patton again. Or else he just might explode.

~~~~~

{Next}

What is this, round two of Virgil panicking his way through planning canceling his date? Guess we'll have to wait till next week to see round three!

Edit: FORGOT TO THANK @foreverfangirlalways FOR HELP WITH SOME OF THE DIALOG!

Taglist in reblog

Reblogs are appreciated!💖

[synchlora]

several stories of tommys adventures in embroidery and mild (temporary) theft

bc i can't get them out of my head hhhh

back in the beginning of l'manburg, tubbo scraped up his knees a lot (a combination of young clumsiness and working on construction projects a 12 year old reasonably should not be allowed to) and, as you'd imagine, the knees on his pants got pretty ripped up. and while tommy was still honing his skills in sewing, he offered to stitch up some patches for his friend. the fabric the patches were made of didn't match the pants in the least and the thread was just a few shades too light in comparison to the color, the stitches spaced a bit too far apart, but they worked. and tommy, always one to add a flair to everything he does, used some extra green and purple thread he had to stitch some musical notes around the edges of each patch. tubbo has long since grown out of those jeans, but small musical notes still adorn various patches on his newer clothes. old habits die hard and so do nostalgic ones.

when fundy first came out, tommy wanted to do something special for him, something to make him smile. and so, he offered to sew up the old black jacket fundy never takes off. and while the fox boy was hesitant, he eventually conceded (after much pestering on tommys end) and tommy got to work on it. the jacket wasnt in too bad of shape, just needed more of a wash than anything. but for the parts that needed stitching, he used blues and oranges and pinks to patch it up. and along the front collar, he embroidered a bright trans flag. the colors weren't exact, it's not like he had many resources for new ones, but it was clear enough what the patch was. nowadays, when fundy is alone and feels (no, knows) he is forgotten, his claws absentmindedly drag across the now worn, soft patch that is fraying at the edges. and he doesn't know it actively, but somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he knows there is some love for him left out there yet.

the battle of manburg v pogtopia claimed all sorts of things, one of the more serious tragedies (/s) being jack manifolds signature blue-and-black hoodie. the damn thing was in tatters and tommy could not stand the sight of it, thinking through exactly how he could easily fix every time he saw it, if only jack would stop being so stubborn and let him sew it up. so tommy did the reasonable thing and stole it. the right sleeve was nearly disconnected from it and it was just torn up in general. and so he fixed it up with bright red thread, re-attaching the sleeve and darning a few singed holes in the fabric. and then he went about embroidering a circuit-like pattern that he'd seen jack work with before. he's not sure what any of it means, but whenever he sees wires and circuitry he thinks of jack. and right over his heart, he sewed sparks in golden thread erupting from the fabric. tommy returned the jacket in the middle of the night later on, keeping himself hidden while still ensuring the jacket made it's way back to its owner. jack never wore the jacket again.

in another feat of thievery, tommy stole nikis torn up cape for a bit. he imagined it'd only take him a day or two to fix up and then he'd be able to return it discreetly, no need for any fanfare or big, drawn out apologies (he HATES big drawn out apologies). but upon getting it, he quickly realized it'd take much more time than that. the cape had previously belonged to wilbur and that was quite evident in the deteriorating state of it. it was practically falling apart and he'd need more fabric if he was to even begin to fix it up. he chose a soft blue fabric to repair along the edges, intending to appear like calm ocean waves, though they turned out looking more like blue fire lapping at the edges. the other tears and small holes were fixed with some orange threads, and he decided a flair of some white tulips along the collar would accent it nicely. he returned it-- two weeks later than expected-- to a very pissed off niki. looks like a long, drawn out apology was due after all.

once, tubbo requested he fix up a vest of ranboo's that had gotten damaged from... well tubbo wouldn't say but the strange mix of burn holes and frantically cut slashes didn't clear up the history of the garment any more. still, as much as he wasn't entirely sure of ranboo at the time, he decided he was going to fix it for tubbo and tubbo only. he took out pink and blue thread to fix along the various tears. as strange as the damage was, he will admit it was quite easy to fix with such clean cuts to it, probably some of his best work. it was done a few days early and tommy sat stubbornly staring at the vest. as adamant as he'd been about not doing anything special for ranboo of all people (after all, he'd stolen his best friend, what'd he owe him?) tommy felt like the fabric was tragically empty. so he decided to compromise. and several months later during some insignificant moment doing some insignificant task, ranboo happened to glance a flash of purple in the corner of his eye. and he spotted several tiny, delicately sewn alliums inside the chest pocket of his vest.

wilbur was always a very dramatic person, feeling the need to not only narrate his actions with flair, but also to go about said actions with whimsy. whimsy that tended to get his clothes in a bit of a mess. just about every day, he'd come up to tommy with yet another new tear or hole in his clothes which tommy would endlessly feign irritation over before taking the garment and sitting around the fire with the rest of the small nations members and chat along as he sewed. wils old l'manburg outfit-- the casual one, the working jeans and leather jacket, soft with sun damage-- is covered in tiny embroidery work, random filigree designs, some shaky birds that gradually got more bird-like as tommy improved, even a small wing pattern sewn across the back of his jacket. every tear is sewn across in teal, the older rips faded to baby blue and the newer ones a bright cerulean. his old jacket is filled with stories, with love quite literally sewn through the fabric. but wilburs jacket from pogtopia is far more blank. it's sewn up, sure, but it's done with simple threads. basic sewing patterns in threads that match the fabric so well they practically blend in. if you know what tommys work looks like, it almost doesn't look like his. it's bare minimum, it's practical, and it's empty. but there is one single pattern that tommy has sewn onto it. it's a more recent addition, made since wilbur has... returned, for lack of a better word. a shakily sewn outline of a heart made in deep, indigo blue thread, it's weary pattern making it almost appear to be melting. wilburs not sure when tommy did it, but he's quite sure he knows where he got the thread. he cuts the knotted ends and tears the threads carefully from their place.

[duskroads]

Angie build update Part 3

Part 1 Part 2

Oops haven’t been updating that much, but here’s how far I am! I haven’t closed any of the loops because I’m not gonna permanently attach things until everything’s painted which is why there are extra wires everywhere.

My Dad is still working on the internals so I can’t work on the head or finish the neck just yet.

Close ups and trials and tribulations under the readmore

Close ups first!

Hands, the fingers aren’t glued in yet so they kept falling out as I tried to get this shot.

Upper and Lower arms, I’m still debating the order of operations on the cuffs on her wrists, I think I’m going to add the worbla after I varnish them but before I paint. Maybe. We’ll see.

Legs

And Feet, I put down the sand paper down to stop the terrible glare that’s on my table and it was the closest thing available, but it confused my camera about colours, the feet are the same colour as everything else, not weirdly blue.

And the torso

Now for all the issues I had with getting this far.

First off, the original hooks I had in the shoulder sockets were way way way too long. Unfortunately I only figured this out after I had put a few layers of clay on it.

And knowing myself I wouldn’t be satisfied unless I fixed it, so

Here’s a comparison of the old piece to the new

So a significant difference, and honestly were I making her again I probably would have gone even smaller, but uh, not redoing it again from here.

The good thing this taught me is that this clay is super durable because it was a huge pain to try and break it away so that’s good at least?

Fast forward a few more layers of clay and things that I realize that cracks that I’ve been trying to patch as I’ve been adding clay in other areas actually go all the way through to the inside.

Most of them aren’t too concerning, except for this one. 

At this point I’m just keeping an eye on it and making sure it doesn’t grow larger. This is foreshadowing for later issues.

But for now let’s look at the limbs for a bit.

What I did to keep all of the limbs separate was to cut some marks into the end of the wires that are eventually going to get cut off after I wrap them around to close the ends.

I did this because otherwise I was probably going to get the pieces mixed up extremely quickly

The next big issue was with the fingers, I realized that this clay wasn’t going to be able to do fine enough detail for me to sculpt them directly from the clay, so I decided to just make a blobs of clay and dremel them into shape.

The issue is, I made this decision while I was adding the second layer of clay to them (there was no way I was going to be able to scuplt it without at least one layer of base to keep it from falling apart as I tried to get details in.

However, this stuff tends to form air pockets in between layers, this fact has become the biggest frustration with this clay, and here is where it starts to become really apparent.

so at this point my options were

1) continue with this set of fingers, knowing that they are full of air pockets and would need some serious patching afterwards

2) create new blobs all in one layer and then dremel them down again

3) switch to polymer clay, which is much more fragile, but much better at detail

I ended up going with option 3 there, option 2 probably would have gone fine as well, but chances of success were much more sure with the polymer clay.

Don’t be fooled by my sudden jump to all 10 fingers this took like 3 days of not doing much else other than sculpting fingers to get done, I am not a professional with sculpting so I am taking extra time to get it to look right.

At this point I’ve got everything up to the neck on the torso sanded down, and there’s some stuff to patch. That in itself is not a surprise, however, I realize that an area that I’ve been trying to patch has a giant air pocket in it. Yup that issue again.

I pulled off everything that was flexing when I pushed on it, but you can see from the pencil line just how far I’m estimating the pocket goes.

Once that was patched and sanded back down it seems to be alright in that area at least but that was a bit of a scare.

However, the more times I put this thing in the oven, the more cracks are appearing in the same locations. And I realized that, because this piece is too tall to fit in my oven and I had to lay it down and do a front layer and then a back layer for every layer I put on, the cracks were appearing along those lines, and the ones where I did the shoulder surgery.

The cracks aren’t all that easy to see in the photos so here they are both plain and with me drawing over the photos so you can see where they are.

And while these cracks are fairly fine they go all the way through to the hollow inside. The chicken wire inside should keep things together alright, but what I’m going to do is after I varnish it I’m going to put some strong glue in there and paint over it, just to be safe.

I dremeled down the shoes, (needed some patching on the toe of this one) and I was planning to hand file down the design on the top of them, just to prove I could.

but of course there’s an air pocket under the raised portion of one of them that I find out about once I’m half way through filing. You can see it’s under the center of the design, and by the fact that the spoke I was working on just fell off.

I dremeled them off, I’ll be using 3D fabric paint for them when I get to the painting stage.

After that I hand sanded down the fingers, because the dremel would be too aggressive on the polymer clay and leave behind so much scraping that it might show through the paint, and that took a few days to get done.

Before and after sanding

That’s where I am right now.

Next steps are paint tests (already started) and in between the 600 years of drying time on those I’m working on the mock up for my shirt.

I’m gonna try (try, no promises) to give more frequent updates even if I haven’t gotten a huge step done just so I don’t end up doing such a huge dump of stuff every time.

[nasaty]

Forget me not

Aizawa-Sensei x Y/n-Sensei fic

TW: (eventually) violence, discussion of past death, just some bad feelings all around.

Part 5/??

You continued teaching Shinso privately for a few weeks, going between working on his quirk specifically, and some light training with the staff. One morning, you made your way over to the patch in the woods that you usually work at, but saw both Shinso and Aizawa there already.

“Umm, did I get the day wrong or something?” You asked.

“Oh shoot I forgot! I’m sorry. I had to move my time with Aizawa-Sensei because of a test and forgot when we usually work.”

“It’s okay. You continue with Aizawa and we can just reschedule.”

A deep gravelly voice spoke, “Y/n-Sensei, you can stay here I’ll just reschedule with Shinso.” ‘Is that what Aizawa sounds like in the morning?’ You thought.

“…couldn’t you guys both teach me…?”

“I guess, yeah.” You answered.

“We could…try and combine it?” Aizawa suggested.

“Like combine the staff and the cloth? That could be interesting….” You were intrigued. This could be a really good way of combating, and it’s so new that it would be hard for anyone, including villains, to evade. “Yeah let’s try it out.”

You gave Shinso his staff and he unwrapped his binding cloth. All three of you hypothesized different ways for it to be used. You could use the end of the staff to push the thick side of the cloth around with centripetal force or loop it around the end to toss it.

“Maybe we should improve on the staff…” you add. “We could put some sort of hook or edge on one side, and maybe a small rubber end for grip? I can talk to support about it if you guys are interested.” You walked closer to Aizawa and pointed out the places you could enhance.

“That’s….genius.” Aizawa was looking at you, mouth slightly open and smirking. He put his hands next to yours and you looked up at him shyly until you both realized why you were there.

You jumped at his hands grazing yours, “Uhm… yeah so I’ll go talk to support.”

“..ahh. Sounds good and I think we’re done for the day.” Aizawa said, much more lively than earlier that morning. He waited for you to make you way to the building so he didn’t have to awkwardly walk beside you.

—————-

A few weeks later and A day or so before you’re supposed to meet for lunch again, Aizawa emailed you.

“Y/n-Sensei,

I regretfully have to postpone our lunch for this week as I have a meeting that I am being forced to attend against my will, (god dammit, Hizashi)”

You chuckled. It’s ridiculous how much more respectable you’ve both been to each other lately. Toshinori was right. You texted Toshi that you’ve got to buy him a coffee later, and continued reading Aizawa’s email.

“I was hoping to offer you dinner in place of our usual visit. Please consider accompanying me on our regular lunch date of this coming Wednesday, at 7:00pm.

A.S.”

‘Good fucking god what is that supposed to be? Is he asking me out on a date?!’ You thought. Absolutely freaking out, you decided to find Toshinori and ask him what he thought about it. Maybe having a mans perspective would help? And it’s not like you could as Hizashi, he would blurt it to the whole school.

You walked to the teachers lounge in an attempt to find Toshinori as he usually spent most of his free time there rather than in his office. He probably liked having the company. You heard your heels click on the ground while you walk and you felt powerful, until you opened the lounge door and saw Aizawa sitting on the couch grading papers. You thought maybe he didn’t see you and you could sneak away, but he saw you. He hummed a bit signifying you being welcome to enter but you froze.

“Everything alright y/n?” Toshinori popped his head out of the book he was reading. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Ahh…umm..I’m uhh…” you stammered.

Aizawa looked at you with furrowed brows and a small smile on his face. It looked like he was trying to decipher whatever was happening with you.

“I’m alright!” You blurted and turned to walk out of the lounge. Toshinori looked back and forth between the door and Aizawa a few times.

“What was that about, do you think..?” He asked Aizawa.

Aizawa shrugged and went back to grading. Toshinori decided to follow you and ask what the trouble was. Aizawa was lucky you both left because he was desperately trying to not turn bright red. He was tapping his foot and chewing on his pen until Toshi left the room. Once he left, Aizawa sighed longingly and let himself blush.

Toshinori caught up to you in the hallway as you were walking back to your office.

“Y/n are you sure you’re alright?”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. “IgotanemailfromAizawaandIthinkheaskdmeoutonadateandIhavenoideawhattothinksoIwenttofindyouandhewasinthereandI’mfreakingout!”

“Y/n you’re going to have to slow down.”

You shoved your phone with the email still up in his face.

“Oh wow…. This is…formal…” Toshinori breathed.

You buried your face in your hands as you turned bright red.

“This situation has changed a lot since the last time I spoke to you about him….” Toshi observed.

“Do you think it’s a date? Or do you think this is just him moving our appointment? We’ve been getting lunch every week to discuss Shinso’s progress.”

“Um….if this isn’t a date I need to reevaluate my life.” Toshi clapped his hand over his wide smile. “A.S.?” He laughed so hard he coughed up blood.

“Oh my god stop it Toshi.” You playfully smack his arm as he’s laughing. “You have to keep this a secret!”

Someone steps up to both of you, “Hmm?”

Aizawa stood there intimidatingly drinking the last of his coffee with an unamused face. You froze and Toshi leaned down to you to hand your phone back slowly.

“Well I’d better get going, nice to see you y/n. Aizawa.” Toshi ditched as fast as humanly possible leaving you holding your phone with Aizawa’s email up on it like the email itself would kill you. He slowly moved in toward you to take your phone and you shuddered. At the last second you tossed your phone to your other hand and straight armed his chest to keep him from taking it. His intimidating facade disappeared as he smirked with a spark in his eye. You laughed and tried to hold him back but he got through your defenses.

He reached out for your phone and you spun and ran down the hallway to your office. As soon as he realized where you were going he followed you, almost wiping out turning the corner. You stood in the middle of your office and attempted a stance to hold him back. Once he reached your office he slowed down dramatically, he moved in with a devilish smirk on his face and you started biting your lip.

He faked you out so he could get past you without hurting you and you ended up being pressed chest to chest with your arm out as far as possible, still clutching your phone. He looked down at you hungrily and your eyes widened. Instead of reaching for your phone, he raised his hands to hold your face in between them, pulled you close to him and kissed you hard. You gasped and melted into the kiss and put your hands on his chest.

Suddenly he pulled away grabbed your phone and jumped to the other side of the room. You were in a daze. He opened your phone to see his email to you on the screen.

“So this is your secret with Yagi? Me asking you on a date?” He asked.

“So it is a date!” You exclaimed and pointed at him. He lightly took your finger in his hand and held it.

“Of course it is, moron, what the hell else?” He rolled his eyes, still smiling.

“…I mean we were doing this to help Shinso.”

“Originally yeah, but we haven’t hardly talked about Shinso in weeks.” He explained.

You racked your brain to remember past conversations involving Shinso at lunch. You couldn’t remember the last time. Before you could speak again. He took your hand, which was still holding your pointer finger out, turned it and gave you a soft kiss on the top of your knuckles.

His sensual expression faded. “If you don’t want it to be a date it doesn’t have to be. We can go back to what we were like before…”

“I..uh….I..” you said totally dumb founded.

He placed your hand at your side, handed you your phone and said “consider it.” He walked out of your office with his hands in his pockets looking at the ground.

————————

You paced in your office for a while thinking of what to do. Did UA have a fraternizing policy? Was this all a joke? There’s no way he actually like you…right? How could he. He was incredible. One of the youngest to ever become a UA faculty member, he made accomplishment after accomplishment and you never measured up. Is there any way this could be real?

Despite this, you decided to email him back.

“Aizawa-Sensei,

I accept your invitation to postpone our upcoming meeting until that evening. I would like to accompany you to dinner, if you’ll still have me.”

You didn’t know what else to say do you sent it, and got almost an immediate reply.

“Y/n-Sensei,

Of course I’ll still have you. Always will.

A.S.

PS: I heard from support course and they have finished prototypes of the staffs you were working on. They’d like us to try them out tomorrow, if you’re available.”

Your heart stopped for a second. How was he this sweet? You knew the formality of everything was just him being a dork and flirting, but it still was really cute. And how adorable was he when he was trying to grab your phone, his lips pouted trying to reach past you…

You returned to reality. Maybe this is just a fling, a one time thing. Just something two adults do when they’re bored and nothing else. ‘There’s no way he would want to date you’ you thought. That would be irrational.

[daydream-believin]

A Nice Rock For You, My Love (Please Accept)

Summary: Douxie would like to give the reader a special present.

Warnings: Swearing, stabbing, blood, swords and a knife.

Word Count: 3092 -ten pages 12 point times new roman, baby!

A/N: even i couldn’t predict where the hell this was headed. have fun with this. i sure did ;)

Douxie placed his newest rock onto the window ceil in his bedroom. He’d display it for a while, but add it to the collection jar with the others once it was replaced. Every morning he’s wake up, see the shiny stone on his window ceil, and think of his wonderful significant other.

Y/n was an odd duck, but an endearing one at that. They spent most of their time out in the local forest. Douxie wasn’t sure what they did out there for so long each day, but that didn’t matter as long as they’d come back to see him in the evenings. They’d return to civilization every night scruffy, smelly, and with twigs stuck in their hair, but he thought they looked lovely. Enchanting even. A little dirt never did hurt anyone.

He was going to have to get a new jar soon. Every week or so, Y/n would present him with a new one. A token of their affection for the wizard. He kept every single one. He kept one in the pocket of his favourite jacket. Y/n had found that particular one in the flat of a creek bed. They were drawn in by the bright blue color, reminding them of their beloved wizard’s most recent dye job. After fishing it out, it turned out to be a piece of beach glass, but it was very smooth and rounded. Douxie was using it as a worry stone.

Of course, rocks weren’t the only thing Y/n had brought him. Any small thing not tied down the forest could offer was up for grabs to the local cryptid. Sometimes they’d leave him feathers from a bird they swore they got permission from to take. Sometimes they’d give him sticks they carved intricate designs into. Sometimes bones. A lot of times bones. Not enough bones for visitors in his home to question though. They just assumed he was really goth. One time, Y/n even straight up gifted him a jar of mud. Well, it supposed to be soil from the picnicking spot they often spent their dates, some water from the nearby stream, with a few hand-plucked flower heads added to the top. Romantic, right? Unfortunately, it was accidentally shaken up between the time Y/N made it and the time they presented it to Doux. Still, it was proudly displayed on his shelf.

As tokens of affection began to collect, Doux decided he should return the favor. He’d find the perfect gift for his dear Y/n. One to show them just how much he cared, just how far his affection for them reached. Something to make that toothy smile light up their pretty face. Something to seal a promise to them, that he’d be by their side until the end of time.

So here he was, in this jewelry store, trying to find that perfect shiny rock for his significant other. It wasn’t going too well, to be honest. Everything was too fancy, and quite frankly, too expensive. It was like the whole store was polished and perfect. All those rings were beautiful, yes, but they looked like they belonged on the finger of a middle-class suburban spouse, not his wonderfully scruffy partner. His darling sasquatch. Too impersonal for his taste.

He’d decided that the only way to match Y/n’s energy was to find the stone himself. Luckily, he did live in Arcadia. Right below his feet were a system of caves that spanned at least a hundred miles. Surely the local trolls wouldn’t mind. Okay, so they did, but that wasn’t going to stop him.

After some exploring some of the tunnels for a while and getting a wee bit lost in the maze, he eventually came across a patch of purpley clusters growing from the cave wall. Amethysts, he guessed? Maybe fluorite. Either way, it was marvelous. The color was even close to that of Y/n’s magic. They put off a nice good energy too. This would be perfect. He just needed to find a small enough piece, or chip off a bit, and his quest would be complete. He magicked himself up a knife and set to work. It took him several tries, but eventually he wound up with a nice rock. It wasn’t perfect, even kind of lopsided for a ring, but it was a really good purple rock. Raw too. Uncut and unpolished, like them.

He brought it over to his work buddy Annie’s place. She had been really into jewelry making this year. Douxie had seen some of her work. It was top notch. She’d make him a nice personalized ring and set the stone into it. And he’d have the peace of mind knowing that this gift would be an excellent piece of craftsmanship. Hopefully Y/n wouldn’t lose it in the river. Thankfully, he had measured their ring size during their nap yesterday. So it would be nice and snug. Not drop-in-the-riverable at all… He’d enchant it.

Now all there was to do was wait. He had to give it to them at just the right moment for maximum romantic impact here. He’d watched a thousand proposal videos on youtube to get some semblance of an idea of what he was supposed to be doing. To be honest, a lot of them seemed kind of over the top and forced. While Doux was a showman, he didn’t want to go that route. This moment was going to be special. Intimate. Full of love.

He’d set up a lovely date for the occasion. A moonlight picnic in their favourite spot. Romantic, with candles. And roses. And champagne. He’d bring his acoustic too, to play for them. A classic serenade for his love. He also dressed up the trees around with some twinkly magical lights. He was thinking of making them a little show with magic lights too, to narrate their love story. After it was all over, they’d head over to the clearing to go star gazing. And they’d fall asleep under the stars in each other’s arms as a betrothed couple. Okay, so maybe he was going over the top after all. Just a tad. He couldn’t help it.

Once he got it all set up, he asked Archie to watch over it while he went to go get his darling. He even acquired a blindfold so he could get that maximum surprise effect. But he didn’t take into account the fact that nature isn’t exactly flat, and he had to help them carefully navigate the forest floor. At a certain point, he just decided to just pick Y/n up bridal style and carry them, eliciting a giggle from them. It was faster and easier for both parties. Also more romantic. A win-win. Y/n noticed his heart was beating pretty fast as they leaned against his chest. He was getting antsy as the spot came into view.

He was pleased and relieved to see that nothing had gone amiss so far. Everything was intact. Archie was just lazily snoozing on the blanket. Douxie cleared his throat to catch Arch’s attention and silently shooed him away with a head jerk. The dragon-cat nodded and took off towards town. Douxie placed Y/n down onto the blanket, oh so gently, taking their blindfold off to reveal everything. Y/n was, to Douxie’s dismay, immediately aware that something was up. This was quite the set up before them. They reacted nervously, which disheartened him slightly, but he couldn’t back out now. He wouldn’t back out now. He won’t.

He handed Y/n the bouquet of roses, and they flushed. That wonderful pink color of their cheeks somehow gave him enough courage to help him make it through his entire prepared speech without stuttering. What a feat. Despite their earlier wariness, Y/n was captivated. They hung off his every word. Douxie came to the conclusion that he must be using every drop of luck he had right now. Now for the best part, or the part that could embarrass him the most, depending on whether or not his luck continued. Time to woo his beloved with a special song he wrote just for them. Time to bear his soul. His fingers danced over the strings with practiced skill. The most beautiful melody Y/n had ever heard. They had stars in their eyes. He was halfway through his serenade when the heavens opened up.

Douxie almost instantly cast a magic shield over them. It was beautiful, in a way. The raindrops bucketing down, hitting the transparent glowing shield. It made a private percussion symphony just for them. Rain. Douxie saving the day. It was so cliché, they laughed together. Those freckles on his face danced adorably as he shook with laughter. So, in the spirit of clichés, Y/n decided to repay him for all his chivalry with a kiss. It caught him off guard at first, eyes wide, but he quickly melted into it.

As the kiss deepened, he pulled his fingers through their hair. They let out a moan into his mouth. He couldn’t help the lovesick grin that spread across his face. He turned his attention towards their neck. They tipped their head to give him better access, letting their hands travel down his back. He smelled smokey, he must have had some spell backfire on him today. How endearing. As Doux kissed right under their jaw, they opened their eyes just a half-lid. And then promptly snapped them open all the way. They briskly pulled back, eliciting a whine from Douxie.

“Uhhh, Doux,” He turned around to see what had frightened them.

“Oh fuzzbuckets,” he blinked at the sight, “is that a wolf?” Douxie exclaimed in disbelief.

“No, no, not a wolf. It can’t be a wolf. There’s exactly one singular wolf pack in Cali and its definitely not in fucking Arcadia Oaks.”

The wolf stepped forward. It was smaller than a normal wolf. A wolf-dog maybe. It snarled at them, spit dripping from its sharp teeth. They dared not move, and risk provoking it. Still as statues, Y/n and Douxie watched as it howled a warning to them. Or at least they thought it was a warning.

Suddenly, a very tall figure appeared through the trees. Black cloak billowing in the dark storm, it was if cooked up from some horror novel. Well, a children’s horror novel. It probably could have been much, much scarier. Especially to a couple of wizards that also frequently wore black and walked through the dark with their own less-than-domestic pets. But nevertheless, the sight raised the hackles on the backs of their necks. The wolf-dog ran to its master’s side. The figure patted his familiar’s scruffy head, then strode towards the picnic.

Douxie and Y/n swiftly sprang to their feet. Doux stepped in front of Y/n, to their annoyance. They could hold their own and Douxie knew it, but he couldn’t help those protective instincts. As the figure came closer, he dramatically tossed back his hood. Lightning struck at the very moment his bearded face was revealed to them. Completely by coincidence, honest.

“Eoin?” Douxie exclaimed in surprise. That expression of surprise then twisted into one of disgust. “Oh bleeding balroths, it’s fucking Eoin.” He half-shouted, half-grumbled.

“Aye, Hisirdoux! My old pal! How’ve you been, bruv?” Eoin flourished his cloak and smirked at the two. He eyed up Y/n. “And what a lovely partner you’ve got here, might I add.” Y/n shifted to be a bit more behind Doux.

“What do you want, my friend?” Douxie frustratedly asked. Y/n was getting the impression that, despite the terms of endearment here, these two were not friends.

“Why, don’t you already know, little Douxie? I’m here to settle something I should have long ago.” He said in a now less-than-friendly tone of voice.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Douxie was exasperated. Eoin just started coming closer. “Alright, mate,” Douxie raised his hands, flicking through his cuff, getting ready for what he knew was about to transpire without any more delay. His adversary shot up his hands to stop him.

“Oh! No, no, no! Friend, we’ll settle this like men. The old-fashioned way.”

Eoin summoned two rapiers out of thin air. Both some sort of gleaming black metal and glowing jewels. He kept the one with the red gems in his right hand, and tossed Douxie the one with the blue gems with his left. Color coordination, one supposes. Douxie tested the blade with a few swings and parries. His eyes looked down at the rapier and then to Eoin. They sort of bowed to each other.

They fenced back and forth deftly. It was like a dance. A tango. Y/n was impressed at how light footed Douxie actually was. Maybe he planned this? Was this a part of the show or something? It would be an excellent way to prove how capable he was of defending them from evil or whatever. But they got the feeling that this was undeniably real and not planned by, if not for the rancid aura hanging in the air, the absolutely murderous looks in the two men’s eyes.

The wolf-dog came towards Y/n. They readied a spell for defense, but the dog just, sort of sat next to them? It looked like it was also watching the fight intently. It would woof at the two whenever its master got the upper hand, almost as if cheering him on. Strange. A good boy, Y/n supposed. They’d reach down to pet it but they didn’t fancy losing their hand.

Eventually, Douxie came out on top. The duel had been nasty, but it now looked as if it was all but through. Douxie had Eoin knocked onto his back in the mud at the base of one of the massive old oak trees Arcadia was known for. He held his blade to Eoin’s throat, and they locked eyes. Douxie was huffing for air. But to Eoin’s surprise, He started apologizing. An entire speech. Confusion flashed on Eoin’s face. Hisirdoux had always felt guilty about his transgressions as a lad, about the people he trampled in order to survive before Merlin gave him a home. So he’d spare his old enemy. He was terribly sorry he’d begun this feud in the first place.

“And what say you, old buddy,” Douxie grinned hopefully with a glimmer in his hazel eyes. Douxie held out his hand in an offer of actual friendship. He stared into Eoin’s eyes. Eoin stared into his. Eoin’s shaky hand began to reach up to take Douxie’s. They clasped their hands together. Brothers. And for a moment, Douxie had really thought they had made up this time, looking into Eoin’s feeble smile. That is, until Eoin yanked Douxie down towards himself on the ground. Right into his ready, hungry blade.

To the soundtrack of Y/n’s screams, Eoin stood up, casually tossing Douxie’s limp body off his sword. The wind whipped his cloak as he stormed off, into the storm. The wolf-dog followed his master, howling in victory. Y/n was crossing the woods to cling to Doux in an instant.

He coughed up some blood, and intensely stared into Y/n’s eyes. He weakly took their hand, and caressed their cheek. Then remembered to reach into his pocket and pull out that special ring. He slipped it onto their slick, wet finger. Oh, it appeared that their hands were covered in blood. His blood. Neat.

“I- I wanted to a-” he coughed up some more blood, “to ask you if-”

“Yes! Yes, of course,” they sounded panicked, “please, save your breath, my love.” They pleaded. He feebly leaned in to kiss them, but then his world went black. His body fell like a ragdoll into Y/n’s arms.

Try as they might, they weren’t a healer. Purple light shone like a beacon in the black stormy night. They performed as many healing, even vaguely healing-ish fixit spells as they knew. Unfortunately, this was a stab wound from a magic blade. They couldn’t take him to the hospital, even if they had any trust in modern medicine. Hot tears streamed down their face. But the word hopeless is not devoid of hope. Hope sparked in their heart as they remembered something, somewhere, important.

They had to get him out of here, and fast. He was bleeding out. There was so, so much blood. It had positively soaked through Y/n’s already wet clothes before they were even half way to their destination. The smell of the rain mixing with all the blood was sickening. It was hard to find their way in this darkness. They slipped on the mud and tripped over rocks. Y/n was starting to slip into a panic attack. They couldn’t even go very fast, he was so heavy in their arms. And Y/n was frightened of hurting him even more by accident. Y/n was very, very frightened in general.

Time moved like molasses. In what could have been years for Y/n, the cave they were carrying Douxie to finally came within sight. Their heart was threatening to pound right out of their chest. They mustered up the last of their strength and broke out into a sprint. Bolting through the curtain doors of the cave and knocking around the strings of bones that hung with them, Y/n dropped to their knees.

“Please! Save him! I beg of thee.” They pleaded to the three old women sitting around the hearth.

***

Douxie was awoke to the sound of shuffling and unintelligible whispers. He could smell a strong mix of herbs in the air. He felt the soft back of a cold hand rest on his forehead, so he slowly opened his eyes. He was met with the red tear-streaked face of his beloved. Y/n gasped. they excitedly called to whoever else was in the room with them that he was now awake. He did not recognize these women. He did not recognize where he was. He supposed that didn’t matter.

Y/n pulled him into a gentle hug, as if he were made of glass. A handsome glass sculpture that would shatter if they let go of him. They just lied there, holding onto each other for dear life, for what must have been an hour. Breathing in each other’s scents, they had still refused to let go, but Douxie started to cough again. They reluctantly pulled apart, and y/n started their interrogation about any pain he might be experiencing. He was alright, a little sore, but fine. Nothing time won’t fix. And time he was glad to still have with them.

***

bonus A/N: i swear this was supposed to be normal, just a sappy proposal fic. but once i set everything up i was overcome with the urge to stab him. so i created a character specifically to stab him. idk im not sorry. at first i had eoin like, cheat the duel with magic, but i figured doux would be his own downfall with that bleeding heart of his we all love so much. happy november y’all.

[thiswasinevitableid]

15. Nymph SternClay alternately, Stern is a Dryad residing in a huge forest where a strange creature, similar to humans but different (aka Bigfoot) wanders alone. Ever curious, Stern seeks to understand why this beautiful creature doesn’t seem to have anyone else, and even tries to hide from the few humans who venture deep enough into the woods. Can they be alone together?

Here you go! It’s SFW

Joseph knows he can’t spend every hour in the Great Oak, reading and researching the movements of humans. He still struggles to justify his fascination with creatures that have little contact with his kind. Some of his peers go so far as to insist humans are a myth, or the result of the odd dryad or naiad seeing a bear from the wrong angle. 

This is false, of course, and humans have been getting bold lately, making paths and taking walks deeper and deeper into the trees. This means that dryads assigned to security roles must spend at least six hours a day in their tree to make sure no one threatens their home. Joseph is in a Copper Beech not far from the GreenBriar river, mentally drawing up his to-do list for the week, when heavy footsteps catch his attention. 

At first he thinks it’s a particularly hairy human tromping through the underbrush, decked out in a ratty flannel shirt and what he’s heard humans refer to as “sweatpants.”  But his feet are bare, his limbs and face covered in dark, copper-flecked fur, and his ears are more pointed than those of a human. He leans against Josephs’ tree, drumming his fingers on it as he surveys the area, massive back-pack slung over his shoulders. There’s a flat patch of grass twenty yards away, and this is where the visitor eventually settles. Within fifteen minutes, a small tent sits on the grass. When the creature crawls inside and lays down, his feet stick out of the flap. 

Once snoring filters into the air, Joseph slips from the tree, conjures a blanket from moss, and sets it across his feet. It gets cold here at night.

His kind gesture does not go as planned.

The instant the fabric hits skin, the figure in the tent jolts upright, growling.  Joseph sits back as his guest's head bursts into the open. Then their positions instantly reverse, the other creature scrambling backwards in alarm.

“What the fuck? Where, where’d you come from, I didn’t hear you, didn’t even smell you sneaking up on me.”

Joseph raises his eyebrows, “Probably because I smell like bark and my footsteps are no different from falling leaves.” He holds out his hand for the creature to shark, “Joseph Stern, dryad.” 

“O-kay, so why is a dryad trying to…” he looks at the blanket for the first time, “tuck me in?”

“You’re new to woodland living, I take it?”

“Not really.”

Joseph sighs, “There are specific rules that govern this forest. One of them is that dryads are responsible for everything within a two mile radius of their base” he points to the Beech, “including any residents, visitors, or refugees. Which means you’re my responsibility.”

“Uh, I’m good, you don’t need to, like, babysit me.”

The dryad produces a notebook from his pocket, flipping to the section for his resident intake form, “I’m not babysitting you, I just need some information for my records. Name?”

Deep brown eyes blink, perplexed, and then his guest shrugs, “Barclay.”

“Species?”

“No fucking idea.” Barclay picks up the moss blanket, folding it and setting it next to the tent. 

“Purpose of stay?”

“To get some peace and quiet.” He turns a pointed glare at Joseph. Even with the glower, he’s the most handsome creature the dryad has ever seen. 

“Um. Right. I’ll just fill in the rest myself. If you need anything, I’m just over there.” He walks briskly away, managing to only look over his shoulder once. Barclay is watching him, looking for all the world like a hare waiting for the fox to pounce. 

It’s only when he’s back in the tree that he realizes having a resident will cut down on his research time. Then again, his guest is far more intriguing than any human could ever be.

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

Barclay was so ready to stop feeling bad. He feels bad for stealing the tent from a guy he scared off his campsite two towns back. Bad for yanking clothes off the clothing line of rural houses so he could have two sets to rotate instead of a filthy, single shirt and shorts combo. Bad because it’s been months since he ate anything but MREs, granola bars, and day olds salvaged from dumpsters. 

Now he gets to add “feel bad because you’re crashing on some guys front lawn” to that list. He didn’t even know nymphs were a thing; he thought he was the only weird semi-human in the world. Yet here’s Joseph, hair as dark and shiny as the leaves on his home tree, skin the color of bark, and vines occasionally twining up his arms and legs. Unlike Barclay, his inhuman features make him beautiful, not beastly. 

Barclay came here to be alone. 

Barclay hates being alone. He wants a house full of warmth and voices mingling over a kitchen table, wants people to care for and who care about him. So when Joseph appears the next morning near his small fire and it’s boiling pot of foraged tea, he offers the dryad some. 

They sit, awkwardly sipping from their mugs, when he decides to take advantage of his host.

“I, uh, don’t suppose there’s any herbs growing around here? Like mint, or maybe alliaria? I wanna catch fish for dinner, but they taste better if I can season them.”

“I think there’s some growing upstream. Do you want me to show you?”

“Uh, no, that’s fine. I’m used to finding stuff on my own.”

Joseph nods, finishes his tea, and magics the cup clean before handing it back to Barclay.

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

“What...what’s all this?” Barclay stares, stunned, at the pile of goods sitting by his firepit. He counts a camp stove, teapot, and two boxes of fresh food, including bread and cheese,

Joseph looks up from organizing the supplies, “A few friends of mine, plus the Ashroot Market.” He smiles, Barclay’s stomach flipping like a flapjack when he does, “did you think we live on berries and air?”

“Kinda, yeah.” Barclay rubs his arm, embarrassed, “thanks, Joseph. I, uh, I don’t really have money, so maybe I can pay you back with-” he trails off as the nymph stands and sets a hand on his shoulder. 

“Barclay, you don’t owe me anything. I did this because you keep saying how much you miss cooking from a real pantry and, um, I thought it’d make you happy to have some options.”

“It does.” He freezes as Joseph strokes the fur poking through a hole in shirt, “I can restock your sewing kit the next time, if you want.”

“That’d be great.” He wants so badly to touch him back, to see if he shudders away from his claws or holds his hand. 

Josephs arm drops back to his side, “Ned has a surprising number of camping supplies. I suspect he stole them from humans, which is technically against the rules but” he indicates the stove, “I’ll let it slide for now.” 

A conspiratorial wink and Barclay rumbles out a purr, catching it before Joseph notices.

“Will, uh, will you at least let me make you dinner as a thank you?”

The dryad nods, “That sounds perfect, big guy.”

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

Barclay doesn’t howl often; it draws unwanted attention and there’s no one like him out there to answer anyway. Tonight he couldn’t help it, the loneliness tearing him to bits on it’s climb up his throat. He’s cross-legged on the ground, face to the stars, when Joseph sits down beside him. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Thought you were out.”

“I was reading.” Joseph scoots closer, rubbing Barclay’s back, “and I can tell you’re lying.”

Barclay delays answering, fixes his gaze on the Beech where Joseph lives. Nymph homes occupy liminal spaces, fitting an entire domiciles within trees. His current hobby is imagining what it looks like on the inside; whether there are books stacked neatly everywhere, whether there’s a nice kitchen, how big the bed is, what the view from the bed is like…

He’s never going to know, Joseph made that clear. 

“It’s not that no other creature is allowed in a nymph home, more that getting them in there takes a dangerous amount of energy.”

“Barclay?” Joseph rests his head on his shoulder, “have you always been alone?”

“No. Or, well, I don’t think so. I get flashes of memory from when I was really little. Like there’s this big house with lots people who look like me, and they’re talking and keep passing me around so the grown-ups can ruffle my fur and make this, this sort of” he breaks off into the low, soft hoots that echo down through the years, “and then...then there’s this gap and the next thing I remember is being dumped on the side of the road somewhere in central California, more or less an adult myself. I spent so long looking for my family, for anyone who looked like or could give me answers and all I got was some scars and a bunch of T.V shows about hunting me.” 

“That sounds awful. I, um, I’m glad you stumbled into my neck of the woods. I know I’m not always the best company and ask more questions about living around humans than you’d probably like but, um, you deserve to have at least one person on your side.”

“Thanks” Barclay tips his head sideways so it’s resting against Josephs’, “Uh if, if you ever want to, we could have a dinner here with Duck and them. I like cooking for people; one of those things I know about myself even if I can’t remember why.”

He must imagine the lips brushing his forehead as Joseph sits up, “I’ll invite everyone first thing tomorrow.”

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

A danger of sleeping in Joseph’s clearing is that Barclay feels safe. Starts sleeping like he has nothing to fear. 

The voices in the distance, jarring him awake in the dead of night, remind him of the truth.

“Shit” he scrambles out of the tent, piles it and all his other possessions into a hollow log and throws the moss blanket over it just to be safe. Then the worst sound in the world reaches him: barking. Not only are the hunters close, they have dogs. And, his acute hearing informs him, he’s their prey. 

Fuck, his scent and fur are all over this part of the woods, no wonder they’re honing in on him so fast. His best chance is to run and cross the river, but there’s an open stretch on the other side, so unless he’s lucky they’ll still spot him. 

“Hey! I think something is moving over here!” 

He flattens against the Copper Beech, narrowly dodging the beam of a flashlight. 

“Shit, shit” he doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He doesn’t want to be caught. Inhaling, he readies himself to give the loudest roar of his life. 

Then the world tips and twists and he’s no longer in the woods. He is, however, in a tree, if the view from the window is anything to go by.

Gasping sends his attention to the floor and he drops to his knees, scooping a limp, pale Joseph into his arms. 

“Wel, welcome to my house. Sorry it’s such a, a mess.”

He glances at the polished furniture, the neatly stacked books, and the spotless floor.

“Seriously, babe? That’s the first thing you say after saving my neck?” He giggles, tipping towards hysteria. 

“I couldn’t let them hurt you.”

“You could have died.” Barclay adjusts him so he’s mostly upright and hugs him close, “I coulda lost you why, why did you-”

His question is lost in the clumsy kiss Joseph pulls him into. Barclay’s body gives up on adapting to anymore surprises and he falls onto his back, the nymph weakly petting his cheeks as he tries, clearly exhausted, to continue kissing him. 

“You’re the most incredible being in the forest and, and I’ve been so happy since you came to stay. My entire body feels like a leaf beaten limp by the rain and I’d do the same spell this instant, without hesitation, if that’s what it took to keep you safe. Keep you with me.”

Carefully, Barclay guides him into another kiss, vines curling up them both the more he pours all his affection and thanks into the nymphs mouth. When Joseph finally pulls away, he nestles down on Barclays chest, running his fingers through his fur. 

“You, um, you may be here awhile. I’m not sure if I can get you out safely or if Dani and the others will have to help me.”

“No complaints here.” Barclay strokes his hair, which feels like soft leaves and normal locks all at once. 

Joseph answers a few more logistical questions before falling asleep in his arms, which is plenty of answers for one night. And in the morning, when the nymph rolls over to smile at him, he can confirm; the view from the bed is beautiful.

[gamerwoo]

Wonwoo: Atlas

Characters: Wonwoo x female reader

Genre/warnings: mafia au, angst, little bits of fluff here and there but it just adds to the angst tbh, alcohol, smoking, Woo being depresso

Word count: 2,632

Summary: Atlas shrugged his shoulders, said he'd drop that boulder. Call me in the morning when I'm sober, find me in the corner in a coma.

a/n: this was inspired by the song atlas by keshi (and if u like sad boy vibes i highly recommend his music!!!). things in italics are flashbacks (also i didn’t even listen to atlas for half of this i just listened to call me kevin play the sims lmao) ALSO im doing 2 other keshi songs (probably for mingyu and hongseok but idk) and while this technically is a mini series using keshi songs, they won’t be a continuation of this fic. they’re going to be their own lil things. ok that’s it goodbye

2 soon | the reaper 

Limping down the street, the streetlamps being the only source of lighting, Wonwoo’s mind couldn’t help but wander. There were no cars going by at this time of night, not even a cool breeze to listen to the shaking leaves in the trees. The street was dead silent other than his heavy footsteps as he tried to make it home on his own. He was sure God or whatever higher power out there was out to get him lately since on top of everything else, his car had broken down and he was left to walk the rest of the way after calling Mingyu to make sure someone would get the car.

Had anyone been walking around this time of night, they’d probably call the police seeing Wonwoo awkwardly walking down the street with his hurt leg. Despite the nice suit, it was unbuttoned, slightly torn, and stained with splatters of blood. His white shirt underneath was half undone and splattered with blood as well, his tie was hanging loosely around his neck, his hair was disheveled, his right eye was beginning to bruise, and the left corner of his lip was caked with dried blood. There was a trail of dried blood going from his nose to his top lip as well, and his tired expression only added to his awful appearance. 

“Oh my god, Wonwoo!” you gasped when you spotted him from the window, Joshua and Minghao rushing out behind you.

It was one of the first times he’d come home beaten up. You didn’t know about his line of work when you’d first started dating, but when it began to become more serious, he had to break and tell you. Finding out your boyfriend was in the mafia worried you for obvious reasons, to a point where for a while, two of the men he worked with had to stay at the house with you to make sure you didn’t go off trying anything stupid. But you did often pace the kitchen, checking out the window that faced the street to see when his car pulled in. And one night, you saw him be helped out of the car by Seungcheol because Wonwoo was so beaten up.

“It’s okay, baby,” he reassured you as you rushed to him.

“Careful, careful,” Seungcheol warned, not wanting you to throw yourself into him or anything. Jeonghan had just stitched up his gunshot wound, but Wonwoo made him swear not to tell you that much.

“What happened?” you asked, looking him over. He looked about as messy as his clothes, and that was saying something since he was missing his jacket he left the house with, and his shirt was barely hanging onto his body by thin threads. You moved to Wonwoo’s other side, putting his arm around your shoulders. “I’ve got him.”

Seungcheol carefully leaned your boyfriend’s weight onto you, letting you practically carry the poor man inside. Wonwoo managed to smirk at how worried you were. He knew it just meant you cared, and that meant the world to him.

“You’re so cute,” he chuckled, which then turned into coughing that only worsened your anxiety about his injuries. “Let the boys handle it, okay? I’ll be fine.”

You scoffed, “Not a chance.”

Wonwoo pulled a carton of cigarettes from his pocket, taking a cigarette and a lighter out from the pack. He put it between his lips and lit the end before taking a long drag and letting the smoke waft out from his mouth. His eyes locked on the driveway of his house as he recalled how many times you’d dragged him inside, sat him down on the couch or leaned him up against the sink in the kitchen and patched him up. He smiled fondly, remembering all the times you’d scolded him for so long until you were just repeating yourself, only to sigh and say, “You know I love you, right?”. 

But now, he walked up the driveway alone. Despite his limping, there was nobody to carry him home. He had to push himself up the steps, pausing on each one to brace himself for the next. He walked into the house, expecting the echo of his footsteps that he was used to even during your relationship, but not used to the emptiness he felt in the house. At least when his shoes would hit the hardwood as he walked to the bathroom to clean himself up, he knew you were upstairs. But now, he knew he was the only one in the house, and that was a new feeling. A new but vaguely familiar feeling of being alone. He was alone before you, but he was so accustomed to your presence that he forgot what it was like to not have anybody there when he came home.

“Wonwoo--”

“Go back upstairs,” Wonwoo huffed, trying to get to the basement while Junhui and Mingyu helped him.

This time it was worse. You were used to him coming home later, so you no longer wasted an hour or two pacing by the kitchen window, but instead waited until you heard the heavy sound of his boots against the hardwood in the hallway, going toward either the kitchen or the bathroom. He wasn’t always hurt, but this time, he was in worse shape than he’d let you know. That was why there were more men with him.

“But--”

“_____,” he growled, his eyes glancing up at the stairway you were now frozen on. He’d used this voice before -- only a handful of times to show he was serious and didn’t want to fight you on whatever it was -- but it always made you freeze completely where you were. “Go.”

Mingyu and Jun continued to help him to the basement, Seungcheol and Soonyoung following behind them. You waited until you heard the basement door close before dropping your head and going back up the stairs to your room.

Glancing away from the staircase, Wonwoo continued down the hall to the kitchen. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon he left unfinished on the counter before going for the basement door. He threw it open, not bothering to close it behind him because there wasn’t a point to anymore. He was lucky he managed to get down the stairs without falling down them before he went over to his little corner where his desk was. They’d used the basement for plenty of things before, but it was mostly where he kept his ‘business things’. That’s why you weren’t to go down there -- not that that didn’t stop you from checking on Wonwoo from time to time when he had locked himself away down there.

Wonwoo flopped down in his chair, opening the bottle and taking a swig. He stared across the room, trying to grasp the reality that he was alone in the house. He wasn’t sure when it would finally sink in, but it hadn’t yet. It had been a month and he still had himself thinking he could hear your footsteps as you tried to sneak downstairs to check on him, or the shower running with your soft singing drifting from under the door. But the harsh truth was that you were gone an he was just imagining these things.

At first when he got home, you were the first thing he would check on. He wanted to know about your day, what you did, how you were feeling. He was grateful when you had dinner made for him -- even if it was cold by the time he got home -- and loved relaxing on the couch or in bed with you when he got home. But he slowly started seeing you less and less. He didn’t see you most days at all, so you looked forward to the nights. But more often, he started politely turning down dinner to go the basement -- that eventually turned into straight-up ignoring it to go do more work at his desk. Instead of checking up with you, he started going straight to the bathroom to clean himself up before silently grabbing a small snack and retreating to the basement until you were already fast asleep and he was crawling into bed for 2-3 hours of sleep. It got to a point where you barely saw Wonwoo at all.

And as Wonwoo took another drink right after letting out more cigarette smoke, he knew it was all his fault. He got too caught up in his job. He loved you, but he didn’t realize he wasn’t showing it like he should’ve. He made you feel unloved and forgotten and overlooked. It wasn’t a 50/50 situation, it was 100% his fault that you left him.

He put out his cigarette in his ash tray and eyed the bottle before he put his feet up on his desk and took a longer drink this time.

-

“Wonwoo,” he heard your voice in his ear, trying to shake him awake after another late night. But he had the day off today, and you were excited to spend every moment with him that you could. “Wonwoo, wake up!”

A smack to his cheek had his eyes shooting open as he let out a gasp.

“Jesus Christ, Wonwoo,” Mingyu breathed, sitting back as he realized the older man was awake, “I thought you were fucking dead. How much did you drink?”

Considering the slap Mingyu gave him didn’t hurt as bad as the metaphorical slap that his awful reality gave him, clearly not enough.

“None of your business,” Wonwoo slurred as he struggled to keep his eyes open, definitely hung over from drinking until he passed out -- again.

“You need to stop doing this,” the younger boy sighed, giving Wonwoo a stern look, “not even just because Seungcheol’s fed up with it, but because it’s not healthy.”

“What does it matter?” he grumbled, refusing to get up. Instead, his hand searched the floor for his bottle of alcohol.

“Will you stop with that shit? Come on, Wonwoo, _____ leaving doesn’t mean the end of the world!”

“Have you ever been in love?”

When Mingyu was silent, Wonwoo scoffed, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Well it was still your own fault she left you,” Mingyu stated, rolling Wonwoo onto his back with his shoe. “You said it yourself, so you can’t say it’s not true. You neglected her and now you’re throwing yourself a pity party when you did it to yourself.”

“Get out of my house,” Wonwoo groaned, deciding to cover his ears instead of search for the bottle of bourbon. 

“You’ve been pulling this shit every fucking day for a month,” Mingyu spat, ignoring how obviously annoyed Wonwoo was getting. Everyone was annoyed with Wonwoo’s behavior so this was only fair. “Someone always has to waste their time and come here to make sure you didn’t drink yourself dead.”

“Then stop checking!” Wonwoo shouted, finally peeling his eyes open to glare up at Mingyu. “Go the fuck away!”

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back. You stood in front of his desk, your own angry expression dissipating and being replaced with hurt instead. The two of you had been arguing because he’d been so distant, and while you understood that the basement was where he got more work done, you didn’t see the need for him to continue working when he was away ‘working’ all day. But his anger bubbled over and now he’d crossed the line.

“Wait, _____--”

You just shook your head at him, eyes filling with tears as you rushed to go back upstairs. Wonwoo called for you to come back, but you just ignored him, slamming the basement door closed. Wonwoo groaned and sat down in his chair, rubbing over his face with his hands.

That was definitely the biggest push for you to leave.

And now here he was, in the same room his life started falling apart. Why couldn’t he wake up to you like he thought he was? Better yet, why couldn’t he wake up and have everything just start over? He wanted to go back to when things were good and he wanted to keep them that way. But life didn’t work that way. It couldn’t just reset, it just kept going.

But Mingyu had to be a nuisance and interrupt Wonwoo’s dreams where everything was actually going well and he was happy.

Mingyu sighed, taking a seat in Wonwoo’s desk chair. He rested his elbows on his knees, running his hands through his hair. Why did Seungcheol have to send him to check up on Wonwoo? Why not Seungkwan or Seokmin? Somebody who had people they loved and could relate to Wonwoo? No offense, but Mingyu didn’t give two shits about Wonwoo’s broken heart.

“Look,” Mingyu said a bit softer, trying to be more level-headed about this, “I get you’re upset and you’ve never had to deal with heartbreak so you don’t know how to cope. But with this kind of...lifestyle, you should really need to come to terms with the fact that nothing will ever really go the way you planned it to.”

“That isn’t good advice,” Wonwoo sighed, not even trying to sit up. His eyes had even closed again, so Mingyu knew the older man didn’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon. “Just go.”

Mingyu stood, rolling his eyes and fixing his suit jacket, “Seungcheol’s going to be pissed, y’know.”

“Good for him.”

“Whatever,” Mingyu sighed. “I’ll send Seungkwan tonight to make sure you haven’t slipped into a coma or something.”

Wonwoo only hummed in response, waiting until he heard the Mingyu’s footsteps go up the stairs before closing the basement door. Then he finally pushed himself up off the floor, stumbling the whole time. But it was only to retrieve the bottle of bourbon with only a little left at the bottom. So he took the bottle, wobbled his way up the stairs to the kitchen to get another, and then carried on to the living room, finishing off the first bottle.

“Well, well, well,” you grinned seeing Wonwoo emerge from the basement. He was still in his ‘work’ clothes, but everything was undone to make it a little more comfortable for him since he was at home, “look who decided to show up.”

“What’re you watching?” he mused as he wandered into the living room and glanced at the TV. “Wheel of Fortune?”

You shrugged, “It’s 2am.”

“Eh, it’s not the worst show,” Wonwoo sighed as he let himself drop back onto the couch beside you. He normally would’ve scolded you for staying awake so late, but it was a Friday night so he couldn’t give any excuses as to why you needed to be in bed. Besides, he wanted to hang out with you for a bit before he was way too exhausted. “Did you eat?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, shifting so you were leaning into your boyfriend’s side.

You kept your eyes on the TV, playing along like you had been before. You still continued to say your answers out loud despite Wonwoo sitting right there, but he merely chuckled. He thought it was kind of cute.

You were so immersed in the show that you didn’t even feel his gaze on you for the last five minutes.

“_____.”

“Hmm?”

You turned your head to look at him, seeing him smiling at you with so much fondness.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Wonwoo opened the second bottle as he stared at the TV, his reflection in the black screen reminding him that he was alone -- not just on the couch, but completely, utterly alone.

He put the bottle to his lips.

[lopithecusfanfiction]

A Little Generosity Can Go A Long Way

Author: Lopithecus Pairing: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne Rating: General Word Count: 1352 Alternate: AO3 Summary: It's 3:00 am when an intruder enters Bruce's house. Things don't go quite as planned. Warnings: 

Robbery

Intruder

Author's Note: This is for @lovelastart​ who requested “Home Invasion” from the Hurt/Comfort Bingo (I am no longer taking prompts for this.) First and foremost, apologies are in order. Lovelastart, I am really, really sorry this took me an abysmal amount of time to get this done. At first, it was because I was having really bad frequent migraines (which, unfortunately, have not gone fully away but they are a little less at the moment) and then I got let go from my job and I was really depressed from that and… well, time got away from me and before I knew it, 3 months had passed. I’m terribly sorry about that! Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want my excuses and you just want the fic you requested of me, so here you go. I hope you enjoy it!! Prompt: Home Invasion

Bruce yawns tiredly as he makes his way to the kitchen. It’s 3:00 am in the morning and everyone is asleep already, including Alfred. It was a pretty tame night, thankfully, and so there was no need for the older man to stay awake if Bruce was going to come home unscathed. That left Clark, who goes to bed early anyway.

Bruce opens the fridge, looking for something to eat quickly so he can sink himself into bed and finally go to sleep. Although nothing major happened that night, he still had to take care of his fair share of robberies which, depending on the sheer amount, can be pretty tiring in and of itself. Tonight, it had been a lot.

Finally deciding on just getting cereal, Bruce grabs for the milk when suddenly something is hitting his head, knocking him over to the side, and causing him to bang into the refrigerator door. He falls to the floor but quickly scrambles to get up, cupping the side of his head. He can feel a little wetness there now, which probably means he’s bleeding.

Guess Alfred is going to be getting up after all.

Bruce faces his opponent and squares him up. It’s a stocky man, tall, wearing a black ski mask to hide his features and a long, thick jacket. He’s also holding some kind of metal rod that is luckily thin enough that it couldn’t do too much damage to Bruce’s skull. The guy should have picked a different weapon. Bruce would laugh if it was something he did during a fight.

The guy lunges for him and Bruce just barely dodges. He takes note of how slow his body is moving, having worn itself out from his earlier fights. Still, he’s Batman, and Batman isn’t taken out from some lowlife thug breaking into his own house.

Bruce brings his elbow down onto the guy’s neck as the intruder stumbles past Bruce’s sidestep, knocking the man to the ground with a heavy grunt from the man. He groans on the floor, twisting to look at Bruce through the holes in the mask, bringing the bar back up to strike at Bruce. Unfortunately, Bruce isn’t fast enough this time and he manages to land a strike on Bruce’s side. He can take it though. He’s had worse.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Bruce asks as he reaches out for the bar as the man swings again. Bruce catches it in his hand, ignoring the sting of the impact on his palm, and yanks it out of the still wheezing man. Despite his size, he’s not very skillful or strong.

The whole man’s body collapses onto the floor, all tension leaving his body as he flops onto his back. “Damn it…” he sounds like he might cry. “I just…” Bruce stays quiet, letting the man get his nerve up. If he were dressed as Batman, he might have punched him for encouragement but at the moment he’s supposed to be billionaire Bruce Wayne and Bruce Wayne doesn’t go around punching criminals. “How’d you beat me?” the man asks instead.

Bruce resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Did you really think, as a rich man, I wouldn’t know some self-defense?”

“I guess not,” the man mumbles.

“What is your name?” Bruce relaxes as well. The guy is obviously no longer a threat.

The man pulls the ski mask up to reveal his face. “George.”

Bruce reaches out, offering a hand. “Well, George, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble soon so you might as well tell me why you did this.”

George takes the offered hand, allowing Bruce to haul him back up onto his feet. “I need the money,” he says quietly as if it’s something he should be ashamed of.

Bruce sighs. “It’s really early. Are you hungry? The police probably won’t give you anything decent for a while.”

“What?” George’s eyes are huge. “You’re… you’re offering to feed me?”

“Based on those muscles, you should be stronger. I take it you haven’t eaten a nice meal in a long time,” Bruce comments, shrugging nonchalantly. 

George looks down at his feet, bashful almost. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

Bruce sighs again. “Look, I’m not that great of a cook, but my boyfriend is amazing. Let me go get him.” He gives George a pointed look. “Don’t go running off. The police will find you and if they can’t, you can guarantee Batman will.”

George audibly swallows hard. “I won’t, Sir, I promise.”

“Right…” Bruce goes to leave but then stops. He turns and opens a cabinet up, pulling out a bottle of wine. He looks at it and then the man’s jacket. “Maybe we can drink a little of this with our meal. I know it’s early but… it’s Gotham.” He places it down on the counter. “You know, this bottle could be sold for up to $10,000 dollars.” He leaves it at that, turning and heading up to his bedroom.

When he reaches the bedroom, it doesn’t take much to wake Clark who is immediately on him, checking his wounds. “You should have called for me. I would have helped.”

“It’s a robber, Clark, I could handle it.” At Clark’s disbelieving eyes, he adds, “I handled it.”

Clark sighs in defeat, knowing he won’t win this argument. “Let’s get you patched up then.”

“Actually, there’s something I need you to do first.”

Bruce leads Clark down to the kitchen once the Kryptonian has put on his glasses, grabbing a business card on his way, and explaining the issue. Clark seems amused by the whole thing but doesn’t comment on Bruce’s generosity. When they get back to the kitchen, Bruce notices the wine bottle is gone. He says nothing.

“Good morning, George,” Clark greets. “I hear you are in need of a meal.”

“A-actually,” he fidgets where he stands. “I think I’ve decided I’m not that hungry.” His eyes dart to the door. Bruce wonders if he’s going to try and make a run for it.

“Okay, how about this, George?” Bruce begins, stepping closer. George takes a step back. “I won’t call the police on you in one condition.”

“What do you want?”

“For you to eat something.”

George stares at him as if he’s gone insane but eventually slowly nods his head. “Okay.”

Clark smiles at him and immediately starts to cook the three of them breakfast while talking aimlessly, mostly about the vacations he and Bruce have gone on together. Once done, they all sit at the island, eating their scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. George hums appreciatively, eating quickly. When he’s finished, he stands, chugs the rest of his water, and then says, “Well, thanks for the meal, Mister Wayne.” He gives Clark a nod in thanks. “I better get going.”

“Hmm,” Bruce hums, not giving the man much attention until he’s almost out the door. “George,” he calls him back, making George stop in his tracks and turn to face him. “The next time you need money, here.” Bruce hands him the business card that he had shoved into his sweatpant’s pocket. “Wayne Enterprises is always looking for people with your tenacity to work for them.”

George’s entire face lights up red. “T-t-thank you, Mister Wayne!” Then he’s gone, running through Bruce’s yard to get back down to the street.

Clark rubs a hand through Bruce’s hair, on the side that isn’t bruised, carding his fingers through the locks there. “That was kind of you, to offer a job.” Clark turns to look in the direction George is heading. “Do you think he’ll be okay with just that? He seemed not well off, at all.”

Bruce, thinking about the bottle of wine, smiles at Clark and leans over to give him a quick kiss on the lips. “He’ll be fine.” He stands, stretching his arms above his head, not missing the way Clark watches as his shirt rises up to show his stomach a little. “Now help me clean and bandage these wounds so I can finally go to sleep.”

—————————————————————————————————

A/N: So, a little less hurt, a little less comfort, but oh well. I hope you liked it anyway Lovelastart!

I started writing this with one thing in mind but Bruce refused to not be kind to George once he learned of the situation.

Thank you for reading!!

[maevemarethyu]

Unexpected (2/?)

You weren’t expecting it. Neither of you were.

That didn’t mean you weren’t happy with how it ended.

Warnings: Cheating, Threats, Sad Boi Hour, Heatbreak, I’m not quite sure what else.

Steve and Sam are waiting for Bucky when he walks into the shared living room; looking every part of a pair of worried parents. The familiarity of it lifts a weight from his shoulders. Meeting you hadn’t been what he expected, then again, he didn’t know what he was expecting in the first place.

He only knew that you weren’t it and he was glad.

“How’d it go? You rushed outta here before either of us could stop you.” Steve worries, resting a hand on his best friend’s shoulder. Steve had been there for him for as long as Barnes could remember and Sam had been a rock keeping the two old men above water in the new age.

“Y/N is something.” He mutters cryptically as he crashes onto the couch, mind swirling as he tries to make sense of everything that had happened. The lack of elaboration has his friends looking at him for an explanation.

“Something as in good or something as in she threw something at you and called you a liar before chasing your ass away from her house.” Sam asks, taking the seat next to Barnes and earning a glare.

Good. You were definitely good despite your very bad situation. He had run to you half cocked with no plan and laid what was probably the worst news possible on you while your kid was asleep in the other room.

“She- They- a kid. She has a daughter named Laysa. Four weeks old.” Disbelief laces his voice. He could understand why Claire would cheat on him; he was a broken weapon made by HYDRA with more issues than Time Magazine. But, you?

He couldn’t understand why anyone would cheat on you. You were beautiful and thoughtful and the brief glimpse he’d caught of the fire in your eyes made his stomach twist in a way he didn’t want to elaborate on for a long while.

And you had a child. Patrick had a family with you; a domestic life Claire had snubbed Bucky for desiring.

“What?” Steve says through grit teeth. The Captain was like his friend; he too wanted to eventually settle down and start a family. When they were younger, the two Brooklyn boys had it all planned out. They’d marry the loves of their lives and get houses side by side; their kids would grow up together and they’d take turns having Sunday brunches at each other’s houses till they were old and gray.

The dream may have been postponed a few decades but, when Bucky told Steve about proposing to his long-time girlfriend, he was happier than he could ever remember being. After all the shit HYDRA put him through, he was glad Buck had found a nice girl like Claire.

How wrong he had been.

“You did the right thing telling her. She deserved to know.” Sam adds but, Bucky just shakes his head.

“I could have worded it better.” He admits, twisting the ring on his finger. “She opened the door and I blanked. Then I basically yelled it in her face: Your husband is fucking my wife.”

He watches Steve’s face go red from secondhand embarrassment and Sam fails in holding back a laugh but, they all fall silent when someone clears their throat. Barnes feels the hairs on the back of his neck raise as he reluctantly turns to face the new person in the room. A person he had purposefully left out of this because A. She was on a mission and B. He thought she would raise hell when she found out.

“Hey Nat…” Steve coughs awkwardly.

Fresh off a hard mission, covered in scrapes and bruises, and scowl on her face; Natasha Romanoff looked ready to raise all seven layers of hell.

“Someone. Explain.” She asks calmly… too calmly. It unnerves the three men in the worst way possible and Bucky’s explaining the situation before his brain can catch up. Once he’s finished, the woman simply mutters an okay before walking out of the room and leaving the trio speechless.

She returns a minute later in a fresh change of clothes and is stuffing knives in different pockets of her pants.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, curious and worried at the same time.

“I’m going to fucking kill them.” She announces, making her way to the door. If it were anyone else, Barnes would have thought it was a joke but, he knew Natasha. He knew what happened to people that hurt her family and, even thought he loathed himself for it, he still cared about Claire.

“Natalia.” She stops with a huff when Bucky calls her name. “Please, don’t.”

For once, she doesn’t fight him and she instead takes a seat on the armchair across from him.

“If I ever see her again, I will not hesitate. I mean it Bucky.”

“She doesn’t even know I know yet. Neither of them do. Y/N wants to wait until her divorce papers are ready.” Her green eyes soften at his obvious pain. In all the years they’d known each other, she’d never seen him like this. “Her friends are lawyers and she asked if I wanted to meet them with her tomorrow.”

“I hope you said yes.” To his surprise, its Steve that says it. Out of everyone in this room, he’d have thought Steve would be the one handing out second chances. In a messed-up way, he was glad the courtesy didn’t extend to cheating spouses.

“I did. We’re meeting for breakfast.” He nods, and the three Avengers let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Mr. Barnes.” FRIDAY’s voice echoes in the silent room. “There is a Miss Y/N Voight calling for you. Should I take a message?”

As soon as the AI says your name, his breath catches in his throat and his mind goes straight to the worst-case scenario: Patrick came home and something happened to either you or Laysa.

“No, you can patch her through Fri.”

There’s a shuffle over the speakers before your voice is heard.

“Hello? James?” To his relief, you didn’t sound any more distressed than you were when he left.

“I’m here Y/N. I’ve got Steve, Sam, and Nat here with me. Is everything alright?”

“Oh, hi other Avengers. Yeah, it’s just that I called Matt’s secretary and explained the situation. She told me to bring any official pre-nuptial documents with us tomorrow and figured I should let you know but, I didn’t have your number. Had to call the station to get this one.”

He didn’t like the idea of you calling your husband’s place of work but, you didn’t sound bothered by it and he hopes its because you managed to avoid talking to him directly.

“Секретарь? Я думал, вы сказали, что юристы - ее друзья.” The secretary? I thought you said the lawyers are her friends. Natasha asks in her mother tongue, a habit she and Barnes had gotten into whenever they needed to have a private conversation, and the man shrugs.

“Они мои лучшие друзья и заботятся обо мне.” They're my best friends and, they care about me. You reply without missing a beat, catching everyone in the room off guard. “If I tell them before tomorrow, nothing is stopping them from finding and maiming Pat… my soon-to-be ex-husband. You aren’t the only one with scary friends Barnes.”

Your words were so brazen that Bucky could picture you sitting on the phone with a smirk on your face as clear as day and a grin finds its way onto his face; earning a curious glance from Steve.

“Anyways, I’ve gotta go. Laysa’s fussing.” Sure enough, a sharp cry comes from the speaker. “I’ll see you tomorrow James and, I guess goodnight everyone else? Keep up the good work? Bye.”

When the call ends, everyone’s eyes turn to Bucky and he keeps his head down. It was kind of you to risk a confrontation with your husband to help him get prepared for tomorrow. He couldn’t imagine being kind in a situation like yours. You had a child to worry about through this; you had every right to be bitter.

“Fri. Can you print out-“

“Already on it Mr. Barnes.” The AI announces and, not for the first time, Bucky is grateful for Tony’s stubbornness. If it weren’t for Stark there wouldn’t be any pre-nuptial documents. James had thought it a waste of time when it was first brought up but, it looks like he’d need to thank the billionaire once more for forcing him to sign the papers.

“She sounded oddly cheery for someone who just found out their husband was cheating on them.” Sam frowns, causing Bucky to look at him in confusion.

Did Sam not hear the way your voice cracked when you mentioned calling the station? Could he not tell you had just cried your voice hoarse? Was he oblivious to you attempt of covering up your pain with thinly veiled humor?

No, you were not cheery. You were shattered, just like him but, you were trying your best to seem put together. He could see right through you. His friends though, they didn’t seem as attuned to your sorrow.

“We all process grief differently. For all we know, she’s still in shock.” Steve reasons, ever the mediator.

“She sounds like she has her hands full.” Natasha hums in agreement. “She’s probably focused all of her attention on the baby. I know it helped Laura whenever Clint was away on missions.”

You were coping, in your own way. Barnes decided to take your lead, standing from his seat.

“Heading to bed Buck?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you all in the morning.” He lies before leaving in the direction of his room. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, not with the images of Claire and Patrick burned into his eyelids so, he bypasses his bedroom and makes his way to the gym a floor below. He hated lying to his friends but, they were like yours, they cared about him almost too much. They were always so eager to help and he was grateful for it, really, but sometimes he needed to be alone in order to work through whatever problem he was having. The man liked his solitude.

When Bucky had told Steve he wanted his own apartment, the blonde nearly had a conniption but, he eventually relented and together they had found a place not too far from the compound. Right now, he was missing his little slice of solitude.

Thankfully, the gym is deserted when he arrives and, as he sets up a punching bag, his mind wanders; remembering times when his life wasn’t so damn complicated. Back when he’d spend the afternoon looking down alleys to make sure Steve wasn’t getting his ass handed to him. Back when the most he had to worry about was whether to take Sally or Jane dancing that evening.

He can only stay in that headspace for so long before he’s back to reliving the worst moment of his new life. He had thought he finally got it right with Claire; he used to think she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, she was smart, a kick-ass agent, she made him feel like he was able to put himself together again with her help. She was too good for him and he used to think it was only him who thought it.

After years of being together, she’d finally thought it too.

A hard jab to the bag slices it open, pouring sand into his sneaker and he almost yells in frustration. Then he remembers you and the way you chucked your phone past his head without so much as a sound. His anger was explosive but, yours? Your anger was silent and seething; dare he say calculating.

He wondered if you’d look as lovely screaming as you did seething before shaking the thought from his head with wide eyes. Whenever he and Claire argued; whether or not she was pretty was the last thing on his mind.

Comparing you to his wife should have been the last thing on his mind but, no matter how hard he tried, your face was the one to pop up when he lost focus. He wasn’t upset by it thought, he’d much rather remember your face instead of Patrick and Claire’s in the throes of passion.

Yeah, he’d much rather remember how nice your smile was as you got your daughter’s bottle ready.

[twothumbsandnostakeincanon]

Every time you lose someone you truly love, you lose a primary feather... And Stiles realizing how few feathers he actually has left in relation to his friends, the pack, etc

oh it’s make Twothumbs cry hours huh? That’s what we’re doing tonight?? We’re making me cry??? I’m taking you all down with me. 

Scott’s feather was the first feather Stiles actually remembered growing. 

The fierce love he had for his brother-by-choice had spiked a pinfeather a year after his mother’s feather had fallen out. Once the new one reached full size, Stiles had been able to fly again. Still clumsy, still a struggle- but he’d been able to fly on his own for the first time in a year.

Sometime after that he grew a feather for Lydia too, giving him his third. He knew Lydia didn’t have one for him, but that was okay. The extra feather had given him more stability, made staying in the air a little easier, and that was enough for him to love her even more.

His father’s feather was the on the furthest tip of his right wing. The feathers he grew for his favorite deputies at the station lived on his right wing too. Melissa’s feather was on the left, in between Scott’s and Lydia’s. 

He had a total of eight primaries at the beginning of his sophomore year. Classmates laughed at his notorious clumsiness, sniggering as he banked wildly in the air, their young minds unable to make the connection of exactly why he lacked the fine control most others had naturally with ten or more primary feathers.

Stiles didn’t really care. He’d come a long way from a single feather. 

Perhaps that was why he went with Peter, though: the single primary feather hanging loosely from his wings. It was such a foreign and familiar sight; familiar from a year of seeing it on himself, and foreign for having never seen it on anyone else. 

He could have fought more. Could have argued, could have screamed, could have done any number of things on that field. Instead, he looked at that dangling feather, and went with him. 

Later that evening, he looked at it again as it drifted to the ground moments before Derek ripped out Peter’s throat. 

__________

God, he ached. 

Stiles gingerly taped gauze over the cut that Argent left in his thigh before reaching for the arnica cream. He decided to only put it on the biggest bruises, and yet ended up covering most of his body anyway.

After that, he carefully stepped into sweats, forgoing a shirt. He could put one on after he checked over his wings. 

Stiles sat down on his bed, turning on his lamp and directing it toward himself like a spotlight. Then he stopped. He needed to check them- he knew that bastard had at least ripped out a handful of coverts. 

But he didn’t look. He just sat there. Exhausted, unwilling, and alone. 

Scott was at Allison’s house. 

Just like he’d been when the kanima had trapped Stiles at the pool. 

Just like the day after Matt brought the kanima to the station, when Stiles lost three primary feathers.

Just like every other time Stiles had needed him in the last few months. 

“Well, one of us was recently dead, but by the looks of things here I’m not sure it was actually me.” 

Stiles, lacking the energy to startle, just slowly looked up at his window to see Peter smoothly duck in. 

“You’re actually back,” he said with a blink. Peter raised an eyebrow.

“You saw me at the warehouse, didn’t you?” he asked. Stiles waved a hand. 

“I got the shit kicked out of me and then crashed my car into a lizard boy,” he said listlessly. “What I did and didn’t see is up for some serious debate.” 

“Hm,” Peter said, eyes sharply taking in the bruises and cuts on Stiles’ upper body. “I can see that.” 

Stiles suddenly remembered that he’d helped kill Peter, and that he currently had all of his injured vulnerable points on display. He thought he should probably be more concerned about it than he was. 

Instead, he finally reached back and carefully pulled out his left wing, looking away from Peter and checking it over. Sure enough, he had a bloody bald patch where Argent had torn out several feathers. 

Something tapped him on the shoulder, and Stiles glanced over to see Peter holding out a tube of antibacterial. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled distractedly, twisting it open and wincing slightly as he smoothed it over the sensitive skin. Growing those back was going to itch like hell. 

After that, he carefully worked down the rest of the wing, feeling his way along the afterfeathers to check for more injuries. He found a few bent, one broken, and then just as he reached the end of the wing-

Peter sucked in a tiny breath. 

Stiles held a primary in his hand. 

He stared at it, loose in his open palm. 

There was a long moment of silence, eventually broken by Peter quietly saying, “That’s going to make flying more difficult.” 

Stiles continued to stare at the feather for another moment before forcing himself to look away.

“I still have four. I’ve flown with less.”

He carefully set Scott’s feather down on his nightstand, and deliberately turned to examine his right wing. Silence once again reigned between them, broken only by the brush of Peter handing him more antibacterial for a few more broken feathers. 

By the time he was done, Stiles was utterly exhausted. 

“Did you actually want something?” he asked. He just wanted to sleep, and he couldn’t even begin to interpret the look on Peter’s face. It smoothed out a moment later anyway. 

“Yes, but it can wait. Go to sleep. I’ll see you later, Stiles.” 

And with that, he ducked out the window again. 

Stiles watched as Peter swept his wings out behind himself to slow his fall-

Wings with absolutely no primary feathers.

__________

Stiles had so much shit to take care of. The Alpha pack was still out there fucking up everyone’s shit, and someone else was doing ritual sacrifices, and his dad had asked if he was on drugs, and he had Spanish vocab to finish-

Just, so much shit. 

And yet. And yet, here he was, opening a box from Ebay with a used pair of flight aids in it. 

They didn’t look great. And from what Stiles could remember of his childhood experience, they weren’t terribly comfortable either. But they did work, taking the place of missing primary feathers and allowing greater freedom of movement. 

Something Stiles thought was likely very desirable to a werewolf with a history of being murdered. 

Before he could think too hard about it, he threw the fight aids back in the box and drove over to Peter’s apartment. 

As he walked up to the door, hands full, he hesitated again. What was he doing here? Maybe he should just leave the box on the welcome mat- but the choice was taken out of his hands when Peter’s door opened upon approach. 

“Stiles. How… surprising,” Peter drawled. “I don’t remember telling you where I live.”

Stiles raised his eyebrow 

“I didn’t tell you where I live either, but you still showed up at three a.m.; directly into my room, I might add.” He shook his head, dismissing the question and pushing forward now that the opportunity for misgivings was gone. “Here, take the box.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow, gingerly accepting it as he scented the air. He scrunched his nose slightly in distaste. 

“This doesn’t smell like you. Whose is this?”

“Okay first,” Stiles ticked off a finger, “it’s weird for you to just casually mention that something does or does not smell like me, and two,” he ticked off a second finger, “it’s yours. I mean, now. Now it’s yours. It was someone else’s.” 

“Mm, yes, nothing says ‘heartfelt gift’ like pre-used goods,” Peter said dryly, finally stepping back into his apartment, allowing Stiles in. “What is it?” 

Stiles followed, looking away uncomfortably before answering. 

“I, uh. When I was a kid, I tried a couple of different flight aids. Just for getting to school and back, you know? This type was the best. Not great or anything, but they let you move fast.”

Peter stilled completely, frozen for a beat with his hands on the box. 

“It’s just,” Stiles hurried on, “if you get eaten by the Alpha Pack or whatever because you’re trapped on the ground, then we’ll be left with just Derek again, and he doesn’t know shit about anything, except maybe like the top ten ways to lose shirts, so you have to have something. I know they’re ugly, but like. You have to have something, and those were the ones that worked best for me, but the company doesn’t exist anymore so… Ebay.” 

He finished awkwardly, hands shoved in his pockets. 

Peter looked at him for a moment, a strange expression on his face, before saying, “Thank you.”

Stiles shrugged. 

“No problem.” He cleared his throat a little. “Anyway. Uh. Bye.” 

Stiles moved to leave, but hesitated when Peter started chuckling. He looked back over his shoulder, suspicious that he was being mocked, but Peter just smiled. 

“I’m not kicking you out, Stiles. Stay for a minute and help me try these out.” And with that, he finally opened the box and pulled out one of the flight aids, examining it. “They clip onto my primary coverts?”

Stiles watched him for a moment. 

He still had so much shit to take care of… but he could stay for a bit.

Or maybe a bit longer. 

__________

Stiles checked his primaries. Again. There were three. Still three, after the bomb at the station. After the nogitsune. One for his dad, one for Melissa, one for Lydia.

There were still three.

They just weren’t the same three-

“Any fresh word on our local hit list?” Peter drawled, entering the apartment with two cups of coffee.

Stiles hurriedly dropped his wings, tucking them behind himself and out of sight.

“Nope. It’s pretty hard to find out what’s going on when our only lead got murdered,” Stiles said pointedly, turning back to his laptop.

“As if we were going to get a word out of someone with no mouth anyway,” Peter scoffed, setting down one of the cups next to him as he looked over Stiles’ shoulder at the screen. “You haven’t been able to find any more contractors?”

“Oh no, I’ve found plenty of contractors. All with equally stupid names. ‘The Chemist,’ and ‘The Butchers,’ and ‘Bullet 80.’ It feels like a list of early 2000’s band names.” Stiles sat back, picking up his coffee for a sip. “It’s just that there’s no way to know how they’re getting job offers.” Peter reached over his shoulder to scroll down a page, leaning his other hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles tried not to shiver, and as always lately, failed.

Peter was the only one who touched him so casually anymore.

Peter squeezed a bit, beginning to knead the muscle there seemingly without thought, and Stiles leaned into it.

“This is a lot of assassins,” Peter murmured as he continued to scroll.

“I mean, if the prices here are any indication, it’s a pretty lucrative career I guess,” Stiles said gesturing lightly at the screen with his cup. Peter hummed in agreement.

“Lucrative, but perhaps an over-saturated market,” Peter mused, contemplative. “However, if we were to clear out some of the competition…”

Stiles reached up and lightly flicked Peter in the ear with his free hand.

“We’re not going to start murdering for money.”

Peter scowled, pulling his hand away from Stiles’ shoulder to protectively cover his ear.

“As opposed to doing it for free like we are now? Like chumps?” he challenged.

“Like chumps,” Stiles said firmly. “Besides, you know you would hate the cleanup.”

Peter reluctantly smiled.

“Yes, I suppose that at least is right.”

With one last light stroke to Stiles’ upper coverts, Peter took his own coffee and moved to the other side of the table where his own laptop sat.

They continued searching for information long past the time the coffee was gone, occasionally speaking but more often silent. Stiles began to get more worried the longer they went without finding answers.

His fingers found their way back into his feathers again, winding around his primaries as they did so often.

And just like every other time lately, a slow sense of unease crept over him as he felt them.

“It doesn’t seem to help,” Peter said quietly from across the table.

Stiles startled, hand tightening. Peter was looking at him, and gestured at the place Stiles was gripping.

“You hold on to your primaries often lately, but it never seems to comfort you. Not anymore.”

Stiles let out a slow breath, ready to blow him off, to say it was nothing-

But.

“They’re not the same,” he murmured. “When the Nogitsune- I don’t know, made a new body for me or whatever, he didn’t quite-“ Stiles blew out a frustrated breath, knowing how ridiculous this was going to sound. “They look exactly the same, but they don’t feel right. I can’t tell you exactly what’s wrong, but every time I touch them… I start to wonder if they’re actually mine. And if they’re not mine, whose are they?”

His hands clenched around his feathers again, torn between the instinct to preserve his feathers and his ability to fly, and to tear out the invaders that grew out of whatever twisted facsimile of love the nogitsune was capable of. 

He startled yet again when hands covered his own, carefully prying them away.

“They’re yours, Stiles,” Peter said, voice calm, locking Stiles’ hands in his own. “Even if somehow they weren’t grown for the same people as your first feathers, they’re still sustained by that. They’re maintained for the people you love.”

Stiles looked back at Peter, wanting to believe.

“They’re yours, Stiles,” he repeated. 

Stiles took a deep breath. 

“They’re mine.” 

With one last grateful squeeze to Peter’s hand, he turned back to his laptop. 

__________

“I’m borrowing this book.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yeah I am.” 

Peter rolled his eyes at the kitchen table where he continued typing. Stiles could see it from where he lay sprawled in the living room, and grinned. 

“No you’re not. Borrowing implies you’ll be taking it somewhere else, and you spend all of your time here,” Peter said distractedly. 

“I do not!” Stiles protested. Peter briefly looked up at him with a dry expression. 

“In the last week, the only reason you’ve left my apartment was to go home to make dinner for your father. Last night you didn’t even leave to do that, you just made it in my kitchen and then took it to him at the station.”

“You offered-!”

“I didn’t say I don’t want you here,” Peter said, eyes never leaving his laptop, “just that it hardly makes sense to say you’re borrowing something when the thing you’re borrowing is unlikely to leave my apartment anyway.”

Stiles’ mouth hung open for a moment before snapping shut. Peter’s feathers shuffled a bit as he rearranged his wings, apparently intent on the email he was typing. Stiles thought it was probably a “fuck you” business letter. Peter always really got into those. His feathers fluttered a bit again, and something odd caught Stiles’ eye. 

A small new feather. 

A primary feather. 

His mouth dropped open again. 

He almost said something. He very, very nearly said many things. 

But Peter’s wings readjusted again, and the tiny feather disappeared. 

Stiles snapped his jaw shut. 

Because Peter had a point- Stiles was here most of the time. Almost all the time, in fact. 

So he would know if Peter had repaired his relationship with Derek, or if he’d found a new relationship outside the pack. 

Mind occupied, he absently scratched at the tip of his right wing, smoothing along the new quill there. 

Maybe he would get to keep this one for a while. 

[everydayanth]

American Beauty Standard: A Brief History and Modern Application

I learned this in an anthropology class and I don’t remember the resources, but I know one of them was Tocqueville talking about the American obsession with committees and associations as a way to accomplish tasks with people from tons of different cultures and backgrounds and no formal aristocratic class.

So, back in the day of colonial America all the way through like... probably modern day if we’re honest, wealthy families that came to America kept strong ties with relatives or positions in their home countries. When their sons came of age to marry, they would often find a wealthy upper-class woman from their home country or ethnic background to wed, which meant that wealth circulated the culture it was coming from. A wealthy English lad would go to London and find himself a lady to bring to the US, a wealthy Frenchman would stay with his family in Paris or wherever, the would tour the continent blah blah, and come home with an upstanding lady of the gentry.

UNLESS an American girl could catch their interests first. This was why American girls were taught independent skills (homemaking rather than the class skills of entertaining), why they were allowed to marry for love (lack of a gentry class and singular cultural/social rules to follow), and why, at the end of the day, beauty became the most valuable tool.

Because a poor American girl who was beautiful and useful could out compete the European class rules of etiquette to secure herself a wealthy husband. And if you start there and work your way forward, our obsessions with smart or pretty girls (but watch out for too-smart or too-pretty), our beauty pageants and cosmetics advertising, our taboos and traditions, our girl vs. girl competition, it all starts to make sense.

Because being beautiful, witty, and useful meant you could be noticed and loved or admired, and married to a wealthy man. Wealth meant comfort and comfort meant safety and safety meant security and security meant freedom. Isn’t that what we all want? Isn’t that what we still want? Aren’t we still just competing for independence, for respect and freedom? Same tools, in many ways the same world. Girls fighting over college admissions, internships, medical research funds, they aren’t any different from girls competing in beauty pageants or arts, it’s always about freedom and for some, beauty is a way to get there.

There are a lot of socially aware people on the internet and I just wanted to add this nugget of history to the conversation about beauty standards. We seem to be aware that being able to follow trends is a sign of wealth, we seem to easily discuss that beauty standards themselves are an impossible oppressive tool to control and manipulate, and we are perfectly blunt about the wealth of industries capitalizing off insecurities. I wanted to bring this history into the conversation as well. Because like it or not, competition and our ability to be “wives” has historically been part of “American” culture since colonization, and that includes an incredible amount of isolated puritan and protestant extremists coming to the “new world” because their countries called them out on some bullshit or maintained economically exclusive advantageous relationships with their leaders.

Anyway: American [white] female beauty standards begin with competition for wealthy husbands and the illusion of comfort and freedom they could provide (with plenty of truth to the illusion) and still exists today. American girls were taught to “make” a home as a resource for their husbands while their European counterparts (of the same [similar] class) were often taught to entertain and host within the home as an accessory to her husband’s success, as expected by their class and/or station (often equally oppressive). 

There are so many other interesting components to the conversation as well and I just figure that if we’re interested in having it at all, I might throw some other things out here: 

WARNING: Long geeking rant about individual body adaptions and why they are incredibly beautiful follows:

Like how male beauty also evolved, with Americans emphasizing the fitness of a laborer or farmer, becoming the independent middle class, while their middle class European counterparts were often more slight and “intelligent” (relative, as perceived by access to education) businessmen, lawyers, doctors, etc., as they retained the inherited gentry and the American self-made man became more desirable to American women who had no single cultural courtship ritual and so relied on love and picking out a reliable husband based on their own choosing (which leads to its own conversation on American victim-blaming in assaults on females, especially when combined with that puritan past). 

Which is then complicated further when looking at pockets of immigration where different adapted physical male bodies are living next to one another in America (the Dutch and Polish of W. Mich are a great example). They are separated by countries in Europe, so their different builds are suddenly compared in an entirely new environment that doesn’t necessarily fulfill their previous adaptions (MI isn’t as cold as Poland, so the shorter stature isn’t as useful, while the sexual selection of the tall Dutch male remains, it isn’t as differentiated from other larger Europeans (like lowland Germans and Scandinavians), and so isn’t as genetically insulated. 

Anyway, these are all focused on “white America,” other cultures and ethnicities will also have changing and adaptive standards for different reasons. There are also some we will share as a whole culture. We’re having smaller families so each child will want to be the most healthy available. Guess what big booties are a sign of? Healthy babies (the type of rich fat stored in the butt is used to help form baby brains and shit), so as a general correlation, humans tend to figure out that curves = healthy babies. As our family-size expectations get smaller with the lowering of infant mortality and rise of individual life expectancy/health/comfort of average citizen, and as we push the age of first conception, we want to make sure that one-shot kid is healthy af. 

Being black anywhere but the American South is hard, and even that’s muggy and wet as opposed to the drier conditions of the west coast of Africa many African Americans were adapted for when brought as slaves. Which means the likelihood of being vitamin D deficient is higher, without being too crass or negating to address social racism issues, I’ll round it out and say we’re all going to eventually have a Brazil effect, where people living in areas for a long while will adapt to them or “breed into” them and we all become a similar middle skintone. The SW US is going to be more “Mexican” because that’s the “proper” (ie most useful) adaptive skin tone to protect from the changing climate there, while those in a place like the Olympic Peninsula in WA are going to be a bit lighter as an adaption to the weather, but probably not as white as Europeans. 

What is natural for an area’s skintone is also based on diet. The Inuit and Sami live at a similar parallel but the Inuit are much darker skinned on average. Why? Well, they eat more fish and seafood with Omega3s and Vitamin D (therefore needing less of the Vitamin D to enter through skin from sunlight) and live often on open plains (therefore absorbing more sunlight when it is there), while the Sami eat more red meats from reindeer herds with less Vitamin D, and travel through fields/forests (therefore needing more Vitamin D to enter through skin which results in lighter skin). 

My favorite statistic I ever learned was that on average, an African’s skin can absorb NINE TIMES more sunlight than their European counterpart without getting burned. Nine times! For one hour in the hazy European sun, a black person would need to spend nine (+) to get proper Vitamin D amounts, while in Africa, a white person after ONE HOUR would begin to burn from too much uv. That’s so cool! Bodies are crazy awesome! 

That applies to hair texture as well, black hair is often coiled to protect the head (you know, cus we stand on two legs and it’s in the sun all the time). Two inches of coiled black hair can dispose of that 9x uv by holding onto water and a bunch of other crazy amazing processes, while two inches of white hair generally dries quickly and lies flat against the head to insulate and keep warm, not expel heat. 

Hair, eye, and skin color are all affected by melanin counts in the body (or melanocytes, which is where melanin is created, including collections of melanin at melanocytes which cause freckles and moles!), lots of melanin produced by the body makes someone darker skinned, but that doesn’t mean they need the coiled hair protection from the sun, which gives us so many varieties of follicle shape (which is what defines the curl tightness or looseness of a hair, with round holes producing straight hair and curved/slanted holes producing curls and coils like how you curl a Christmas ribbon with scissors, which means yes, you can have curly patches on your skull, your hair will change as you grow and based on your diet, hydration, products, etc.). 

Having little to no melanin makes someone “albino,” or extremely light (which affects eyesight as having little or no pigment in the iris doesn’t shield the retina from light, though some may simply have extremely low pigment with light blue eyes). There are in-between colors like red hair, hazel/green eyes, and highly-freckled skin that result from different concentrations of melanin in different parts of the body, and there are things like heterochromia (different color eyes) which result from different concentrations of melanin in the same body part, and other things like Vitiligo (what Michael Jackson had), where concentrations in melanin change overtime, in this case from the shutting down of melanocytes which then produce little or no pigment for the skin, causing patches of whiteness. 

There are so many ways for bodies to be different from one another and it’s incredible when you start to understand how unique our individual combinations are! Nose size is a direct correlation to air humidity, as are our sinuses. Face shape can often be the result of language, people from the American midwest accent will have rounder cheek apples from pulling their mouths wide and working different muscles than those with say, an RP British accent who pull their jaws down and cheeks in instead of wide on many vowels, resulting in more defined cheekbones. Jawlines are a symbol of genetic diet, if you have a less defined jaw, your ancestors were probably coastal people, more adapted to seafood proteins, which requires less chewing than those in higher altitude and mountain regions, which would require herds of red meat or poultry for protein, which is more chewing, plus the different textures plants must have to grow at different altitudes and climates. This is a loose correlation and there are plenty of other factors that combine to make different results, but they always fascinate me!

Why are African men often stereotypically faster than Europeans? Because their adapted environment is often flat savannah and adaptions for running long distances and fitting the climate generally involve being tall to expel more heat through the skin (while a cold-adapted person is generally more stout and short to keep more heat in with less skin surface area – there are always exceptions for other reasons, the Dutch are tall due to sexual preference of females, the African Baka people are shorter due to reasons still being discovered, most recently it is thought to due with denying puberty growth hormones because denying them retains immunity to certain dangers found in the environment or provides some advantages over niche environments). Part of being adapted tall and slim to dispel heat (Allen and Bergman’s laws for you curiosos) is that pelvises are more narrow, males even more than females, and narrow hips mean more straight femurs rather than the slight bow of wider/rounder hips, which means, if you go to physics, a faster turnover with no need for overcorrecting the bow, and less strain on joints. While a European body adapted to its environment would require different survival adaptations, the bow of the femur allows for less speed, but often more agility for moving through forests and up and down highland slopes and rocky craigs. Again, there are always exceptions, which is why you cannot identify race by a skeleton, though there are probabilities. 

Adaptions to altitude are their own category and they begin from birth and before. It’s so cool! Being born in high altitudes develops larger lungs for taking in more oxygen in the less oxygen-dense atmosphere, which can develop into barrel lung, where the chest is nice and round like a barrel to allow the lungs full expansion. That’s so cool! When I go to higher altitudes, my sea-level coastal body is just like... wheeze.  I also broke a bunch of ribs and they don’t expand easily due to complications, so it’s even harder for me to be at a higher altitude now, being adapted to it if I have to live there sounds ideal.

We seem to understand things like race are a result of biological adaptation to environments, but we don’t often carry on the conversation past that. What does adapting to climate change look like? What about colonization and immigration? What about pollution? What adaptions happened in the past, did we lose them when they were no longer necessary? How long does it take for people to become adapted to a new environment? Generations? Why do we socially present some things as more desirable than others? Why do we create beauty standards at all? How does a shared culture of diverse backgrounds even have a “standard?”

Everything comes down to predicting health and trying to live longer, to protect ourselves from danger. Whether that’s trying to be accepted by an outsider community or blending in with the “standard” at large, our understanding of beauty will continue to change as our social, political, economic, and climate/environment aspects of our shared culture change as well. For me, learning about why my body is the way it is was endlessly enlightening. Any doubts about my big nose (which was also broken, so bigger than my relatives’) are quelled by understanding that it helps humidify and avoid that horrible feeling I hate in dry air where it feels like my nose is going to start bleeding (I’ve only gotten it in saunas though). Moving around the country helped too, I understood a lot more about the purpose of those adaptions and saw how different localized beauty is marketed. 

In Southern California, along the coast, the ocean spray makes everyone’s hair a bit curly, the humidity is high and I loved it (Jake, not so much). But the sun got to me. I got so many new freckles and my skin was always a bit dry, I had to work extra hard to stay hydrated and moisturized (even though my Polish side tans really well and I don’t burn easily, I was always dehydrated). Then we moved up to Seattle and I loved it even more! My hair stayed curly (though I’ve since learned that shower water and products make the biggest difference), I got more freckles as my skin adapted to not needing so much melanin and my hair got a lot darker for a while, my eyes seemed to get lighter in San Diego, which was crazy (and kinda cool). Then we moved to the desert-desert, the straight Mojave, and my body did not love it. I smelled all the time (dry air, my sweat is made for humid, but not too humid lol, that’s why I think white people smell in Asia and it’s not just a stereotype), my hair got sun-bleached and I lost a lot of the curl, it wasn’t the worst, but I was only there for a few months. Then we came to New England and I started to notice the change in trends and how my own preferences had changed in beauty and fashion. Marginal peripheral influence will do a lot and I can’t imagine living in that with none of the “qualifying” standards. 

So basically, I’m writing this book of a post to say that if we step back and look at all the pieces, they have reasons, some of them shallow, others valid, but that they are changing and will always be changing and so is all of humanity. Your body is doing amazing things to protect you every single day, beyond digesting your food and feeding you dopamine. Every single thing about it has a purpose and a goal or a reason, except for maybe genetic mutations. I’m not going to go stand on a hill and say you’re missing an arm or your body hates you for a reason, my body built my stomach outside of me during fetal development and I promise that was just a fuck up, there was no reason (but my mom will tell you there was and it was God). 

Bodies are crazy cool, sometimes they mess up and make cancer and don’t notice and it gets too big and we need help. Sometimes they only have one red-haired gene and we get blonde and brunette men with confusing bright red beards (lol, Jake), sometimes we’re in the middle of an adaption and we get patchy beards while living in a society that values them (looking at you, boys from genetic lines of men adapting to humidity where beards kinda suck or cultures that don’t like them). Sometimes we have been moved to a place where our genes aren’t as advantageous or actually hurt us and we don’t know about it or have to work harder than others to stay healthy, and sometimes our native or natural diet isn’t available to us and we work really hard to stay healthy but our bodies just don’t respond because they can’t or won’t. 

For some people it feels overwhelming, or blasphemous, to talk about humanity as a whole, to look at ourselves as a single version of all the endless possible combinations of changes that can happen in a body, but I find it incredible! There is no one like you, but there are people who are similar, there are places where you’re perfect and there are cultural adaptions to help you when you’re not. Understanding the reason or purpose behind the body’s reasons for selection or change, combined with the lottery of your localized DNA options from your parents and potential genetic mutations during development and later in life, understanding that the body is always changing and adapting to what is best for you or catching up from past changes can explain so much of ourselves! 

I just think it’s really cool! 

I used to geek out about it a lot more and Jake would play a game where he would point at a face and ask me to guess their genetic heritage or combination of peoples/geographies. He still does it sometimes, I’m pretty good at it, but it’s more fun to be wrong and surprised, if I’m honest. Humans are just cool.

That being said, if there’s a thing about yourself you don’t like or don’t understand, that you feel doesn’t fit in to beauty standards and never will (for me, it was my nose and freckles, why so many freckles?), shoot me a message and I’ll do my best to tell you why it might be a thing so you can appreciate the incredible diversity of your own body as it adapts to your ancestors’ forced or willing migrations and changes to fit its new environments!

American beauty standards are complicated, but if there is one thing they always revolve around, it’s a humble confidence in your own value. I found that value in others, in seeing how intricate and unique humans are from each other, which lead to an appreciation of my own unique pieces. No industry standard or media pacification can take that or change it or judge it, because it’s your body doing its absolute best with the tools it has to protect you and make you the safest and most comfortable you can be in any place of the world. <3

[writingfortoomanyfandoms]

“i fucking love you” “hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober” with greaser!luke please

Sure thing man, I love Greaser!AUs y’all don’t even know

Speech 14 - “i fucking love you” “hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober”

AU 2 - Greaser!AU

—————————————————

Y/N wasn’t sure how everything had gone so quickly wrong.

She had been at Luke’s house. She was having lunch with him and his roommates - his best and closest three friends. His arm had been hanging over her shoulders, which were covered with the familiar weight of his old, worn-in leather jacket that she had adorned herself with that morning in an attempt to keep her decency.

She had been laughing at something that Ashton said, now in her tipsy haze she couldn’t quite remember what it had been. Calum had muttered something under his breath, which no one but her had caught since he was right next to her and it had sent her into a further fit of laughter, turning herself towards Calum to add something to what he said, sending him laughing as well.

It had all been so perfect, so normal for them.

Then Luke had leaned across to her. He had kissed her cheek, chuckling lowly into her ear and he had whispered:

“God I love you.”

And the room had exploded.

Y/N was on her feet, backing as far away from Luke as she could feasibly get. She had been shaking her head, telling him to shut up, to take back his words. Luke’s eyes had been fiery and angry as he bit back at her with venomous words.

Calum, Ashton and Michael had gotten to their feet, their own eyes alight with anger. Y/N had never been scared of the greaser men, having herself grown up in a particularly rough patch of the greaser side of town. Even Calum, who was often regarded as being the most intimidating of their group as a result of his silent, stoic nature and intense stares, had never been a fearful figure to Y/N, who had probably been closest to him out of the group excluding Luke.

But now, he towered over her and fear clutched at her heart.

“I think you should go.” He said through gritted teeth. Y/N shrugged off Luke’s jacket and bolted to the door, needing to get out of the suffocating atmosphere of her boyfriend’s apartment.

She had quickly found herself to be at the bar down the road, the bar where her and Luke had first met and hit it off. The bartender was an old friend of hers who was more than happy to supply her with drinks without questioning her distressed state.

And that was where she found herself now, hours after the incident with Luke, drowning her sorrows and hating herself for not having the balls to tell Luke that she returned his feelings.

Because God, she loved him. So much that some days it scared her. That she would do anything for him.

But the toxic environment that she had grown up in caused her to be fearful and disbelieving of love. She didn’t want someone to knowingly have that much power over her. 

“I think you need to call someone, Y/N.” The bartender told her, his voice lowered and soft with worry for his friend. 

“Yes - yes, call him. That’s a good idea. I’ll call him,” she mumbled, pulling out her phone from her pocket.

Her fingers were shaky and fumbling as she looked for Luke’s number, her eyes bleary and confused as she looked down at her cracked phone screen.

It rang through once before cutting to voicemail but Y/N wasn’t deterred, phoning him again and again until eventually he picked up.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“I fucking love you,” was her easy reply, her eyes filled with tears as she expressed her true feelings. Silence met her on his side of the phone.

“Hang up, and tell me this when you’re sober.” He finally said, his voice was hoarse and hurt flooded his every syllable. 

“I-I-I’m sorry! I love you - I love you so fucking much,” even to her ears she could tell how slurred her words were.

“Is anyone with you?” Luke asked after a moment and despite her drunken haze Y/N could hear the worry in them.

“‘M on my own,” she admitted.

“Fucking hell,” he sighed. “I’m coming to get you. You’re not safe on your own.”

[satari-raine]

RWBY Fic - Evergrowing

There's a pond in the woods nearby where everyone is staying in Patch, a place Clover gravitates to while they all recover from everything that happened in Atlas. As the days pass by, as his wound heals, as he keeps fishing with no luck, Clover soon realizes he has another choice to make.

Chapter 1/? - Everyone’s resting, Clover’s fishing, and there’s pancakes.

Ao3 Link.

“You’re one of a kind, my boy.” His father said once. “I bet you could fish in sewage and reel back gold.”  

Clover never tested it.

It would’ve been a waste of bait and a lure, for one, and they never had the money growing up to spend on frivolous matters. That and his father’s confidence in his skill, in the proud jut of his chin when they would walk the boardwalk with a day’s well-earned haul, was never something he wanted to risk slipping on too big a risk with a child’s ease. His father probably would’ve laughed at him, lines crinkling around his eyes with that well-worn smile on his face, if he had ever tried, not to mention the plenty of dumb things he did growing up that didn’t involve a pole or some fishing twine.

It’s funny now, he thinks as he casts out a line, how he’s been here for almost two hours and hasn’t caught a thing.

How his luck has changed.

The morning’s overcast has shifted into gentle sunlight, the beams shimmering against the canopy of early autumn leaves. It’s no longer as cold as earlier, and he’s willing to bet the same goes for the water. Warm water means the fish are deeper down and away from the surface, safe and happy where it’s cool. He can’t blame them even if it stings a bit that he’s probably lost his chance, but at least the weather is nice.

Deciding to take a break, he reels his line in and sets his equipment to the side. The fishing pole rests with a gentle thud against the worn wood of the pier, the echo faint yet sudden enough to be sharp. Reclining back on his hands, he scans the trees across the pond and watches how the wind plays the with leaves. It’s calm enough to fall asleep to, the sunlight a perfect blanket.

“Oh, there you are,” comes from behind him, footsteps solid against the pier. “Figured you’d be here!”

The voice is calm and quiet. Respectful of the serenity of the early morning yet holding an undercurrent of amusement. Since they’ve arrived, there hasn’t been anywhere else he’s gravitated as frequently to except for here (or the slightly sunken-down corner of the couch in the living room, but that spot is easier to check off first.) Still, he figures the humor is justified. Far be it from him to chase away any semblance of joy these kids can make for themselves during a time like this.

Clover looks over his shoulder and sends a smile to Ruby. “Lucky guess. Care to join me?”

She smiles back and is quick to settle next to him, mindful of the equipment as she tucks her knees to the side and looks out at the water. She looks intent on something, silver eyes scanning the trees before her lips twitch in a smile, and then those eyes are on him, bright and content with the moment before them. Clover doesn’t ask and makes sure she’s comfortable and focused before speaking, sitting up properly to give her his attention.

“It’s not like you to be up this early,” he starts, wondering to himself why he suddenly feels a bit nervous about making conversation. It’s not like this is their first one (and given how that one went, this should be nothing in comparison.) “Something up?”

Ruby’s quick to shake her head and adds on a shrug for good measure, hands resting lazily in her lap. “Nah, not really. Dad was a bit louder than usual getting ready for work but other than that, I’m… just up! I’m awake.” Her voice tapers off into something small, and he spares a glance to her hands and watches how her fingers curl in the loose fabric of her sweater. “Just awake.”

Clover hums, committed to her words as he thinks of his own. He knows she (and by default, the other kids) have every reason to feel as weary as they do despite their current respite in Patch. Thankfully it seems they’ve started to settle and heal, at least a little bit. He wonders how long it’s been since any of them truly felt at peace somewhere.

He wonders the same for himself, sometimes.

“Your father definitely isn’t the quietest in the morning, although I think Miss Valkyrie has him beat once she’s up,” he offers after a moment, earning a small laugh. “How come you came looking for me, by the way?”

“Oh! No one else was up ‘cept for you and Uncle Qrow, and I wanted to see if we could make breakfast together for everyone.”

Despite his stomach softly rumbling at the mention of food, something he skipped out on to settle by the water, he finds himself mentally tumbling over all of that to ask aloud: “Qrow’s awake?” It’s half out of amusement because that man, despite being the lightest sleeper Clover’s ever known, seemed partial to staying in a sun-warmed bed until noon if given a choice. The other half is genuine surprise because he usually joined Clover at the pier if he woke up before all the kids, or if it wasn’t too chilly outside.

He must either look or sound ridiculous because she’s giggling, wearing sunbeams in her hair as the leaves shift above them. “You haven’t noticed yet?”

“Noticed what, Miss— Ruby?” He asks, remembering to bite back on that ingrained habit of titles, formalities. She doesn’t seem to mind and instead keeps her smile like a secret, keeping his question suspended with a glance back at the trees, the leaves rustling louder against a sudden breeze. Her smile grows and, shortly after, there’s footsteps behind them, soft and comfortably familiar to Clover’s ears.

“Stop harassing the elderly before noon, kiddo.”

Qrow walks towards them with a steady gait, looking entirely comfortable yet unusual in cargo pants and some red pullover that looks like it’s been through the wash one too many times. He shoots Clover a small smile that grows when he faces Ruby, reaching down to ruffle her hair with nothing short of fondness, and they both laugh when she squawks at the treatment.

“Aren’t you two almost the same age, Uncle Qrow?”

Qrow nods. “Exactly, so don’t harass me, either.”

Clover snorts at that and turns a bit more to face Qrow. He fights back a laugh watching Ruby swat at her uncle, ducking out from underneath his teasing, and feels himself smile a touch wider at the soft look in Qrow’s eyes. “We were just discussing breakfast. Have you eaten?”

“If you count whatever coffee Tai left in the pot, sure.”

“That’s a no, then.” He sighs, amused, aware of his own hypocrisy. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Ruby nodding in firm agreement.

“You need to eat, c’mon, Uncle Qrow,” she pouts, and Clover watches as Qrow’s expression falters. It’s lightning-quick, the drop of his smile and how his brows furrow slightly in the center. It’s not the first time he’s witnessed Qrow’s careful mask crack, but it still surprises him how easily it happens when Ruby is the cause. He wishes it didn’t worry him, but there’s no time to worry now - Qrow is ruffling her hair again and laughing to himself. Clover strains to hear it over the gentle wind, watching without hearing Qrow’s reply, too caught up in the way he looks with the sun resting in his hair.

“She’s right, you know.” He catches himself interjecting, wondering if he sounds as absent as he suddenly feels. Ruby’s beaming at his side. Qrow quirks an eyebrow at him but says nothing in reply. Switching tactics, Clover turns to the girl. “What were you thinking of making for everyone, Ruby?”

“I know Oscar and Nora were mentioning wanting pancakes the other day,” Ruby mentions, talking almost to herself while Qrow shares a look with Clover before watching as Ruby bolts up, skirt swishing at her knees. “Think we could do that?”

Clover nods as Qrow raises his hands nonchalantly. “It’s all you, kid.”

With a beaming smile, she’s gone in a flurry of red through the woods, her voice calling for them to join her fading into echos. Before Clover to get himself up to follow, Qrow’s stepping forward and plopping himself down where his niece once sat, chuckling all the while he settles himself, one knee up with his arm tossed over. Comfortable, casual, like he just rolled out of bed and decided to make his way to Clover’s side before doing anything else with his day. Of course he didn’t and of course he wouldn’t, but Clover’s mind is an unhelpful supplier of fantasies, and Qrow’s ease being born from being at his side is a one too wonderfully guilty to give up at the moment.

Laughing at himself and his wishful thinking, Clover asks, “Aren’t we going to go help her?”

“Eventually.” The sun flits behind a cloud and the beams fade from black hair. There’s a few red petals stuck at the crown in its place. Clover wonders what would happen if he reached over and plucked them free. “Just wanna keep enjoying the quiet here before going back in.”

Clover hums in agreement even though he wants to go help Ruby tackle a task meant for a team. He stays and listens to the way he and Qrow breathe in sync, a happy accident as he scans the water, watching red petals drift along the pond’s surface in a race to the center.

Then Qrow’s laughing, a quiet sound, and red eyes are on his own. The petals in his hair don’t fall out.

“You really didn’t notice?” He asks, an echo of his niece earlier. Amusement lightens the lines around his eyes, tugs at the corner of a barely-there smile, and Clover’s torn between wondering what he missed out on and staying clueless if it’ll mean the man can keep wearing that expression. Before he can reply, his scroll buzzes in his pocket. He barely has it out of his pocket to see Ruby’s name flashing across the screen when Qrow starts laughing again to himself, another quiet bundle of sound that has Clover hesitating on replying to the girl’s panicked message.

Sighing as he stands, Clover tucks his fishing pole under his arm and grabs the rest of his equipment, stretching out his legs that pop with the motion. Qrow hasn’t moved, eyes trained in the distance – almost vacant despite the tired enjoyment that slips into his tone as he gets ready to stand himself. ���Duty calls. C’mon, let’s head ba–”

Clover reaches forward, carding his hand gently through Qrow’s hair. The petals slip between his ring and pinky finger.

“–ck?” Qrow finishes, voice pitched a fraction higher. He’s halfway between sitting and standing, staring at Clover with an expression he doesn’t dare to define. In an effort to save face, he flashes the petals before Qrow’s eyes as his unspoken excuse and starts walking towards the front of the pier.

As he hears Qrow’s following footsteps a pace behind his own, he wonders what’s warmer: the light flush on his cheeks or how his fingers felt going through the sun-warmed strands.

Ruby’s “distress signal” held true. Kind of.

Clover can’t help the fondness that bubbles in his chest when he sees globs of pancake batter stuck in her hair, much less over half the countertop and the stand mixer in the corner. Qrow’s rolling his eyes and fooling no one as he goes to dump half the batter from the mixing bowl into another, muttering offhandedly about kids and having too much energy for ass o’clock in the morning. Clover wants to tell him it’s actually half past that but settles for getting a damp kitchen towel for Ruby to clean herself with.

“I think,” she starts, the towel limp in her hands. “I mixed too much at once.”

She’s smiling despite her mistake, despite the flush to her cheeks, and considering it had nothing to do with an open flame or broken glass as he thought and that she’s actually okay, Clover figures they can settle for a little bit of teasing.

“Think you did, too,” he grins. “Was that the whole box?”

When she holds up two fingers in a silent reply, head tucked down, Qrow laughs from the corner of the kitchen. Clover shakes his head to hide his smile, reminded a bit of Marrow and a similar incident back in Atlas with the man covered in tomato sauce and tail tucked between his legs, his team and the kids crowded around the mess while Vine tried to save the overcooked lasagna noodles near the stove.

“Coulda been worse,” Qrow mentions, and Clover’s done daydreaming, settling for a new sight as Qrow plucks one of the aprons nearby from off the hook. Thankfully there’s nothing corny written on it (although he doesn’t doubt Qrow would find some way to pull it off.) “C’mon, let’s clean up the mess so we can start over or else Tai won’t have a kitchen left once everyone else wakes up.”

Ruby smiles, sheepish, as she nods at her uncle and tucks herself by his side, listening to his directions while they clean. Clover hears something about a sheet pan and toppings before he quietly excuses himself from the kitchen, meeting Qrow’s gaze with a wink when the man looks over Ruby’s head to watch him go.

The living room is quiet, Zwei asleep in his bed near the couch, the holographic projection off. There’s a coffee mug on the table, probably Qrow’s from earlier. Clover finds the closet near the kitchen doorway and opens it up, mindful of the squeaky hinge as the dog’s gentle snores fill the room.

His fishing equipment is Taiyang’s, actually - a set he offered to Clover almost immediately upon hearing about the man’s hobby when they first arrived. He claimed he couldn’t catch anything if he fished in a puddle, so why not let someone who knew what they were doing use it instead, arms waving all the while casually. Qrow had nodded behind Taiyang’s back with a cheeky grin, one the blonde smacked off when Clover insisted Taiyang was probably fine and Qrow had dared to laugh out loud.

It’s clean now with the pole wiped down, the lures neatly placed back in the tackle box, and Clover hunts in the dimly lit space for the hook where it goes. On the floor, there’s a small stack of board games covered in dust and a vacuum cleaner with the cord haphazardly wrapped around the handle. A pair of unused garden boots are placed in the back corner. A half-empty bag of birdseed with the open end rolled down and clipped closed.

He hasn’t spoken to the man much, what with Taiyang’s job keeping him and Clover wanting the kids and Qrow to get Taiyang’s full attention, but he knows the look he sees in the man’s eyes sometimes. Recognizes it, and wonders how someone ever gets used to coming back to an empty home once they have had it full of life.

As he closes the door and straightens his back, a pop following a faint jolt of pain, he sees Ren walking down the stairs, the boy fully dressed despite the sleepy blur to his gaze. When he notices Clover, he stands a little straighter and nods.

“Good morning, Ren,” Clover says, and prides himself on speaking casually.

Ren nods again, offering a small smile. His eyes seem to be looking behind him towards the kitchen, the sounds of Ruby’s delight echoing towards the hall. Qrow sounds happy, too, the rasp in his tone easing out to something softer.

“They’re making breakfast for everyone,” he explains. “Bet they could use a hand.”

It’s a sort of gamble, more than anything. While the kids have settled themselves as comfortably as they can in Patch, it came at varying levels. He knows Ren’s hesitance to cook as often as Clover assumes he did beforehand is simply to give Ruby and Yang time to feel at home with their father, to not intrude as much out of some self-imposed expectation. He’s seen it in Jaune and Oscar, and a bit from Penny even if her reasons came from unfamiliarity versus a sense of formality. Even after Taiyang had assured them that his kid’s friends were family, even after Qrow’s nudged them to relax, repeating that they can handle a break, that they need and  deserve a break.

Clover can’t say he doesn’t understand or sympathize, even if he’s lost on some details. He knows, at the very least, from when he helped set the kids up to get their huntsman and huntress licenses, that it’s been a while since any of these kids have belonged to anything resembling a home. Some longer than most.

With these kids risking their lives, their sanity, stepping into roles most seasoned huntsmen wouldn't even dare to take on, he wants them to feel at home, even if this isn’t his home - or his place - to offer.

Ren smiles and Clover breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank you, Mr. Ebi.”

“Clover, please. No need for titles.”

He’s glad to see others struggle with it, too.

“Thank you, Clover.”

And then he’s gone, braid fluttering behind him as he walks towards the kitchen. Ruby’s voice echoes out again, Ren’s softer tones muffled, and Clover lets the sounds follow him up the stairs.

The kids took Ruby and Yang’s old room. He hears a symphony of hushed whispers and snores from behind the door as he passes by. He doesn’t know how they’ve all crammed themselves in there, especially since the spare bedroom he and Qrow were currently using had room for the boys at the very least, but they seemed to be enjoying it. An impromptu long-term slumber party, he guesses - youthful, exciting, a sense of security, even if Ruby and Yang had slept in their father’s room the first night they arrived.

Neither he nor Qrow had mentioned Taiyang calling out of work that following morning, or the relief in red-rimmed eyes at breakfast before the kids woke up. Qrow had knocked his knuckles fondly against the crown of Taiyang’s head and handed him coffee, tension an undercurrent behind the relief while Clover stayed to himself, turning bacon over in a pan.

Clover’s not a father, but he thinks he understands. The uncertainty when you’re the one left behind, the worry to the point of panic. The relief when they come home safe, the love to the point of tears.

He’s seen it enough in Qrow’s eyes, how much these kids are loved. Taiyang doesn’t seem to be any different.

(Although the pillow fight that happened once the girls joined their friends the following evening probably didn’t help how much coffee the man chugged when he finally went back to work the next morning.)

When the door to his room closes behind him, he soon hears footsteps come from the girls’ room: soft and careful, practiced stealth against the hardwood floors. Soon there’s a knock at the door, almost hesitant in the beats between the two raps, and Clover doesn’t have to blame his semblance for guessing right. He wonders how he’s come to learn everyone’s quirks so quickly.

Shaking the thought as Blake looks up at him, a small smile greeting him matched with relaxed ears, he opens the door wider and allows her to step in as he turns towards the closet.

“Everything okay?”

She’s quick to nod. “Yes, nothing’s wrong, I just-- I finished reading that book and was going to drop it off for you.”

Clover smiles, amused. It had been an offhand comment based on the back cover, not to mention he really hasn’t had the time to read a novel longer than he can remember. But she had looked so engrossed in the words, settled comfortably against Yang’s arm as they sat around the living room last night, that he asked her when Yang had started tugging her off towards the stairs. The look on her face had been one of pleasant surprise, coupled with the joy in Yang’s eyes at seeing her partner light up.

He takes it with a grateful nod and runs his fingers carefully over the simple cover. “Thanks. I’ll get started tonight; maybe we can discuss it when I’m done?”

He bites back a laugh at the excitement on her face, open yet composed. “I’d like that. Thank you, Clover.”

“Sure. Now go grab some food downstairs, I bet you’re all hungry.”

She nods and starts down the hall, but a few seconds pass before her head pops back into the door frame.

“Are you coming down, or should we send something up?”

Her thoughtfulness isn’t a surprise at this point, even if the thought of how touching it is hasn’t lessened. Between her and Oscar, he’s found himself at the end of inquiries and spoken worries, being taken care of as much as he’s been trying to help Qrow and Taiyang take care of the kids. Not to mention Taiyang himself trying to settle Clover into a guest role, claiming he needed rest, that he was injured, with Qrow not helping by only offering a sympathetic pat to the shoulder and an “I told you so,” a shadow over his eyes as he followed Taiyang alone into the kitchen to help with dinner.

He hasn’t been able to step outside of a leader role, isn't sure how. (Especially now, since it’s for more than just a team that wasn’t even allowed to be friends.)

“I’ve already eaten,” he lies. The prickle of shame at how easily it slips out gets to him, but he doesn’t let it show. “I’ll be down for lunch, don’t worry.”

Blake nods and leaves after telling him to rest well. He pretends he didn’t see how her eyes roamed over his chest, piercing gold a scan too sharp to miss any details. He knows they all know bits and pieces, enough for a picture but not for a puzzle.

A severe, life-threatening injury. A miraculous effort by Atlas' technology to reverse it as best they could. Qrow hid a piece when he mentioned to the teams of Tyrian escaping from their custody, but nothing of the actual fight. And with Salem and her forces at their doorstep, with Oscar missing somewhere in Mantle, with these kids trying to do anything and everything to save themselves from being what Clover should've been, the pieces were lost.

No one knows anything about how it happened, just him and Qrow. If the kids have assumptions, they haven’t shared. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to solve this puzzle with them.

Not before he does with Qrow.

The thought of the man dances electric along the edges of the scarring wound. It itches under the bindings, and he knows he needs to change them, knows he should have when he woke up but didn’t want to risk waking up Qrow who had finally fallen asleep late at night after keeping the kids up with some exciting to-be-continued tonight story.

It’s been a struggle to do it himself, especially with securing the back, but he--

He can’t ask Qrow. And he doesn’t want to burden the kids with the sight.

He'll have to go into town and visit Pietro. He went with Maria to save Taiyang some space, the woman apparently connected with someone there who has been overdue for returning a favor for some time now. Penny was there now. He could get directions from her when she came back from visiting her father; he'd rather not make the man come all the way out here again just for another check-up.

It could wait for later. Now he just wanted to sleep.

(A mindless sleep. Anything to chase away the static teetering along the edges in his head.)

The spare bedroom here is washed-out, white - it reminds him a bit of his space in Atlas, even if the fresh sunflowers in the vase atop the nightstand are a nice touch. His side of the bed (or at least opposite of the one that Qrow fell into once they first arrived) is closest to the window, and with the curtains pushed back, the sunlight settles comfortably through the glass against the bed sheets. The sun is warm here, unlike the frost-laced sunlight back in Atlas. He can rest here and leave the guilt behind for a few hours. Everyone is safe right now.

He can rest.

It’s how Qrow finds him an undetermined amount of time later. Clover is chasing the tail-end of a peaceful dream when he feels Qrow sit in front of him on the edge of the bed, mindful of approaching from the back.

(Clover’s not awake enough to feel the shame for that. At how he reacted the other day. How Qrow had walked up behind him without Clover knowing. The flash of realization in Qrow’s eyes at how Clover had crowded himself closer to the stove, back instantly pressed against anything flat, anything unreachable. How when Qrow asked for a cup from the cabinet, his voice fragile, both their hands shook in passing it along.)

Qrow's fingers are warm now as they touch his forehead, carding into the tuft of hair at the top, and Clover laughs, a small and sleepy sound chasing away his memory, an excuse for how he leans into the touch.

They can’t blame it on petals this time.

“Already ate, my ass,” Qrow says softly. It doesn’t sound judgemental. Clover doesn't want to guess why.

When he opens his eyes, Qrow’s looking out the window. Qrow’s hand hasn’t stopped moving, and for a moment, Clover wonders if he’s still dreaming. He can’t read Qrow’s expression in the dim light of the room. The sunlight’s behind the clouds, overcast, and the chill that has settled within the room has him all too content on chasing the warmth in Qrow’s palm.

On the nightstand next to them sits a plate of reheated pancakes. A mug, too - Qrow’s, from earlier. He hopes it's coffee.

Everything is lukewarm by the time he sits up, propped against the center of the headboard with his back cushioned by the pillows. He doesn't remember actually falling asleep earlier, and any memory of his dreams have long since faded back into static. He places the plate in his lap and fights back a smile at the berry-dotted smiley face that greets him, failing when Qrow moves to sit at his side on the edge, their shoulders touching. Qrow's gaze is still locked outside the window, lost in the leaves slowly giving up their green hues, and Clover wants to pull him back in, keep his attention in this room and not wherever his mind is flying off to.

Instead, he digs his fork in and takes the first bite, a pleased hum leaving him at the sweetness. It's slow-going, but Clover eats one-handed in silence.

His other hand is in Qrow’s. Warm and unspoken.

Another piece for later.