#if have so many thoughts on that matter and none of them are coherent

[multishipper-baby]

Not publishing the ask yet because I want to reply with the playlist but I have to comment on it because

Anon. You just gave the biggest neuron activation.

IT'S 2 AM. BUT HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP WHEN I'M THINKING ABOUT THEM.

[maxdibert]

hi! i saw in one of your posts you wrote about how Sirius Black had no reason to bully Snape and i thought about it…..i mean doesn't his hatred seem too personal? we have Lupin who has no contact with Snape after book 3 but Sirius goes crazy when Snape is around and they are alone so he can attack him (kitchen scene in book 5). and he knows so much about him: who he hung out with at school, his relationship with Lucius; at the same time he doesn't know about the mark, about how Severus was the one who brought the prophecy to voldemort that led to Lily and James death. and yes he is stuck at age 21 but even then they graduated school and as he says they never heard of Snape in those years. It seems a bit odd: don't bullies usually try to downplay their role in what they did to the victim, or even try to make it look like nothing happened? And he and Remus try to do that with Harry, but at the same time he seems incredibly proud and pleased with himself when he talks about the prank. One moment confused me when I was reading book 3: when Sirius has Peter at gunpoint with his wand, he is extremely focused on him. He doesn't take his eyes off him, because it was for this moment, the act of revenge, that he escaped from prison. As far as I remember, Harry describes it as "nothing could distract him at that moment" or something like that. But as soon as Remus even mentions Snape, Sirius' attention suddenly switches: he turns away from Peter and asks about him again. Or when he watches Snape during the OWL exams??? Especially when Rowling describes his reaction after the exam, when he sees him under the tree, as the reaction of a dog to a rabbit. He seems so obsessed and like something happened between them that really got to him. Or he's just as intolerant of half-bloods as his family. I completely agree with you that Sirius bullied Snape simply because James did it and he found it funny. But his hatred seems excessive, he has no reason to hate Snape so much. James has his excuse about Lily, but Sirius has none of that. But he still tries to kill him and it doesn't really matter hides, lol. I've read an opinion that he hates him because of his unrequited feelings for James, where Severus is the reason James even noticed Lily, which I don't really agree with, to be honest. Sorry, it got too long, ahaha. What I want to ask is: do you have any thoughts on this?

Well, the explanation for his relationships at school is quite simple because Sirius doesn’t leave home until he’s 16. Considering that his brother goes to Slytherin and that Narcissa is his cousin, it’s not strange to deduce that Snape’s name, along with other Slytherin students, probably came up at some family dinner/lunch/meeting. Like, talking about who in Regulus and Sirius’ year might have ‘potential,’ for example. It seems coherent to me that, considering Sirius’ environment until he leaves to live with the Potters, he’d be aware of certain things.

Leaving that aside, let’s talk about Sirius Black, because I think in recent years the Marauders fandom has ruined this character, and he’s actually a character with a lot of depth. Or at least more than many others in the saga.

(This is gonna ne so fucking long lol)

Sirius is a posh kid. He’s a posh kid who is embarrassed about being posh and feels guilty about it. He’s the typical rich kid from a conservative family who’s had issues with his mom (in this case) and his way of getting back at everything he felt was missing from his childhood is to vehemently oppose everything he thinks she represents. And the funniest part is that (as is often the case) his problem with his mom is that they both have a terrible character, which is why they clash. Because Sirius has the kind of terrible character that is incompatible with anyone else who has the same terrible character. But despite everything, he’s still a posh kid. Because he comes from an aristocratic family and was raised with those values of superiority. Because he’s never had to fend for himself (he leaves home but goes to another rich family, the Potters, and on top of that, his uncle Alphard leaves him his entire inheritance, so he has plenty of money) and he has always enjoyed the privilege of his surname, his blood status, and the fact that he’s (according to Rowling) super handsome. In other words, Sirius belongs to the ruling class and behaves with the same arrogance, entitlement, and lack of empathy that is typical of that class. No matter how much he tries to deny it and distance himself from it, he can only do so on a superficial level (Muggle posters, being a Gryffindor, enchanting a Muggle motorcycle) because when it comes down to it, he has no idea how to deconstruct himself, nor is he interested in giving up or losing his privileges, because he’s quite comfortable with them. He’s like the typical aristocratic kid from an Opus Dei family who thinks he’s better than everyone around him because he votes for the left and has been to four protests, but at the end of the day, he still lives a bourgeois life and doesn’t understand the root of social problems.

That said, let’s move on to James.

I think James was everything Sirius wanted to be. No, not be, I think James had everything Sirius wanted to have: loving parents, a family that wasn’t involved in a cult, a pleasant environment that allowed him to do whatever he wanted instead of being constrained by traditions and social norms, liberal and progressive ideals… James had the life Sirius had always wanted, but with one key detail: he was also rich and from an old, prestigious family. This is super important because when Sirius chooses his rebellion partner, he doesn’t pick some random Muggle-born, or a half-blood, or someone from the middle or lower class. Sirius chooses as his best friend someone who embodies everything he wants to be/have, but who at the same time belongs to his same social stratum, both economically and in blood status. Sirius chooses a future Gryffindor rebel with very different ideas from his family, but ironically he chooses like anyone from his family would: someone with money, status, and power. And I find this super amusing because it’s so coherent with his character. I mean, if Sirius were a real person, he would’ve done the same thing because guys like him are like that: the kings of cognitive dissonance and double standards.

Sirius always wanted James’ validation, or at least that’s how I see it. I think for him, feeling that James approved of what he did was a way to legitimize himself as someone different from his family. James represented the “progressive” social elite that Sirius aspired to by rejecting the traditional values imposed on him. So, unconsciously, he understood that if he did everything James wanted, and I’ll go further, everything he thought James would like, then he would distance himself from that Black image and gain validation as something entirely opposite. The problem is that Sirius, unlike James, was raised in an environment where ethical and moral values were very different, and where it was clearly established that certain people were “the other,” an “other” sociologically understood as the idea that some humans are inherently less than others. And although Sirius consciously rejected this idea, unconsciously he had been raised with it. Therefore, consciously, he didn’t reject people based on their blood status because he could identify that as something his family would do, and family = bad. But unconsciously, he was conditioned to see other people as non-people, and this is where Severus comes into play.

James dislikes Severus because he sees him as an obstacle/threat/nuisance in his crush on Lily. By default, and because of that constant need for validation from James, Sirius also focuses on him as a hostile element. And if he’s hostile to James, who in a way is his moral compass, then that guy must be trash because, of course, it’s obvious. But not only that, this guy is also a half-blood and poor, so poor he wears old clothes. And on top of that, he’s ugly. And not very masculine. So he has all the elements for Sirius, the aristocrat raised in luxury under the premise that he’s better than others because of his origins, to see him as “the other” and exercise all his power and privilege to oppress him without remorse, because for him, it’s justified. Justified unconsciously by the education he received, and consciously because if James hates him, there must be a good reason to hate him, so everything is justified. If we add to that the fact that Severus desires everything Sirius has always tried to reject: more social status, more recognition, power, belonging to Slytherin, rubbing shoulders with important wizards, forgetting the Muggle world he grew up in… well, we have a molotov cocktail for him to make Severus’ life unbearable. And Severus is an easy target for someone like school-age Sirius Black: he has no friends, no surname, no parents to protect him, and no stable socio-economic situation. Sirius can project all his frustrations onto him without any consequences. He can completely dehumanize him and stop seeing him as a person. He can behave like a Black.

I think the Prank is a good example to see the difference in upbringing between Sirius and James. Both are bullies, both are abusers, both have zero remorse when it comes to using their status and power to make life impossible for those they believe deserve it. But James was raised in an environment where he knows that actions have consequences, that you can’t cross “certain lines,” such as murder, for example. Sirius was taught the opposite—he was raised to think that the life of “the other” holds no value, and that is something that in his story with Severus goes too far. James understands that death is something serious and can bring terrible consequences, while Sirius does not. For the Black family, death is nothing if there is a reason for the person to die, and Sirius has his own reasons for playing with Severus’ life the way Bellatrix would play with the life of any Muggle-born.

(This is something I really like as well—the way Sirius and Bellatrix are fundamentally alike, and how little that’s discussed. But I’ll leave that for another time, otherwise I won’t finish.)

I don’t think it’s a matter of Sirius being obsessed with Snape, but rather that, for all the reasons I’ve explained, he uses Severus as a catalyst for his repressed anger and that sadism he inherited from his family. He can’t channel it toward anyone else because that would lead to absolute rejection from James. Since James hates and despises Severus, he’s never going to question Sirius for channeling all his pent-up rage on him, so it’s a free pass. If he had reached that level of sadism with someone who didn’t provoke the same level of animosity in James as Severus did, he would have risked confronting his biggest fear: that James would see him as a Black, not as Sirius. Losing his validation as the black sheep to become just another one of them. So he focuses on Severus because it’s a safe bet.

Moving on to their relationship during the book canon…

We don’t really see a proper confrontation until the fifth book. I mean, in the third, it shows that Sirius still sees Severus as “other” by dragging him along while unconsciously banging his head. In the fourth, there’s that scene where Dumbledore forces them to shake hands, and it’s clear they still hate each other. But it’s not until the fifth book that we get a real confrontation, where Sirius loses his temper. I think this has a lot to do with (drumroll) once again that cognitive dissonance between what Sirius always wanted to be and what he actually is, especially given the role he plays on the chessboard at that point in the story.

Sirius did everything he could to distance himself from his family, and the climax of that was joining the Order of the Phoenix and actively fighting against that same family, several members of whom were “soldiers” for the opposite side. Sirius is finally achieving what he wants—to be a hero. To stop being part of the elite dark villains and instead be part of the heroic elite. The noble of high birth who fights valiantly for the good of the realm, just as James was destined to be. It’s the climax, the absolute fulfillment of his adolescent desire. But then he’s thrown into Azkaban, and when he gets out, he finds that the poor, weird kid addicted to dark arts, who sucked up to future dark wizards, who hung out with purists and even joined the “bad side”—the side of Sirius’ family, the villains—is now the most important member of the Order. He’s none other than Dumbledore’s right hand. He’s a double agent risking his neck every day and has more responsibility than anyone else. That kid Sirius called Snivellus for being a crybaby has more guts and more endurance than most people. The one who always wanted to be part of the elite Sirius hated is now the one playing them all, making them look like idiots. The one who looked frail and effeminate turns out to be more “manly.” And that hurts. That hurts a lot. You go to prison, and when you get out, the person you didn’t even consider a person not only ranks above you, but is playing in a league you can’t aspire to. And the best part is, Sirius can’t fully accept it because he’s still Sirius—a classist, privileged aristocrat incapable of accepting that (as is only logical) the poor working-class kid turned out to be far more useful than him in both politics and war.

To me, it’s poetic justice.

[flowersforjude]

just a blurb of quiet conversations in the dead of night with finnick when you both can’t sleep?

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Finnick Odair x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | Finnick's departure for the Capitol in the morning keeps you both awake well into the night.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 809

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Just angst. Legit nothing else.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | I love this man so much it hurts! I hope you like where I took this, Anon. It’s a little more angsty than I intended, but I also wrote it while listening to Hozier and that man brings out the pain for some reason. Anyway, thanks for requesting! I’m sorry it took so long!

masterlist

You didn’t know if the moonlight streaming in through the window was what kept you awake or the gnawing reminder of Finnick’s departure. 

He leaves in the morning for the Capitol for the 72nd Hunger Games. It's the second time you’ve had to do this. Watch him leave your home in Four to return to that snake pit. When you won the 70th Games two years ago, Finnick made sure you’d never have to return to the Capitol, not even as a mentor. And while the fact he went up against Snow for you made your hopeless affection for him skyrocket, it was no easy task to be without him for however long the Games lasted each year. 

You had eaten dinner earlier with your hands clasped together atop the dining table. Unable to bear the thought of being separated from him anymore than you had to. You only parted long enough to ready for bed, and then you were tugging his hand to yours again. He’d pulled you close once you were under the blankets, clinging tightly together. But none of it matters because he still has to leave in the morning, and the ticking sound of the clock hanging on the wall was earsplitting. And you still can’t sleep. 

Many would call your codependent relationship with him unhealthy.

It was.

But the only people who couldn’t understand were those who had never been subjected to the horrors of the Hunger Games. 

You're scared for him. Terrified for Finnick Odair of all people. But in the Capitol…you couldn’t even give coherent thought to what he endured each and every time he was there.

“It’s going to be alright.” He’s whispering into the dark. Everything is so dark, even his words of reassurance. Because nothing is alright when you’re not together. And he knows that.

“Finnick-”

“I’ll be home before you even miss me.” 

You press your face farther into the crook of his neck. His attempt at lightening the mood was endearing but unsuccessful. “I hate when you have to go there.” 

 “I know.” His lips find your temple as he speaks against your skin.

“I hate them for what they make you do.” Angry, worried tears threaten to spill, but you’ve cried enough to last lifetimes, so you suck them down.

“I know.” He sighs again. 

When you don’t say anything for a moment too long, he’s switching your positions. He angles his body over yours, and you can still make out the green sea of his eyes. That’s the color you dream of when he is gone. The color you think of to keep yourself grounded when your Games come knocking. 

“Sometimes I think Snow only agreed to me not being a mentor because he knew how much it would hurt to have you leave.” You say, still holding onto the green green green. 

“Sounds like him,” Finnick mumbles. 

“Sometimes I wish you’d never even gone to him about it in the first place.” You say, reaching up to run a finger down the bridge of his nose. “I could be going with you tomorrow.” 

“No.” He said with a harsh shake of his head. “I’d rather die than watch you step foot in that place again.” 

You’re frowning because you don’t like it when he talks about dying in any capacity. “I’d face the Capitol again if it meant staying with you.” 

“I don’t want you there.” He argues, his voice taking a sharp edge to it. “Those people even breathing the same air as you… I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else.” When he threads his fingers through your hair, his touch is nothing short of reverent.

He can feel your anxiety buzzing from within you, you know he can. He’s always been attuned to what you were feeling at any given moment. It was both a blessing and a curse. You feel bad for worrying him, but emotional regulation isn’t something you’re good at now. His fingers still running through your hair is soothing, though. How you went from being just another girl in District Four to being reaped for the Games and winning to laying in bed with Finnick Odair will always be a mystery. 

"I'll be okay," he whispers, his voice barely audible in the darkness. 

“I know.” You reply, tracing his jawline. “I just worry about you when you’re there.” 

He flashes a grin at you that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m Finnick Odair. You don’t have to worry about me.” 

He pulls you to lay down again, holding you tight against him. The ticking of the clock on the wall continues to screech in the background. You feel his breath on your skin as he speaks, his voice soft but firm.

"I'll come back to you," he says. "Just hold onto that thought, okay? Hold onto me."

Feel free to send in more requests! They keep me busy.

[fangirl-erdariel]

You are in a post-apocalyptic story. A war destroyed much of your country, and it fell under enemy control. Almost all who lived there have fled. Your father, who should be the lord of the land, leads a small group of guerilla fighters still resisting the enemy, you among them. The enemy forces have not found your hideout, and you've managed to survive for a while, but really, you all probably know it's only a matter of time. Realistically, you don't have a chance to actually beat the enemy forces back. But among your small group, most have lost loved ones, whether that be father or wife or another relative. Many don't have much anything more left to lose. None of you are willing to forsake your homeland, war-torn and abandoned though it is, so you're just going to stay here, taking as many enemy soldiers with you as you can, making a point... to the enemy? to the world? to yourselves? about your stubbornness and strength and love for your home. You are in a post-apocalyptic story.

Slowly, your life becomes a horror story. One of the others is tricked into betraying your group, telling the enemy where to find your hideout. When the enemy has got what they wanted out of him, they torture him to death, even as they send troops to attack the hideout. You are not there when they come. You find this out, when the ghost of the traitor comes to you in a dream, confessing what he's done, urging you to go warn the others. You come too late. Your father is dead, all the others are dead, the beautiful lake that was your hideout tainted by their blood. You bury your father, and go to take what vengeance you can. You kill the ones that killed your father, you take back a golden ring they took from his corpse - a token of an oath by a king to help your father if he needed, an oath your father never called him to fulfill. You continue the fight, now a one-man-war, you alone against an enemy that has defeated mighty armies.

You are in a horror story. Slowly, the influence of your enemy turns your beloved homeland into a corrupted nightmare. The woods are filled with enemy soldiers, and maybe with worse things. You are all alone, with only the trees and wild animals for company. You continue the fight, until you can't.

You are in a horror story. Forced to retreat further and further, at last there's only one way to escape your enemy, and it's no way for any kind of escape at all, unless maybe that of death. Mountains on the southern border of your homeland, steep and treacherous, with no known pass, no path over them. No one has ever crossed them, as far as you know. And beyond the dangers of the landscape, evil magic lies upon the mountains. There are monsters there, and madness-inducing magic in all the water of all the springs and streams. You drink from them anyhow. You don't have a choice.

You are in a horror story. You crossed the mountains, and no story afterwards will know to tell how you did it (maybe you don't know yourself, the madness and corruption ravaging your mind until you're stumbling forward on instinct, the most primal parts of your nature driving you onward, refusing to accept lying down to die as an option). For all your troubles, your reward is more horror, a land so twisted by strange magic that even servants of the enemy fear to tread there. You get tangled in what seems like spiderwebs. There are monsters, in this dark (is it truly dark, or does the corruption of the land just make it seem so, or is it your mind playing tricks on you?). Monsters like spiders, whose webs you are caught in, that will eat you if you can't fend them off. Distantly, the small part of your mind that's still capable of coherent thought, recalls stories of a monstrous spider that ate the light before the sun and moon, that made the god of evil scream like a frightened child. Maybe these spiders are related to her. You fight them, and you stumble on and on, hacking your way through the webs, driven by fear and by that primal animalistic part of you that only wants to survive. You don't - can't - think, any semblance of conscious thought or even sense of self long since drowned out by pain and hunger and weariness and the madness and horror inflicted on you by these lands. You are in a horror story, and there's no way out of it, but you don't know how to lie down and accept your fate either.

You stumble through woods with less and less spiders, woods that, if you were capable of noticing or comprehending such things, begin to seem more normal again. In daytime, the sun shines. The darkness of the night is lit by stars and moon, it's not the heavy darkness that drowns out thought. But the madness still has you in its grip, you still stumble forward like a wounded animal without a den to hide in, unthinking, incapable of feeling anything but fear and pain. Perhaps that state of madness is what lets you through the magics meant to ensnare and stop outsiders, perhaps to the magic you don't register as anything but a wild animal. Or perhaps it is fate that lets you through. Or both.

One night, you hear music, a flute playing. You don't know when you've last heard such a beautiful sound, if ever. It awakens some curiosity somewhere in the back of your mind, in the more human ones, the ones drowned out by madness. You stumble towards the sound, until through the leaves you can see a little clearing, and-

a woman more beautiful than you've ever seen, than you've ever even imagined could exist, singing and dancing there. She seems happy, and she's dancing, right there, out in the middle of the woods, not a care in the world. As though all the horror and suffering and fear you're so very familiar with has never touched her in the slightest.

She can't be real, nothing so beautiful, so happy, so free of pain and fear, could possibly be real. You've lost it, you're seeing things. But maybe you're not, and you have to make sure, so you stumble forward, finally stumbling towards something and not just blindly away from something.

The music stops. Someone yells something. The woman stops, and stands and looks at you for a moment, as you stumble towards her, and then... she runs. You try to follow, but lose her soon, and are left alone in the nightly forest, still half-mad, utterly uncertain whether any of what you just witnessed was real or just a hallucination.

You have to know if it was real. You have to find out. You begin to look for her. It's the only coherent thought in your mind, taking over the empty space left by the madness. You must know if what you saw was real, so you search and search. Not knowing her name, you name her Nightingale, because of the beauty of her singing.

You think you see her again, and then a second time. But it's from a distance, you can't reach her, you still don't know if she's real. Maybe you're so desperate and mad that you're just imagining it.

And then, suddenly, you see her again, singing and dancing, and winter turns to spring as she does so. And you run after her, and you call her, call her by the name you've secretly given her. And against all hope, she halts, and turns, and looks at you again. You come to her, you touch her. She's real! She really exists!

You have stumbled into a fairytale.

[flowercrowngods]

why must i think of prisoners Ranger!Steve and Bard!Eddie so constantly and why must they be so tender and why hhhh

Steve’s whole body is made of pain, and has been for the past few days. His feet are aching and raw from trying to keep up as they were bound to horses and dragged along. His skin is chafed and bleeding where the unforgiving rocks have managed to destroy his clothes after one too many falls, and every smallest of cuts feels like his body is nothing more than a pulsating mess. 

Worst of all, though, is the dizziness. He doesn’t know if his head is still bleeding or if the wetness he can feel running down his temple is his body’s testament to the unfamiliar heat, but it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. 

There’s only pain. And nausea. His eyes are open but he needs a second to understand what he’s seeing — and what he’s seeing is a ceiling made of sand coloured stone. Distantly, he hears a door clanging shut, but that might just as well be a memory. 

He’s going to throw up. Tough luck when you don’t even know where up is. 

A groan leaves his mouth as he tries to take a deep breath and fails miserably. Instead, he can add two broken ribs to the list of misery. 

Gods above — whichever of them are listening — he’s tired. But he fears that if he closes his eyes, he might not open them anymore for the sheer release that would bring. He can’t sleep, can’t rest, not when— 

“Easy now,” a gentle voice interrupts his less than coherent thoughts and just moments later, a tender hand is combing through his blood-crusted hair. “You shouldn’t move, my friend. There’s nowhere to move to anymore.” 

Steve frowns, his brain trying and failing to provide any information at this point. The hits to his head must have been worse than he thought if his short term memory refuses to work with him anymore. 

“We have reached Capital City,” the voice continues and Steve has to blink the fog away to make out its owner. When he does, it must show in his eyes, for the worry in Theodore Munson’s eyes makes way to the briefest of smiles before returning even stronger than before. “Do you not recall?”

Steve just stares up at him. That’s all his wrecked body and mind allow him to do right now. That’s all they want to do when gentle hands comb through his hair and chase away some of the pain. 

It is then that reality slowly comes back to him and he realises where he is. Where they are. What is at stake if they fail any more, if they decide to torture information on Elanor and William out of them — out of him. He’s not sure how much he can take. They have been held prisoner for weeks. Steve has been hurting for even longer.

Shame rises in him and he has the urge to apologise to Jim, to explain, but moving his head to the side, he sees that his old master isn’t any better off. He appears to be sleeping, his face bruised, and a teary-eyed Maxine is wiping blood away from his face with a piece of her cloak. 

Steve blinks once, twice, and takes in the man who practically raised him, watches the steady rise and fall of his chest and listens, beyond the pulsing rush of his own blood, that his lungs are not rattling. Shame makes way to satisfaction when he sees that none of their party has taken as many hits, kicks and punches as himself. His distractions have worked, then. 

That’s good. Now if only they didn’t make him so nauseous. So tired. So…

“Don’t fall asleep, Steven,” Eddie demands, and the world tilts slightly, which makes everything worse until… soft. It’s softer now. 

Eddie has moved him so his head is resting in his lap now. 

“You don’t look too good, Ranger. Sleep is dangerous in your state, no matter how badly you might need it. Give it a few hours, please.” 

A beat passes where Steve tries to process the words that are just too many. Since when does Eddie talk with him so much? 

“Lies,” he says after a while and with greater effort than should be necessary.

“Lies?” 

“I look very good. You just can’t see it under all the blood and the bruises.” He tries to crack a smile, but even the huffed breath jolts his head too much. 

Eddie does him the favour of a brief chuckle, and Steve feels better for it. Lighter. Light is good, he finds. Maybe all he has to focus on is Eddie and his hands working out the clumps of dirt and blood from his hair, maybe all he has to to is make him smile and the world will be a bit less painful. 

His world narrows down to all the ways Eddie is close to him and it does keep him occupied, but it also gets his mind wandering, the adrenaline of the past days wearing off. 

“Keep doing that and I will fall asleep,” he says after another beat of silence. Fall asleep and dream. Dream of what this could mean. Dream of smiles that make me feel lighter. 

“Keep doing what?” Eddie asks, and Steve senses a trick to just keep him talking, no matter how slurred his speech is. He needs a moment to remember what he said.

“This,” he says eventually, and Eddie only hums. Finding words is hard. He tries. And tries again. “Being gentle.” 

Another smile, and Steve wants to close his eyes to keep it there to hold on to. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, my friend.” 

“Can’t not be gentle?” He’s losing force on the consonants. The pain is getting stronger, his nerve endings more frayed and his vision blurry. This is familiar. He gives himself another quarter of an hour at most before he will lose his consciousness, no matter how hard he tries to stay here. With Eddie and his wavering smile. 

“Not with my friends, no.” 

This time it’s Steve who smiles at the word friends. He likes to be Eddie’s friend. The man, as it turns out, is admirable, he’s strong, he’s wise when he wants to be and gentle with young Maxine. He’s kind, he’s quick-witted and patient, and his hands are impossibly soft. 

“I know you said not to sleep, and I’m not normally one to deny a well-respected bard’s command, but…” He swallows. Words are hard. He’s not sure they come out as planned, but he perseveres. “I’m afraid I have to prove to you now just how stubborn the Queen’s Rangers can be.” 

Another hum from above him and Steve opens his eyes he hadn’t even noticed closing. The world is fading, but still Eddie is at its centre. 

“I’ll be here when you wake up, then, stubborn Ranger.” 

Will you smile at me still? Steve wonders. 

“Always,” Eddie says, but before Steve has time to wonder if someone else has said something, darkness has swallowed him whole.

[lurkingshan]

Only Friends: Fight Night

Another excellent episode, this time with everyone at each other’s throats. So much happened, so let’s break down the big fights and shifting allegiances.

Round 1: Sand vs Top

Phew, Sand really hates Top. I am dying for the backstory on the ex Top stole from him. I loved how this scene showcased Top’s two faces: the boyfriend mask he wears with Mew, and this nastiness that comes out with others. I think both faces are real to an extent, but it cannot be denied that he is lying and hiding parts of himself from Mew. I don’t think Mew would be happy to hear the way Top talks about him, flaunting him as a conquest he won. Sand’s disdain for Top and the way he operates could not be more clear, and his smug attitude in this scene gave Sand the push he needed to do something with the ammunition he has.

Winner: Sand, but Top doesn’t know it yet.

Round 2: Ray vs Boston

Ray walked into this scene with the upperhand, and we saw a moment of real fear on Boston’s face when he realized Ray knew about him fucking Top. But he recovered quickly and turned it around on Ray easily, hitting on his insecurities about Mew and accusing him of only wanting Mew to know so he could break up his relationship and try to get with him again. He called him disgusting (Boston’s favorite insult), and clearly, that was a direct hit, because Ray teared up and disassembled immediately. 

Winner: Boston. Don’t fuck with a fucker, Ray.

Round 3: Cheum vs Boston and Ray

Cheum got her passive aggressive on in this scene and made a bunch of passive aggressive digs at her “friends.” I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: everyone in this friend group is an asshole (run for your life, April!) and none of them seem to actually like each other much. After encouraging Boston to bring Nick and promising to be on her best behavior, she called him a “heartless slut” in front of the guy she claims she wants him to date, and then started picking on Ray for being single and condescended to him about finding someone, teeing up Boston to add insult to injury. Classic mean girl behavior.

Winner: Cheum, but not for long.

Round 4: Ray vs Everyone

As soon as Ray started chugging his liquor after his friends were mean to him, I knew we were in for some chaos, and he did not disappoint. Shots fired at every one of them, except for his most beloved Mew. Unfortunately, his drunk and high ass couldn’t get it together to coherently explain what he was ranting about in front of the crowd, but in the end it didn’t matter because he had already delivered the important information to Mew in the bathroom. Boston deserved it and I didn’t even feel bad for Cheum, she brought that shit on herself. Insulting Sand and offering him money for sex in front of everyone, though? Fucking ouch.

Winner: Ray, but in his typical fashion, he also lost.

Round 5: Sand vs Ray

Sand is the cause of this whole mess, but he seems distressed to see Ray in this state. I don’t know what he thought would happen when he gave Ray this ammunition, knowing how he feels about Mew and how little self-control he has, so I was rolling my eyes a little at his insistence that Ray stop thinking about Mew. You sewed this chaos, sir! Don’t light the match and then make a shocked Pikachu face when you start a fire! After having already hurt him in front of everyone in the bar, Ray rejected Sand and his help brutally, calling him a whore and throwing him to the ground, and then got in his car to wreak havoc on the road. Ray is focused on Mew and simply does not care about Sand’s feelings, and Sand can’t seem to stop trying to protect Ray from his own self-destruction no matter how many times he’s rejected.

Winner: No one, this is all around fucked.

Round 6: Mew vs Top

Mew, my boy, I didn’t know you had it in you! Throughout that scene I was shaking my head, wondering how he could have possibly missed the implication of what Ray was saying and whether he just won’t believe anything Ray says, and then as the sex scene started and he was more bold and confident than usual, I was like what is going o—oh shit! Mew, that was brilliant. I loved seeing him catch Top off guard like that, and given that he already knew before he went home with him, he was clearly giving Top one last chance to come clean and stop lying. Top failed the test, Mew is righteously pissed and genuinely hurt, and for once, Top is out of his depth with no idea how to fix his mistake. 

Winner: Mew. 

And Mew isn’t done, because next week we finally get to see him set some things on fire and kick Boston into the pool. Friends, I can hardly wait.

[gretavanlace]

Sugar II (part 2)

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: language, angst, Josh is perfect, angst, also maybe some angst

I’m so happy that you are all enjoying Sugar 2.0 as much as I am! I’ve missed this little world so much and it just makes me smile to know that you missed it too ❤️

Curled up into a tight ball under hotel room sheets, your mascara smudges across and stains the bleach-white pillowcases. And you might feel a little guilty about that if you could form a halfway coherent thought.

You’d expected a coworker, also dragged into town for this god forsaken conference, when you’d heard your name skittering across the marbled lobby floors. Turning to find Daniel, dripping in Greek God beauty and memories, had stolen the air from your lungs.

Quite literally, you had found it impossible to breathe for a few panicky moments as your eyes darted around in search of those that might be tagging along with him.

The warm, nostalgic feeling of stumbling across an old, dear friend had been overshadowed and twisted by fear…and a horrible, throbbing sadness; there was a time when this was your life…the last time anything had made any sense.

The overwhelming urge to sob in his arms had left you aching when he’d pulled you in for a bear hug. Somehow, his being so near had made home feel that much further away.

Take me to him. You’d wanted to beg Danny, clinging to his sturdy frame.

Now, you just want to run. To pack up your things in a hurry and flee the building as if it were engulfed in flames. You wish you were shoving your bag into an overhead compartment on a plane bound for anywhere that isn’t here.

This is too close. They are too close.

Three years it’s been, and he is still the first thing that weighs like sand on your mind when your eyes blink open in the morning…and your very last thought before they drift closed at night.

Has it really been three years? It doesn’t seem possible.

You think of Josh, too. Of course you do. But it is with a distant fondness for what you had. He is a pretty memory. A good memory. One you can recall easily, and with wistful affection. You can speak of him readily, with gentle sentiment. It was a great thing you had, and now it is no longer. Simple.

Jake.

You try so hard not to think of Jake, but he’s there all the time anyway. Cozied up inside your head like he owns the place, no matter how many times you’ve ordered him to vacate. He always was stubborn, and his memory has proven no different. There is a hole in your soul shaped exactly like him. Hardly a blip of light in your eyes; you left most of it there with him all those moons ago.

You could so easily satiate your searing need in some minuscule manner, via YouTube interviews, balcony seats at shows where you would stand no chance of being spotted. The wails of his guitar could pour from your speakers and right into your chest whenever it feels too hollow. You could fall asleep to samplings of his velveteen voice, rasping answers to questions floated from radio hosts and devour written pieces where he speaks so eloquently and with such reverence about his craft…

You could, but you don’t.

You do none of these things. It simply cuts too deeply.

Early on, you did. Tortured yourself as you sobbed and cried out in the night like a homesick child. Yes, in those early days, you’d punished your fractured heart and yearning mind with pain; sunk your teeth into and gnashed them together, fearful of letting go.

But you’ve found your way. Tripped clumsily along, patching together a new normal slowly. The diamond that rests upon your ring finger reminds you of that…and you feel sick with self loathing. Weeping in this strange bed over what used to be, while he waits at home for you, happily watering your plants and tending to the household chores. Loving you from a distance.

He sends you texts just to say he loves you, and so you’ll know you’re on his mind. To ask if you’d like him to pick up anything from the store so you won’t have to worry about it when you return home. To remind you that he adores you in a hundred little ways.

…and here you lie, in a bed that isn’t the one you share with him, chest caving in around your heart, squeezed up tight and longing for Jake.

Jake, Jake, Jake…always Jake. Why won’t he go away?

A knock, swift and sure, startles you out of your misery with a jolt.

You don’t plan to answer, that’s a given…you’re a mess, complete with a blotchy, tear streaked face, and swollen eyes…so you’re silent as you creep over to the door to have a peek through the peephole.

He looks angelic, waiting out there in the hall nervously fidgeting. His curls look like home and your fingers itch to touch them, innocently. Almost the same, and so different all at once, now closely clipped at the sides. He looks reminiscent of his younger self. A little like the Josh you’ve only ever known through pictures; the Josh before he swept into your life like a tornado of light and smiles. He always was so beautiful. So offbeat. So eclectically mishmashed together and esoteric.

It’s like spotting a twin flame that you never expected to see again. Like the dead has risen…

…and before you’re consciously aware of your actions, you’re sliding the lock and cracking open the door.

“Hello, sweet girl.” His voice is soothing, and weighed down heavy as it slams into your head and scrambles your brain.

“Josh,” is all you’re able to manage, stupidly.

“As beautiful as ever, mama.” He smiles, flashing that tiny gap in his teeth that used to make you weak.

“Now, listen,” he holds a hand up and then shoes away whatever notion he’s about to bring up, “Don’t you hold this against our dear Daniel…I know you didn’t want to see us,” he lowers his voice into a conspiring whisper, “but you should know, he’s become a terrible tattletale in your absence.”

Suddenly, you’re hyper aware of the fact that you’ve left him standing in the hall like an unwelcome stranger. Against your better judgment, you invite him in.

He’s careful not to touch you, mindful of overstepping in a way that’s so out of character for him it makes you feel unsteady.

“You really do look lovely, sweetheart.” He smiles, “A vision. I’ve missed you, my friend. I’ve missed you very much.”

‘My friend’ stings a little at first, but within a blink, it settles and feels right - you were always friends. Friends before it became love, friends while it was love…

The Josh you knew possessed a great many talents, and quick adaptability was listed among them. He allowed the fickle winds of life to toss him about like no one you’d ever known, and had an ever present and uncannily firm grasp on relationships, and an admiration for how they can shift and morph.

He also always was a cool liar when it was for the greater good. Some things clearly never change.

Nervously, you sweep a hand through your hair and blot your eyes with the backs of your hands, “Lovely my ass…c’mere.”

With little reservation, you tug him in close and fold your arms around him. An unexpected huff of a laugh escapes you when you feel his familiar warmth.

He hugs you back, long and hard, with a soft, “Hi, baby, hi.”

“How’d you find me, you stalker?” You joke tenderly as he sways your bodies back and forth. “I didn’t give Danny my room number.”

That chuckle of his that you’d buried in the past trots out to say hello, “A trip to the front desk was all it took. Have you forgotten the Kiszka charm so easily?”

“Uh-huh,” you roll your eyes, though you’re still wrapped up tightly together and he cannot see.

“Okay,” he concedes “the Kiszka charm and maybe a hundred tucked into a hand or two.”

How strange that you had begged Danny not to tell him; his embrace is blissful and you’ve missed him terribly.

Still, there is a phantom in the room with the two of you, and you know without a doubt that he feels it too.

When he pulls back, his hands slip down your arms to clasp around yours…and he sees it.

“Oh my, mama,” he tugs it up closer for inspection, “would you look at that. Going to the chapel, huh?”

“I—“ for some unknown reason, you pull your hand away and tuck it behind your back as though you’ve been caught in a shameful act.

He tilts his head, regarding you carefully “Can we sit?”

With a welcoming gesture, you usher him in further, and like the gentleman he’s always been, he opts for the chair and doesn’t mention the disheveled bed, or its wept upon pillows.

After you settle in respectively, there’s a long stretch of silence in which you both seem to just sort of sink into being in the same room together again. Finally, he breaks the ice.

“He can’t know you’re here. It won’t be like this,” he waves a finger back and forth between the two of you, indicating the ease in which you’ve reunited.

A choked sob threatens to breach your lips at the mere mention of him, and your hand darts up to press it back.

“And he certainly can’t know about that.” Josh points to your ring winking obnoxiously in the light.

“Of course,” you nod rapidly, blinking tears back. “Yes, of course not…but, is he…” falling silent, your gaze lands on your bare toes and stays there.

“Is he, what?” Josh’s voice is kind, and you are so grateful for it. “Okay? No, sweetheart. He’s very far from okay. I should lie for him, I know I should. He’s my brother…I should tell you he’s happy. Happier than he’s ever been.”

“Will you?” There is a desperate hope in your plea that makes you cringe inwardly. “Will you tell me he’s happy?”

His eyes, so like his twins, and so full of sorrow, watch you for such a long time you begin to squirm this way and that in your seat. “Sit still, mama…” he finally scolds with the tiniest wink to soothe your anxiety, “he’s happy. He’s fine. But best if you just steer clear, alright?”

“So he’s happy? Or you should lie, Josh? Which is it?” Why are you asking? You don’t want to know. It’s infinitely easier to swallow the lie. You can’t stand the thought of Jake broken still and riddled with the pain you know so well.

With a sigh, he avoids your gaze. “You know the answer to that already, it seems. Are you?” His eyes flick towards your engagement ring, “Happy, I mean? Are you?”

Now it’s your turn to lie, “Yes. Very.”

He nods, and then glances at the mascara glaring from your pillows like evidence at trial. “Yes, it would seem so.”

“Josh, I—“

“Look,” he cuts you off, stressing with urgency. “We’re only here for the night. Lay low if you can. He’s bad off, and to see you would level him. To see you with that,” he once again points out your ring, “Would kill him. You leaving…”

A shaking breath rattles his shoulders, “It wasn’t easy for either of us, but Jake? Jake is still in that hotel room you walked out of a thousand nights ago. He never left, sweet girl. He never fucking left…and as much as I know that it’s not your fault…”

He trails off in thought and then drags in a hitching hiss of air, “As much as I know it isn’t either of our faults, I still place all that blame right here, with you and me. I can’t watch him descend any further, alright? So just lay low until we’re gone. For me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, a thousand questions beating like bird’s wings against the cage of your mind, “Yes, of course.”

Another lull slips in to visit until he shakes his head slowly, “How did I ever manage to get over you? You truly are beautiful. I’d almost forgotten…that’s heartbreaking.”

There is an innocuous lilt to his tone that warms your soul like cocoa with the fattest marshmallow bobbing along in the mug, and you feel your cheeks turn pink under his open, golden gaze.

“Me?” You laugh, “What about you, gorgeous? I love the hair.”

“Oh, you know,” he brushes his palms over the sides with a bashful shrug, “I let Sam trim it, scissors slipped…had to do something.”

“Still blaming Sam for all of life’s tragedies?” You laugh again. You always did laugh so freely with him, and you’ve missed it more than you ever allowed yourself to realize.

He scoffs with the faintest roll of his sparkling eyes “Obviously. That’s what the youngest is for, mama. You know this. And speaking of Samuel, you understand that Daniel will tell him, right? Those two might as well just get married and call it a day.”

Another giggle sounds out of you, “Don’t be jealous, Joshua. It’s unbecoming. Danny loves you, too…and Sammy I would say definitely considers you a solid acquaintance.”

“Yes, well, my acquaintance would be thoroughly crushed if he didn’t get the chance to at least say hello to you. Maybe later tonight? After the show?” He leans forward and toys with the beads swinging between his knees. “How would that be?”

“Only Sammy?”

He holds up two fingers, scout’s honor, “Only Sammy.”

You agree, and catch up a while longer until it’s time for him to take his leave, and you can’t help the confession that blurts out of your mouth without eloquence.

“You said he never left that hotel room,” you waver with bitten back tears. “It wasn’t…I don��t want you to think…it took me a very long time to leave that room, too.”

One last time, before the door closes behind him, his eyes linger on your pillow and the evidence of your tears, and then find yours, “Sweetheart, are you sure you’ve left it at all?”

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @jakesgrapejuice @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @gretasmokerising @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @thelvnternskeeper @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @jordie-gvf-admin @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake

[phecdasolar]

Ok since TMNTblr was incredibly helpful last time I had a fic request (I’m still digging through the fic recs guys I’m not even halfway done shdhdjdj) I figured I’d get y’all’s help again <3

I am in need of some 2012 TMNT fics, specifically I require the best Leo angst you have, I wanna see this guy get put through the wringer. Maybe some bad dad Splinter (I love him but the AU���s where he’s a horrible parent are just. So angsty. There’s so much potential for protective brothers-) and/or his brothers being jerks, and Leo’s just going through it and eventually snaps and his bros realize he is Not Okay™️ and that maybe being Splinter’s “favorite” isn’t a good thing-

Also I saw in a fic where the infamous sacrifice line was mentioned and realized that I may. Have interpreted it wrong this whole time? “The most important thing is that you complete your mission no matter what or who you must sacrifice” or something along the lines of that. Now see, this entire time I thought Splinter was telling Leo it’s fine if he sacrifices himself for the sake of completing the mission and/or saving everyone, but apparently most people took that to mean “hey yeah sacrifice your brothers if need be” which. MMMMM THE ANGST OK, but also WOW that is a take /pos how have I never thought of it like that omg

I’m just rotating this in my brain,,,, I need,,,, bad dad Splinter, and Leo doing his best to meet his impossible expectations and trying to protect his brothers from ending up like him, and RAPH — I NEED SOME GOOD BROTHER RAPH OKAY HE GETS A BAD REP BUT HE’S A GOOD BROTHER ALRIGHT — gimme some protective Raph, who’s a jerk at first and then maybe sees something he wasn’t supposed to and now he knows how bad it is for Leo and he’s about ready to throw hands with Splinter-

The 2012 Leo & Raph dynamic is something that is soooooo special to me- twins fr your honor

My favorite concept as well, and I just saw this in another fic last night it made me so giddy and reminded me of my Wildcard AU — Leo reminds Splinter more of Shredder than Raph does, but he’ll never tell them that, or maybe they find out by accident idk.

He’s always pitting the two of them against each other and I’m just. What if it’s not for the reasons we think. Leo isn’t the next Splinter and Raph isn’t the next Shredder, but Splinter sees so much of his brother in Leo and it terrifies him so since day one he’s made it his mission to train every ounce of Saki out of him but unknowingly might just be making it worse…

I have many thoughts about these two and none of them are coherent or organized in the slightest so sorry about that my bad

[kydrogendragon]

I saw your birthday post and had an idea. It's comics canon Dream gets obsessive over his romantic partners, but... But! I wanna see that kind of obsessive devotion showered on his friend. His friend who waited and procured a new meeting place. No romance, no sex though QPR levels of skinship would be nice. I could see them both being different levels of touch starved. I would love to see 0 to 100 levels of friendship. Dream should get the chance with Hob who has already shown such loyalty.

We got our fifth post for the day!!

Ohhhh I loved this promp, thought! Honestly, this deserves it's own full length character study-type fic cause there's so much you can do with it here. I tried my best to fit bits in in a coherent manner and tried my best to show that obsession and devotion without it feeling like it dove too close to the "romance" track.

Thank you so much, anon! Hope you enjoy!

Relationship: Hob & Dream Words: 4141 Warnings: None Ao3 Link

The first time that Dream met with Hob Gadling after escaping Fawney Rig and restoring his realm, he had expected a great many things. What he hadn’t expected was for the White Horse to have been demolished and for his friend to create a new meeting place for them. The words The New Inn hung proudly against the brick building and a sense of warmth emanated from it in a way Dream had not experienced in many years.

Hob Gadling greeted him with a smile. Dream shouldn’t be surprised by this. The man was a well of optimism and joy. He has always looked upon life with a sense of wonder and excitement that Dream could hardly fathom. He should not be surprised his arrival was treated with that same level of happiness.

Still, he was surprised nonetheless.

They had talked well into the night, far past the normal operating hours of the establishment, but it did not matter when Hob owned the place. Being here with Hob, simply talking and listening to the mundane stories of his life, brought a peace to Dream. It was a comfort to simply be in a way he has not known how. When he was imprisoned, even then he had not simply existed. He was far into his mind, constantly staking out any weaknesses in their defenses or gaps in their bindings. Even when he had not moved in over a hundred years, Dream had not known rest.

But here was different. In these walls, rebuilt and lovingly fashioned with friendly intents and hopes, and with Hob’s cheerful baritone voice washing over him, Dream could finally relax. It was a strange sensation, one he fought initially, but sometime, after most patrons eased out and it was just the two of them, Dream managed to let the tension in his shoulders drop.

Then, Hob had invited him back. He had said Dream was welcome to visit anytime. Didn’t matter when, he was welcome. It was an offer he had never received before. A standing invite, one that Dream well knew Hob meant with all his heart, was a rare thing to be extended to anyone, let alone an Endless. And yet, the impossible immortal did so anyways.

Which is why Dream is currently sitting on Hob Gadling’s couch in the dark.

He had shown up to his flat the next day. Repairs in the Dreaming were progressing and, if Dream is being honest, he missed the sense of comfort he got from being near his friend (a friend. He did not have friends. And yet, he now has one.) Dream had failed to account for his work schedule, however, and upon arriving in Hob’s living room, found the place empty. It was no matter. Hob had told him he was welcome at anytime. He could wait.

Dream had explored the living room, trailing a finger across book titles and picture frames, ghosting touches over ancient artifacts with stories so embedded within, it made Dream smile. He brushed against the daydreams of sunlight and warmth from the plants upon his window ledges and, when the sun began to tilt down, heading for the horizon, Dream plucked a book from the expansive selection of Hob’s personal library and began to read.

He had lounged upon the plush fabric couch, his boots fading to sand as he tucked his legs underneath him. The book in had was an original print, well loved and well worn. The pages still carried with them the dreams of the author, though faint. It had also been many years since Dream had simply taken the time to read a book himself. Yes, the knowledge, the story told, it lay inside him, but the act of turning each page, of reading each word, there was something also calming about it.

Dream was nearly finished when Hob Gadling finally arrives.

The door creaks open into the darkness that’s settled into the room. There is a faint glow from the streetlights outside. Dream watches as his friend shuffles his bag off of his shoulder as he closes the door behind him. He tosses his keys on the counter beside him and sighs. “Ah, Christ,” his friend mutters, slinging the bag onto the counter as well. He looks up. Then he screams.

Dream blinks.

“Jesus, fuck! Dream?” Hob cries, stumbling backwards into his front door, one hand raised out, as if prepared to defend himself.

“Hello, Hob.”

His friends sighs and visibly sags. Dream frowns. Perhaps the invitation had not been made genuinely. Perhaps he should leave-

“Christ, you scared me, my friend,” Hob says, chuckling to himself. “Are those... do you have cat eyes?”

Dream blinks again. “Cat eyes?”

“Yeah, s’what scared me half to death. Two beady little eyes staring up at me in the darkness.”

“Ah,” Dream says, closing the cover of the book in his hands and setting it on the coffee table in front of him. “They are stars that you are seeing. They are not cat eyes.”

As Dream’s gaze lifts back to his friends, he sees Hob just staring at him, mouth slightly agape. “Right. Stars.” He says. Hob takes a steadying breath before nodding. “Sure. Star eyes. Why not.” Dream follows Hob’s movements as he makes his way to the kitchen and flicks on the soft under cabinet lighting. It brightens the room, but not considerably. The soft glow is comforting, almost. “Tea?”

Dream nods as he stands. He makes his way to the other side of the counter, watching Hob go through the motions of preparing two cups of tea. He pulls down a pair of novelty mugs, chuckling to himself as he reaches for the black mug peppered with small stars. He looks over to Dream with a smirk. “Star mug for Mr. Star-Eyes.”

It is after they had drank their tea on the comfort of Hob’s couch in the darkness and when Hob’s foot taps against his leg with a smile at a joke he cracks that Dream begins to realize that he cares quite deeply for this man that he calls friend.

It is a month later when Dream returns to the New Inn. It is not his third visit, but rather his tenth, though this one is special. He had brought with him a gift. It is customary, he has found, to give gifts to ones friends. And, Dream finds, he wishes to. Hob Gadling, who waited, who was loyal. Who stayed here, knowing Dream would return eventually when he had given him every reason to believe otherwise. He showed a level of faith he’d seen only in one other - Lucienne. And she had been his Raven, his first. How better to reward, to thank, such faith, such loyalty, than with a gift, spun from dreamstuff by his own hand?

The fine metal bracelet rests in his coat pocket. It it warm against him, thrumming with his own power and vibrates, perhaps a bit too excitedly, against his hand, eager to fulfill it’s function. Dream steps into the building that has become as close to a home in the Waking as Dream could ever know. Hob sits at their usual table, engrossed in his laptop. He walks forward, pulling his usual seat out, and sits as Hob looks up and greets him with that familiar smile.

“Well, hello there, my friend!” Hob says, closing the top of his laptop. He crosses his arm atop it. “How are you doing?”

“I am well. Yourself?”

Hob smiles and dives into their usual routine. He talks of work and his students, he talks of the staff and the customers. He talks of the frustrations with the Dean and the lack of support for a new course he wishes to teach. Dream makes a mental note of this. But most importantly, he talks of himself, of his latest botched cooking attempt and his struggles with keeping his newest plant alive.

As the conversation naturally ebbs, Dream speaks. “I have a gift for you.” Hob’s eyes widen comically.

“A gift? For me?”

Dream nods and reaches into his coat pocket. The thin gold metal band shines in the overhead lighting. It is simple in design, though the underside of the band contains script of a language few speak any longer, though Hob was borne into. The Middle English reads, “Min Gadling”. He holds it out on his palm in front of Hob.

His friend looks between him and the bracelet, shock and confusion on his face, but reaches forward, slowly, and plucks the metal from his hand. Dream sighs, his hand retreating, as the dreamstuff hums in Hob’s hold. He examines it, turning it in his hands, when his eyes finally spot the text. He inhales sharply as his eyes dart up to Dream.

It is in this moment that Dream realizes, perhaps, this gift is too much. When he’d broached the topic to Matthew, his raven had ensured him that gifts between friends were fine, though the examples given were often food or small tokens. This, he realizes, may not qualify as appropriate gifts.

Dream tenses, his mind already spinning tales of possible ends, most of which involve Hob revoking his offers of friendship, of visitation permission. Even in friendship, it seems, he is too much. Then Hob speaks.

“You know, my last name apparently means companion or comrade.” He smiles. Dream lets out a breath.

“It can also mean rogue,” he replies, allowing a small smile to grace his face in return.

Hob chuckles. “Yeah, pretty sure that’s what mine was meant to mean.” He looks back down at the bracelet, fondness in his eyes. “Thank you for this. It means a lot. Truly. I don’t have much with my true name on it these days. It’ll be nice to have something always on me to remind me where I came from. How far I’ve come.” His eyes lift, meeting Dream’s. “The friends I’ve made along the way.”

Hob fiddles with the metal in his hands, his brows furrowing as his eyes dart across Dream’s face. “Not that I’m not grateful. I am. Completely! And I love it and will always happily accept any gifts, but… why?”

“I-” Dream starts, letting his eyes fall to the table between them. The truth? Dream wished to bestow upon Hob all that he could offer for everything Hob has given him. He wished to thank him for his friendship, for his stories and companionship. He wished to offer him but a paltry piece of the debt he has piled himself with off of Hob Gadling's kindness. He wished to see Hob wear that which marks him as his, as his friend, his one and only. Dream only knew intensity. His lover often complained of such, but change does not come easy to Dream. And in friendship, it seems, he is no different.

“Friendship bracelets, I’ve been told, are common in this century, are they not?” It is far from the truth, though it was the inspiration for the gift’s form.

“Well, yeah,” Hob chuckles, finally sliding the bracelet over his hand. It shrinks, fitting his wrist perfectly. His friend’s mouth drops as he stares at the metal. “I- did that just shrink?”

“Yes,” Dream replies. “It will adjust to whatever size you desire.”

Hob runs a hand through his hair, his eyes glued to his wrist. “I’ll never get over just how incredible you are, you know that?” Dream smiles, preening under the praise. Hob shakes his head and manages to tear his eyes away and turn back to Dream. “Anyways, yes, friendship bracelets are a thing, but they’re usually small things made of twine or colored yarns, not decorative metals with fancy scripts and fancy magics. Besides, usually friendship bracelets have a twin. One for each of us.”

“Oh?” He has made an error, it seems. One that can be resolved quickly. He moves, readying to whirl in a matching bracelet for himself when Hob speaks again.

“But! Key part- I have to make yours. Just, you know, don’t expect anything as fancy as this, yeah?” He says, waggling his wrist just above the table with a grin.

Ah. The act of the creation is as important to the function as the bracelet itself. “I look forward to the fruits of your labor then, Hob Gadling.”

If the Dean suddenly wakes up with an overwhelming nagging feeling to greenlight Hob’s proposed class the next morning, who’s to say?

The first time Hob truly touches him, Dream stiffens. They are out visiting the newest exhibit at the Natural History museum. Hob was staring up at a wall-sized painting of a Titanosaur, the largest dinosaur, according to the various placards in the room. Dream had been talking to the inaccuracies of the painting, noting a distinct lack of fur and a poor distribution of fat when a large school group makes their way through the smaller hallway they are standing in.

The hoard of teenage youth slide through, jovial and pointing at various pieces of arts and relics as they pass. Hob reaches out, a hand resting on Dream’s back as he guides the pair of them a few steps closer, making room for those walking by. His touch is warm and melts into his core like honey-sweet syrup. The sensation is so startling, Dream simply… goes. He follows Hob’s hand and allows his friend to move him. Then, he returns his hand to his side.

Dream, on principle, does not allow touch, not unless he wishes. And he most certainly does not allow for people to move him. But, he finds, his mind allows both of these to Hob Gadling, even if he had not consciously made the choice. It is a strange realization, learning the allowances he would have for his friend. The worst is Hob seems oblivious to the inner turmoil occurring in Dream.

The strangest, he supposes, his how a part of his wishes to list into his friend, into his warmth again. It has been mere minutes, yet he is left wanting for the feeling. He looks down, his eyes drifting beside the nameplate to the right of the large work of art as Hob’s voice washes over him again, talking of archeology and his desires to “give it a shot, one of these lives.” Perhaps, Dream thinks to himself, he has been without touch for far too long.

The second time Hob touches him, Dream had initiated it. Well, more than he had the last time, at least. They are in his flat, this time, resting on the couch, watching a movie Hob had insisted upon. It is evening in London. A few boxes of Thai takeout rest on the coffee table beside a plate of biscuits Hob had made just for Dream after learning his preference of the sweet things. He has a blanket draped over his form, another insistence from Hob. He claimed movies were always better when bundled up, then accused him of always looking cold.

Dream had been unable to argue against him. He was always cold. It lingered on the edges of his form. The memory of cool, unforgiving glass pressed against his skin, chilling him to his core. Though, Dream is certain he has been cold for longer than that. But with Hob, in his flat, under a well-loved blanket that feels and smells of his friend, Dream finally feels almost warm.

Hob sits beside him, still upright, still near, as he works through the last few bites of his Pad Thai. Dream could shift his foot just slightly and rest it against Hob’s thigh if he so wished. So he did. The slight curve of his foot melds into the soft give of his warm flesh, covered as it is by corduroy. Hob tilts his head back and to the side, eyes looking at Dream with a question in his brow.

He stares at the television, refusing to meet Hob’s gaze. It was an ask, nonverbal as it was. He did not wish to see the rejection should it come. But it didn’t. Instead, he felt Hob shift, setting down the now empty takeout container on the table and shifts, letting his arm drape over the back of the couch as he presses back against Dream’s foot. When he finally glances over at Hob, he’s met with a gentle smile before those warm brown eyes turn back to the movie.

If Dream rested his head against the back of the couch, just beside Hob’s hand, and if he let his eyes fall closed as fingers carded through his hair, he would never say.

“Hey! I was hoping I might see you today,” Hob called from his usual spot in the New Inn. Dream made his way over to the seat across the table and looks at him with a confused frown.

“Is something the matter?” Was he in trouble? Or perhaps Hob was finally shifting from this current life to the next one. He had talked with Dream about running out of life left in this place after all.

“No, nothing bad, don’t worry.” Hob said with a smile. He turns, digging through the bag to his right. He exclaims in joy as he pulls forth from the depths of his bag a small paper box. Sliding it across the table, he looks up, excitement in his eyes.

Dream reaches down, plucking the small, light-weight box from the table. Already, he can feel the daydreams that waft through the box from the object inside. Tales of friendship and hope, of care and consideration flow through. Most importantly, though, is how he is the focus of all these daydreams. When he removes the lid and sees the delicate black leather cuff inside, he knows exactly what it is.

“The twin to your friendship bracelet, yes?” Dream asks, taking the leather cuff in his own hands. It is thinner than many cuffs. Perhaps two fingers wide, but the face is decorated, stamped with care, with trailing vines and images of birds - ravens, he suspects - in flight. It is not perfect. There are imperfections in the stamping, shadows of a second press just slightly misaligned from the first. The stitches are mostly even, though there are spots, Dream notices as he rubs his thumb over the edges, that are off– a little too close to the edge, a little too far from it.

It is imperfectly perfect. It is human and hand-made. Dream would not have it any other way.

Hob nods, speaking as Dream slowly buttons the leather cuff around his wrist, letting the softness of the well-worked leather cement him more firmly into this form. “Yeah, took forever trying to think of what would match your all black ensemble. Figured a dark stained leather would be a safe bet. Plus I’m shit at weaving.” He smiles, watching Dream’s deft fingers finish securing the leather around his wrist. Dream turns his wrist, watching the light cast shadows in the small indents of the hide.

He has not been gifted things often. Less so is he gifted things with the sole intent of giving him something without wanting something in return. He is also nearly certain that this is the first time he has been given something with the intent to match, so that they each hold claim over the other. Dream shivers at the thought. Hob had eagerly accepted his gift, his mark, and that alone had been a heady thing. This? Having Hob Gadling's mark upon him? Having the spoils of his work and effort, all done solely for him, so that they’d “match”?

There are tears in his eyes. Hob’s face falls into one of concern. “Hey, you okay? Is it too much?” He asks, resting his hands, palms up, on the table in front of Dream. An offer of comfort, if needed. Hob has always been considerate in this regard since that movie night in his flat. The offer of touch has become an open one, though gestures such as this make accepting it all the easier.

Dream rests his hand, the one bearing the black leather, on top of Hob’s own. Warm fingers wrap around him instantly, giving him a gentle squeeze. “No,” Dream manages, tearing his eyes away from their hands and up to his friend’s face. “It is perfect. Thank you, my dear friend.”

And Hob smiles. “Anytime.”

It has been well over a year since Dream returned to the Waking, since first returned to Hob Gadling. He has just arrived for their newest tradition: Monday Movie Nights. Matthew rests on his shoulder as he stands outside the door to Hob’s flat, a bottle of wine plucked from his own dreams along with the venison pasties he had so wished for Dream to try back at their 1589 meeting.

Hob opens the door with a wide smile and ushers them both in, taking the food and drink from Dream’s hands with a fond chuckle. “Grab these from a dream, did you?” Hob asks, setting both offerings on the coffee table next to the fish and chips and the plate of biscuits. There’s also a small bowl on the table beside the chair that Matthew has taken to resting in full of different seed. “Can’t imagine you slaving away in a kitchen.”

“Ha!” Matthew cries, flying from Dream’s shoulder over to the chair’s armrest. “Now that’s something I’d pay to see.” His raven cranes his neck up, watching as Hob uncorks the wine and pours them both a glass. “Can you even cook? Like, I know you don’t usually eat, so you probably don’t really need to cook. And you could probably just… magic up food if you really wanted it.”

Dream sits on the edge of the couch, waiting for Hob to take his usual spot before getting comfortable. He whisks away his boots and coat with a thought, letting them fall into sand, disappearing before hitting the ground. “I contain the collective subconscious, Matthew. I could cook if I desired to.” He takes the offered wine glass in hand. Hob nabs the remote from the table and falls back into the plush cushions. He wears his usual lounge wear, the cuffs of his joggers riding up his legs slightly. He leans back, his spine pressed into the soft curve of the edge of the back cushion as it flows into the armrest. Dream scooches himself closer, letting his back fall against his friend’s chest as he settles himself between his legs.

He has found, after a night spent in tears in Hob Gadling’s arm after telling him the tale of Fawney Rig, of cold glass and dried blood, that he feels calmer than ever when enveloped in his warmth. So, when the situation allows, Dream lets himself be draped in Hob’s arms and enjoys the solidity he finds in the touch and the warmth. Hob has since admitted, during one of their previous movie nights, that he is happy Dream enjoys these moments, that he’s missed being able to hold someone close like this.

Dream had been surprised at the time. Hob was always a touchy person, based on his interactions with others, though after the many many months together, he’s found that while Hob may have other friends and expresses his affections through hugs and touch and friendly slaps on the back, he misses this. He lacks the skinship they have with each other here. Human society may be getting better at allowing such gestures among friends, “cuddling with the homies” as Matthew had so gracefully put it, was still not widely accepted. But they had each other. And that was enough.

Hob’s arm wraps around his center, holding him close, his other sets his glass down on the side table next to Matthew’s seed. He hits play on the remote and retrieves his glass again, giving it a gentle tap to the edge of Dream’s own. He smiles, tilting his head against Hob’s shoulder.

The movie plays. Dream snacks on the freshly baked biscuits and even tries one of the venison pasties, much to Hob’s delight. He will admit, they were quite tasty. Hob, himself, works a steady pace through their acquired snacks and drink and sighs contentedly when he sets down his emptied glass of wine. He and Matthew chat, commenting on the film and it’s poor special effects work while Dream listens. The fireplace below the television crackles gently.

Dream smiles, closing his eyes as he lets his mind focus on the friendly chatter, the warmth of Hob’s body against his own, and the the feeling of happiness that starts to stir inside of him. He must thank his sister one day for bringing Hob Gadling into his life. Dream doesn’t know what he would have done without him.

[ropebunnykant]

Hello hello hello ✨

So, in keeping with my new tradition, I would like to probe your brain about the one scene that, surprisingly, stuck out to me this episode: the Kant and Lily interaction/proposition. (What I wouldn’t give for Bison to have overheard their conversation 😭)

I have so many whirling thoughts about this scene. Once again, I’m reminded of conversations surrounding Kant’s relationship with control, and, more directly, the nature of his arrangement with Captain. I’m honestly a bit surprised that the show included this section so openly, given the rather sub-text only nature of Captain’s, for lack of a better term, pimping of Kant. Honestly, I wish this was discussed further, but alas.

For what little screen time they have, Captain and Lily are fascinating characters, and their methods for manipulating and using others have captured my interest lately.

Additionally, if you have the time, I’d love to hear more from you about Kant/Bison’s dynamic, based on what we got this episode. (Apologies again for bugging you on this topic, I’m just desperate for solid, reasonable and coherent takes on the matter 🤣)

Best 💜

hiii, okay, so there's already been some discussions floating around about that and i've shared some of my own thoughts in the tags of this one by @hurlumerlu with additions from @deliriousblue and this one by @veliseraptor with an addition from @ameliarating

and i think it's just. a FASCINATING scene on a number of levels. like, i was also surprised they were talking about it so explicitly but also, it makes sense doesn't it? this is lilly, not the captain. she raised fadel and bison to kill people, she didn't beat around the bush about that, either. we also see fadel and bison being "pimp"ed out in their own ways as well! in the first scene of the show, bison is playing honeypot, and then he complains about not wanting to do it again in ep3 to fadel, so fadel does it. none of this is new for them! lilly pimping them out has been explicit from the very beginning

and it makes sense that she would be because she doesn't really NEED to sugarcoat anything, especially not with bison and fadel. she's a crimelord basically, why would she need to beat around the bush and mince words when it comes to that stuff?

but with kant and the captain, it's all a lot subtler. you have to pay close attention to notice that dynamic and put together that bison is likely not the first person that kant has had to seduce to get information from. like, there was plausible deniability at first because obviously he and bison had slept together, so what other tactic could he have really used. but like. then you think about how easy it was for him to fall into that role (i still stand by kant being an exceptionally bad liar regardless but that doesn't change the fact that he's charming, he can flirt, those things don't require lying in the same way a lot of things with bison did) and also how the captain didn't seem to question this tactic at all? that he encouraged it so readily? and the way he met kant at the onsen and slapped his thigh? it's all very.... icky, to say the least.

but like, of course the captain wouldn't say any of that explicitly. he's a cop, and a crooked one at that, he has to pick his words carefully. he's not gonna tell kant "you have to sleep with this criminal to get info" but he'd imply it. he'd put the idea in kant's head and then when kant does it of his own accord, well he never told him to do that did he? he just told kant to get the info, kant is the one that decided to do that by seducing them.

but yeah. the captain and lilly are very fascinating and truthfully, they're genuinely just alike. the unfortunate thing is, though, that the captain will probably not get any karma cause they'll probably have to end up working with him in order to take down lilly. i just want kant to punch the captain at least once tho, like is that too much to ask? he deserves it.

as for the other part of your ask, i'm always happy to talk about kb and their dynamic so please don't apologize sjdhfsdjf i'm gonna link a post that @sunsetsover made about their dynamic (specifically in the titanic scene) here cause i agree with everything she said!! i am still holding out hope that we'll get another more explicit negotiation or discussion, but i'm also very happy with the little scenes we've been getting. also, this episode did very much prove to me how much of a brat kant is skjdhsdf like his comments to bison when they reconnect about him forgetting he was a narc and bison immediately asking if he wants another scratch? kant attempting to get bison to stop distracting him in the car but then immediately getting all cute with bison when they're at the golf course? also kant immediately listening to bison telling him to stop vs bison who was definitely gonna keep distracting kant had lilly not walked out? oh yeah thats a brat and his dom if i've ever seen it sdkjfdsf

[darknights04]

Wallpaper

Pairing: Ominis Gaunt x fem!reader

Summary: Based on the song Wallpaper by Megan Cormwell. You and Sebastian had always been close until a new student transferred to Hogwarts. When the Yule ball arrives at Hogwarts, you seem to have no one to attend with. However, Ominis Gaunt, seeing how Sebastian has affected you, swopped in to save the day.

Warnings: None I think? Sebastian and MC being cold-hearted and straight-up rude. Fluffy/protective Ominis ❤

The Yule ball had finally come to Hogwarts with Christmas time fast approaching. Being from a pure-blooded family, you were not unfamiliar with balls. Even in the wizarding world, the social season was still in full swing when the term ended each year, leaving your parents plenty of time to throw you into ball gowns and parade you around like cattle for sale. So while the Yule ball would not be your first, it was the first you had been looking forward to. At least, that’s how you felt at the beginning of the year. When the new year started, it was no question that you and Sebastian would attend the ball together. You had not been courting in any sense of the word, but you had always been there for each other when it mattered. You had always been there to support him, and he you. But then, the new student transferred to Hogwarts. 

Initially, you wouldn’t have batted an eye at Sebatian’s interest in the new student. In fact, you had encouraged him. But then he began to change. It started with missed study dates in the library. No big deal, Sebastian hated to study anyways. Then, it was missed meals. Maybe he slept in, maybe he forgot to do the assignment from the night before and needs time to make it up. No big deal. And then, you’d see them together. When Sebastian was supposed to be with you, he was with them. Every once in a while turned into every day of the week. It was like you didn’t even exist anymore. 

Your breaking point was when he ran into you one night in your common room. After being ghosted so many times in the library, you moved your personal study session to the comfort of the Slytherin common room by the fireplace. It felt less lonely there. One day, Sebastian rushed in beside where you were sat. His tie was loosened and he was pacing back and forth, muttering incoherently to himself. 

“Has something happened?” you had asked him after watching for a few moments. Something clearly had him bothered. 

“Y/n!” he exclaimed in a tone of surprise. “What are you doing here?” 

“Studying,” you stated quite bluntly, motioning to your stack of books. “As I have every day for the last few weeks.” 

After a few more paces back and forth and a deep sigh, Sebastian spoke again. “Can I vent to you for a moment?” he asked. 

“You know you’re always welcome to.” 

“Thank you,” he said, taking a deep breath as if to gather up all of his thoughts into something coherent. “I’ve just found out that MC has been fraternizing with goblins,” he spat with disgust. Your concern dropped slightly at the mention of their name. 

“Really?” you had replied half-heartedly. It wouldn’t have mattered anyways as he didn’t seem to even hear you. 

“Goblins! I mean can you believe it? Out of all the people in the world, they just had to ask a goblin for help. After everything? With Anne? At Gringgots?” 

“Gringgots?” you interrupted. “What happened at Gringots? Did one of the workers do something?” 

Sebastian, realizing his mistake, quickly put his hand over his mouth. “Forget I said anything,” he said quickly, beginning to leave the room. 

“Sebastian!” you called after him. “Wait! Please!” He faltered for just a moment, his back still facing you as you spoke. “We used to tell each other everything. What’s changed? Have I done something?” 

He sighed but still made no move to face you. “Just… please don’t tell MC I said anything to you, okay?”

You stood in silence for a moment, questioning in your head if this was truly happening. “O- Of course,” you managed. 

“Thank you,” he said once more before going up the stairs to his dorm, leaving you alone by the fireplace. 

Not only had he come to you to vent about someone else after not speaking to you in weeks, but he didn’t even seem to notice or care about your presence until you spoke up. At that moment, the common room had never felt so lonely. 

---

It was finally time for the Yule ball and you had been dreading every second. Up until this point, you had not even thought about what was to happen now that you and Sebastian haven’t been speaking. You didn’t make the effort to secure another escort as it never crossed your mind. And no one cared to ask you since they too are used to assuming you and him did everything together. For a while, you had seriously considered not going to the ball at all. Why condemn yourself to seeing everyone else so happy? However, in the end, you decided that wallowing in your own self-pity wouldn’t do you any good either. Besides, as much as you complained about balls to your mother, you rather liked playing dress up for the night and getting to feel like a princess. Perhaps it would make you feel better in the end.  

When leaving your dorm, you felt absolutely beautiful. It had been months since you wore anything this exquisite. With your hair done and a light tint added to your lips and cheeks, you did truly feel like royalty. All these feelings left you the moment you descended the stairs to the great hall. 

The room was crowded, everyone who didn’t go home for winter break had been there, but your eyes were scanning the room for only one other. When you found him, your heart began to soar. He was looking at you with more love and adoration than you had ever seen before. You thought maybe this could be a turning point for you both. That was until his gaze moved, following another form coming down the stairs beside you. He was never looking at you, he was looking at them. You might as well not have existed at that moment, as his gaze went right through you like you were a sheet of glass. If not for your pride, you would have turned back to your dormitory at that same moment. But people were watching, and you wouldn’t let him get the best of you. Not this time. 

When the dancing started, you couldn’t help but watch the two of them together on the floor. They moved in perfect harmony like they were made for each other. And you stood to the side, seemingly invisible to them. You felt as if you were blended in with the wallpaper. This was a new feeling for you. At your parents’ balls, you were the diamond of the party. Everyone wanted a dance with you. You’d never been the wallflower before. But here, you were untouchable. Hardly anyone would even spare you a glance.

Suddenly, you heard someone clear their throat beside you. “You look far too beautiful tonight to not be on the dance floor,” he said.

You turned and let out a small chuckle when you saw the voice belonged to Omins Gaunt. “And how would you know how I look tonight?” you asked him with a smirk. “It’s not as if you could see me and chose for yourself.” “No but I was standing next to Garrenth Weasly when you walked in,” he explained simply. Now it was he who sported a smirk on his face. “When he told Leander to look your way as well I could practically hear the breath leave their lungs.” At this, you weren’t sure what to say. As if he knew the effect his words had on you, Ominis simply held out his arm. “Now how about that dance?” 

He led you to the center of the floor with all the confidence that a blind man could have in a room full of people. When the music began, he took his position across from you. 

“Do you know this dance?” you asked him. He chuckled, though it sounded more like a scoff.

“You know, you’re not the only one of high social standing Ms. L/n,” he said teasingly. 

You laughed. “Well, I wasn’t sure if your parents had still forced you to learn all of these ridiculous dances. Being blind and all.” 

As the music started, you both began to move in sync with it, along with your other classmates in attendance. 

“I have to admit,” he started, “I prefer dancing to most other day-to-day activities.” 

“Is that so?” 

Ominis nodded as he took your hand, twirling you as the music commanded before pulling you back to his chest, your other hand on his shoulder and his on your waist. 

“Dancing is the one thing I don’t require guidance for, once I learned the steps. I know where I need to be at every moment in the music, and where everyone else will be at most any given moment.”

“That… actually makes sense,” you said with a small nod. “Why haven’t I seen you at any of our balls throughout the summer?” 

“My parents didn’t see a point in bringing me,” he shrugged. “They figured you’d be courted by Sebastian as soon as we came of age.”

At the mention of Sebastian, you turned to see him dancing with MC. They looked so happy together. 

“Do you think he’ll start to court them when the term ends?” you sighed. You couldn’t be upset. 

No one stole him from you. He wasn’t yours to steal. 

“Hey,” Ominis said, pulling you from your thoughts. He hooked his finger under your chin and turned your head to look at him. “Don’t think about them anymore. Not tonight. Just keep your eyes on me.” 

You took a deep breath and nodded your head, continuing to move with Ominis. As the music crescendoed, everyone in the room lifted their partners into the air, the feeling of the wind brushing the peak of your cheeks was almost euphoric. For the first time in weeks, Sebastian was not the first thought on your mind. It wasn’t until this moment that you realized he’s been clouding your thoughts for far too long. The hope that maybe something romantic would blossom between you two kept you from seeing possibility in anybody else. But the truth was, Ominis had always been here on the sidelines. Waiting for when you needed someone to fall back on. The way you were feeling right now was how he felt every day you favored Sebastian’s attention.  

When he pulled you back to his chest, you rested your head on Ominis’s shoulder and wrapped both arms around his neck, causing the boy to jum[ slightly.

“Thank you,” you said softly. 

“For what?” 

“For always being here for me. Even when I don’t notice right away. You’ve always been there for me.” 

Ominis smiled into your hair, brushing it back slightly as he continued to sway you back and forth as you simply enjoyed one another’s embrace. As the current song ended, he pulled back from you so you could look him in the eye. “I will always be here for you,” he said, taking your hands again. The next song began to start up again and Ominis smirked, taking position for the next dance. “Now, let’s give these blokes something to stare at, shall we?” 

You began to laugh as Ominis led you to the center of the floor, exaggerating each dip and stride to catch the attention of everyone in the room. You followed suit. As you both danced and twirled around the other, the rest of the room couldn’t help but stare and gawk at how well you complimented each other. Like you were made perfectly for the other. While Sebastian always seemed to outshine you, Ominis knew just how to make you shine brighter. Bright enough to catch the man in question’s attention itself. But you didn’t care. The way Ominis danced with you made any thought of Sebastian go from the back of your mind to not existent at all. A feeling that you never wanted to let go of. 

[helluvahusker]

Baby?

Read on ao3 or under the cut :)

“What is going on between you two?” Blitzø growled, fed up with the way M & M weren’t working in sync as the perfect team for once. That never happened, except when they were having real drama between the two of them. Blitzø might not have much interest in being a part of their relationship anymore, but he was sure as shit gonna care if it was interfering with their jobs. He didn’t pay them to show up with their personal issues hanging over them like smog clouds and mucking up the place with bad vibes and more near-misses than he was comfortable with. 

“That’s none of your business. Sir,” Moxxie said through gritted teeth. 

Millie sighed and cast him a miserable look. “We may as well tell him, Mox. This is gonna affect him too.” She turned to face Blitzø. “I’m pregnant.” 

Blitzø felt his jaw drop open and before he knew it, tears of joy were streaming down his face. “No shit?? Congrats, Mills!” He sprang forward to hug her and then turned and shook Moxxie’s hand vigorously. “Congrats, Mox. I guess that baby dick did end up being good for something after all. A fucking baby! Holy shit, I’m gonna be an uncle!” 

“Ugh.” Moxxie yanked his hand out of Blitzø’s grasp. 

Blitzø paused, remembering the issue at hand. “Hang on, why the fuck is this a problem?” His eyes narrowed. “Millie, he’s not making you keep it, is he? Just cuz you’re married, doesn’t mean-”

“No!” Millie interrupted him vehemently. “I do want to keep it.” She glanced at Moxxie with a defeated expression. “I guess I wasn't expecting you to take it well, since this wasn’t planned and all. But I’d hoped-”

"So you just assumed that because we weren't purposefully trying that I don't want a baby with you?" Moxxie asked indignantly.

“What the heck else am I supposed to think?” Millie fired back. “When I told you the news you got angry at me, how else am I supposed to take that?” 

“The issue isn’t that you’re pregnant, it's that you hid that from me while you decided what decision to make!” Moxxie cried. “You know I would have supported you no matter what, I’m just upset that I didn’t get the chance to be involved.”

“I thought-” Millie’s eyes were beginning to fill with tears. “When you took it bad I thought that meant you didn’t want to be involved. I mean, I know that this was a surprise.”

“Sure, but not an unwelcome one,” Moxxie said, his expression softening. “How could you not know this is something I’d be thrilled about?”

"I don't know, we never really talked about it!" Millie protested.

Blitzø held up a hand to quiet them, the other raising to his face so that he could massage at his brow. "You two got married without ever talking about kids??"

"Like you and Stolas have ever talked about it," Moxxie scoffed. 

"Wh- I- Both of us already have daughters and we're not even married!" Blitzø spluttered, barely able to maintain coherence in the face of such an accurate accusation. 

"Millie, you’re already my family," Moxxie said earnestly, completely disregarding  Blitzø and focusing solely on his wife. He took her hands and drew her close, so that they were gazing into each other's eyes. "I love having that with you. I’ll love having it with as many kids as you want, too. That is..." Moxxie suddenly looked shy and uncertain, a pale pink flushing his face, "if you want that with me, of course. If that’s why you weren’t telling me.” 

"Of course I want that with you!" Millie snapped, but she was smiling, and tears were forming rapidly at the corner of her eyes. 

They hugged, all sappy and sweet and shit. 

Blitzø gave an exasperated huff. “Oh look! That open communication thing the two of you are always going on about worked! Next time, do it outside of work hours. Millie, come to my office when you have a sec and we’ll talk about your maternity leave and benefits.” 

Moxxie’s eyes widened. “We get benefits?” 

“Millie gets benefits that she can choose to extend to you,” Blitzø corrected, finally getting a clear view of the person they were supposed to be offing, and taking the shot. It whizzed noiselessly through the victims head and he dropped like a boulder. Perfect. 

“No slacking off just because your wife is pregnant, got it? Let’s go.” Blitzø rubbed the crystal on his wrist, frowning a little as he thought of Stolas, which he always did to get it to work reliably. He and the bird really should have a talk about kids huh? What if Stolas wanted more? Were they even compatible that way? Well regardless, telling Stolas about the irritation he’d been put through today would make a good segway. 

-----------

“And then it turned out it was just a dumb miscommunication and they both wanted to keep the baby and now everyone is happy, blah blah blah.” Blitzø relayed the mission’s events to Stolas as they closed up the office together. Millie Moxxie and Loona had already been given permission to head home. Stolas technically had permission to leave too, but he always stayed late with Blitzø to help with last minute shit. It warmed the long frozen and half destroyed cockles of Blitzø's heart more than he’d ever admit out loud. 

“My, that sounds quite irritating,” Stolas sympathized, stacking a pile of papers into neatness. “But a baby, how wonderful! I’ll be sure to tell them how happy I am for the both of them tomorrow, if you think that’s alright.” 

Blitzø shrugged. “Neither of them told me to keep it a secret.” 

There was a pleasant silence as they both continued straightening the office. It was slightly less pleasant for Blitzø, who was sweating bullets, trying to work up the courage to ask a very important question. 

“Babies are pretty fucking cool, right?” Blitzø finally blurted. Not the question he wanted, but getting closer. 

Stolas tilted his head, pausing his tidying. “I suppose. I mean, I certainly enjoyed my time with Octavia when she was just a hatchling. They’re very cute at that age, although terribly needy.” He stiffened. “I’m sorry, here I am complaining and you didn’t get to have that with Loona.” 

Blitzø waved away the owl’s concern. “It’s okay, I’m happy to have gotten Loona when I did. No idea how I would’ve dealt with a baby anyways.” He took a deep breath. “Uh, but I'd be willing to learn?” 

“Well I’m sure Moxxie and Millie will appreciate the assistance,” Stolas said mildly, going back to organizing his desk. 

“Stolas.” Blitzø abandoned his own cleaning and approached his silly bird. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“Hm?” Stolas’s head twisted to look at him, not an entire 180 degrees, but still a freakish amount. “That’s a shame, I thought babysitting with you could be, well, fun.” 

“Wha- no, of course I’m going to babysit for M&M,” Blitzø clarified, heart still thundering in his ears. He began babbling, trying to make Stolas understand.  “Someone’s gotta be the cool uncle and teach this kid what’s what, Satan knows Moxxie will probably start them on musicals way too early and introduce them to horses, cheese, and hot sauce way too late. And you’ll be fucking amazing, you’re going to teach them all about stars and plant shit. This is going to be the most well-rounded baby in Hell if I have anything to say about it. But ah, I was actually wondering if you’d… want to do something a little more serious than babysitting with me?” 

Stolas’s eyes widened, his pupils enormous. “Blitz, are you asking me to… have a child with you?”

“Yes! I mean no! I mean, uh,” Blitzø scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “Look, I know I have Loona and you have Octavia and we love them more than pretty much anything. But I also know you’ve never gotten to have a kid with someone you-” Blitzø blanched. They hadn’t even said ‘I love you’ yet and here he was trying to talk about a serious future. “-wanted to be with, and I was wondering if that was, you know, something you wanted.” 

Somehow, Stolas only looked even more confused. “Blitz, I don’t even think either of us can bear children. I don’t understand where this is coming from.” 

A fresh bead of sweat ran down Blitzø’s brow. Best to just be honest, right? “When M&M were fighting I made a judgy comment about how they hadn’t talked about kids before getting hitched and Moxxie turned it around on me and you,” Blitzø admitted. “I don’t want us to repeat our past mistakes and just keep doing shit without talking about it. Full disclosure, I’m really happy how we are right now but I wouldn’t hate the idea of having a kid with you, if you wanted.” 

“Oh, darling.” 

Suddenly, Blitzø had a face full of chest fluff because Stolas had swept him up into his arms. A loud and embarrassing purr escaped his throat before he could suppress it and Stolas giggled. 

“I too, am happy with what we have right now,” Stolas confided, sitting down in his spinny chair with Blitzø in his lap. “Truthfully, I’ve never even considered having another child, as getting to the point that Octavia was conceived was awful-” his happy-adjacent expression began to slip and Blitzø quickly knocked his head into Stolas’s chest and grabbed his arms to keep him present. It worked, and Stolas recovered quickly, offering Blitzø a small smile. “I also think that as long as Octavia isn’t talking to me another child is the last thing on my mind.” 

“That’s really fair.” Blitzø nuzzled under Stolas’s chin. “Fuck, I wasn’t even thinking about that. Sorry, Stols.” 

“That’s alright.” Stolas arms tightened pleasantly around him. “It means the world to me that you asked me though, Blitzy.” His hands raised to cup Blitzø’s face and draw him in for a kiss. 

Blitzø’s tail wagged and he was blushing helplessly when Stolas drew back and smiled at him again.

“I think for right now, my answer is perhaps, but not for a while yet,” Stolas said, with an air of finality. “There is work to be done on my relationship with Octavia, and I won’t be able to give a true answer until that’s been fixed. I think spending time with our coworker’s little one will be a good sort of trial run though, don’t you?” 

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Blitzø agreed, drawing Stolas in for another kiss. Shit, that had gone way fucking better than he’d been counting on. “Well good talk, birdie. Office looks clean and it’s getting late, what do you say we blow this popsicle stand?” 

Stolas gave an adorable hooting little giggle and stood, letting Blitzø down but keeping their hands intertwined. “Splendid idea, darling. Shall we?” 

The two of them headed out into the night, hand in hand. 

Somewhere in the distance, over the regular Hell noises of screaming and gunshots, the pure sweet sound of a baby laughing could be heard. 

[aurae-rori]

thanks!! glad u liked it, and don't mind if I do ramble, i've thought too long and too hard about this guy in a dress...

SO, i think ratio would be wearing the dress only bc aventurine convinced him to buy one for him and ratio couldn't say no to him lmao. Since they're both busy people and ratio doesn't like crowds, i think aven would buy an assortment of dresses for veritas to try on at home rather than both of them going shopping. When aven comes back, however, veritas is not amused by the piles of clothes he's supposed to put on (seriously, gambler, couldn't you have chosen just one?), so they agree to make space in their weekends to try the dresses until they're done.

But oh, surprise surprise! none of the dresses truly fit veritas, not completely. Aventurine remembered the doctor's size and all, and while most of the dresses did fit veritas' lower body, they could not be zipped/closed at the top (i mean, have you seen his shoulders??? mans got back for days!). In the end, the only dresses that survived were those with open back and those with lace at the back.

Even then, i think some dresses would be just a bit too tight on veritas' chest, not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough for the muscle to overflow(?) a little lol

I also think aven would have bought some high heels just for ratio to try and i find it hilarious bc: 1) ratio already towers over aventurine, imagine the height difference even with just 3-4 inches more and 2) i don't think ratio would immediately grasp how to stand/walk on heels so he would grab onto any surface not to fall over while he has his -_- ahh face LMAO

ok i wrote wayyy more than i thought i would omg hope u dont mind, and sorry for the messy english TT!!

Don't worry about the messy eng! It took me a solid second to get back to this because I wanted to respond with coherency because omg these ideas are so cute??? aven would absolutely spoil the shit out of ratio because gift giving is 100% his thing. also youre so real for the dresses and how they would fit. dr ratio has too much muscle so bro will be struggling but its okay he'll girlboss. aven would gift him so many dresses and then kiss him for each one that hes in because he loves his boyfriend and thinks hes pretty no matter what he wears..... ugh im normal about them

also yes ratio would suck at walking in heels i love them so much

[garbinge]

Snow Angel

Wendy Case & F!Reader Nero Padilla & F!Reader Jax Teller x F!Reader 30 Day Fic Challenge

Word Count: 3.5k words A/N: This is a really heavy fic. Inspired by the song Snow Angel by Renee Rapp

Warnings: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. MENTIONS OF SUICIDE, DEPRESSION, ADDICTION, ABUSE, SELF HARM, DRUGS, ALCOHOL, MAIN CHARACTER DEATH, INSINUATES READER DEATH, this is an extremely heavy fic, like probably the darkest, heaviest fic I’ve ever written. This is everything not to do when coping and grieving.

SOA Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics (have been a bit inactive on tumblr so this might not be up to date, if you'd like to be added to my SOA taglist please shoot me a message!)

After Jax’s funeral you left California. You were sure that there were whispers around Charming about you, that you were running away, not facing your destiny, not stepping up. But none of that mattered to you. The entire state weighed too much on you, the memories, his memory, it was like a feeling that hit you when you entered state lines. When you left, you thought the feeling would fade, that maybe you could go back to normal, back to who you were two years ago before you met Jax, before you fell in love with him. Unfortunately for you, that wasn’t the case. You were 3,000 miles away but shortly after your first week back out east, you realized that even though Jax’s memory was littered all over California, he was here with you too. Most people kept that thought close to their hearts, it offered comfort to most who were mourning, the idea that no matter what someone is always with you in your heart, but with where you were at in the grieving process, you wanted nothing to do with the memory of Jax Teller. 

That was the first month. 

The second month was the opposite. You searched for anything that reminded you of him. The regret of leaving the one place where you’d be able to find him anywhere, where you’d be surrounded by so many opportunities to reminisce was drowning you. It pained you so much that you made a memorial for him in your backyard. It wasn’t much, a small 12x6 stone with his name, birthday, and death day engraved on it. It was placed in the dirt right in front of the only tree in your yard, it allowed for flowers to be placed along with any other mementos you wanted. You visited it everyday, you sat in your yard while the leaves turned orange, and even though the days blended together, you made sure to fill each day with a phone call to Wendy, Nero, and the kids, a backyard chat with Jax’s memorial, or making your home feel more like home with pictures from your time in Charming. 

The third month was…different from the ones prior. The leaves had left the trees completely and everything felt empty. You were barely home, out with people you barely knew, using alcohol as a suppressant. You stopped returning most of your calls, only answering Wendy’s on occasion to talk with Abel, but truthfully, every time her’s or Nero’s name popped up on your phone, your heart dropped, you felt it in your gut every time. You were never fully coherent when the calls came so you weren’t sure if your gut sinking feeling was the heaviness of being reminded of your past, what you knew would be disappointment from them of your current actions and state, or because deep down in your drunken subconscious you thought it’d be Jax every time you felt your phone go off. 

The fourth month was a combination of all the months before it. The trees were still just as bare, the air was a bit more chill. You hated Charming just as much as you missed it. On your walk to work, you’d see Harleys on the street and smile despite knowing none of them would ever be the one biker you wished. After work, you’d go to happy hours with your coworkers, now it seemed that small talk and two strong martinis could numb a lot of the emotion. On your way home from it all, you’d talk to Wendy, the kids. But never Nero, you knew he’d bring you back to a reality that you just couldn’t face currently. The other thing you avoided was the memorial. Like clockwork, you wrapped up your call with Wendy as you walked up your back steps and made sure your eyesight never fell on the stone, never fell on the single oak tree. 

The fifth month, this one felt like the month where it was unacceptable to feel anything anymore. All your new friends who never experienced loss the way you had were probably tired of being around someone that carried a cloud with them. Wendy had invited you to one of her family’s parties close to where you lived. You knew she had family out east, but when she had shared the invitation with you, it was shocking to see just how close. It’d be your first time seeing everyone, and to your surprise, you were looking forward to going, to be around people who understood your grief. What’s misery without company, right? You were the first to arrive, the only others being there were those who were living or staying in the house, Wendy being one of them. Despite her smile and embrace making you feel better for just a millisecond, it was quickly washed away when you saw how normal everyone was acting. Sure, half of Wendy’s family wasn’t neck-deep in depression over the man they never met, but Wendy was, well, she was thriving. There were no signs of drugs, she was drinking ginger ale all night, not a drop of alcohol, her laughs were echoing in your head. You tried to mimic it as you stood in the same conversation as her but you felt your breath hitch in your gut and nothing was coming out. It was a strange feeling to be happy for someone while also being insanely jealous of them as well. But despite any of that, you were still the last to leave the party. 

After hugging Wendy goodbye, you grabbed your coat, ready to leave. As you skipped down the steps of her aunt’s building, you stepped on the sidewalk, hands in your pocket as the cold shivered down your spine. Looking up, you saw how the sky looked dark but light at the same time, a sign that snow was coming, and you were right. A few flurries fell and it was followed by more heavy ones. They’d make a great addition to the snow that was already on the ground, but that silent 2AM snowfall was the real hero of the night. It was peaceful, calming, after being in a room where it was hard to breathe, the crisp, cold air filling your lungs in the silence of the winter night was everything you needed. 

As you approached your house, your hand moved to unlatch the gate to enter your backyard. It was like muscle memory, just an automated movement of coming home late in the night, head down in your thoughts before making it up the steps to your backdoor. But something about this night was different, maybe it was the silence of the night that moved to your head, it wasn’t consumed in thoughts which is why your muscle memory failed you. Your eyesight moved over to that one tall oak tree in your yard, and something deep red–almost brown below it. If it had been 20 minutes later the snow would have made it impossible to see, but it caught your eye. With a deep breath, you took a step down and made your way over to the memorial. As you got closer, you realized what caught your eye was a bouquet of dead roses, realizing that a lot of time had passed since you had stood here in front of the stone you put here to remember Jax. 

Squatting down, your hand extended out and brushed the snow off to read the words etched into the stone. Aside from his name and the dates, you forgot that you had etched in one of the things he had said to you, and likely written down in one of his many journals a year before he took his life. 

Find your own truth. It will lead you to the things you love. 

Reading it, it took you a minute to hear it in his voice, and truthfully that broke you a little bit. There was a time where you heard Jax’s voice in your head everyday, but somewhere along the way you stopped talking to him, stopping looking for him in your thoughts, in your day, and apparently that meant you had startecd to forget his voice. But when it suddenly filled your mind, you smiled and moved to sit down in the snow. Despite the smile, and the irony that you were quite literally sitting on ice, you felt the cold bring the rawness of your grief to the surface, thawing out after all these months of hiding it away. 

You went from squatting to completely laying in the snow now, sprawled out staring at the sky next to the memorial. 

“Been a minute.” You spoke up, talking to the sky. But it felt off, obviously you weren’t going to get a response but looking for him there just felt… empty. Your head turned to look at the memorial and your mind suddenly just pictured him there, laying next to you. 

“Still pretty as ever, darlin’.” His voice wasn’t the only thing filling your head, your imagination or maybe the couple drinks you had, were letting you visualize that trouble-making smile and baby blue eyes you could drown in. 

“What truth did I find?” You asked him, knowing that something had to have happened when you read the words on the stone. Something lead you to him. 

“That you can’t run from it.” He answered almost immediately. 

“You did.” Instictually, your eyes moved back to the sky, avoiding wanting to look him when you said those words. 

He didn’t answer right away, but when he did, he was changing the topic. 

“How’s the east coast treatin’ you?” You could hear the smile in his voice, like he knew that you probably hated it. 

“You know I fuckin’ hate it.” Your head snapped to look at him and the smile filled your face immediately as you saw him staring at you with a grin. 

“And yet, you’re lying here in the snow.” His eyebrows raised and his shoulders shrugged. 

You both knew why you were doing it. Why you were suffering through the pain just for a small moment of content with him. 

“I’ll make it through the winter if it kills me.” You said it more as a motivation, like you needed to hear the words to convince yourself of it. 

“Finding things that make you happy shouldn’t be hard.” His voice was serious, and it was the one you had come to know very well in the years of knowing him. That light and comedic personality was one that was rare and unfamiliar to you. It was what you tried to hold on to in these moments but it never stayed long. 

“I have things that make me happy.” Another statement where you were trying to convince yourself. 

“Drinking doesn’t count.” The smirk was back on his face. 

You were going to argue, tell him he wasn’t in the position to call the shots but instead you laughed. Because laughing made you happy. 

“Look, I’m trying.” With the sigh came the visible exhale of your breath and with it, the image of Jax in your head began to fade. 

“I know, darlin’.” His hand was extending out but then the memory of him faded in your head. 

Without giving it another second, you stood up, brushed the snow of of your back and forced herself inside. It took everything in you to go because with the overflow of emotion you were feeling, you knew what you had to do. It began with taking down most of the photos around your house, memories from Charming, pictures of you and Jax, pictures of you in the clubhouse, with the kids. You left some, a couple of photos of the past would seem acceptable, something to pass small talk over when new friends would come over. “Oh yea, that’s when I used to live in California, seems like a lifetime ago!” You knew you’d never mention that your ex-boyfriend was dead, that he drove his bike into a semi-truck on the 580 just like his late father. That really tended to put a damper on small talk, just like the abundance of reminders you had of this life in this house. 

You were rushing to clean it all up, if you sped through this maybe the healing would come just as quick. But that never worked. Speeding up the grief never did anyone any good, and maybe there was a piece of you that knew that, but there was another part of you, the part that tended to take over, that was hopeful, that was grasping at whatever you could to try and feel normal again. It was obvious you weren’t okay, if the tossing of memories into the depths of your closet in trash bags wasn’t enough of a sign, the washing down of your anti-depressants with a bottle of Jack was. But you were trying, wasn’t that enough to ask of you?

You woke up the next day on the couch, not sure if the sun or the headache was what woke you up so early but one thing was sure, you needed coffee. You trudged to the kitchen and poured what was left over in the pot into a mug and took a sip. Immediately you made a face and stuck your tongue out, moving to dump the mug and pot into the sink and put on something fresh. 

As you moved to put on a fresh pot and try and get the disgusting taste of stale, cold, coffee out of your mouth, there was a knock at your back door. Any other day you probably would have been a little more aware, look through the window to see who it was, hide and pretend no one was home, but instead you just added opening the back door to your many movements of swinging around the kitchen. 

As the door swang open, the person on the other side just stood on your back step as they watched you move around the kitchen. He wasn’t the type of person to just walk in without an invitation so he just stood there. 

“Early bird gets the worm, huh?” The sound of the man’s voice caused you to freeze. 

After what felt like eternity you turned to see Nero standing at your wide open back door, his arm perched on the frame as he waited patiently. 

He looked inside, down the hallway-like kitchen you lived in, his way of asking to be let in. 

“Uhm, hi, come in.” You moved to the side and waved him in. 

“Wasn’t able to make it to the party last night, I told Wendy I’d stay with the boys while she saw her family but I wanted to stop by and see you before we headed back home.” He didn’t make the move to hug you as he walked by, just let his hand sit on your shoulder for a few seconds before taking a seat at your kitchen table. 

“You want coffee? I just put on a fresh pot.” At the mention of the kids you wanted to scream. You just worked hard to push this part of your life away and here it was banging on your door. Okay exaggeration, knocking, knocking on your door. 

“Yea coffee’s good.” Nero nodded, looking completely comfortable in your kitchen like this was a common event. 

The pot was still brewing so you just stood there watching the coffee drip into the pot. 

“How’d you like it?”

“How are you?” 

You both spoke at the same time. Nero thought it was funny while you stood there feeling sick to your stomach. 

“However you make it is fine.” He smiled. 

“I put a shit ton of sugar in mine.” You reached to grab it from the counter above the machine. 

“That’s fine.” He lifted his hands up nonchalantly. 

“So, how are you?” 

“I’m good, got this job downtown, I go to meetings and happy hours, put data in powerpoints.” You normally would speak this so sarcastically because you hated every second of it but you wanted to be convincing to Nero and that meant smiling and brushing off his questions of concern.

“Guess that’s why I haven’t talked to you in a while, you’re busy living the American Dream.” He teased. 

“Yea sorry, life just been so crazy, I try to call the boys once a week.” The pot was finally done and you started to pour the liquid into two mugs. 

Truthfully, you stopped talking to him because it’s easier to lie when you don’t have to say anything. You continued to bullshit your way through this conversation with him.

It was your average boring catch up conversation, until he said the words that caused you to snap. 

“Jax wouldn’t want you living this way.” 

The words echoed in your head, they bounced against your brain just like his voice from last night. “Finding things that make you happy shouldn’t be hard.”

“Well maybe he shouldn’t have killed himself if he wanted me to consider his opinion.” You snapped at Nero. 

Nero didn’t speak so you continued. 

“I’m trying, so hard, I left Charming, I’m eons away from where I was when I first got here. You have no idea, I was a wreck, I’m functioning now.” You started naming off all the things you’ve worked through. “And you know, you have no room to come here, to my home and tell me Jax wouldn’t want me living this way. You have no idea what it’s like to meet someone who broke your heart. I blame him because it’s easier that way, but I still fucking look for him in everything, I look for him in myself.” Your finger slammed into your chest as you pointed to yourself. “Despite my desire and wish for things to be the way they were, I can’t even think about it without hating it. What I used to love, I hate now. Motorcycles. Charming. Care-free living. Do you know what it’s like to look in the mirror and not even recognize yourself?” The tears were flowing from your face as you screamed. It wasn’t really meant for Nero but he was on the receiving end of it all. 

Your head buzzed from the yelling that abruptly stopped as you just stared at Nero. Your voice was a whisper now. “Some days I wish I went a different way, a life where I never met him, never loved him, never lost him, or maybe even had an opportunity to change it, right, but I know if I got the chance I’d do it all the same. I know I’d never been able to stop him, no matter what I did.” 

Nero stood up and reached out to you and much to your surprise, you let him. The embrace was something in those few seconds that he was making his way over to you that you looked forward to, one that you felt was going to provide just a bit of comfort, but when he wrapped his arms around you the feeling fell short. Because it wasn’t him. The one thing that would help you was impossible to obtain. 

“I’m okay.” The coldness washed over you, the feeling of just letting so much off your chest and sobbing so much just to be left numb was like a veil falling over you. 

“I’m okay, um, we should get dinner later tonight. I promise I won’t yell.” 

Nero let out a laugh. “It’s good to get out, figured you weren’t talking about it much when you stopped answering my calls.” 

“Pick me up later?” You asked and he agreed, moving to the backdoor. 

“You sure you’re good?” His hand was on the knob as he stood back on the step before shutting the door. 

“Yea, I promise, I’m good.” A smile forced its way on your face. 

Nero nodded and left which led you to bring yourself to the bathroom to clean yourself up. Staring in the mirror at your red, swollen eyes. 

“I’ll make it through the winter if it kills me.” The words were said at such a whisper as you stared at yourself, convincing yourself to push through the pain. Your mind wondering why despite all your hurried effort time passing went so slow.

You barely recognized yourself as you stared in the mirror. It was one thing to feel it, so disconnected from who you thought you were, but right now you felt like you could see it. It made you wonder if you really took the time to look at yourself over the last 5 months, and despite every hardworking effort, not only could you not see yourself, but you couldn’t see Jax anymore either. 

So you let your eyes go dark and imagined the one thing that maybe would bring you closer to him. 

[centrally-unplanned]

Never blogged much about the actual Eva manga, but I wrote down some thoughts while reading, so uh lets do that!

In episode 2 of Evangelion, Shinji kicks off the episode by getting his ass absolutely handed to him by the Angel Sachiel. Just a full on beat down, he is getting figuratively crucified (the literal crucifixion comes later) in this battle. He is about to die, Misato calls out to him...

...and then match cut transition to Shinji in a hospital bed, complete tranquility:

Throughout the rest of the episode, Misato acclimates Shinji to NERV and generally congratulates him for being a hero, who saved them all with his victory. She does this whole little bit taking him to an observation deck to show him the city, the city he 'protected':

And this whole time you as the audience are meant to be shaking the (CRTV) screen going "girl he protected jack shit, he was about to die!". These scenes are disconcerting, not simply congratulatory, because of the directorial choice to hold back what actually happened in the fight till the end of the episode; that Shinij was possessed by the Eva, transformed into a monster just as terrible as the Angel, and devoured it. He looked like this piloting Unit-01:

In the manga, at least - which is how the first arc of the manga ends. The manga does none of this inverted storytelling, instead telling it all straight, while otherwise not really changing many of the details. The Rebuild films did this too by the way - just got rid of the time swap ordering, told it chronologically.

This really bothers me! Because the edit choice is load-bearing; Misato, in episode 2 of the TV show, is lying to Shinji - she is trying to bolster his ego for a cause she herself is just starting to have some real questions about, doubts she is unwilling to tell Shinji because she needs him to pilot. Its even subtly hinted at in her actual (internal) dialogue:

But she never has any explicit moment where she says this; instead, Kuleshov-style, the edit itself tells you. All of her dialogue is infused with mystery, and then with the reveal the entirety of the episode is recontextualized in your mind. You now question Misato's withholding of the truth, because the truth is at the end of the episode; the edit told you it matters. But since this doesn't happen in the manga, when Misato says stuff like this:

Which is the actual last sequence of Volume I, its telling you this matters; this is the culminating moment and so it is imbued with truth. Which makes Misato less complicated, and the sequence less interesting.

This is a general trend in the manga overall - scene-for-scene it has many good moments, but its wider concept of how to structure and communicate the story is extremely workhorse (like most manga are). Which is sad because a huge chunk of Eva's strength is not just the conceptual themes or philosophical dialogue or w/e, but the more aggressive, auteur approach to the presentation of that material. And that isn't just trippy visuals; it goes right down to the directing. The same dialogue put on two characters sitting in a room just doesn't work. (Hell, someone tried that once and I happened to write about it!) So its always a little sad to me that adaptations don't carry that forward; I was frustrated by the Rebuild's refusal to play with that aspect much, and at this point resigned to the manga's unwillingness. I get it, the manga is intentionally more chipper, aimed at a younger audience; its tonally coherent. Just sad for me.

The manga has a lot of good parts, don't read this the wrong way; its more about how pieces of Evangelion that maybe don't stand out as much as the loud stuff often get lost in the shuffle.

[flowercrowngods]

okay due to popular demand (3 people mwah!), here's all i have on prisoners ranger!steve, bard!eddie, and the royal entourage accompanying the diplomatic mission that went so horribly wrong

Steve’s whole body is made of pain, and has been for the past few days. His feet are aching and raw from trying to keep up as they were bound to horses and dragged along. His skin is chafed and bleeding where the unforgiving rocks have managed to destroy his clothes after one too many falls, and every smallest of cuts feels like his body is nothing more than a pulsating mess. 

Worst of all, though, is the dizziness. He doesn’t know if his head is still bleeding or if the wetness he can feel running down his temple is his body’s testament to the unfamiliar heat, but it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. 

There’s only pain. And nausea. His eyes are open but he needs a second to understand what he’s seeing — and what he’s seeing is a ceiling made of sand coloured stone. Distantly, he hears a door clanging shut, but that might just as well be a memory. 

He’s going to throw up. Tough luck when you don’t even know where up is. 

A groan leaves his mouth as he tries to take a deep breath and fails miserably. Instead, he can add two broken ribs to the list of misery. 

Gods above — whichever of them are listening — he’s tired. But he fears that if he closes his eyes, he might not open them anymore for the sheer release that would bring. He can’t sleep, can’t rest, not when— 

“Easy now,” a gentle voice interrupts his less than coherent thoughts and just moments later, a tender hand is combing through his blood-crusted hair. “You shouldn’t move, my friend. There’s nowhere to move to anymore.” 

Steve frowns, his brain trying and failing to provide any information at this point. The hits to his head must have been worse than he thought if his short term memory refuses to work with him anymore. 

“We have reached Capital City,” the voice continues and Steve has to blink the fog away to make out its owner. When he does, it must show in his eyes, for the worry in Theodore Munson’s eyes makes way to the briefest of smiles before returning even stronger than before. “Do you not recall?”

Steve just stares up at him. That’s all his wrecked body and mind allow him to do right now. That’s all they want to do when gentle hands comb through his hair and chase away some of the pain. 

It is then that reality slowly comes back to him and he realises where he is. Where they are. What is at stake if they fail any more, if they decide to torture information on Elanor and William out of them — out of him. He’s not sure how much he can take. They have been held prisoner for weeks. Steve has been hurting for even longer.

Shame rises in him and he has the urge to apologise to Jim, to explain, but moving his head to the side, he sees that his old master isn’t any better off. He appears to be sleeping, his face bruised, and a teary-eyed Maxine is wiping blood away from his face with a piece of her cloak. 

Steve blinks once, twice, and takes in the man who practically raised him, watches the steady rise and fall of his chest and listens, beyond the pulsing rush of his own blood, that his lungs are not rattling. Shame makes way to satisfaction when he sees that none of their party has taken as many hits, kicks and punches as himself. His distractions have worked, then. 

That’s good. Now if only they didn’t make him so nauseous. So tired. So…

“Don’t fall asleep, Steven,” Eddie demands, and the world tilts slightly, which makes everything worse until… soft. It’s softer now. 

Eddie has moved him so his head is resting in his lap now. 

“You don’t look too good, Ranger. Sleep is dangerous in your state, no matter how badly you might need it. Give it a few hours, please.” 

A beat passes where Steve tries to process the words that are just too many. Since when does Eddie talk with him so much? 

“Lies,” he says after a while and with greater effort than should be necessary.

“Lies?” 

“I look very good. You just can’t see it under all the blood and the bruises.” He tries to crack a smile, but even the huffed breath jolts his head too much. 

Eddie does him the favour of a brief chuckle, and Steve feels better for it. Lighter. Light is good, he finds. Maybe all he has to focus on is Eddie and his hands working out the clumps of dirt and blood from his hair, maybe all he has to do is make him smile and the world will be a bit less painful. 

His world narrows down to all the ways Eddie is close to him and it does keep him occupied, but it also gets his mind wandering, the adrenaline of the past days wearing off. 

“Keep doing that and I will fall asleep,” he says after another beat of silence. Fall asleep and dream. Dream of what this could mean. Dream of smiles that make me feel lighter. 

“Keep doing what?” Eddie asks, and Steve senses a trick to just keep him talking, no matter how slurred his speech is. He needs a moment to remember what he said.

“This,” he says eventually, and Eddie only hums. Finding words is hard. He tries. And tries again. “Being gentle.” 

Another smile, and Steve wants to close his eyes to keep it there to hold on to. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, my friend.” 

“Can’t not be gentle?” He’s losing force on the consonants. The pain is getting stronger, his nerve endings more frayed and his vision blurry. This is familiar. He gives himself another quarter of an hour at most before he will lose his consciousness, no matter how hard he tries to stay here. With Eddie and his wavering smile. 

“Not with my friends, no.” 

This time it’s Steve who smiles at the word friends. He likes to be Eddie’s friend. The man, as it turns out, is admirable, he’s strong, he’s wise when he wants to be and gentle with young Maxine. He’s kind, he’s quick-witted and patient, and his hands are impossibly soft. 

“I know you said not to sleep, and I’m not normally one to deny a well-respected bard’s command, but…” He swallows. Words are hard. He’s not sure they come out as planned, but he perseveres. “I’m afraid I have to prove to you now how stubborn the Queen’s Rangers can be.” 

Another hum from above him and Steve opens his eyes he hadn’t even noticed closing. The world is fading, but still Eddie is at its centre. 

“I’ll be here when you wake up, then, stubborn Ranger.” 

Will you smile at me still? Steve wonders. 

“Always,” Eddie says, but before Steve has time to wonder if someone else has said something, darkness has swallowed him whole.

———

Steve wakes to something cold touching his forehead, moving to his temple where suddenly a jarring pain wrecks his body and he can’t quite suppress the flinch. 

“Forgive me,” comes a quiet voice from above and Steve opens his eyes to the darkness of a cell, only faintly illuminated by the flickering light of a torch somewhere and the redness of the setting sun. “But I am glad to see you awake.”

The voice belongs to Eddie, who is looking down at him, a piece of cloth in his hand. Gently, he presses it to Steve’s forehead again and the cool sensation comes back, gentler this time. It takes a moment for Steve’s tired and frayed mind to catch up with reality, but when it does, he realises that the bard is washing away the dried blood and cleaning his wounds. 

What an odd picture they must make.

“Tell me,” he says before he has time to consider his words. “Is it normal for a bard of Northlands to take care of wounded Rangers?” 

“No,” Eddie says and there’s something to his voice Steve can’t quite identify. He’s not sure he likes it, not sure what it does to his insides. “There are never any Rangers there.” 

Even through the dim light, Steve can see the mirth in his eyes and it makes him laugh – if only briefly, for his body is quick to remind him that any sort of movement is a bad, terrible, truly horrid idea. He just barely manages to suppress a groan, but nothing could get past the bard’s eyes, and his hand moves from Steve’s forehead to his cheek almost immediately. 

“Careful, my friend. You shouldn’t be laughing.” 

“Stop making me laugh, then. That would make it all so much easier.” There’s no heat behind his words and he doesn’t even try not to lean into the touch. 

Eddie hums but stays quiet otherwise and keeps wiping Steve’s face clean, watching his every reaction. A frown slowly forms between those brows and Steve wonders what that is for. Did something happen while he was out of it? Time passes differently in the desert, yes, the sun and moon following different paths, but he can’t have been unconscious for more than three hours. It is barely yet nightfall, their cell colder than before. 

Three hours. And Eddie still sits cross-legged with Steve’s head on his thigh. 

Guilt and embarrassment shoot through him and he wants to move, wants to get up and release the bard from his demeaning task of playing nurse to a wounded Ranger, but his ribs protest and his head pulses with white-hot pain before it sends his world spinning again and Steve sags back into the warmth of Theodore. 

“I must be painting the most pathetic picture of her Majesty’s Rangers. I swear, most of us are better than this.” 

It comes out light hearted as always, despite the pain it leaves inside his chest to be presenting himself like this. Representing all Rangers to the kingdoms of the South with his weakness. All that on top of losing Will. Again. 

He closes his eyes against the pity he is bound to see in Eddie’s eyes. 

“You paint a picture of bravery such as I scarcely saw it before. Never in my life did I see a man move so slowly, so unseen unless as I was looking right at you. You are excellent with the sword and the bow, and even the weapons of the desert folk are natural to you. I can imagine the pain and suffering you have seen, some of which you must have caused in the name of justice, yet you carry inside yourself a light-heartedness that is refreshing to say the least.” 

Steve swallows, has never been good at taking compliments, and luckily hasn’t been in the position to accept them in quite a while. 

“Light-hearted?” he rasps. “You can’t be talking about the same Rangers I know, surely.” 

“I was talking about you, Steven,” Eddie admits quietly, and his voice is so tender when he says his name that it makes Steve’s breath hitch. 

“Oh,” he says intelligently. Swallows. “Then the head injury must be severe.” 

“Admirable of you to hide a concussion for so many days. I think healers of all kingdoms would have a lot of questions for you if they knew.”

Steve huffs and smiles through the pain of his undoubtedly broken ribs protesting. “My apologies, Eddie. Queen Joyce of the West and Sir James himself would both have my head if I taught you our concussion-hiding ways.”  

“A pity,” Eddie says and there’s that smile in his voice again that doesn’t show on his lips, at least in this light. Steve doesn’t care, though, as he smiles up at him. 

This moment in time belongs to the both of them as Steve finds he can’t quite look away, and it’s not the pain that keeps him. 

Eddie opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it again. The frown reappears between his brows and Steve wants to reach out and smoothen the creased skin above his nose. If only moving his arm didn’t require such strength that keeps evading him, the night weighing heavy on his limbs.

After another minute, Eddie does find his words, though they are quiet this time. “I worried.” 

“About what?” Steve asks when he doesn’t continue. 

Eddie resumes his endeavour of washing the crusted blood from his hair and face, the sensation soothing his skin but not his nerves. Steve does reach up this time to still his hand, and the bard meets his eyes again. 

“That you wouldn’t wake up.” It comes out small, void of that usual easy confidence. 

Steve swallows every comment on the tip of his tongue about how the rest of their group could easily keep Eddie entertained without any concussions bothering them. It’s not often that he has control over his tongue, but in the face of such open worry and vulnerability, his heart aches and he wants to say the right thing. 

“I’m awake, Theodore Munson. It takes far more to put me out for good.”

It’s a lie, he knows. It would not have taken that much more, but Eddie doesn’t need to know that. 

“Don’t let them hear that, they will take that as a challenge.” 

Steve only gives a non-committal hum and closes his eyes again. If he didn’t, the darkness of the cell and the kindness in Eddie’s eyes would have made him say stupid things like, Let them, if that means everyone else is safe. That would surely dim the light in those black eyes and very likely make Jim throw a boot at him. And Steve really doesn’t want to have to deal with either of those things. 

Eddie resumes his task of gently cleaning him, and Steve gets the feeling that the bard must be doing it for himself just as much as for him. It’s something to keep himself occupied, and the way he talks betrays his intentions in turn of keeping Steve awake and occupied, too. 

A gesture that is almost too kind to bear, as dusk turns into night and the silver light of the full moon illuminates their cell. 

———

Jim lies just a few feet beside them, and now that his eyes have had the chance to adjust to the darkness properly, the concussion already weaker than it was earlier, Steve can see that his eyes are open. Or, one eye is; the other is swollen too badly. Another wave of guilt and shame clouds his senses for a moment and he has the urge to ask forgiveness. He feels responsible, even though he knows Jim would hit him over the head if Steve so much as mentioned that.

His eyes cut back to Eddie above him when a yawn interrupts the bard’s steady movements with the cloth that is barely wet anymore. 

“You never got any rest, did you?” he asks – stupidly, because the moment the words leave his lips Steve remembers the very reason for Eddie’s wakefulness. He winces before the other man even gets the chance to answer. “Right, my fault. Forgive me.” 

If the ground beneath him could open now, he would have a banquet in its honour. With a groan, he moves to sit up and free Eddie of his dead weight, the motion pulling on his cuts and bruises, irritating his broken and burning ribs in a way so sudden it steals his breath for a second. Steve is well acquainted with pain, but the all-encompassing nature of it right now is thoroughly unwelcome.

Hands come up to steady him, guiding him to sit up and lean against the stone wall, his own shoulder coming to rest against Eddie’s, who only slowly lets go of him. 

“Thank you,” Steve breathes, looking at him out of the corner of his eyes. 

“It’s hardly a question of fault,” Eddie says in that calm, soothing way of his that keeps making Steve want to reach out and hold on. Hold him. “And it was no hardship to stay and… be gentle.” 

Something in the back of his mind wants to tell him something but it’s too foggy to grasp. 

“Gentle,” he says, inquiring, as though saying the word out loud would tell him its meaning. 

“Even Rangers of the Kingdom deserve gentle hands and smiles. Even if they are too badly beaten and concussed to recall their request.” 

Eddie’s words aren’t making sense, but what they do is make his heart beat faster for some reason other than shame and embarrassment. He presses his lips together and tries to find his voice.

When he finds it again, it’s barely more than a whisper hidden in the moonlight. “Allow me to return the favour, then. Rest, Eddie. Find some sleep while I ensure it is safe.” 

Something shifts in those black eyes and Steve wants to chase it. Eddie cast in silver light of the moon is different than the golden figure of the past days. Less imposing and more… fragile. Gone is the teasing, replaced with something more… More. It suits him, the light of the moon, as much as it makes Steve’s heart and mind race. 

“Will you smile at me still?” Eddie asks at last, and even the darkness cannot veil the quiver in his voice. 

Steve is reminded of something he must have dreamed of earlier, but he cannot focus on that, not with the way the moonlight catches in those dark curls that have managed to slip out of the band keeping his hair bound at the back of his skull. Not with the way it illuminates the twitch of his lip or the impossible way he is looking at Steve still. 

“Always,” he says before he can even think about it. Always, he thinks. However long that may yet be.

Another smile twitches and tugs at the bard’s lips, lingering in its nature as he closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall behind them. It can’t be comfortable, and Steve has half a mind to offer his own lap, but there is something about seeing Eddie so calm. He doesn’t dare to interrupt him. 

He waits until Eddie’s breathing has evened out before he gives in to the urge to brush the treacherous curl behind his ear. It leaves his fingertips with a tingling sensation that makes him want to do it again, so he does. Sitting there, trying to breathe through his broken ribs and his fluttering heart, Steve doesn’t dare to do it a third time, as much as he yearns for it. 

He rests his own head against the wall, too, and watches the bard, because watching him is easier than letting his gaze wander and be reminded of the situation they’re all in. 

The moonlight guides his gaze towards Eddie even as he tries to look away, and Steve watches as it caresses the bard’s features in such a way as though that is what it has been sent here to do. 

It makes Steve smile even as the ache in his chest grows stronger. He is starting to realise what this is, and he’s too weak to fight it. Not in this prison cell, not in this foreign country where the sun is out to kill you and the moon will watch you shiver helplessly. 

How could he fight the moonlight and its tender caress, the world tinged in silver as he lets it work its magic on him? Only a fool would be able to resist. 

“Steve.” 

He just barely manages not to flinch as Jim’s rasping voice rips him away from his musing – no, his yearning. Turning his head, he finds his eyes in the dark, though he can’t make out any question or command in them. Has Jim caught him? Does his old mentor know his thoughts regarding the bard, has he seen the twitch in Steve’s fingers as he refused to let them reach out and touch? 

Jim’s silence is as good a command as any, and summoning all his might not to let his face betray the pain shooting through his body, Steve gets up with a suppressed groan and walks over to his old mentor. 

As slowly as possible without giving away the pain that feels like his ribcage is being both torn apart and pressed together, he sits down beside Jim, guiltily thanking the swollen eye and the darkness, for he seems none the wiser to Steve’s injury. 

“Don’t do that again.”

Steve freezes, his thoughts tumbling over themselves trying to figure out what exactly Jim refers to — the guilt still warring inside him insists that there are many things he should not have done. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, feeling like he is but a green student again, getting berated by his mentor after he did something wrong. 

“Take a beating for me. I understand why you would do it for the others, but—” 

“Jim,” he tries to interrupt him with a gentle sigh, but the old man won’t have it. 

“No, Steve. They hate me more than you, we don’t need you riling them up and making things worse for yourself.” 

“I will not let them break your arms and ribs, James. I can take it, I’m—” 

“If you say you’re younger, Steven, I’m going to throw you out of the window..” 

An innocent grin spreads his lips and he inclines his head, meeting Jim’s good eye. “But I am.” 

He sees the hand coming, shooting out from below, but his range of motion and reflexes are still heavily impacted by his injuries that he can’t manage to get out of Jim’s reach in time. Before he knows it, Steve loses his balance and falls flat on his back without any grace but with all the more agonising pain. 

Nobody would have been able to hide broken ribs and a nearly split skull like this, but Steve still mentally kicks himself as the wheezing groan of pain leaves his lips.

All traces of mirth leave Jim’s expression and everything turns into worry as he, too, sits up with a groan to check over his former apprentice. 

“By the Gods, Steve, are you okay?” 

Another groan that is supposed to be somewhere between “Just peachy” and “Fuck off”, but even that sound is pathetic with the way the air has been pushed out of his lungs at the impact. All he manages is a whimper, and he doesn’t try to open his lips for more than that.

He doesn’t even attempt to sit up this time, can only try to catch his breath and breathe through the agony with more wheezing, rattling whimpers. Hands hover over him in the dark, but he shakes his head rapidly, scared that Jim would try to touch and feel the injury, only to find a broken rib or two. Or five, at this point.

His lungs don’t work right and he can’t quite catch his breath. It is only experience that tells him this is normal, this will pass, he will breathe right again. Hopefully. 

“For God’s sake, why would you hide an injury like that, Steve? Why would you… You idiot!”

There is movement around him in the cell, the others waking up from Jim’s anger and worry and guilt, but Steve keeps his eyes closed lest the tears fall. 

“Breathe,” Jim tells him, and Steve finds that to be a wonderful idea, actually, so he tries. And he tries again. “Yes, good. Breathe, Steve. It’s all going to be fine, you’ll get through this.”

“Have to,” he presses, barely any sound to his wheezing. “So you can throw me out of the window.” 

“Fucking moron,” Jim mutters, though Steve can hear the emotion in these two words. It makes him smile despite the situation.

“S–sorry,” he wheezes again, and trusts that Jim understands that he means more than his sarcastic retorts or the hiding of the wounds. Sorry for losing Will again. Sorry for not saving Elanor in time. Sorry for failing the mission. Sorry for being weaker than you need me to be. Sorry for—

“It’s alright, Steve,” Jim promises and there are fingers in his hair again, wetness running down his cheek. Did the fall open his head injury again? The situation must truly be dire if Jim is being outright gentle and worried. “Just don’t do it again. Let me take them next time.” 

He wheezes again, but won’t make that promise. If their captors come back, he knows he won’t sit and watch them hurt his friends, won’t sit and watch them treat Jim the same way they treated him on the journey here. 

It takes a moment for the world to right itself again and for the cell to become quiet, but somehow Steve manages to get his breathing under control and the pain subsides from agonising to miserable, like before. He rolls his head and looks at Jim through a blurriness in his eyes that he has to blink away. 

“You think we’ll make it out of this alive?”

Maybe it’s the pain clouding his mind, maybe it’s the darkness that has always made it easier to ask such questions, but Steve finds the words falling from his lips easier than they should have. 

Jim’s expression that just a moment ago has been filled with worry and anger sobers now, and Steve doesn’t quite like what he sees. 

“Will is still out there,” he says, evading the question and answering it in the same moment. 

“Yeah. He is,” Steve says, not sure if he believes it or not. Not sure if it changes anything. “You’re right.”

They stare at each other for a moment, the moonlight catching Jim’s eyes in a way that highlights the emotions in them. The desperate hope that Will is out there, alive, and reunited with his sister — they have their ways of finding each other against all odds. Always have. Steve likes to believe that they won’t stop now, that a desert can’t keep them apart. That they found friendly faces who won’t betray them, and bring them home. 

Bring them home even when Steve and Jim can’t follow them. And Maxine. Princess Elanor would turn the desert into an ocean before she left Maxine to die. But down in their cell, the ocean would leave them to drown all the same. 

Jim has hope, though, and Steve decides to follow his mentor again. Just for tonight, when all he feels is pain, when his head is being split open, his chest crushed and bursting, his limbs bloodied and bruised. Just for tonight, he will allow himself not to think, not to worry, and to trust Jim blindly like he did all those years ago. 

“Sleep, Steve,” Jim says then, and only now does Steve realise how tired he is, his eyes closed long ago.

He spends a brief moment thinking about Eddie and the promise he made the bard to be there when he wakes up. It’s silly, because he’s merely a few feet away, but it still hurts to have abandoned him to lie there by himself while everyone else has company. When he never moved while Steve himself was asleep.

“You should sleep, too, Ranger.” A sudden wave of warmth washes over him when he hears that voice with its foreign inflections. “You both need your rest, I can stay awake for some time to keep watch and wake you up at the first sign of danger.” 

“Eddie, I really don’t mind—“ 

“I insist, Ranger James. You two have taken the most of their hatred and displays of power, it’s the least I can do.”

Jim seems to hesitate for a moment, but Steve doesn’t open his eyes to look. His lids have become far too heavy, even heavier still when a certain hand is back in his hair to comb through it in even movements, mindful of his wounds. He doesn’t fight the secret smile this time. 

“Well, if you insist, bard,” Jim finally concedes, never one to really pass up an opportunity for sleep. “Good night to you, then.” 

“Goodnight, my friend,” Eddie says in that calm, kind manner of his that is still new to them, and Steve feels as though he breathes easier for it. “And you, Steven,” he lowers his voice, appearing closer now, “truly are a fool.” 

“Oh?” he says, wishing that it wouldn’t hurt to laugh or even just to huff. “What happened to brave, kind-hearted, and whatever else you said earlier?” 

“You can have those back when you stop lying about being injured.” 

“Keep them then,” he says, and it’s meant in jest, but that doesn’t translate well when you barely have enough strength left for a voice, he finds. 

“Sleep,” Eddie repeats, gentler this time, though he sighs long and hard after. “You impossible man.”

It makes Steve smile again, even as an impenetrable darkness wraps around him. 

He’s sure that the hum and the whispered, “I see you’re keeping your promise still,” are figments of his imagination, his tired mind playing tricks on him. But it’s a dream he likes to sink into, filled with moonlit skin, gentle hands, and kind words.

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