#laugh a little in pain mostly. bc i know how unhappy i was and how it was me trying to cope with my body and how lonely i felt as a bi girl

[wolfisland]

nothing will EVER be funnier to me than how i went from a hard femme long nailed thick eyeliner heavy blush dyed money pieces goth poseur egirl hunting lame men on tinder for sport to like. scrappy butch who will only wear a skirt if its in a faggot way, bi4bi with a nb fiance.

[highqueenofelfhame]

An: I’ll add tags later, i just wanted to get this posted because I’m like pretty happy with it, it’s alright. So i hope you guys enjoy! I’ll also attach links and stuff later, I’m posting this from my iPad and i just am too lazy for the tagging process. Me wants to sleep. This is part of the Disney au! Shoutout to @tangledraysofsunshine and @punkassbookjockey26 for the help on this one! This is mostly fluff (i know, how wild) but don’t worry i’m working on some angst for you soon. Fafs update soon too! I’ve already started on it and I’m going to keep working on it as the week goes. Thankfully it’s an easy chapter for me to write bc i have plenty of OG stuff to pull from. Okay, anyway! Enjoy!!

With every second that ticked by, it was getting harder and harder not to rummage through his belongings like she lived there. Even worse was that Rowan was sneaking glances at her with a smirk on his lips like he knew she wanted to. It made her scowl, a frown line appearing between her eyebrows as she glared into his back.

“I’m making you dinner, and you’re still finding a reason to be unhappy with me?” He asked her, putting down the spatula and turning to lean against his counter. The man looked criminally good in an ivory cable-knit sweater and dark jeans, an outfit combination that Aelin had never seen him in before. Thinking back on it, she was positive that when he wasn’t in a costume at work, she had only ever seen him in jeans and a t-shirt. There was also the single flannel he’d worn on Halloween, but all of that was simply incomparable to how he looked now.

“You said dinner would be ready ages ago.”

“I said it would be ready in half an hour when you got here, which was twenty minutes ago. I still have ten minutes before you get to hound me about lying.”

“Maybe if you’d prepared an appetizer…” she teased, hoping with every cell in her body that he knew she was kidding. When Rowan had said he wanted to cook her dinner, she’d been floored. The only meal that she could successfully make was breakfast, and the options were limited. Additionally, she couldn’t remember the last time a romantic interest had cooked for her at all. Probably Sam several years earlier, and it had been so bad they’d relented and settled on drive-thru burgers instead.

Rowan’s eyes narrowed at her, and she knew she’d missed the mark with her joke. The date had been going well so far; not much could have been ruined. He’d kissed her hello once, or four times, then told her to make herself at home. Rowan even had a beautiful arrangement of kingsflame at the table in the dining area. Their banter had ensued as it always did, casual teasing comments. Until she went too far. Obviously.

He turned his back, and Aelin tensed, moving across the kitchen to get to him. Just before she touched him, he turned back around, eyes widening almost comically when his elbow nearly hit her temple. Without her boots, her footsteps had been near-silent on his hardwood floors.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled, fingers brushing her temple where his sweater had grazed her face. “Hi.”

“Hi.” With their dinner sizzling in the background, she was sure that he could hardly hear the soft whisper of her voice. That didn’t seem to matter because Rowan leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, short and sweet and leaving her wanting more. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Rowan’s brows knit together, green eyes tracing over every feature of her face before settling to meet her gaze.

“Being… me? Teasing? I don’t know. This is a date, and you’re so nice to be making dinner, and I shouldn’t be--”

“Aelin,” he laughed. “You wouldn’t be you if you weren’t busting my balls for something. I don’t think we would be us.” At the mention of them as an item, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth to ward off the embarrassingly large grin that was threatening to take over her face.

“That doesn’t mean I can be rude,” she grumbled, earning another smile from the man in front of her.

“You aren’t.” Rowan turned away from her for a brief moment. When he faced her again he held half of a cookie in his hand. “You just get hangry.”

She stared at the small offering in his hand before accepting it with a smile. Not only was he making her dinner, but it seemed he had also baked her double chocolate chip cookies. It made her heart squeeze in an almost painful way, but she took the cookie and nibbled on the corner. Whatever recipe he had used was perfect. It only made the rumbling in her belly worse, but she was determined to finish it without chocolate smeared all over her mouth.

“I’m almost done with dinner. Go snoop. I know you’re dying to.” Aelin wrinkled her nose, and Rowan was quick to kiss the tip of it, despite her failed attempt to swerve. Not that she wanted him to miss, really. Aelin wanted to beg him to kiss her until she was physically sick and couldn’t stand to feel his mouth on her body ever again.

The apartment was simple. It had one bedroom and an open living and kitchen area. Rowan had a small table that could seat four between the two rooms. It was sparsely decorated but had a few personal touches here and there that provided a glimpse into Rowan’s life. She walked around the living room, noting the pile of books stacked neatly next to the TV contained some of her favorites. She hadn’t pegged Rowan as an avid reader, but she realized that despite working with the man for the past two years, there was still so much she didn’t know about him.

And she realized, more than anything, that she wanted to know everything.

Furthermore, she’d been right about the books stacked on the coffee table. They were travel books, some of them with tabs and post-it notes sticking out of the sides. With a sly glance to the kitchen, she perched on the edge of the couch and pulled the biggest of them with the most annotations toward her, flipping through the pages to see what all he had bookmarked.

One of the first pages was a map marking all the parks and their major attractions. It seemed Rowan had a key for himself, little stars, triangles and squares marking various locations.

“The stars are my favorite places I’ve been,” Rowan said, pulling her gaze from pages of mountains and canyons and over to his green eyes.

“Is this what you do when you aren’t working?” Aelin closed the books and restacked them neatly on the table. Rowan was carrying two plates of stir-fry over to the table. In a few steps she joined him, sliding into the seat beside his.

“When I can, yes.” She was so hungry that she merely nodded, taking a too-large bite of food and meaning at the taste. Rowan’s eyebrow quirked while he took a bite of his own, and to avoid speaking with a mouthful she gave him a thumbs up.

“So good,” she reiterated after she swallowed, clearing her throat.

“I’m glad you like it. I was worried you wouldn’t.”

“It’s food. I like food. And you baked cookies,” Aelin reminded him, popping another bite in her mouth. The tickle she seemed to be developing in her throat worsened, forcing her to clear her throat again after she swallowed. Actually, the tickle was becoming an insatiable itch that she tried to chase away with water. She had no luck. “Is your um— is your throat itchy?”

“No…?” Aelin tugged on the collar of her shirt, nodding her head instead of responding. Rowan leaned over to brush his fingers along her cheek, worry settling in the wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Are you allergic to anything?”

“Gods, my mouth is itchy,” she mumbled, mostly to herself, while she downed the rest of her water so quickly a drop slipped down the side of her chin.

“Aelin. What are you allergic to?”

“I’m not allergic to anything,” she insisted, despite the way her tongue felt undeniably too big for her mouth. Rowan had already left the table, though, disappearing through a door off the living room and coming back with a small white bottle. His phone was also now in his hand and the numbers his thumb was pressing looked a lot like 9-1-1 from her vantage point.

“Take these,” he said softly, holding two pills to her lips that she opened her mouth for and downed with Rowan’s full glass of water.

“That’s dramatic.” She nodded at his phone. “I can breathe fine. My mouth is just itchy. And my tongue is a little too big.” To prove a point, she stuck her tongue out. Rowan’s eyes were saucers and he was ready to hit the call button.

“Your tongue is twice the size it usually is!”

“Did you do this on purpose? Is this getting me back for the syrup?” Aelin was kidding. Half-kidding, maybe, but kidding all the same. When she spoke, drool dribbled down her chin that she wiped at with the collar of her shirt. The whimper that sounded in the back of her throat wasn’t voluntary. It was their first date and she managed to drool on herself in front of him. Aelin Galathynius was the epitome of cool.

“This is not getting you back for the syrup.” Rowan’s voice was sharp, if still soft around the edges while he watched her carefully. His thumb was still dancing over the call button, but Aelin refused to be carted out of his apartment on a stretcher. She took his phone, locked it, and held it hostage in her lap while he fussed and mumbled about how big her tongue was. “What are you allergic to?”

“I didn’t know I was allergic to anything,” she swore again, grabbing his water for another long drink.

It went on like this for several minutes: Rowan listing the ingredients for the stir-fry that she may not have had before, or maybe she’d not had it in such a long time she forgot she had a mild allergy to it. MSG, soy, celery, sesame, carrots, on and on. He ran through everything twice before Aelin asked him to please stop, she had no idea and listing them over and over wasn’t going to spark a memory or knowledge she didn’t have.

The signature frown he wore most of the time was all the more prominent the droopier her eyes got; the effects of Benadryl were hitting her harder than she cared to admit, but her throat wasn’t as itchy and her tongue was feeling closer to normal. Rowan held both of her hands and guided her to his bedroom. Aelin wanted to make a joke about how this wasn’t what she’d had in mind, but she was too sleepy to find the words.

Rowan undressed her, pulling her jeans off before guiding her to sit on the edge of the bed. The duvet was softer, fluffier than she’d anticipated him to sleep on, and she wanted to burrow down into it as he replaced her shirt with one of his own. When he pulled back the blanket, she crawled under and didn’t settle until he laid down with her. His sweater was soft beneath her cheek and she felt like she was cuddling with him on a cloud. Gods, his bed was so comfortable she wanted to sleep in it forever.

“I’m sorry for ruining our date,” she mumbled, tilting her head back to look at him beneath heavy lashes and heavier lids.

“I’m sorry for accidentally almost killing you.” Despite the way his lips were turned down, there was amusement hidden in his words. Aelin smiled and tilted her head back enough for him to take the hint: she wanted to be kissed. A half smile spread across his lips and he kissed her gently, fingers brushing loose strands of her hair behind her ear.

“This isn’t how I imagined our date ending,” she grumbled, ducking her face down into his sweater. Rowan chuckled and Aelin knew that it wasn’t what he had in mind, either. “I thought I would end up in your bed but not to sleep. I mean, maybe after you fucked me senseless, but I didn’t think we would be skipping that part altogether.”

“I didn’t think I would make something that had flare up an obscure allergy you didn’t know you had, either. So I guess we’re both surprised.” Aelin snorted, sitting up enough to tug on the side of his sweater. Rowan took the hint, sitting up to pull the sweater and his shirt over his head. While in the process of undressing, he stood and pulled his jeans off, too, tossing them over the back of a desk chair in the corner of the room. Aelin swallowed, eyes dipping over the expanse of golden skin he’d exposed.

Her eyes caught on a scar on his lower abdomen, zeroed-in on the trail of hair that disappeared into his briefs. It dawned on her then that she hadn’t seen him completely naked. At work, they saw each other in various stages of undress while changing costumes, but the only time they’d had sex had been a quickie in Lorcan’s bathroom. They’d both been mostly clothed for that. She was making it a goal to see him entirely naked in the next twenty-four hours, because he looked so good like this it was unfair.

“Maybe I’ll feel better when I wake up,” she said, breathlessly. Rowan grinned, a dimple appearing in his cheek that she didn’t see often enough.

“I’m counting on it.”

[ddaenggtan]

hearts on fire | jhs

Hoseok has been in love with you for as long as he can remember, and he’s beyond excited to see you married and glowing.

He just really wishes that he was the groom.

pairing | jhs x reader, knj x reader

word count | 6.5k | cross posted to ao3

genre | angst, light fluff

warnings | angst, mentions of blood, mentions of vomit, lots of choking, lots of angst, this is open ended so like.......potential (?) mcd??, like this is very very very open ended yall there is no happy ending and there is zero satisfaction at the end, like it’s truly just here to hurt you

a/n | part of Outro: Tear, The Angst Now Told, and you should really read all of those fics bc they hurt so good but they’re sO WORTH IT, and i’m shouting out to @personawife​ not only for betaing this, but also for putting the Outro Tear Angst Collab together, because it’s been so fun!!!!! and yet so painful!!!! in so many good ways!!!!!!! this was honestly really fun to write, mostly because it’s rare that i write angst - unhappy ending angst, at that - so it was nice to stretch my creative muscles. 

also go stream ego bc its wonderful and i love it

It starts, as most things do, with a kiss. 

It was innocent enough - just a soft peck on his cheek and a sunflower in his hand while he cried about another student kicking him in the shin. To this day he can’t be sure what it was that did it for him. Maybe it was the way the sunlight lit up the barrettes in your hair and made them glint like stars. Maybe it was the way you hadn’t hesitated to smooch him on the cheek and give him the flower you’d picked out of a vase just to cheer him up. Maybe it was the fact that it had worked when nothing else had. Maybe it was none of that, instead something bigger altogether and more complicated than he could ever understand. 

Or maybe it was all of it. A simple act that led to a simple reaction - him taking your hand and making you smile with some face he made - that led to this moment. 

Either way, Hoseok decides as he watches you walk down the aisle in the off-white dress with the golden sash that perfectly matches the sunflowers in your hands, he doesn’t care. Because it all led to this moment. 

[then]

“C’mon, we’re gonna be late!” You call over your shoulder. Hoseok laughs, wrapping his hand around your wrist to slow you down from your sprint. 

“We are not going to be late,” He tells you firmly. Your lips form a pout that he wishes he could kiss away, but he resists the urge. Instead, he grins and pulls you into a warm hug. “It’s not like they’re going to start our graduation without us, Starshine. It would be a little conspicuous, don’t you think?”

“Ooh, conspicuous, big word! All that studying paid off, I see.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes; he doesn’t mention that he’s been studying his ass off ever since you started crushing on one of the bookworms in the school. He refuses to acknowledge to himself that he did it in the futile hope that it would make you notice him. 

“Hey, it was worth it! Got me into that fancy university, didn’t it?” He wags his brows and lets go of you, and he does his best not to let his arms linger around your waist for longer than they need to be there. 

“Yeah, that fancy university that’s a million miles away from here,” You complain. His smile falters a little, and he covers it with a dramatic gasp. 

“What’s this? Is my little starshine going to miss me?” He doesn’t tell you about the packet laying on his desk at home, about the scholarships he’s scoured the internet to find, about the decision he has yet to make, despite the looming deadline. He doesn’t mention the sunflower pressed between the pages of a book that sits beside his bed, so he can stare at it each night as he wonders whether it’s stupid to take the harder road just for love.

“You know I will, Hobi,” You tell him. You curl into his side, lacing your fingers with his. “You’re my best friend in the whole world. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. Who’s going to make me study when I don’t want to? Or convince me that getting pancakes at two in the morning is a proper breakfast?”

Hoseok shakes his head. He knows exactly what will happen when you head off to school in a few months. You’ll meet so many new people, make boatloads of friends, create new memories and new jokes and new references, and he’ll be standing off to the side, waiting to hear about all of it. 

He can’t wait to watch you flourish.

“Who’s going to help you stop stressing out about your choreography, or your routines?” You ask. Your voice dips into a whisper, and it’s the most scared he’s ever heard you. “Who’s going to be there when I need someone?” 

He knows what you mean; he knows all about the anxiety that wracks your body every so often, the way your brain spirals and panics and can’t seem to bring itself down out of red alert. He remembers - in vivid detail - all the nights he’s climbed through your window to help you breathe in that rhythm your school counselor taught you, or just talked at you through the phone about some new song or dancer he found until he eventually heard your soft laugh.

He remembers the nights you called and called and called and eventually just sought him out, not even bothering to knock as you barged into his room because his parents adore you and don’t care to let you in whenever. You’re like a second daughter to them, something his sister gives him no end of grief about. He’ll always remember the way your hands felt against his skin as you tugged him out of his room and into the kitchen to make some kind of monstrosity, just throwing anything and everything into a blender or skillet, only to wind up going out to the corner store to get noodles anyway. 

“I’ll be here,” He tells you. His voice is as soft and firm as his fingers as he brings your chin up to face him. He wants you to look at him, wants you to maybe see after all these years just how easy it would be for him to move the earth if you asked him to. “I’ll always be here for you.”

Your eyes search for something in his, and he wonders if you’ll finally realize. If he’s finally told you about every single pang of love that he’s ever felt without even needing words. 

You smile, your eyes crinkling at the corners, and playfully shove at his shoulder. “Not when you’re off at your fancy university a million miles away from mine.”

He covers the heartbreak with a deep sigh and slings his arm around your shoulders as you head into the building where your graduation is being held. He wonders what you’ll think of the sunflowers sitting on your chair, waiting for you to find them. 

Something tickles his throat, a hint of a cough not ready to be cleared, and he swallows it back. 

“About that…”

[then]

Asthma is what he tells you, months and months later while you both sit in your dorm room, curled under blankets. 

You’re preparing for your philosophy paper, pages and sheets and everything else strewn about your bed while he sits at your desk. The lamp is focused and bright as it shines on the metal and stone in his hands, glinting as he twists the wire this way and that. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying for your dance eval?” You ask him. He shoots you that half-smile, a quick glance so that he can finish wrapping the quartz in his palm. He hasn’t told you that he switched majors, that he’s now ‘undecided’ simply because he can’t keep up with the others anymore.

“Aren’t you supposed to telling me who made it their mission to disprove Kant’s entire career?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to,” You pout. He smiles, satisfied, at the stone in his hand; it’s wrapped in wire shaped to look like a tree. He never thought he’d be the jewelry-making kind, but thanks to a randomly-selected elective, he’s discovered he’s got a knack for it. 

Besides, he enjoys seeing the collection on your windowsill grow with each new thing he can make you. 

He extends the quartz to you -  a polished golden one that complements the tarnished brass he’d used to wrap it, the same colors as the flowers you love so much - and the way you light up as you take it makes his heart clench painfully. 

Something tickles his throat, too familiar now, and he does what he can to swallow it down, but this one is stubborn. It forces its way up his windpipe, giving him no choice but to try to cough it up. 

You watch, worried, as he rushes to the sink in your room, bending as far over it as possible so that you won’t see as much. 

It’s small, when it falls. Small and unassuming and spit-slick, he can almost believe it just fell out of the vase of them nearby, and he hopes that’s what you’ll believe as well. 

“Hobi?” 

He hates how small your voice is, how worried you sound as you listen to the ragged pants of his breathing. So he wipes his mouth, checks in the mirror to make sure there’s no blood, and turns back to you with a wry smile. 

“I’m fine,” He says softly. His voice is still hoarse, and you don’t look convinced, but he continues before you can argue. “Just asthma.”

“Asthma? You don’t have asthma, Hoseok-”

“I do,” He says quickly. “Developed recently. Strained myself too hard, weakened my lungs, or something. I don’t remember what the doctor said exactly.”

“But...your dance, how can you-” You cut yourself off with a sharp breath, and he can’t bear to see the heartbreak in your eyes as the realization hits, so he stares down at the scuff in his sneakers instead. “That’s why you aren’t practicing right now. You had to drop out of the dance program?”

You sound like you’re on the verge of tears, so he plasters a smile on his face that’s more convincing than anything else he’s ever done. 

“It’s fine, Starshine. Not all dreams come true. Besides, there’s other things I can do.” 

“But your scholarship, Hobi, I-”

“Already figured out,” He says quickly. It isn’t, not nearly, because he can’t just call his parents to say ‘hey I lost my scholarship because I’m hopelessly in love but don’t have the guts to say anything about it’ and he hasn’t had time to go visit them, either. The corners of your mouth are turned down, and your lips are pressed together, and it’s obvious you’re upset, and it hurts more than the roots tangling in his lungs. 

He crosses the room and slides some of your papers to the side so that he can sit across from you. You’re still holding the quartz in your palm, fingers wrapped gently around it like you’re afraid it’ll break if you squeeze too tight, so he wraps his own hands around that one of yours. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You ask him. Your voice is small and hurt, and he hates that he made it that way, but he knows it’s better than what would come if he told you the truth. 

“Because I didn’t want you to worry,” He replies quietly. “You’ve got exams and studying and papers to worry about. I don’t need to add to that. Besides, you’d just try to help somehow, and you do that enough as it is.”

“How could I possibly be helping you with this, Hoseok?” The look you give him is familiar and humorless and fond and it makes his throat tickle so he looks away. Stares down at the feather-soft blanket in your lap instead. 

“Just by being here,” He tells you. “Distracting me from it. It’s not important, that’s all. I can do other things.”

“Like what? Dancing has always been your dream, and now-”

“Like,” Hoseok interrupts, sliding the quartz from your hand and placing it with the other things he’s made you on the windowsill, “Making things, like this. For you. For everyone.”

You’re quiet for a minute. Your eyes linger on the collection of stones he’s decorated for you, that he’s worked on so carefully to make them as beautiful as you deserve, and he wonders if you can tell. 

If you can see it in every careful twist of wire, in the way his hands are always so gentle against your own, in the way he can’t bear to look at you for longer than a few moments but can’t bear to be away from you in the same way. 

“Well,” You eventually say, blinking back what might be tears. “I suppose we’ll just have to find you a new dream, then, won’t we?”

Your smile is weak and watery and doesn’t reach your eyes, but it’s still a smile. So he returns it, and locks his pinky with yours, and vows to himself to make sure you never cry for him again. 

[then]

"What is that?"

Hoseok looks up from the book he's got propped against the table. He hasn't been paying much attention to the conversation, too engrossed in the metalworking book his glassblowing professor gave him while you studied for an upcoming test, so your words surprise him.

"What's what?" He asks, looking around the cafeteria as if he can magically spot whatever it is you're talking about.

" That ," you repeat, stabbing towards him with your pencil. It's reflex that brings his hand up to his chest, and it's realization that has him clutching the pendant tightly, praying you hadn't really seen it.

"Nothing," he says quickly, tucking it back under his shirt where it's supposed to be. "Just a practice thing."

"Why won't you show me?" You pout. "You always show me your practice work."

"Yeah, because you always take it," He quips back with a laugh. You don't even try to argue, because you both know it's true. The collection on your windowsill has grown immeasurably over the last two years, and it makes Hoseok's heart stutter every time he lets himself consider why you keep all of them. Especially when some are so terrible.

"Seriously, Hobi, can I see?"

He starts to say no, because if there's one piece he's ever made that could tell you about his feelings, it's this. He should say no, should insist this once that you can't see it, but before he can, his hands are pulling the chain over his head and setting the entire thing gently in your palm.

He watches your mouth fall open and your eyes grow wide and he wonders.

He wonders what you see among the curl of metal; if the fact that he would do anything for you is obvious in the way it twists and turns on itself, looping around and around. He wonders if you can see, hidden between letters, how just being near you gets him through every day and makes it all worth it. He wonders if you'll be able to tell, between the pressed yellow petals, just how his chest aches; if you've put the pieces together, after so long, now that you're holding his heart so openly in your palm.

"'Remedy,'" You read, and Hoseok's heart jumps into his throat, even when he knows you don't know about it. "And some tulip petals? It's so gorgeous, Hobi, but what does it mean?"

"They're sunflowers," He corrects, almost scandalized that you could confuse the two. The petals are shortened, of course, cut so that they'll fit into the pendant without obstructing the text in the back, but still. "And it doesn't mean anything. Just something I wrote once in high school."

Your eyes light up. "You mean that poem you never let me read?"

"It was a song, actually," He mutters, but your attention is back on the necklace, looking for any hints about the secrets he keeps. Something soft tickles the back of his throat when you glance up at him and smile, the light glinting just right along the stones and casting golden beams along your features.

You look more beautiful than he's ever seen, and his chest aches with more than just the flowers taking root there.

"This is really gorgeous, Hobi," You tell him as you watch the way the light reflects through the amber beads along the edge.

"Yeah," He whispers as he watches you, drinking in the way your eyes widen in awe and the soft smile on your lips. "It is, isn't it?"

He wishes that moment could last forever, that he could tuck it away into a pocket and pull it out whenever he needs it, but he can feel the flower starting to work its way up his throat and he doesn't know how to hide that from you.

The coughs start right as someone calls out your name and his, and he tucks his chin into his elbow in an effort to hide it. He doesn't bother to look yet, just waves a hand as someone sits beside you, and by the time he's got the handful of petals tucked safely away in his pocket, you're deep in conversation with Namjoon about one of the classes the two of you are taking.

[now]

Hoseok decides, looking at you now, that you are happier than ever. 

You've said your vows and you've cried several happy tears and you've kissed more times than he can count, but you're still radiant. It's the glow of contentment, the promise of more to come, all coalescing to shine like stars in your eyes. 

"May I, Starshine?" He asks, extending a hand and pulling you away from your current dance partner. Yoongi doesn't look too upset about it, just smiles knowingly at you both as your hand folds into Hoseok's. 

You move with him as if it's second nature, and Hoseok supposes that it is , at this point. As many times as he held you this way while teaching you the steps, as often as he led you through them before today, you should be able to move out of sheer muscle memory. 

"Have I told you yet that you're sparkling, Starshine?" He asks, smiling along with you when you laugh. 

"I think that you're confusing me and the ring again, Hobi." 

On cue, he looks down at it. He spent so long on it, years of dreaming of what it may look like and months of trial and error and practice runs before he got it right. It was worth it, though; the ring does sparkle, takes the glow of your skin and the joy in your smile and amplifies it. 

Crafted to look like a sunflower itself, the ring is easily the most expensive thing he's ever made. Each petal sparkles with the same yellow quartz of that stone he gave you so long ago, and set into the middle is one large chocolate diamond that he spent entirely too much money on because it was already cut exactly the way he needed it. He'll never forget the way you cried when you saw it the first time. 

Hoseok's eyes meet yours, and he frowns at the tears he sees there. 

"Hey, none of that, Starshine. It's a happy day, remember?" He stops moving in the middle of the dance floor, hands moving to wipe your tears before they can fall. 

"I just...I'm so happy Hobi." He grins at your words, resisting the urge to poke fun, because of course you're happy. You just got married. 

You look up at him again, eyes still watery and he pulls you into a tight hug. 

"I love you so much, Hobi," you mutter against his chest. His heart flutters in his chest as he resists the urge to press his lips to yours right where you stand. 

"Yeah," He whispers. "Yeah, I love you too, Starshine." 

Someone taps him on the shoulder and he releases you, relinquishing his grasp on you so you can dance with Namjoon. The pendant around your neck sits beautifully, shadowed on either side by the white of the cloth, and he thinks for just a moment, that maybe he made that pendant for you, after all. 

He's worn it for years, of course, but the smile on your face when he slid it around your neck was worth it. It was worth being asked if you could have it, not entirely joking, and it was worth every single time you would fiddle with it during movie marathons, and it was worth every single night he held it in his clutched palm as he sat over the sink and coughed up the yellow blooms that you've strung up all over the reception hall. 

very day that you bugged him about it, how you asked every day without fail if you could have it. He knew you were kidding - mostly - but the light in your eyes when he finally gave it to you before the wedding today is something he’ll remember for the rest of his life, no matter what the future holds for him. 

It ends, as most things do, with a conversation. 

It was innocent enough - just a phone ringing in its place on the worktable and his hands covered in clay while he struggled to hit the screen with his elbow. To this day he can’t be sure what it was that he missed, exactly. Maybe it was the way that you’d been calling him less and less in the middle of the night. Maybe it was the way you hadn’t noticed that he’d been spending too much time in the studio, pouring his soul into every shape he crafts and wire he twists while he chokes down petals. Maybe it was the classes the two of you shared and the projects you worked on together, that he assumed was friendly and not anything more. Maybe it was all of that, everything working in tandem in a way that he could never understand.

Or maybe it was none of it. Simple acts that led to simple reactions - being too busy for each other, not talking as often, coughing up sunflower petals - that all led to that moment. 

Either way, Hoseok decides as he watches the heart-shaped vase spin aimlessly on its wheel while you cry tears of joy through the phone because he finally - finally - asked you out, he can’t care.

[then]

Asthma? is what Jimin asks him, years later when they’re both locked in Hoseok’s newly renovated store, basically a hole in the wall that he saved and saved for with his online sales. Hoseok is curled over the workbench in the back, doing everything he can to catch the petals before Jimin can see them. 

When they eventually subside, long enough for him to gulp down some water and shove the red-tinted petals off to the side in a pile that’s been steadily growing for weeks now, Hoseok shoots Jimin a self-deprecating smile. 

He doesn’t even get a chance to lie to him. 

“How long?” Jimin asks him. There’s no softness to his tone; it’s all hard edges and naked truths, and for once, the exhaustion overtakes Hoseok. He’s so sick of lying. He’s so sick of carrying an inhaler he doesn’t need, of shoving sunflower petals into every nook and cranny he can find so that no one sees them, and he just wants someone to know. 

“Forever,” Hoseok answers simply. “As long as I can remember.”

“And you never said anything? Ever?”

Hoseok sighs, throat scratchy and raw, and he stares down at the ring he’s been fiddling with. “Would you?” He eventually says. 

When he looks at Jimin, the other man has a petal of his own in between two fingers and rubs it absently, distractedly, like it’s habit. When he looks up, Hoseok understands, and an understanding passes between them. 

Jimin goes back to the laptop perched in front of him while Hoseok continues to work on other orders, things less important than the ring burning a hole in his mind’s eye, begging to be made. 

He isn’t ready, he tells himself. He isn’t skilled enough yet. Maybe one day. 

“I’m getting the surgery,” Jimin says after a few hours of silence. Hoseok fumbles with the pliers in his hands, twists the wire the wrong way, and it all clatters to the tabletop. He doesn’t bother to catch it, either; he’s too busy staring at his best friend in shock. 

“Seriously?” He breathes. Jimin nods, and the air rushes out of Hoseok in the span of a heartbeat. 

Everyone knows about the surgery, just like everyone knows about hanahaki disease. It took years to develop and it’s the only known treatment, but there are always side effect. Always. Sometimes they’re minor, just losing your feelings of love for the person you have feelings for, or like the guy that just became allergic to the peonies that he had removed. 

But then there are the others. 

The people who lose the capacity to love altogether. The ones who never find anyone else, who never learn how to love another person, not like they loved the one that caused the flowers. Or the ones who just lose their emotions completely, and become essentially lifeless. Unable to feel love at all, or sadness, or grief, or joy, or excitement, or remorse, or anything. They just exist. 

“But...the side effects-”

“Aren’t guaranteed,” Jimin interrupts. “Plenty of people get the procedure every day and walk away fine.”

“Yeah and some of them turn into lifeless machines!” Hoseok counters. Jimin’s expression hasn’t changed. He looks steadfast, decided, and he’s barely looking away from whatever work he’s doing on the laptop, and it infuriates Hoseok. “You’re gonna sign away any hope that you have, any chance that you have, because it...because it hurts?”

“No,” Jimin says as he closes the laptop and slides it to the side. “Because I’m tired, Hobi. I’m so tired, all the time. I’m tired of keeping it a secret, and I’m tired of puking my guts every time I think about-” Jimin cuts himself off and closes his eyes, tight, as he swallows. 

When he opens them, Hoseok can see every emotion he’s ever had in Jimin’s eyes, and it makes his heart ache. 

“Aren’t you tired, Hobi?” 

Jimin’s voice is small, and weak, but it lingers in the air between them. It curls past Hoseok’s throat and then down to wrap around his chest, growing tighter and tighter with every breath. Neither of them break eye contact, and Hoseok wonders what Jimin sees in his face. 

“Yeah,” Hoseok eventually says. With that, the spell is broken, and he can breathe again, and he drags his eyes away from Jimin to look at the piece he’d been working on instead. “But I can’t just...stop, y’know? I’ve loved her for basically my entire life. I can't...I don’t even know who I am without that.”

Jimin’s quiet for a long moment, and Hoseok thinks maybe he’s not going to say anything. Maybe he got through to Jimin, maybe he won’t get that surgery. 

“Don’t you think that you should find out?”

[now]

Hoseok watches from across the room as Jimin spins you in a circle, both of you laughing brightly. 

Jimin’s suit matches your dress wonderfully; Hoseok doesn’t think anyone else could quite pull off the pattern on it quite like Jimin does in such an effortless way. He looks happier than Hoseok has ever seen him, more content, more at home in his own skin. 

He isn’t coughing, and he isn’t struggling, and everything worked out well for him. No more flowers in his lungs, no more lies to his friends, no more unrequited love left heavy in his heart. Just happiness and laughter and joy. Hoseok wonders if he’d be the same. 

His thumb rubs absently across the business card in his pocket. It’s been there since Jimin handed it to him, what feels like forever ago now. It’s worn, and faded, and torn, and old, but the doctor is still practicing, just got recognized by the World Health Organization for his work. There’s an appointment reminder dinging in Hoseok’s phone, and a business card in his pocket, and he still doesn’t know if he’s even going to go, because you look so beautiful. 

You’re surrounded by your flowers, and you’re glowing like the North Star, and he can’t keep his eyes off of you. 

“She’s gorgeous, right?”

Hoseok turns and smiles at Namjoon. The man looks just as good, decked out in the best suit money can buy, with crinkles in the corner of his eyes and a dimple in his cheek as he grins.

“Yeah, she is,” He says. Emotions clog in his throat when he looks back at you only to find you looking his way. There’s love in your eyes and a soft, private smile on your lips, and it makes his chest tighten. “She looks really happy.”

“She does,” Namjoon agrees. 

Across the room, you wiggle a finger, and the ring glints in the light. Hoseok stifles a laugh, and shakes his head. 

“I can’t dance anymore, so this is all on you, big guy,” He tells Namjoon. The other man looks more than happy to take him up on the offer, grinning sheepishly as he sets his drink down to make his way to you. 

You take Namjoon’s hand and pull him close as the music transitions into a slow dance. Namjoon presses his forehead against yours, and both your eyes close, and suddenly, Hoseok feels like he shouldn’t be watching. This feels private, intimate, in a way that he’s never been privy to.

His throat clenches and he can feel it in his throat. 

He nearly drops his drink, but he gets to a table just in time to put the cup down with shaky hands. He knew, he knew what would happen. He clenches his jaw and heads through the side door of the event space, barely chancing a glance behind him. You don’t seem to have noticed, thankfully, but Hoseok makes eye contact with Jimin. The younger boy taps his wrist, and Hoseok just heads outside. 

He doesn’t need Jimin to remind him that time is up. 

[then]

“You need what?”

Namjoon’s smile turns shy at Hoseok’s tone. Of all the things that Hoseok could have anticipated Namjoon would ask him for, of all the potential items that he’s been commissioned by the taller man, this was never something he expected.

Though maybe he should have.

“-you know her better than anyone, y’know, and no one can craft like you, Hobi-”

The nickname sounds wrong, suddenly; like poison on Namjoon’s lips, but Hoseok just plasters on his smile again, the one he saves for truly difficult customers who try his patience, and he prays Namjoon doesn’t recognize it. 

“No, I get it, yeah.”

“I just...it needs to be perfect. And you’re the only one that I trust to make it perfect.” Hoseok’s heart twinges in his chest, and he can feel the roots moving in his lungs. “I’ll pay you whatever you want, too, cost isn’t a factor, it just needs to be-”

“Perfect,” Hoseok finishes. Namjoon smiles again, sheepish, and nods. “It’s fine, I’ll make it. No charge.”

“Hobi, I can’t ask you to do that, not for free-”

“You didn’t,” Hoseok insists. “I’m offering. Consider it a...gift.” Namjoon’s smile is blinding, and he really must trust Hoseok with this, because he’s heading out just a few minutes after, already on the phone with you because the two of you are meeting for lunch. 

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. It makes sense. It’s been years. Isn’t that the usual time people start to expect this kind of thing? 

A voice in the back of his head, bitter and cruel, tells him that he should have charged Namjoon. Should have made him pay an exorbitant amount, enough to keep the shop running through the months of the slow season, enough to help heal the wound in Hoseok’s heart, but he brushes it off. It wouldn’t have felt right, charging for this. 

Not when he’s had the design sitting in his head since he wrapped that first stone with wire, since he first learned how to make this jewelry. Not when he’s had pages upon pages of designs drawn out for years, since before he even owned his own shop. 

That was never his to design, though, he reminds himself as he heads into the workshop. He had no right to that design. 

Just like he has no right to you. 

[then]

Later, weeks and weeks later, In the darkness of his apartment, Hoseok cries. 

Hoseok cries for all the things he’s never said, all the things he’ll never do, all of the things that you don’t know. He cries for the late nights together and the impromptu adventures and the panicked phone calls. He’s been so blind, he’s refused to see it, he knows. It’s all been waning, all put on the backburner in favor of him. 

He’s the one you call when air can’t make it to your lungs. He’s the one you pull from work in the dead of night to make him sleep. He’s the one that gets to wraps his arms around you while you watch the newest episode of whatever show you’re obsessed with lately. It’s all him, and it will never be Hoseok, no matter how hard he wishes, because he’s too late. 

He spent so long obsessed with maybe. Maybe you’ll love him back, maybe it’ll ruin the friendship, maybe you’ll realize. For years and years, he said maybe, and now it’s too late, because you’re going to be saying yes to another man’s question, and Hoseok will be left in the darkness, no longer able to look at the stars in your eyes because you’ll be looking at him. 

For the first time in his life, Hoseok hates. He hates you for not realizing that he loves you; he hates Namjoon for taking the chance and asking you out; he hates the flowers growing in his chest that are just further proof that he’s alone in his feelings. Mostly, though…

Mostly, Hoseok hates himself, he realizes as he crumples against the wall of his living room. He hates himself for not taking the risk that Namjoon did, for not putting it all out there so that you could give him whatever kind of closure would come. 

And it’s there, sitting on his floor, surrounded by the remains of too many projects that he spent too long on that you’ll now never see, that he first begins to consider it. Everyone knows about the surgery, everyone knows that you can get the flowers removed, but that it comes with a cost. He stares, past his tears, past the colorful crystal remnants at his feet, and he considers. 

There’s already a numbness spreading through his body; it follows the same path as the roots of the flowers in his lungs, it runs parallel to the petals and seeds, and it only serves to highlight the painful ache that his feelings have caused. He’s already becoming numb to it, so why not? He may lose the ability to love forever, yes, but he can still be your friend. He can still watch you marry another man, this time without the itch in his throat and the flowers in his bile. So why shouldn’t he?

His phone rings, and he already knows it’s you. Not by the specialized ringtone - the only custom one in his entire contact list - and not by the blinking light that’s sure to wake him up in the middle of the night. No, he knows it’s you, because he knows that there’s no way Namjoon could have resisted the temptation to ask you tonight. He’s pictured what you’d look like a hundred thousand times, knows exactly how bright your smile would be as you said yes, how soft the tears would feel as he wiped them away, he knows. 

And now you’re calling him, to tell him the great news, or maybe scold him for not giving you a heads up about it in the first place since he’s the one that made the ring. Either way, you’re on the other end of that ringing, ready to tell him about the happiest night of your life, and Hoseok can’t…

He can’t resist it. It’s autopilot as he drags himself to where his phone is still ringing, and it’s only after a deep and shaky breath that he answers it. 

You don’t even give him time to speak for you’re launching into your squeals and happy giggles and how Namjoon did it, and Hoseok feels a reluctant smile cross his features. It only grows when you start to gush about the ring, complimenting his skill, and he can feel a bud trying to make its way up his throat, so he mutes his phone. He doesn’t want you to hear as he rushes to the kitchen sink, as he chokes and coughs and gags and eventually spits out a nearly whole sunflower. 

It’s not a big one, maybe an inch or so in diameter, and not fully bloomed, but it’s there, and Hoseok knows it’s more of a death sentence than anything. 

“Hobi? Are you there?” 

He wipes his mouth and clears his throat and leaves the flower in the sink with its red-stained petals so that he can unmute his phone. 

“Yeah, Starshine, I’m here.”

[now]

In the alley beside your wedding, Hoseok coughs. He coughs and he gags and he chokes, until the ground is littered with flower petals that aren’t from your bouquets, and blood drops and tears. He chokes until he can’t breathe anymore, until he has to reach in and pull the flower from his throat before he really does die, and it makes him shudder when he sees that it’s nearly fully formed, almost completely bloomed and everything.

He doesn’t think he’ll make it through the next one.

He stands up, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of the red suit he chose for this exact reason, and he looks through the window, to the space where you should be dancing with Namjoon. 

You aren’t, though. You’re watching him, brows drawn together, confused, and you’re saying something that he can’t quite make out through the glass. 

Fear strikes his heart. Fear that you saw everything, that you know everything, but directly after it comes relief, because he knows now. He knows what he needs to do, because he doesn’t think he can bear to have you watch him die, but he doesn’t think he can bear not to love you anymore, either; no matter what, he’s lost you, and that knowledge solidifies his decision. He holds a hand over his chest, and you mirror him, your fingers closing around the pendant he made so, so long ago.

You turn, looking for someone - Namjoon, maybe, or Jimin, to ask what’s wrong with him, and he takes the opportunity. He heads out of the alley, as fast as his legs can carry him, because he knows. 

When you finally make it into the alley, you don’t understand. Your best friend, your best man, is nowhere to be found. In his wake are flower petals, drawn out by the wind. 

One catches your eye, and you pick it up. It’s soft against your fingertips, and you frown when you see the red on it. 

You don’t ever see Hoseok again.

[jawbonejoe]

Hey man, earnest question, might sound a bit loaded. How DO you get to actually feel the screw the world I'm me self-confidence? I try to exercise self-love but mostly it feels forced and fake. Like... how do you reach that. You just keep trying?

So, Anon, since your question two things happened to me. The first happened to the rest of the planet: watching Trump lose the election and thus, the end of a four year nightmare draws nearer. 

The second thing happened to only a handful of people in that same world: a dear friend of mine lost his year long battle with leukemia. I found out via his wife’s posts on fb, and bc I was in the middle of cooking with my family on an otherwise celebratory day there wasn’t much I could do to reach out and console her. 

I already had the bones of your answer figured out by the time both things happened and now I know even more clearly what to tell you. 

You’re on the right path, self care and self love and confidence are absolutely practice and patience and more practice. It will feel fake at first bc you have to be bad at something before you are good at it. But we don’t have a cute saying for nothing ‘fake it till you make it is’ absolutely real. 

But I do think you’re looking at the thing in the wrong light. Self-love and confidence should not come from any ‘screw the world’ doctrine. I can see why you would call it that, especially when asking me because I do have a very ‘screw off’ attitude about things. The difference I want to make clear is that self love and confidence are not about the relationship of the self to the world, but the self to the self. You interact with the world every day as a jumble of information being broadcast through your body by a piece of meat with a little electricity inside it. That information is interpreted into sensation, emotion, memory, thought, and of course it is acted upon by the outside world and then reinterpreted to meet the meat’s needs. Being such a crazy living jumble is insane enough but then you have to go out and deal with other people who are also insane living jumbles of things. 

That’s where confidence comes in, because the world will interpret you as it wants and one of the few ways to inform its decision is to act like you can handle whatever it’s going to do to you. This is a skill that can be taught, and for those who have to self teach it there’s no better way to learn it than by following an example.

Why I need you to know it’s not a you v. world relationship is because we’re all constantly becoming and reinforcing who and what we are. And within that, true confidence comes from being someone you like being and trusting you can keep being that. The work there comes with reflection and practice and I can’t tell you how helpful it is to have people who will push you to be the best version of yourself. 

‘Screw the world’ offers too little to the importance of sharing life with other people. Humans are pack animals, we’re pattern finding machines, and those things together mean that we’re more highly adapted to develop profound bonds with each other than any other animal. 

I learned 80% of my own self love routine from my good friend who had spent much of their early life being denied any agency in who they were and thus developed the most powerful armor of self love I’ve ever seen. For them it came from necessity, their love was the thing they needed to stay alive and flourish. From them I learned that being bold and sure of that self love is one of the best ways to reinforce it and broadcast a similar feeling of the power of pride to others. 

Making the choice to love the self every day is key. So are things like self care, good health habits, finding time for art and hobbies, tricks like evaluating how you use language especially when talking to or about yourself. I make a point to never tell self deprecating jokes or even allude to such things because not only are they not funny but they tell my jumble of neurons the exact opposite of what we’ve worked so hard to know. As a woman I still struggle with using filler language in how I express myself, things like pre-facing my statements with ‘I think’ or ‘Maybe’ or ‘Well if you ask me.’ It seems like a small thing in the grand scheme but really understanding how you use language and how you can better use it to help you feel confident is a good first step and can always be improved as you learn and build your own routine. 

What I can’t understate is how important it is to care. Screw the world is just one way self love and confidence can manifest itself but really it’s bravado because the thing that really matters is wanting to be in the world as someone you like. That feeling of being a peace with who you are, with an eye towards who you want to be, will attract people who like who you are and help you reinforce this idea. I can’t tell you the number of times I felt down and then thought ‘well, I’m best friends with some of the greatest people I’ve ever met, and I know they have great taste so are they wrong for liking me? Hell no!’ Nevermind that having them in my life gives me people I admire that I can look to and say ‘hmm, what would X do in this situation?’ 

Self love is so personal it��s easy to think of it as some unteachable skill that you’re either born with or not. I tell you that couldn’t be more wrong. Don’t misunderstand, you can not make people love themselves when they don’t, and that is sad but at the end of the day there will be people in your life who enjoy making themselves miserable. You should care for other people but never give so much of yourself that you get nothing back. A good friend will give as much joy as they receive from you. 

There is so much to self love that I could go on and on but here’s what I learned from my late friend. As a trans man he made the decision, the painful and scary and hard decision, to be who he was every day of his life. He struggled with it, he fought to understand it, he surrounded himself with people who loved who he was always meant to be even before he could name it himself. He let himself feel the richness of life, he chose to be creative and funny and smart and kind. He was tough when he wanted to be and he showed every quality that a man should have because he chose to be the man he was every single day. 

That’s not to say he never questioned or struggled or even failed in who he was but he always got back up and kept fighting to be the best version of himself. In him I always saw an example of how to be the person you want to be, an example of what every person should be. He laughed the hardest at his own jokes, he loved deliriously, he never denied himself his emotions and their expression, and whenever he wanted something he went out and leapt for it. 

Self love is never you v. the world because that’s how you miss out on all the people who help you realize who you want to be. You live for the world, you are a part of the world knowing itself in every little moment you exist. Those who don’t care about the world will only grow their unhappiness because they’re denying the importance of the love that binds us all together. That love comes in big acts and small, I personally love the earthly pleasures of food and drink and art because they can be enjoyed with just a little practice and skill and can be shared as much as they can be enjoyed solo. 

Every time you choose who you are and who you want to be you perform another act of self love. It may feel like a lot of goofy clown work at first but consider that digging the foundation that stronger and stronger self love will build on. So, long answer to your short question, yes. Keep trying. Look to the world and see its beauty, let yourself feel and learn as much as you can and let other people love you. They will help you be the best you just as much as you help them. And before long the goofy clown work won’t be goofy any more it will just be the truth. You’ll start to look to yourself for the love you need when you need it, and that will enrich the love you continue to feel with others.

[thisstableground]

Okay, a bird gets in through the window of their apartment and can't get out (because it's panicked), and now it's flying everywhere *except* back through the open window. How do they deal with it?

(this is an early relationship fic bc i’m in that kinda mood right now)

edit: also on AO3! please leave a comment if you liked it!

*

“Looked like Vanessa was dolling herself up real cute for your lunch date when I went up on break,” Usnavi says. “And me stuck here at the store while you guys have all the fun without me.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Ruben asks, concerned. “I don’t wanna, y’know, get in the way of things.”

“She’s your girlfriend too,” Usnavi says, charitably ignoring the panicked balloon-deflating noise Ruben makes: the g-word is still a very new development. “I just miss you both when I can’t come with you.”

“We’ll be done in a couple hours.”

“I know, it’s so long.” Usnavi says, tragically. He picks up his cell from where it’s vibrating insistently on the counter. “Oh! She misses us too! Hey, Vanessa!” 

His smile disappears as she responds: from where he’s standing, all Ruben can hear is a bunch of incoherent yelling and shrieking from the other end. His heartrate instantly triples. It might have shattered a rib or two.

Usnavi grabs the creased piece of laminated paper under the counter that reads “back in five minutes/vuelta en cinco minutos!!” and is saying “ ¿qué pa—Vanessa, cálmate, I don’t – what’s happening?” as he runs to stick it to the door and click the locks closed. Even from several feet away, Ruben hears Vanessa’s voice yell “JUST GET YOUR SKINNY ASS UP HERE RIGHT NOW!”

He hightails it after Usnavi up the back stairs to the apartment. “What was that?!”

“No sé, I couldn’t tell, it sounded like she said someone came into the apartment-”

“What?!” He doesn’t even have time to panic about it: they crest the top of the stairs and almost crash directly into Vanessa standing outside Usnavi’s front door. She’s dripping wet and wearing only a towel, trying to look in through the peephole despite that decidedly not being how peepholes work.

“Vanessa!” Ruben goes instinctively to check on her then hastily averts his eyes to the ceiling when he registers what she’s wearing, because yes, he saw her naked last night but he’s still polite.  “Oh, uh—“

Usnavi shrugs out of his shirt to drape around Vanessa’s shoulders and hugs her close. “Amorcita, what happened, are you okay?”

“No, I am not okay!” she says furiously. “I was in the shower and a fucking bird came in and chased me out here!”

“Wait, a bird? You were just screaming because of a bird?” Ruben catches Usnavi’s eye and both of them instantly burst into laughter, which is mostly from relief and is also exactly the wrong thing to do.

“Oh, so it’s funny is it?” Vanessa says, looking about as murderous as anyone with shampoo bubbles in their hair has ever looked.

“We’re not laughing at you, I promise!” Ruben says, undercut significantly by the fact that to be fair, he is still laughing. “We’re just relieved it wasn’t anything dangerous.”

“Not dangerous?!” Vanessa hollers. “It could have beaked me!”

“Heyheyhey, we’re cool, we’re cool,” Usnavi says soothingly, making cut it out eyes at Ruben. “Ain’t gonna let nothing run my girl out of my apartment like that. I’ll get the bird, you just wait here with Ruben. Who will not laugh any more,” he adds, severely.

“Laughing? Never even heard of it,” Ruben says.

“....You’ll be careful?” Vanessa says to Usnavi.

Usnavi stands just a little taller at her concern, glowing with chivalrous intent, and says, “no te preocupes, querida, I ain’t afraid of no bird.”

He opens the front door and pauses on the threshold. Ruben can tell there’s triumphant battle music playing in his mind right now, mostly because he’s humming it very quietly to himself while he adjusts his hat before he heads inside.

Three and a bit seconds later, there’s a brief crash and some hollered cursing from the apartment. Usnavi bursts back out into the corridor and scuttles over to the opposite wall, flattening against it like a shadow.

“Guys, I am so afraid of this bird,” he tells them.

“Did it beak you,” Ruben says dryly.

“It nearly did! I tried to ask it to leave and then it–“ Usnavi does a wild flapping motion with his arms and goes skraaaaaa!, his eyes all big in a way that implies see? Do you see how terrifying this is? Ruben tactfully does not inform him that it makes him look like he should be standing outside a car dealership in a heavy wind.

“It was never gonna work, babe, I already tried everything,” Vanessa says. “I tried yelling at it.”

They wait for the rest of it. There is no rest of it. Vanessa shrugs like I mean, what else is there?

“Well, I hope you’re not too attached to this apartment, Usnavi,” Ruben says, and both turn in unison to look at him imploringly. They’re wearing hopeful, expectant Ruben Can Solve Anything expressions, the ones they make before they ask him things about sports or Europe or other arcane and unknowable topics. It makes him want to shout hold on, I’m just a chemist, the only thing I can do to a pigeon is poison it or teach it how to run assays but it also makes him want to go and get a PhD in Please Get Bird Out Of Bathroom so that he can resolve the situation as comprehensively as possible. 

He is, he reflects a little sadly, a sucker for providing solutions.

“Alright,” he says, in a firm voice, because it’s either that or let them down. “Usnavi, I need you to go get me a box from the bodega to trap it in.”

Usnavi nods once, solemn-faced like a soldier being given orders, and hurries downstairs. He’s back in short order with an empty Doritos box that he hands over. Ruben makes it all of two cautiously tiptoeing steps into the apartment before Vanessa grabs his arm and pulls him back for a kiss on the cheek that has the resigned air of impending doom to it: we only had the Ruben for two weeks before he was taken by the birds, he imagines her telling people after the fact. I knew we should have had him insured.

Inside the bathroom is much less carnage than he’d expected based on the other two’s reactions. There’s water all over the floor, probably from Vanessa’s hasty exit, and Usnavi’s toothbrush cup has been knocked down into the basin, where it’s clattering around under the feet of a pigeon that Ruben would, scientifically, describe as Oh Boy, That’s Pretty Big Actually. In itself it isn’t all that scary, but in the context of being a pigeon in a places that pigeons usually aren’t it really is quite unsettling. Like how he isn’t in the slightest scared of rats, but still jumps out of his skin and tries to keep a wide berth whenever he sees one in the stairwell of his apartment building. At least it isn’t actively flapping around at the moment.

Ruben casts his eye around but there isn’t a towel in the usual place on the radiator – of course not, Vanessa must have grabbed it on her way out. He sets down the box as he takes his sweater off instead, thanks it silently for its dedication to the cause, and then holds it up in the air, inching closer to the pigeon.

“You could just leave now,” he tries, just in case. “It’ll be easier for both of us.”

The pigeon shuffles around, its talons making scritchy noises against the ceramic of the basin. “Trrr,” it says.

“The window’s right there.” He takes another step closer. “Fine, I guess not. Sorry about this,” and in a quick movement he throws his sweater over it and, using the second of struggling confusion while it tries to get free, scoops the sweater-wrapped pigeon into the box in a move that is significantly more blind luck than animal handling skills.

“Sorry sorry sorry sorry!” he chants, shoving half his body and the box out the window and inelegantly shaking a very confused and unhappy pigeon out into the sky, where it luckily flaps off in distress rather than going right for his eyes so he can bring the box back in and close the window blessedly un-mauled. His sweater is mostly unharmed too, albeit in need of a wash, because pigeons have pretty much one reaction to stress, as evidenced by the rest of the bathroom. He tosses the knocked-over toothbrush straight in the trash because he knows Usnavi won’t even think about putting it in his mouth all covered in bird-germs later, and is bleaching down the basin when he hears a tentative “Ruben are you dead?”

“Somehow I pulled through,” he says.

Usnavi opens the door the tiniest fraction. “Is it still in there?”

“No, I caught it and let it out. No casualties, except your toothbrush.”

Usnavi opens the door properly, with Vanessa peeking over his shoulder, not even pretending she isn’t hiding behind him. When they confirm that the bathroom is safe she stands up straight and both of them beam at Ruben.

“You really did it,” Vanessa says, in a tone of absolute awe while Usnavi kisses him enthusiastically and Ruben, a man who has faced down pain, torture and death, has literally never felt braver or more heroic than he does right now.

[roraruu]

wip: dead eyes & salty skin

tw: suicide ideation, injury some arranged marriage au bc i really missed faybin

“Just know that I’ve been caught by these hazards too.”

She laughs when he’s gone from the shoreline. There, washed in the moonlight and cool ocean water her voice fills the shore front. How could he be caught by these hazards? How could he possibly understand the pain she feels?

He doesn’t. It’s plain and simple. He protests that he understands her pain, even her mother had spouted some trash about a noblewoman stealing his heart and running away with it, but Faye doesn’t believe that one bit. Not with the proud badges and medals for killing civilians just wanting to survive. And not when she begged and cried to come along with them and they all refused—and he had turned his back on her.

Such a foolish thing that they were lawfully united now. In the eyes of the Earth Mother or whatever wills be. She doesn’t even remember the union, only the walk home when he held her hand so loosely, like he didn’t even care about her. 

But he doesn’t. And she did expect him to care. Only thing he cares about is her dowry—even though it’s little more than a sackful of marks, a cedar chest of lace sewing and a failing orchard. What a pitiful dowry and what a pitiful man for taking it.

She glances down to the brass ring in her hand. It’s plain and already tarnishing. Hers is just as plain and boring, no gemstone or engraving either. A farce, just like their marriage and their love. Could it even be called that? It was more distaste and contempt than love. Hell, did their vows even say anything about love? A word about them? She can’t remember a word of it.

For a moment, she sits in the ocean, mulling over these thoughts of her husband and what will become of their life together. Surely her parents hope for grandchildren, ones to help in the orchard; and no doubt that he wishes for them to go on and become knights of the new empire. And she still wants the commander, the boy who had saved her from enemy all those years ago.

Briefly, she thinks of sinking into the lapping waves. It’s deep enough, creating dark grey stains on the bust of her robe. It sags into the water, revealing the slip underneath, what she was supposed to show him tonight, as her Nana and Mother instructed. Get the job done right and soon, she thinks wryly and bitterly. She remembers the night Nana started making it. She didn’t know of the engagement until days later and it wound up on her dresser the afternoon he proposed. It was right underneath her nose and she didn’t see it for a second.

She laxes back further into the water, so that her crown of withered wildflowers can fall away and her hair soaks. She thinks about laying back and not raising her head again, about drowning in her wedding gown and holding rings and flowers. It would look like a melodramatic death and she’s sure he’d move on to another rich girl.

He would... wouldn’t he?

But the commander. Sir Alm. He’s still out there and her heart craves for him, yearns for him and his love. She could have it if she could just get to him... She’s tried before and gotten out of the village, only to be dragged back by her father. If she could just look at him, just utter the words “remember me?” he’d recall and they’d be married. And she’d leave the orchard, the village, her life, everything behind. She’d do it all for him.

And Sir Alm gives her the strength to pull sorry salt skin out of the water and trudge through the weeds with that ring in hand.

That ring... that ring. It could be something other than tarnished. And it gives her the will to wade through the pointed rocks and weeds and back to the cottage.

When she gets in, her husband is asleep in the front room, still dressed in his stiff uniform that was supposed to impress her. It made no impact to her, but to her family, they all marvelled at the medals he’d received for slaying his countrymen and fellow Valentians. He looks too big, pressed up against the window in a chair. She hates how small it is. Father had built it before their marriage. Actually, back when she was 15 or so, probably in preparation, just like her dress and that cedar chest full of lace and silk. It makes her stomach churn.

Her sloughs off the robe, leaving it to rot through the hardwood floor. A spit in the face for this marriage. Everything comes off—her pointed wedding shoes, the belt of the robe, gold and flower bangles given to her to weigh her down—until she’s in the slip and bare feet.

There’s some of her belongings in the bedroom. Only one. Another intent move to back her into a corner. She moves into it, little more than a mattress and a vanity with a washbowl. One dresser, four drawers. There’s an extra dress in one, long and pretty and meant for the cold, not the warm spring. She takes it, changing into it and finding a cloak in the closet. She steals his boots, they’re much too big and her feet slip and slide in them, but it’s better than nothing.

There’s no food in the cottage. Either a slip up for intentional, she’s not sure. She ties the cloak around her neck, pulling hood over her head. And the final touch—his ring which he willingly gave up in. A futile attempt to gain something from her, be it pity, understanding or giving up. She slips it onto her other ring finger, although it is much too big and hangs off her digit. Faye creeps through the cottage quiet as a mouse, she’s learnt to rely on the heels of her feet to avoid noise.

It’s not the first time she’s run away. Not the last probably either. If Tobin doesn’t come after her, her Father will. She’ll get the same lecture about duty and honour and her being the only one to save the orchard.

A sword. It was at the front door. They were out in the middle of nowhere, no one could tell when a wolf or terrors or brigands would show up. She knew a little of the blade, like how to wield it and block attacks; aside from that her experience was little. She mostly messed around with black magic, white made her feel ill. Her hand clasps around the hilt, it’s wrapped in a scabbard that belts around her waist. She attaches it and hears him grumble something. Nervously she looks over. He’s still asleep. She latches the belt around her waist and fans the cloak out over it. She pushes open the front door, and with an ear shattering slap, she’s gone.

—

Faye is barely into Ram Woods when some brigands find her. It’s beginning to be morning and she ran for almost a mile, as quick as his boots will let her go. The dress is covered in mud and dirt from all the times she’d fallen and her palms are scraped and scratched from bracing and picking herself back up from the ground. It’s not enough to make her stop though.

And the brigands she faces... she looks on with pure fury. She’s barely out of the village and here they come. Immediately, she draws her sword, making it known that she will not be taken without a fight. She gives them one, moving deftly in the boots and dodging their silly attempts to slash her and take her down.

But a horse’s neigh scares them off before she can sling fire balls at them. She dives for a bush, scratching her arms on twigs and leaves as the hooves come closer. Faye isn’t as quick as she likes to think, because his eyes are on her from atop that horse. The soldier with the dead eyes, and her husband.

Who is barefoot.

She snickers to herself. She stops when he leaps down from his horse, bow on his back. Without shoes, he is still taller than her and somewhat... domineering, not like the mild mannered man who chattered sweetly with her grandmother before their courting dates, or the one who almost hesitated to kiss her the day before. He’s stern and cold, not playful and warm. His eyes move from her face, down the cloak and long dress underneath and to his boots on her small feet.

“One of these things is not like the other.” He says with annoyance.

“I couldn’t runaway in good shoes.” She says. “You understand, right?”

“I’d like them back if you plan to bolt.”

She kicks them off. Tobin pulls them onto his feet, standing a little taller now. “Aren’t you going to run?” He asks, tone annoyed and tired. There’s dark circles underneath his eyes. Sleep has not come to him readily.

“You’ll just catch me with your white horse.”

“I could say you got too far off.”

“My Father wouldn’t like that.”

“I know you’re unhappy, but running away in the middle of the night?” He asks. “What did you intend to do?”

She shrugs. “Go off and find the king.”

“And if you didn’t find him?”

“Then I’d go to the Temple of Mila and pretend to be a widow.”

“How...?”

She holds up his wedding band. “You gave it to me after all. Makes our union dead as can be.” The word union don’t feel right on her tongue. But it’s what they are, united and wedded in the dead eyes of Mila. It’s not right, she had always read fairy tales about girls marrying their lifelong loves, their true loves; she can’t recall a story where a girl married a man she didn’t love. That never happened in fairy tales. The girl always married her one true love, never anyone else. No fairy tale has ever covered this, something so... abrasive.

And he has made it clear that she isn’t the one he wants, yet he’s here, coming after her. Perhaps its duty, or perhaps it’s because the orchard and her dowry haven’t been handed over yet.

“You know you’re the lucky one.” His words pull her from her reverie. It sparks fury in her. And she’s never been the one to run from a fight.

“I’m lucky?” She barks. “How?”

“You have an orchard, land and a good home. And you have family that cares about you.”

“They care about what I am, not who I am.” She says bitterly. “I’m only to be a daughter, a labourer, a mother, not someone. The second I have a child then I’m done, no good.”

“You’re lucky because if your father wasn’t dragging you back every time you ran away, you’d probably be dead or worse!” Tobin says, his voice growing deep and angry. It sparks fire in him, fury and anger as well. “But I’m not going to run after you again and again.”

“Then why are you here?! You could’ve let me go and I would’ve been fine!” She says. “I had those bandits!”

He frowns, biting back something to say to her. Silently, he holds out his hand. For the ring presumably. She drops it into his hand. He catches her hand, fingers grazing it as he turns her palm over. “You hurt yourself.” He grumbles.

“And?” She holds back a hiss.

“Back in the army, it would be a breeding ground for infection.” He pulls a round of graze from his back pocket. She tries to pull away from him but he meets her gaze with those dead eyes. She stiffens in fear. “Stay still.”

He holds her hand firmly and winding the wrap around her palm and then waiting for the next one. She lunges for a strike. “Did the cleric you fell for say that?” She snips.

“She was a pegasus knight.” He corrects, unbothered. He doesn’t look up.

She frowns as he reaches for her other hand, looking at the band on her finger. He softly scoffs at the sight. She only kept it on for show when—if—she made it to the Temple and they asked for proof. He wraps her other palm. “Come on.” He mutters.

“You’re going to take me back?” She asks, hoping that he would let her go.

“Would you prefer your father?” He retorts. He walks back to his horse. “Get up.”

She doesn’t feign ignorance, fear takes hold of her. She’s been around horses all her life, but she’s never been able to calm herself around them. They’re too big, too nerve-wracking to stand near. “Go on,” he repeats, gesturing to the horse.

Her brow furrows. “No, I’m not riding him.”

“You can’t walk, you have bare feet. It’s bad enough your hands are all scratched up.” He says. “The trails are rough so you’re not walking back.”

“I said I’m not—“ She stops mid sentence as he clicks his tongue. The horse kneels on it’s elbows in a slow arch. His arms find her sides, moving down her back and behind her knees, bridal style. The way he should’ve carried her home, rather than her feet dragging in the dirt as he held her hand. She thrashes, but not before she’s sitting side-saddle on the horse. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

He clicks his tongue again. The horse lifts itself up, back to full height. She lets out a tiny squeak, grasping for life on the tack. It makes her palms sore.

“He won’t buck you off, he’s a good guy,” he says, taking the reins. With a swift movement, his feet are in the stirrups and he’s on the saddle. “And you can hold onto me if you get scared.”

“I won’t.” She tries to sound strong. It’s marred by the panic in her voice. The reins crack and the horse begins a quick trot. Her arms loop around his waist and she can feel him chuckle. As payback, she digs her long nails—still lacquered and filed from their wedding—into his skin, hearing him grumble as they trot.

—

They get back to the village and her father promptly comes around to greet the new couple with some food, a badly forged way to figure out why they heard hooves at dawn. Tobin comes up with a lie, saying that she wanted to meet his steed and they went for a ride to Ram Woods and came back. Then when her father asks if he can see her, he says she’s tired from the ride and will see him later.

Faye is sitting in the arm chair in the front room, pretending to sleep but watching him talk. There’s a certain confidence about him when he speaks to others, standing tall and making sympathetic faces as he speaks. She doesn’t remember ever seeing him like this when they were young. But she doesn’t remember much of him before now.

Maybe that’s why her parents had decided that he would be her husband. Of all the men in the village, and town for the matter, they picked him although his family name was unremarkable and he had barely a cent to his name.

When he does come back in and her father walks down the dirt path, she glances up to follow him. He appears at the doorway and she watches him as he meanders towards the kitchen.

“I know you’re awake.” He says. Her eyes shut after he speaks. She pretends to be still and then slowly wakes. When she opens her eyes, he’s standing over the arm chair. “You’re a bad actress.”

“Good thing I never ran away to an opera or theatre.” She says thinly.

“Own up to your mistakes.” He says. “And try to be a better daughter.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Faye orders sharply. He stays silent, holding her gaze for another moment. “Why did you lie for me?”

“I said I wasn’t going to be your husband, not that I wasn’t annoyed about this either.” He says tiredly.

“Because your heart was stolen?” She asks. He frowns.

“I already told you, you’re not the one I want.” He repeats. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to treat you badly.”

She feels a pang of regret. She brushes it away. “Tell me why you lied. Really.” She asks again.

He doesn’t answer, instead swiftly turning on his heel. “I’m going to chop wood.” He says. “Don’t runaway again.”

Like always, she doesn’t listen. The second he disappears towards the orchard to get an axe, she leaps out the backdoor and makes a run for it. She’s too loud and not quick enough. Tobin hears the door slam before he’s even close to the forest and starts back towards her, running faster than she’s ever seen.

Before she’s even off the property, she slips in mud and twists her ankle, crying out. He takes his sweet time coming to get her after that, a thin and annoyed smirk on his face as he comes upon his bride, barefoot in the dirt.

“I thought I told you not to run again.” He says. He’s tall and intimating again.

Faye is testy, biting back tears. “Thought you said you weren’t going to come after me again?” She snips back.

He shakes his head, not uttering a word. Instead he holds out his hand to help her up. She tries at first on her own, only to stumble back onto her bottom and cuss loudly.

“Didn’t know I married a sailor.” He jokes playfully. Faye frowns and takes his hand, helping her to her feet. “Can you walk, lady of the water?”

She tries to place weight on her foot but winces and stumbles into him further. She frowns, face on fire. “No.” She says, glaring at the dip in the earth, the one that wounded her.

“Fine. I’ll give you a hand.” He says, lifting her arm over his neck and holding it in place. His hand cups her waist, helping her hobble along back to her house. Her face burns hot as they hobble along and she wonders how the dead eyed soldier will lie his way out of this one.

—

Tobin doesn’t let her out of his sight for the rest of the day. Her palms throb and her ankle aches as she watches him work. She almost goes stir-crazy, thinking about all the ways she could get away. Eventually, the pain makes her give up and she watches him tiredly chop wood—finally getting a good look at all of him. Archery has made him strong as steel, toning him finely. At one point she stares too long that he eventually looks up and tells her to take up art.

She throws a rock at him and misses by only a foot.

When he’s done with the wood, he cleans what will be the backyard of their home. It looks out onto the rolling plains, stretching out to the rocky ocean. He marks off a section of land for a garden, asking her what she wants to plant and grow. She doesn’t answer. He clears old rocks, fallen twigs and cuts down too-tall grass and weeds all while keeping a watchful gaze on her.

Then, when the sun falls, he helps her into the cottage and sits her down at the little round table. He puts her bad ankle up on the other stool, saying something about keeping elevated. They don’t talk—he tries conversation a few times, but she doesn’t play along, instead staring off into nowhere and curtly answering him with thin yeses or bitter noes. He makes a stew of root vegetables and stock that her father delivered earlier that day. Funny, she’s always hated old roots, thinking them musty and plain—but this time the stew smells good, warm and enriching.

She sits at the kitchen table while he cooks, watching as he moves deftly through their empty kitchen. He seems to be a natural and secretly, she wonders what he’s not good at.

Well... being the one she wants is one of them. But that is too simple, too easy.

“Would you like a tea?” He asks, not turning around. The cookstove steams with boiling water.

“No.” He doesn’t listen, bringing her over a mug of bitter smelling brown tea. “I said I didn’t want it.”

“It’ll help with the pain. Old remedy.” He says.

She eyes him for a minute before taking a sip. It’s bitter and burns, but stops her ankle throbbing with pain. When he turns back around, it’s only to get a bowlful of water from their reservoir and a first aid kit from the cupboard. Then, he comes around to kneel beside her, in the same way that he did in the orchard when he asked for her hand.

In the fading glow of the sunset, she can see scars on the back of his hands, pink and shiny—new ones, not even a year old she guesses. Her stomach churns at the thought of how he walked away from so many battles with only earthly markings on his body, while others had been left to die. She wonders how many more he has.

“Give me your hands.” He says, more of an order than anything.

“Why?”

“I’m going to clean the wounds. I’ll be as gentle as I can.” He says.

She holds out her hands to him, same as she did when they were engaged, and looks away. He undoes the old gauze without a flinch. But he is so gentle and tender with her hands now. She feels as though a cleric or sage is tending to her scrapes, rather than a brutish knight. He washes away the crusted blood with a wet washcloth, unflinching as she winces and cusses dramatically under her breath. He has a little pot of something that he dabs at and then smooths into her soft hands. His are rough with callouses from bowstrings and arrows, but still treat her as though she’s a porcelain statue. The mixture—which she can only guess is an ointment—freezes her skin at first, then fades into a radiating chill that soothes her hot hands.

He catches her gaze for a moment and then looks back to the little pot. “Mana salve. From a cleric.” He explains.

“You must have been popular with women.” She remarks bitterly.

He scoffs softly. “Sure.” He says. “Let that rest for a moment.”

They sit in silence until he gingerly takes her hands and begins to wrap them in gauze again. She notices as his eyes focus on her wedding band, unmoved from when she ran away the first time. Why didn’t she take it off the second time? If she had, she could’ve gotten to castle town and taken up as a seamstress’s apprentice; there would have been no other markings of marriage on her.

His eyes shift again and he focuses on his work with a careful gaze until he pins the cloth in place. Her hands are like mitts, round and soft. He laughs a little as she frowns and closes her hand. She bites the wince on her lips.

“Finish your tea.” He says. “And then we’ll eat.”

“I’m not hungry.” She protests. Her grumbling stomach says otherwise. She can’t remember when she last ate.

He scoffs again before turning back towards the cookstove and serving himself a healthy portion of stew. He takes a second portion before her bitter tea is finished. And when it’s done, she asks for a bowlful of stew. He serves her with a twisted smile and watches as she finishes the bowl. Deep down, she hates that it’s delicious.

— — —

“I’m not hungry.”

Tobin can see her fingers twitch. Something he’s noticed that happens when she lies—no matter how small. Then her stomach growls loud and low. She can suit herself. He thinks, before serving himself a healthy portion of the stew he made. He eats it, savouring each bite and watching as her tea mug drains. Her mitten-like hands curl around the mug, lifting it to her lips every so often and her pretty face contorts every time she sips.

Quietly, he wonders how many helpings he will have to take before Faye’s tea is finished. He’s surprised when he’s getting a second portion that her mug is empty.

“Stew please.” She orders, bratty as a spoiled child.

But a deal is a deal, and he offers her a healthy bowlful. He watches as she finishes the bowl and asks for another and then another.

“You’re a bottomless pit.” He remarks, scraping the bottom of the pot for extras. It’s good that they were both hungry, otherwise it would have spoiled. He is too used to cooking for a large family and then an army. It will have to change, sooner or later, otherwise their harvests will run out sooner than later.

“I can’t remember the last time I ate.” She confesses. Lower she adds, “Mother made me lose weight for that stupid robe.”

“Why?”

“Better to be willowy than weighty.” She says, lifting the bowl to her lips.

He watches her intently as she eats. Her long hair is wavy and curled from the salty air. He doesn’t know what she did after he left her at the shore, save for the sopping wet robe that he threw out on the back porch to dry. Where she left it had begun to rot.

He’s been able to look at her often. But it’s different now, for she is not red-faced and crying or screaming at her father. He can take in all her features fully and readily. She’s got a sharp chin, thin and wily fingers and thinner eyebrows. And her eyes are not quite brown, they’re darker, almost black, but glinting with gold. Long lashes stretch out, ones he knows other women would kill for. Such a beautiful girl, such a waste she’s a child.

She finishes her stew, lips fighting a satisfied smile. She chews at the corners as he reaches out for her bowl. “Finished?” He asks.

“Yes.” She says.

He turns away to wash up the dishes and quietly she asks him another question.

“What will you tell my Father.”

He looks over her shoulder. She looks small in that chair, almost like a scared child being reprimanded by a headmaster. She even looks away, like she’s ready to hear him say that he’ll tell the truth.

But he won’t. She’s just as angry about this marriage as him.

“The yard is pretty rough.” He says, glancing out the back door. It’s dark but there’s still a reflection of the moon off the ocean. “You fell when pulling away weeds.”

Her dark eyes meet his. “My Father hates liars.” She warns.

“Well it’s not exactly a lie. The orchard is apart of our yard.”

He sees her bite back at that smile again. A smile tugs at his own lips as he finishes drying up their dishes.

“Why did you agree to this marriage?” She asks at last.

He doesn’t know the answer. He could have easily said no and told his mother that he wasn’t interested in marriage, that he would continue to support the family as a knight in service to the country. But at the same time... the thought of a home, no more hard ground to sleep on, no more meals that barely filled the belly, no more meandering through foreign lands wondering when he could go back to the castle... it comforted him. It offered a bit of solace to the hell that he had faced for almost two years.

He shrugs. And she scoffs.

“Seriously? Nothing. You don’t know?”

“Why did you agree then?”

“I didn’t have a choice. It was duty or die.” She says.

His brow raises. “I’m the only child my parents had. No one else. The orchard would be too much for one person and god forbid I don’t have children—“

“You want children?”

She blushes red. “Not now you idiot! And not with you!” She exclaims. “The orchard is my responsibility. It’s my inheritance and if there is no one to take care of it, it will die. It’s been in my family for almost a hundred years.”

“Put Ram on the map for it’s wine.” He says.

“I had little say.” She says. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if I didn’t accept your proposal. Nothing different probably.”

It sends a shiver down his back. Lack of consent, a bitter bride. “But you had a choice. You could’ve turned around to your mother and said you wanted another match, or that you were going back to the King.” She says. “And you called me the lucky one...”

He feels a tinge of anger now. How was he lucky? Was it the blood that stained his hands that made him lucky? The medals that made women swoon and love him for a brief moment? Or was it the white horse and bow that scared others?

He bites on his tongue, fighting bitter words. He doesn’t want to fight with her again. Mila knows they’ve fought enough today, and that tomorrow they may fight double. So instead, he puts away the dishes and asks if she needs help getting into bed. Like the child she is, she exclaims no and hobbles into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

—

Faye’s father asks for help in the orchard, just for two days. At least for now. Their home must be prepared and ready to grow their own food and to run effectively when they eventually work the orchard, as this marriage had fated them to do. Tobin obliges happily, ready to leave his childish wife behind and enjoy a day outside in the warm sun and fresh air.

Tobin knows very little about the orchard and growing. His family had a small patch of land to grow cabbage and turnips and good root vegetables in, but fruit is something he’s never worked with. Besides, his hands are more used to the callouses of a bow and arrow than of a hoe and trowel.

After the first day, he can see why Faye holds disgust over her inheritance. The grape plants—something that Ram is known for—have had a rocky growing season. First there was mildew that spread like wildfire and took out half the shoots. Then there was general bad weather and finally pests. Rabbits were the worst, nibbling at the fruit and it’s leaves until nothing remained.

The last day, before he’s left for the orchard, Faye is awake and sits at the kitchen table. She’s dressed and ready to leave. The day before she had stayed cooped inside, seemingly given up on running away and set to work stitching and sewing.

“Going to work for my father?” She asks, bitterness tainting her voice.

“That was an agreement of the marriage.” He says thinly. He’s still annoyed by their argument.

She stares at him for a moment before trying to force herself up from the table. Her ankle is still too sore to walk on and she stumbles a little. He lurches to catch her but she holds up a hand. “I want to go to the orchard with you.” She orders.

His eyes widen a little. “Really?” He asks.

“My Nana sits out there all by herself most of the time. I don’t like her being alone.” She says. “Besides, I haven’t seen her since the wedding.”

For a moment his brow furrows. Could it be a ruse for her to run away again? Would her grandmother try to help her escape? Or was she as militant about this union as the rest of her family? He doesn’t quite know, save for Faye’s furrowed brow and grasping hands.

“Alright. I’ll help you there.” He agrees and her eyes lit up for a moment before growing dim again.

Within the half hour, they’re at the orchard. When Tobin helps the limbering Faye in, her father assumes she’d tried to run again.

“She tripped when we were collecting firewood.” He lies quickly. He’s gotten too good at this. Lies fly out too easily for such an honest man. It doesn’t feel right.

He feels Faye’s hand tighten around his arm when he speaks. Her father buys it while her grandmother smirks and makes space for her to sit on a bench. She sits and watches him work the entire afternoon, talking with her Nana inconsistently and sewing up something. Every now and then he’ll look up from his pruning and stare at her for a moment. Save the messy hair and sprained ankle, she looks almost the same. He wonders how she can play it off so easily, so naturally. To hide her anger under layers of believable smiles and contagious laughs.

When it’s time to go, Faye holds onto his arm tightly as they say goodbye.

—

He jolts awake. It’s barely morning.

At first, he thinks he hears the front door slam and that she’s running away again. He quickly remembers that her ankle is sprained and she looks like she’d taken a bath in rose bushes.

He manages to catch his breath, his heart thudding in his chest as he sits up properly. He’s on the floor, which explains his aching ass. He grumbles, trying to pull himself together. Quietly, he repeats everything Silque told him to.

It was all a dream. Nothing truly happened.

His throat aches with hoarseness, the usual after a terror. They’re coming more readily than before. He’s thankful that they didn’t occur when he was living at home. If his siblings had’ve seen him after one, they would’ve been terrified.

Slowly, his breathing returns to normal and he tries to think what he saw. Was it Terrors this time too, or was it that thingin the temple’s basement? He can’t remember, it’s all a hazy blur.

He looks around, trying to survey what happened. The armchair is overturned on its side, some small scratches are made in the floor and the candle lantern, thankfully unlit, is shattered against the ground.

“Dammit.” He mutters, hurriedly collecting the shards and trying to stash the lantern. He’s not quick enough and he hears the door to the bedroom creak. He hides the shards by the large fireplace, hoping to god that her eyesight isn’t good.

Faye clutches onto the wall. He can only see her dim shadow and the pale straw of her long hair. It’s pulled back. “Tobin, did you fall?” She calls, voice quiet and almost concerned.

It’s the first time she’s said his name. It sounds... good. Well, in the end, anything is better than ‘him’ or ‘that man’ behind a crying voice.

He lies. “Dozed too far. Slipped off the chair. It’s fine.”

“I thought I heard something shatter.”

“Nothing did.” He lies again.

He can hear her disbelief in the silence that hangs between the two. Then she draws a thin breath. “All right. Sleep well.” She says, retreating back into the bedroom. When the door finally closes, he breathes again.

—

He doesn’t sleep well for the rest of the night, but it doesn’t really bother him. He’s used to having little sleep. She however, sleeps til mid morning, eventually pulling herself out of the feathers and sitting herself at the kitchen table, waiting for breakfast.

Neither really volunteers anything, and eventually he pulls the stool back out to the porch so she may sit and watch and rest while he returns to cleaning up the yard. Periodically, he looks up from weeding and clearing away things to see her eyes staring off into the distance. It’s almost as though she’s focusing on something neither of them can see... or want to.

Tobin notices a few things about Faye while he works. The first is that hollow, wandering gaze. He’s seen it before in the witches he’d had to shoot down, but he knows that she is warm with life, that her heart beats still. It wanders, sometimes focusing on him or his work, other times, looking at the piles of weeds that are scattered around.

Secondly, the heaviness in the air. He felt it when he mounted Orson and found her in Ram Woods. Her posture, her terrifying gaze, it looks like she was about call forth black magic. And the air held the same suffocating pressure that caused many a headache back in the Deliverance. He wonders if magic ran through her veins—he knows the marks of healers does, her grandmother had regaled him with tales of her mother, Faye’s great grandmother, who had been the first to begin the winery and offered the Earth Mother her wine in exchange for white magic powers. He wonders if Faye ever tried her hands at it, or if it had been forbidden.

Finally, the last thing he noticed about his wife as he worked in the yard, was that he knows very little about her. Funny, she’s to be his most intimate companion in life. He’s to tell her things that would be left unsaid had they not been united. The only things he knows about her is her stupid infatuation, that she is a blessing to her old and long-childless parents as their only child, and that given the chance, she will run.

This was arranged after all, so it does not come as a complete surprise. Yet the things he suspects a man should know about his wife elude him. And he doesn’t know how to word them let alone bring them up in conversation. So in his mind, he tries to pull things that he’s witnessed her do around their cottage in the short two months that he’s known her for.

Sewing is one. She’s very good at it too, he’s noticed many of the silks and stitchings in their cottage were made by her hands. Then the glow of magic around her. Perhaps, had things been different, she’d been a cleric or mage in the army. He doesn’t like to think about that possibility. He didn’t like to think about it for himself neither.

He’s seen her tend to her parents’ garden a few times. And the flowers from her wedding bouquet were collected and shortly pressed after they died. He found them under a heavy cast iron pan. Perhaps that was more duty or pressure from her parents. He’s not quite sure.

Magic user, loves flowers and plants. But there’s still not enough for him to say that he knows her. He catches a glimpse of her hands, carefully stitching something new now. Her left hand catches the light and sparkles for a moment. She hasn’t removed the ring from her hand, and he doesn’t know if she’s given up or...

He doesn’t finish the thought. Instead looking up from the stakes in the paddock and staring at her. “How old are you?” He calls at last. He pulls her from her flickering reverie.

“I turned 22 in Wyrmstym.” She says.

21 years old. Only a couple months on him. He was in the new year, in Flostym, the time of flowers and new life. She was in the time of the dragon, of slumber and death.

“What about you?”

“Flostym. And you have a year on me.”

She snorts. How cruel, the younger is the more mature of the two. And like he’s always done for others, he cares for her, making dinner for the two and washing the dishes when they’re finished, lending her blankets when she is cold, tending to her wounds.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have a terror that night.

—

Their cottage finally settles down enough for Tobin’s steed, Orson, to come live with them.

He had been by Tobin’s side for the latter, more bitter parts of the war. Lady Clair had speculated that he was an army horse too for sometime, judging by the deep grooves in hooves, the nervous gait and heavy weight on his back. He had been abandoned out in a field, or had run away from his previous master. Regardless, the commander had instructed Clair and Tobin to wade out and calm him down and bring him back. It wasn’t long after that Tobin was blessed as a bow knight.

Orson isn’t quite cut out for work in the orchard, not yet at least. He is still nervous and not yet has a home at their cottage. So on a sunny morning, Tobin gathers extra wood from the orchard and beings to build a paddock for his steed.

Half an hour after he’s started hammering, his wife is on their porch. Her injury has healed, allowing her to walk normally now.

“What are you—“ her voice is cut off by a loud gasp as Orson sniffs her ear. Tobin has knotted his lead against the porch post. “GODS!”

“Morning,” he calls, striking a stake into the ground and not looking up. Faye clambers away from the steed.

“Why is your horse here?” She asks, marching down to meet him. He rises to his feet.

“He’s apart of my family, so he’s going to live with us.”

“And you didn’t tell me beforehand?”

“You rode him before, you should’ve known he’d be joining us at some point.”

“Still... are you building a paddock?” She asks, looking at the large circle of stakes.

“He needs somewhere to live.” He says. “Your father is happy for a horse to help with the labour.”

“Of course he is...” She grumbles.

“You’ve met Orson, right?”

“No, you just threw me on his back and took off quickly.” She says thinly.

“Because you tried to bolt on me.” He says. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to him.”

“No, that’s all right.”

“He’s going to be living here for a while, you might as well get used to him.” He says.

She hesitates for a moment before sighing and watching him. “Fine.” She says.

He pulls off his work glove and holds out his hand. Hers is small and cold in his. They walk back towards the porch and Tobin clicks his tongue. Orson’s ears flicker and he turns around.

“Don’t be scared.” Her grip tightens around his hand. Tobin says softly as Orson’s feet pound against the earth. “He’s just as nervous as you.”

“I’m not seven feet tall and have hooves the size of my face...” She grumbles. He extends her hand for the horse to take in her scent.

“Orson, this is Faye. Faye, this is Orson.” He says softly between the two. Orson sniffs her hands once, then goes back to grazing at the weeds on the ground. “See?” He says to her. “Nothing to worry about.”

“How can you be sure?” She asks.

“He saved my life a few times.”

Her face grows sober as she nods. “Right.” She says softly.

Still, he expects her to stomp her feet like a child and demand that Orson lives somewhere else, but in the end she doesn’t. She just watches as he grazes at the grass and then leaves to go sew with her grandmother in the orchard again. That night when she gets home, Tobin notices her with a thick blanket, much too big for one or even two people.

—

Tobin wakes early one morning, aching from the bad support of the chair. He wakes Orson, taking off the blanket that Faye had sewn for him. He walks him out towards the shoreline so that he can stretch his legs and graze.

The rest of the village hasn’t quite woken yet, still sleepy and comfortable in their beds. He doesn’t mind the early mornings. It’s one of the things that have been consistent in his life. He’s always gotten up at dawn. Before the war, he used to do odd jobs in the early morning, anything to help his parents and ease their financial pains.

He still gets paid somewhat handsomely by the King. Although he’s not in active service—though he can be called to action if need be—he still receives wages as apart of his leftover pay from the Deliverance and wartimes. Part of it goes to his parents and siblings, and the other bit he saves for him and his new wife.

Orson grazes around, nibbling at the weeds and grass. His hooves are uneasy in the sodden ground, perhaps bad memories of Rigelian soil. Gods know his steed his just as scarred as he is from the war. Neither are truly comfortable yet in this life, too many changes that came too quick. Some nights, Tobin can hear Orson pace nervously back and forth against his paddock, as if waiting for the enemy to come and to be mounted for a battle at dawn.

But those days are behind them, at least for now. Alm could call him back to the army should they need it. Tobin hopes that it won’t ever come to it, but gods forbid it that he will leave Ram again.

Before he knows it Orson has wandered from his view. He clicks his tongue and the horse’s head raises from a bush of wildflowers. Strange, Tobin’s never seen them this close to the shore before. But then again, the last time he was at the shore was when he chased Faye to the water and fought with her.

He pulls Orson away from the flowers and picks a few out of his mouth. The heads are all gone and he throws them into the lapping waves. He kneels down and pulls up a few, not too many, just enough to fill his fist. Tobin leads Orson back to his paddock and then back into the cottage. He’s not surprised when Faye isn’t awake. He draws a bit of water from the reservoir and sets a mason jar on the table, placing the wildflowers in it.

Faye finds it later that night and breathes in their sweet scent. Her fingers graze the delicate petals for a moment before looking to him with a questioning gaze. He nods simply, turning his back to her and adding eggs to a hot pan. They sizzle loudly, almost cutting out her tender gratitude.

“Thank you.” She says. It’s the first time she’d said it and he can feel sincerity in her voice.

—

Gray is getting married. He sends the invitation to Ram and it’s signed with Clair’s beautiful cursive. Tobin feels an ache in his chest when the merchant arrives and hands him the letter.

Faye, now having to come back to the orchard for her expertise, glimpses over his shoulder. Her brow furrows in worry. “Is the King calling you back for service?” She asks nervously.

He doesn’t know why she’d be nervous. She’d be free then. He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew this had been coming, he knewit from the moment Gray said “so what do you think of Clair?”

And yet, it still hurts.

“There’s a wedding.” He says. “I’ve been invited.”

“Oh. I guess you’ll be going.” She says.

“Supposed to be best man.” Tobin mutters.

Faye’s eyes widen. “Who is this? Who’s getting married?” She cranes her neck to get a good look at the invitation. He can only guess when her eyes don’t recognize the invitation.

“An old friend.” He says. He glances to her. “You want to go? It’s in the capital.”

He realizes how big of a gamble it is. To take her so close to the commander and taunt her like his. She could easily turn her back on him and make a run for it. And being honest, he’d probably let her go.

“I’ve never been to the capital of the country... Continent.” She corrects.

“Then we’ll go.” He says tiredly, placing the invitation in his back pocket. It twists and turns in his stomach, what could happen. What Gray could say about his new wife—probably a jape about the idiot girl, maybe even a lashing for not inviting him—and what Clair would do, Gods...

But the voice of the archer in him tells him to shoot at the easiest targets. The closest ones. So he tells Faye’s father that they will be headed to the capital for a wedding and won’t be able to work the orchard for sometime. And when he says it, Faye holds his hand and she can’t help but think of how soft and small it is in his.

[sirro85-blog]

Dark Horses 3

Becca felt a bead of sweat run down her face and felt it run onto her top lip, as she panted heavily it must have caught on her breath because she saw the drop fly though the air. Out of options she fell backwards and rolled desperately to her left kicking out, there was a solid connection and her on rushing attacker stumbled, Becca had a moments glimpse of an exposed jaw as both arms shot out to break their fall, she snapped out a heel and felt the crack as it made connection.

"Fucking lucky!" Yelled Sergeant Knickers from the edge of the ring as Petra jumped up to check on Barbie.

"No kidding, shit she's fast," Becca lay flat on her back gasping for breath, "I need to stop relying on being taller than all of you."

"Yes, you do," said Kovac, "you need to remember what are stopping blows and what are just pointless combatives that look pretty."

"Like you're a shining beacon of variety Mr I'll-just-punch-them-into-submission. Get in the ring and show me something that isn't counter striking," Panther jeered vaulting the ropes and beckoning Kovac.

"Hardly a fair fight, I've got damn near a foot in height on you and I'm probably twice your weight, not sure this is gonna prove much," Kovac said waving her off. "Besides I've proven it repeatedly, I can't hit girls, I remember those nuns who raised me and I can't do it."

"If we get Dorman down later?" Asked Becca.

"Oh him I'll hit," Kovac agreed, "sergeant-major, a word," he called to Panther.

"Wolf has been in touch, Fluke has successfully defended three transports. It shouldn't come as a surprise that it's the Galax. Its always a smash and grab job, any organised defence and they give up." Kovac said as he walked down the hallway, Panther having to scurry a little to keep up.

"Wolf has asked if a second troop can join him, I'm going to go out to the Towoli and take a look at the situation with the Bartuq. 2 Troop will accompany me and Gilly's aux troop is going to go out and get set up. Dorman and 3 Troop will stay here and move out to assist Wolf if necessary." Kovac pushed open his door and gave his sergeant-major a nod.

"Yes sir, And you want me to..." Panther felt her voice have a slight upwards inflection as she spoke annoyed at her uncertainty.

"To oversee all this and keep it off my desk sergeant-major."

The door closed, Panther cursed inwardly, this new position kept overwhelming her, she had served under Kovac to one degree or another for over 10 years now but this was the closest she had ever worked with him and suddenly she found him intimidating and found herself unsure around him.

Panther was heading for her office when she met Knickers, the taller woman was looking the other way as she approached and in profile the thin cheeks and slender nose made her seem particularly striking, as she so often did Panther's eyes traced the scars on Knicker's forearms.

"Sir," Knickers turned to Panther, "the captain said you'd have orders."

"Yes, 2 Troop will be heading out to the Towoli with the Major, as will 4 Troop, the auxiliaries, let Staff Frank know will you?"

"First deployment, uhh, any advice?" Knickers asked.

"Talk to the captain if you have any questions and rely on your section commanders and their 2IC, remember your job is to see them do their job, not do it for them and don't worry, you were given this job for a reason," Panther realised she should take her own advice.

Wolf nodded as Dorman entered the room, he gestured at the table and said, "you get a look at the plans on the journey?"

"Yeah, looks solid, we can probably push through their defences before you swing in, means it makes more sense for you to roll up behind us and break their centre." Dorman said.

"If you think so, you'll need to hammer them in that first assault though, we need to be amongst them before they know it or they'll rabbit."

"You worry about drawing them in, let me worry about the attack," Dorman replied, "Now, more importantly, did you know Sharon was married!?"

Wolf stared at his friend for a few moments and closed his eyes, "dude..." he said his voice pained, "in three months she never once had you round to hers, she had a patch of lighter skin on one finger and never used her communications when around you." Wolf stared into middle distance, "I think at this point bud, just assume you're catnip to bored, married women."

"I swear I'm not looking for married women!" Dorman said rather pathetically in Wolf's opinion.

"Look, I don't know what to tell you, maybe ask them outright? You're not the sort of guy who wants to date married women, you're not amoral...you're not Kovac but you are gonna get your ass shot if you keep sleeping with these women, especially on Pelcar-3."

"That's a bit hard on Kov, dude wasn't intentionally sleeping with married women," Dorman said.

"No he just slept with anyone he could and didn't care...Look at some point the five of us will sit down with some drinks and we can argue the right and wrong of sleeping with married people and we can all laugh at Becca as she ties herself in knots trying to justify being the other woman to both the husband and wife but as far as I'm concerned if you know someone's married they should be off limits. Now, are your troop ready to start a dry run or do you want some time?"

Dorman had a few more moments of looking wretched, "No it's fine I'll dig Sergeant Webb out and we'll start an exercise."

Sergeant Glover didn't like it when his men had to stop being soldiers, he had no regrets in the choices he had made in his life and he would always be proud of the loyalty in his heart but when soldiers turned mercenaries were asked not just to take off uniform but to start playing sneaks he was unhappy. That being said, Captain Wolf's plan was sound and more importantly Major Kovac had signed off on it.

"Ty, Costa you two are no longer soldiers but that doesn't give either of you leave to carry bowie knives on your damn belt," Webb snapped.

"Interestingly sir did you know that the bowie knife was named for the man who carried it not it's creator and the man it was named for may have been mostly fiction infact..." Ty began but was cut off by Sergeant Webb.

"Not now damn it Ty, a bayonet is enough, who needs so many damn blades?"

Sergeant Glover watched this exchange and knew the response before it came.

"Major Kovac carries karambit knives and so does Captain Wolf, I've seen Captain Becca carry 3 or 4 Wasp axes," Costa started up, "Not to mention Corpo I mean Sergeant Knickers carrying..."

Webb cracked his fist into the table top, his voice cold and hard, "when the operation is over, you will come to me and we will discuss the addition of equipment to your standard issue, until that time, take off the damn blades."

Glover knew this would happen, once you left the army rules were harder to maintain, order could be lost. His own men knew that to carry a non-issue weapon they had to prove they knew how to use it which is why most carried a bayonet and why the captain carried a BC-41 and a push dagger on top of the karambit knives the men knew about.

Webb joined him shaking his head, "I dunno Fluke, why do they all want to be Rumble? What's that stupid phrase the SM says?"

Glover winced at the mispronounced name, "it's Rambo, and the SM says "guns for a show, knives for a pro."

Webb shook his head again and glared at Ty and Costa, "If those two weren't my best I'd kill them and bury their bodies to save me my misery."

"Problem is Captain Dorman finds 'em funny," Fluke said as close as he'd ever get to criticising the commissioned officers he'd grown to trust.

Webb grunted and started to move off, "Fluke once we're in you'll need to come hard to keep the roll going."

Glover nodded, certain things didn't need saying in his opinion.

Wolf watched as the raider vessels came alongside the freighter, for the first time since he'd started defence they were able to pull alongside and dock. Within minutes they were on-board and moving deck to deck. Timing in his head, Wolf guessed that Glover must have moved into position, he signalled Dorman that 1 Troop were on the move.

The transmitter chirruped as Wolf's message arrived, "alright!" Dorman shouted, "the raiders are engaged, time to take out their bolt hole before they know it's engaged."

3 Troop were moving quickly, Dorman pulled his men forward while 3 section dropped back with Sergeant Webb, this first part needed to be quick and quiet.

Wolf watched as Fluke and his section sprang the trap, the Galax raiders had fallen back towards their vessels as soon as the Dark Horses had engaged, and now as they neared them Fluke - already secured their ships - struck from the rear cutting through their numbers.

The second message from Wolf confirmed they were on route, Dorman gave the command and his men launched their assault. The design of the Galax position meant that the only way in was a frontal assault but human weapons and munitions should blast through the entrance and then it should be a case of room to room and making sure the Galax couldn't escape with their equipment to continue raiding, in those close quarters the Dark Horses training should do the job.

Dorman watched as Gray led his fire team forward and placed detonators. In position now Dorman saw no point in delaying, he gave the signal.

Wolf willed the distance to close as they sped towards the Galax position, now they had engaged he had more doubts about allowing them to assault in two waves, as they slowed he sprang from his seat, Fluke moving too. They found a young riflewoman at the breach, alone.

"Mfene, isn't it?" Wolf asked, "where's your dual?" Soldiers were never left isolated like this in combat.

"Ito is inside, went in to protect the medics sir," Mfene answered.

"The medics are inside!?" Wolf bit back a curse and ran forward.

The Galax compound was basic in its layout, built into a cliff face it had a high fortified wall that Dorman had breached with a centre compound filled with the Galax raiding vehicles, behind which three tunnels ran off, the centre tunnel was known to be more heavily fortified. Dorman's men were supposed to be in the left and right tunnels but possibly a third of them were engaged in a firefight with the centre tunnel defences.

Wolf pulled up as he scanned the fight, Dana and the other medics were in one corner they seemed to have half a dozen patients, two Riflemen stood guard over them. By all evidence the remaining soldiers were in the two other tunnels.

"Banjarjee take two section and sweep the two outer tunnels, O'Shea with me, clear the outer defences of the central tunnels, Flowers, 3 section should be prepared to provide fire support. GO!"

O'Shea ran forward, Wolf close behind him, as they reached the combatants Wolf signalled to Sergeant Webb who gestured his acknowledgement of the plan and had his men pull away from the centre, smoke grenades and other ordinance sailed through the air and with a roar the men of 1 troop launched themselves into the tunnel.

The fight was bloody but over quickly, the injury count was less following the second wave but still over a dozen troopers were needing medical treatment back on base.

Little was said as the Galax vehicles were destroyed and their weapons confiscated. With the loss of their attack vehicles the surviving Galax would be arrested by local authorities and usually moved on to less criminal activities provided no other raiders tried to recruit them.

The journey back to Pelcar-3 was subdued, word passed that Kovac and 2 Troop had returned following the officers reports from the Galax engagement.

Once returned to the Dark Horses compound Wolf pulled his men to a debrief in a separate corner leaving 3 troop to handle their own injured and return certain kit to stores. Dorman was checking weapons back into the lockers when the Quartermaster approached him.

"When you're done here Hero, the Major wants to see you in his office," the derision in her voice was stronger than normal.

"I'll be there after I've checked on my men in med-bay," Dorman replied, not looking up.

"I'd avoid Staff King right now Hero, and I'd not be late for Kovac, I believe it's an interview without coffee," growled the Qm.

Dorman stared after her as around him a slight muttering spread among the men, turning to his sergeant Dorman asked Webb to take over the checking off.

Ten minutes later Dorman knocked on Kovac's door, for once closed. Inside Kovac sat behind his desk, unusual for a man who tended to sit on his desk as often as use it.

"You changed the plan, I understand it was your choice though Captain Wolf was at pains to tell me he agreed." Kovac didn't greet his captain.

"Yes sir, I assessed the enemy's strengths and concluded my troop capable of the task, which they were, I believe we would have been successful with or without the support of 1 Troop."

"You believe...this isn't 1914 Captain, we don't measure success by numbers dead, them more than us? Oh it's a victory. You believe..."

"I believed my men capable of..."

"You believed," said Kovac raising his voice for the first time as he stood up, "The hype, you believed our own propaganda," Kovac put on a sing-song voice, "Humans we're bigger, badder, rougher and tougher, believe me brother their ain't no other," his voice changed to one high and clear with careful enuncuation, "hard to stop and impossible to kill the human is a deathworlder that is capable of preternatural feats," Kovac's voice returned to normal, "damn it Dorman, you behaved like...like we're damn space orcs, expendable in numbers and unbreakable to boot, we may sell ourselves to the galaxy as the interstellar hobgoblin but we know different, we're professional and highly trained. That was bloody amateur hour."

Kovac took a long breath, and sitting down, "Dorman you're a good officer but you have a tendency to think you can do it all, and at times that's good, but you cannot put my men's lives on the line like that again. I would suggest you pay the injured soldiers bonus from your own pocket and a sizeable donation to the fund would be advisable. If you're feeling particularly contrite perhaps letting Wolf punch your teeth out in the ring would be a good idea?"

Dorman looked as though he wanted to reply but stopped himself, he nodded and turned to leave then stopped, "I'm sorry sir, I know you hate your men getting injured, I genuinely believed it was a smart play."

Kovac sighed, "I know you did mate, find that balance between impulse and hesitancy, remember to take a breath and re-evaluate and you'll be a great leader of men. Better angels and all that."

Dorman nodded and left the room.

[sky-girls]

In your arms

This is probably the biggest mess ever so i should probs apologize for it but het it’s here!!! and that’s what matters.

“we’re roommates and we’ve barely interacted so far but one night there’s a thunderstorm and  you are a serious astraphobic and i come into your room shaking bc i dont know what else to do and i will  lull you to sleep by stroking your hair”

⭐

What wakes Luna up is not the storm itself, neither the sound of the thunders or the light of the lightning. It’s something else and she is too sleepy to figure out what it is but the sounds keeps going and she can’t fall asleep again. She looks at the ceiling with a frown, she is not a stranger to storms, not even thunderstorms and she can very easily sleep through them without a problem so why is she even awake now?

After a while, when her brain is more awake, sadly, she can finally makeup that this weird, background noise she couldn’t figure out is a voice. There are soft, rushed whispers coming from the room next to her. She throws a look at her phone, it’s almost 2 A.M and as much as it’s normal for Matteo to be awake later than she is there’s something that doesn’t feel quite right.

She tries to ignore it cause she doesn’t know Matteo much, they have been living together for a few months now but their schedules are wildly different and every time he has some free time he seems to rather spend it partying than at home so their interactions have kept to a minimum and at least half of those have been spent fighting over Luna not doing the dishes fast enough.

So Luna does what anyone would do, try to sleep again, even if the worry and almost guil starts to sink into her stomach, little by little.

The whispering turns urgent and as much as she tries to convince herself that there’s nothing wrong, that he is probably studying or something the pace and overall tone of it makes it unbelievable. She sighs and takes her blanket around her shoulders as she walks to his room. If he doesn’t want her there then he will tell her but at least she will try.

As she opens her door she realizes that the faint sound of music playing over earphones can be heard but Matteo’s whispers don’t match to it at all. He is whispering words she can’t understand at all and honestly she is very worried right now.

She knocks on his door softly, just in case, but just as she assumed no answers comes so she just very slowly opens the door. What she finds surprises her.

She has never seen Matteo be anything but the perfect, proper, pulled together rich kid that has his life in order. Until now, his hair is a mess, it looks like he has been brushing his fingers through it over and over, his face is white as a sheet, his lips moving quickly as his eyes do too behind his lids, he is hugging his legs and what shocks Luna the most is that he is shaking. His fingers, his hands, his legs, all of him, he is shaking like he was suffering from hypothermia or something and before she even knows it she is running to him.

He jumps when she sits into the bed and she apologizes softly but by the look on Matteo’s eyes she doubts he can hear her and even if he could he doesn’t look like he could process it at all.

Truth is that Luna has absolutely no idea what to do but she can’t just leave him like this, she has never been one to stand other people’s pain easily and this is not the exception. She softly removes his headphones and he looks even more alarmed.

“Are you okay?” She asks but he doesn’t answer, she knows it’s a dumb question he is very obviously not okay  but she had no idea how else to call his attention. “What happened?”

Silence fills the room, once again and Luna starts counting the seconds on her head, it’s almost a minute before the next thunder strikes and Matteo physically jumps almost hitting her with his knees. He changes his position, ends up sitting crossed legged on the bed and seems slightly embarrassed, as embarrassed as anyone as scared as he is now could be.

She never expected Matteo Balsano of all people to be scared of thunderstorms but she stores this little piece of information for another time, this is not a priority right now. She just needs to know how to calm him down.

“Hey.” She whispers, taking his face between her hands and that seems to center him. “Hey, nothing will happen, you are safe here.”

He takes a deep breath as if he was about to say something but thunder feels the silence once again and he bites his lower lip to prevent it from shaking.

“It’s okay if you are scared.” She tells him as she moves closer to him, softly caressing his right cheek, he doesn’t seem to realize he is leaning into her hand but she is happy he has something else to think about. “I just need you to tell me how to help you.”

Silence fills the room and Luna sighs softly moving to sit next to him and making him lean his head against her lap, she likes when people play with her hair, maybe he does too.

He doesn’t complain at least, in fact he sighs softly and closes his eyes and Luna bites her lower lip looking down at him. She never thought she would see someone like him being so vulnerable, it’s a weird feeling, kind of like discovering that superman was clark kent all along.

He starts whispering to himself again and Luna realizes that he is speaking italian, something she didn’t even know he could do but she guesses it makes sense, especially taking in count the amount of italian food leftovers on their refrigerator.

She just keeps caressing his hair slowly, letting the soft, soft curls tangle on her fingers and letting her nails massage his scalp ever so slightly. After a while she can feel the way his body relaxes, how his shoulders fall more freely and his slow breathing turns less forced and more natural.

She thinks that maybe he fell asleep but when she looks down his eyes are opened and focused on her.

“I’m sorry.” He says and his voice is so incredibly soft and tired, Luna’s heart breaks a little.

“It’s okay.” She tells him softly, still playing with his hair, he sighs just a little and Luna smiles to herself.

“I am not sure how waking you up and making you deal with my mess is any okay but whatever you say.” She knows he is trying to be funny, to make the whole situation lighter but she doesn’t like this way of thinking so she pokes him on the ribs softly making him pout at her offended.

“You didn’t wake me up the storm did.” She lies. “And you are not a mess everyone is scared of something.”

“Not everyone is pathetic about it.” He says and she is sure she could be fighting with him about whether or not that’s pathetic all night so she lets that comment go, for now.

“You should see me when there’s a moth around then.” She jokes and he manages to let out a small chuckle. Thunder keeps striking but he doesn’t seem as rattled anymore. “We all have fears really and sometimes they make us a little irrational, but it’s okay, we are only humans after all.”

He scrunches up his nose unhappy and Luna looks at him confused.

“I am a gift of god not just some random human being.” He says completely serious and Luna looks at him unbelieving before she dissolves into a fit of giggles.  “It’s true.”

“I am sure you think so.” She tells him and he huffs.

“It’s actually really really true.” He says and Luna raises an eyebrow at him as he smiles as smugly as he can manage. “That’s what my name means.”

“Oh, wow, that’s such deep meaning for a name.” She says giggling. “Mine just means moon.”

“I am sure it’s cause your parents thought you were just as beautiful and full of light as the moon is, which is true of course.” He says and she blushes softly rolling her eyes.

“First thing, that was the most awful line anyone has ever said to me.” She starts. “Second,no, it was because of my necklace.”

“First it wasn’t  a line just the truth.” He winks at her and she can feel how usual Matteo is coming back. “And second, what?”

“It’s a long story.” She tells him with a sigh.

“I have all night.” He says and softly lifts his hand to play with one of her curls and Luna nods softly.

⭐

When she wakes up again, with the soft light of the winter sun on her face, she is very lost, she is not on her bed and she needs a few moments to remember that she is Matteo’s room, especially cause Matteo is nowhere to be found.

She distinctly remembers that they fell asleep with Matteo hugging her and hiding on her neck as she played with his hair and told him her whole, very complicated life story but now she is alone on his bed.

She is not really surprised he is gone he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to be openly vulnerable or to admit any weaknesses so she guesses he left the apartment before she could even wake up, so she just takes her blanket again, wraps it over herself and goes to the kitchen to make herself some breakfast.

When she finally gets there she stops on her tracks mid yawn surprised at what she sees. Matteo is softly humming and making pancakes as the water for the tea is boiling and two cups, his favorite one and more surprisingly her favorite one, are waiting to be used on the counter.

“Good morning.” She says and he doesn't seem any phased as he turns around to smile to her. She realizes he has a piece of pancakes on his mouth and giggles going close to him and taking one of the hot, fresh ones he has been stacking on a plate.

“Careful, they are hot.” He says with his mouth full and laughing as Luna drops it back on the plate because she burned her fingers.

“What they are is delicious.” She mumbles when she finally manages to take a bite of one. “Why though?”

“Because I made them of course.” He says and she rolls her eyes at him.

“Why are you making them?” She asks slowly as if he was dumb and he looks very done with her for a few seconds.

“Well, to thank you mostly.” He tells her a little sheepish and Luna frowns. “You really helped me calm down yesterday, storms are usually awful for me so it really means a lot.”

“Whenever you need it you can just call me.” She tells him truthfully and Matteo smiles at her  bumping his arm to hers softly.

“Same goes for you.” He tells her focusing on the pancakes. “For whatever you need I am here.”

[vickdrops]

Happiness [Bucky x Reader]

Pairing: bucky x reader (Y/N) Genre: angst/fluff Warnings: strong language A/N: someone put ‘angst/fluff’ on my grave bc that’s all I ever write apparently. this is for @hellyeahbarnes​ because she still remembers the title of this from when it was first posted ages ago :P requests for bucky, frank castle, and billy russo are open!

When Bucky met Y/N for the first time, he’d stopped for an entire 5 seconds outside the cafe window, just staring at her face. He’d felt like the entire world (as well as all the haunting weight that never seemed to leave his shoulders) had evaporated into thin air, and all he could think about what how gorgeous this person was. Her hair had been tied loosely in a bun at the nape of her neck, but he remembers so clearly the few, curly tendrils that had escaped and fallen in front of her face.

The first time he saw her, he swore his heart stopped.

He remembers how beautiful her smile had been when he approached her, and stuttered out a shaky “hello” for the first time. And how she laughed like she didn’t have a care in the world, when he couldn’t seem to get anymore words out after that, and stuck her hand out for him to shake, with a breezy “Hi, I’m Y/N. Would you like to have a coffee with me?”

And as they say, the rest was history.

He remembers one night where he’d been lying in bed, terrified to fall close his eyes- no, terrified of what he might see if he closes his eyes, and Y/N had come out of the shower, singing some silly jingle she’d heard on the TV earlier that night. She’d been dancing in one of his shirts, and he couldn’t help the smile that slipped onto his face as he watched this amazing creature slip underneath the covers and whisper to him, “I can’t get the bug repellant ad song out of my head.” And when he’d try to roll his eyes playfully, and trying to banish the thought of the impending nightmares only moments away, she’d crawled over to him of him and snuggled literally on top of his chest. And he can’t remember exactly why she’d done it, but he can remember how, with her weight on top of him, he’d felt properly warm and relaxed for the first time in years.

There were no nightmares that night.

Fuck Hydra- fuck all of that. The girl that had curled up beside him and sang him to sleep, the girl that could calm him down from a panic attack with nothing but her quiet whispers and gentle touches- that was all that mattered to Bucky. And he remember show, right before he fell asleep that night, he forgave his lucky stars. He forgave the stars and the Gods and the universe for the decades of pain, because, if his destiny had been aligned this way so that he could one day fall in love with Y/N, then hell. It had all been worth it.

He remembers how, the next morning, when she was making him pancakes shaped like his face (“It’s pancake art, Buck!”), the words that fell from his mouth were words he never thought he’d ever get to say- but he also remembers how he never once regretted saying them. He’d been standing in the doorway, watching her concentrate so hard on perfecting his pancake-eyebrows, and he’d said it so quietly (but oh, how he’d meant it), that she had almost missed it. Almost.

“Marry me.”

He can still picture her face in his mind, clear as crystal- he can picture the stunned, glazed expression she wore, her cheeks tinged pink and her mouth agape, as she stood with her back to the counter, the pancake of his face burning to a crisp in the pan.

“You- wha- marry you?” She’d breathed, her eyes as round as saucers.

He recalls how that had been the third time in his life that he’d been truly afraid. The first was when Steve first joined the army, because goddamn that kid was going to get trampled in army. And the second was- it still hurts to think about it- his fall off off the train. He’d been truly afraid then. And he was feeling it now for the third time- the fear of being rejected by the only person he could ever see himself loving for the rest of his life. The sheer terror of having to maybe consider what life without her again.

“Okay?”

He hadn’t realised that he’d been holding his breath.

“Okay?” He’d repeated softly, a toothy grin (that he didn’t even know he was capable of pulling) spreading on his face. He remembers how much his cheeks hurt because the last time he’d smiled that hard had been on Coney Island with Steve- almost a lifetime ago.

“Okay,” she’d giggled, and he was across the room in an instant, sweeping her up into the biggest, tightest hug, and, like, Bucky’s not usually a touchy person. But with Y/N- he always wants to touch her. Always wants to be holding her hand, or feeling her leg against his. And so Y/N’s arms (spatula and pancake-batter-fingers and all) were wrapped around his neck and he was lifting her off her toes, and they were spinning, spinning, giggling and grinning because they were gonna get married!

But it never ever goes to plan, does it?

Who was he to think that he, The Winter Soldier, deserved anything but an unhappy ending? And Bucky has this habit, right, of dramatising things and letting his head rule his heart until he feels so isolated, and so when he’d lost control a few weeks later and almost slammed Y/N- his sun and stars and everything in between- into the bathroom door, he made up his mind.

Monsters don’t get fairytale endings; they don’t get the princess. And as much as it had killed Bucky to do it, he locked himself in the bathroom and yelled her to “piss off!” when she’d banged on the door and pleaded for him to just. Let her in. Please.

But he’d yelled some things at her he didn’t mean in a million years (even though he knew that both of them knew that- they still hurt). He’d yelled, and they’d both cried, and she had left his place in the early hours of the morning with tear-stained cheeks and a broken heart. He remembers how utterly empty he had felt, sprawled helplessly on the floor with the shards of the broken mirror he’d punched littered on the ground around him.

And so, here he is, two whole months later, sitting on top of the Avengers tower, staring out at the millions of tiny lights that make up New York City. He’s staring- but not really seeing. All he can think is Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, and how much he misses her and needs her. Fuck, he needs her. He’s been sleeping like shit these past few weeks, ever since he’d let her go. (Honestly though, he was lucky if he slept at all. The nightmares seemed to return with a viciousness that he was defenseless against).

He was keeping her safe by staying away. None of the other avengers know about her, she wasn’t in the SHIELD system (Bucky made sure of that the instant they got involved), and as far as he knows (and he knows her pretty damn well), she’s not actually an undercover SHIELD or HYDRA agent.

She was safe. And if her safety could only be guaranteed by them being apart, then he’d suffer a lifetime to keep her from harm.

So why does the engagement ring in his back pocket feel so damn heavy?

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice brings him back down to reality- the shit, lonely reality he just can’t seem to escape. Bucky turns his head, too tired to give a proper response. Steve keeps his distance, letting Bucky have his space, and Bucky feels a surge of gratitude for his friend. He knows the team is concerned about him- hell, even he’s concerned- but he doesn’t even consider the idea of telling the team about Y/N. (And he’s thought about this a whole lot, right, because how else is he supposed to pass the time? And he’s come to the conclusion that he doesn’t want to tell the team because, mostly, he doesn’t want to endanger her, because this ‘superhero’ business almost comes with a using-loved-ones-for-leverage guarantee, and Y/N isn’t someone he can risk, but also because there’s a party of him that doesn’t want to believe that it’s over. If he tells someone about her, they’ll want to know more- they’ll want to know everything- and using past tense to describe his relationship with Y/N is already painful enough when it’s in his head. He doesn’t think he can do it out loud.)

“There’s a girl downstairs asking for you. We don’t know who she is, but...uh...she says she knows you,” Steve begins, an edge to his voice that Bucky doesn’t recognise.

“Who cares,” Bucky mutters back, running a hand through his hair. He let it grow long again, having no motivation to cut it, and it was almost back to chin-length. He hates it.

“She says her name is Y/N,” Steve adds softly, and Bucky immediately stiffens. His heart is caught in his throat and he can’t breathe. Y/N. Y/N is downstairs and she wants to see him and. He doesn’t know if he can do it.

“I don’t want to see her,” Bucky mutters, glaring at his hands because his head says don’t fucking do it but his heart is saying Y/N.

“Look, I don’t know who she is, but you’re a mess, Buck.” Steve doesn’t come any closer but doesn’t show any signs that he’s leaving, either. “If there’s any chance she can help you...please let her,” he says quietly.

“No need,” comes a soft voice that makes Bucky’s heartbeat double immediately and he’s whipping his head around so fast because he knows that voice. It’s the voice that keeps the nightmares away- the voice he thinks about all the time because he’s so damn scared he’ll forget what it sounds like.

She’s standing a little behind Steve, her glasses slipping off her nose a little, and she’s holding her forearms like she’s holding herself together- Bucky knows what that feels like.

“Y/N,” he breathes, slowly getting to his feet, his eyes locked on hers because she’s real and right in front of him. It’s only been two months, but it feels like forever, so he’s devouring her with his eyes and committing every piece of hair and every slope of her face to memory. He’s a man deprived of water and she’s a fucking waterfall.

“Look, I’ve been thinking a lot, and...I don’t give a shit,” she announces, and Bucky just looks. Looks at her. He opens his mouth to reply, but she just narrows her eyes and continues. “Yeah, you’re the big, scary Winter Solider who could probably kill me before I say ‘avenger’, but honestly, who cares? I love you, I trust you, and I know you feel the same, so you seriously need to quit your little martyr act because you deserve to be happy too.”

Does he?

He doesn’t fully believe it yet, but he’d like it to be true.

“You’re not safe with me,” he says miserably. Y/N rolls her eyes, but Steve interrupts before she can say another world.

“Hey, we’re a family here. And if Y/N is your-your...person, then she’s a part of the family too. And we protect our family, remember?” he says. “We promise to keep her safe, Buck. But she’s right. You deserve to be happy too.”

Y/N walks tentatively towards him, and he’s torn between freezing on the spot and sprinting towards her. But she reaches him before he can decide, and then she’s looping her fingers through his...and he feels whole again.

Bucky Barnes is holding happiness in his hands and he doesn’t plan on letting her go again.

Masterlist // Request Something

[trnstlanticism]

why can’t i have that?

hey i wrote a really quick henclair thing. i meant for this to be fluff but it became more dustin centric and introspective than i originally intended. sorry - the henclair is there at the end! but it’s mostly dustin centric, him being emo about dying alone, with side byeler bc i’m predictable. there’s mention of underage drinking and they’re all aged up to be 17 in here. this is my first time writing Dramatic Dustin so i hope it wasn’t too terrible...

Dustin wakes up with his head aching which immediately puts him in a bad mood. He grumbles sleepily from his place on Mike’s basement floor, the pain too much to simply ignore and go back to sleep. Last night had been just the guys - rewatching Star Wars and eating junk food, and then taking sips of the whiskey Mike had stolen from his father’s cabinet. It had been disgusting and Dustin was ready to spit it out but watching the way Lucas chugged it down, smirking at all of them after he’d finished, bolstered his competitive spirit and he immediately chugged down several sips.

Now, he was paying the price for it.

He’s considering the pros and cons of waking up and dragging his sorry hungover - over barely a glass of whiskey?! Seriously!? Alcohol was such bullshit - self up the stairs for a glass of water and Advil, and hopefully Mrs. Wheeler’s cooking. Then he remembers that she’s out for the weekend - the only reason they’d been able to drink alcohol in the first place, and feels despair so acute in his gut, he could throw up.

There’s a soft groaning from the couch and he cranes his neck a little to see Will sitting up with a disgruntled expression, his eyes squinting. Dustin’s about to ask him if he feels the after-effects of the whiskey as well when two gangly arms come out of nowhere, wrap around Will’s waist, and pull him back down against the couch. Will squirms a little. “Mike,” he says with fond exasperation and now Dustin is definitely going to throw up.

So… yeah. That was a thing. Mike and Will, not officially “together” by any means but pretty much definitely “together” in every sense of the word - now they slept together on the couch or even retreated up to Mike’s bedroom on sleepover nights, held hands whenever they went out to the party, and Dustin had seen Will’s swollen lips and Mike’s self-satisfied smile too many times. He’s happy for his friends, he really is, but it reminds him of how Mike and El and Lucas and Max were back in the beginning of high school - happy couple holding hands and shit, painfully reminding Dustin of his single status and how at this rate he was going to die alone.

Dustin wasn’t… lonely by the standard definition of lonely but it sure would be nice to have someone to cuddle in the morning. Not that he wanted to cuddle Will or Mike - judging by Mike’s soft voice and Will’s motherfucking giggles, he was going to kill them if they engaged in any public displays of affection right in front of him. Like, seriously how dare they? Didn’t they care about his feelings?

He turns his head back to his other companion on the floor. “Lucas are you seeing this shit?” But there’s no Lucas in his sleeping bag, beside him, where they fell asleep last night. He blinks. “Hey guys stop making out for a second - where’s Lucas?”

Mike groans out loud. “We weren’t making out!” Yet, Dustin thinks miserably.

Will sticks his head out to where he is with a sheepish smile. “Oh you’re awake,” he says, way too chipper for someone who most definitely has a hangover. “Well, he’s probably upstairs. Do you wanna go check and see?”

Will does this thing with his voice where he’s not exactly asking you to do something but he might as well be with his large hazel doe-like eyes. Dustin has never wanted to punch his friend so much.

“Fine,” he grumbles as he stands, making sure to look as unhappy as possible. His headache has increased exponentially - a certain consequence from being exposed to his friends happy gay vibes. Will is smiling, pleased, and Mike isn’t even looking at Dustin, running his hands up Will’s sides and kissing his ear. Dustin makes a disgusted noise before he climbs up the stairs, making sure to step down on each one particularly hard, even though it makes his ears ring something awful.

“How dare you,” is how he greets Lucas. Lucas, who’s in the kitchen looking perfectly fine, cooking eggs on the stove, a plate of warm toast already on the table.

Lucas raises his eyebrows at him. “Good morning to you too, asshole,” he says cheerfully.

Dustin practically throws himself onto the chair with a whine. “How could you leave me down there with the lovebirds?! They’re in their honeymoon stage - it’s disgusting!”

“It’s cute,” Lucas corrects him with a laugh. He grabs a glass, fills it with water, and hands it to Dustin. “Here. Drink this, you look like shit.”

“Still look better than you,” Dustin mumbles back, before chugging the water down gratefully. “I mean seriously, don’t they have any shame? I swear, Mike was going to eat Will right in front of me! Like come on!”

“At least they’re happy?” Lucas puts a plate in front of him, eggs a little runny just the way he likes it, so that he can dip his toast into it. “I mean… you remember sophomore year.” Dustin cringes. Yeah, he remembers sophomore year. Mike and El’s messy breakup, Will’s obvious and tragic pining - yeah it was bad. Really bad. “Make sure you eat some toast, then take some Advil,” Lucas gestures for him to eat. “You have a headache right?”

Dustin sinks in his seat, flashing back to the way Lucas had so easily drank last night. “No, I don’t,” he lies. Lucas isn’t with Max anymore either, the two of them amicably breaking up last summer but Lucas has still drifted from him in a way Dustin didn’t like thinking about. He’d joined the track and field team at his dad’s urging and by junior year he was a star player of the team. Doing sports did good things for your reputation and Lucas had been elevated to “cool kid.” He still hung out with them but he also hung out with a lot more people - not the art kids like Will knew or the theater nerds Mike hung out with. Certainly not anyone on the school decathalon team like Dustin was. Lucas was smart, athletic, popular, and probably went to tons of parties were he learned how to drink whiskey like that.

Yeah, Dustin definitely didn’t want to think about that.

Lucas stares at him, his dark eyes seeing right through him. “Just eat, Henderson.”

So Dustin does, moodily chewing his eggs and toast, his mood too foul to properly enjoy them even though they’re exactly the kind of pick me up he needed after last night. He’s feeling weird - frustrated over Will and Mike’s easy affection, jealous that he can’t have any of that for his own, and Lucas standing there in front of him with his patient eyes and sly smile isn’t helping him at all. Lucas hands him the pills after he’s eaten most of his breakfast. “Drink.”

“Whatever,” Dustin mumbles as he does so. Lucas’s smile is gone, replaced with a concerned frown.

“Hey man, are you okay? You’re like, moodier than normal.” His voice goes quiet. “Mike didn’t really - “

“No!” Dustin’s head is throbbing. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just. It’s so stupid. Relationships, love.” He sighs, pushing his plate away, and putting his head down on the table. “It’s all bullshit.”

Lucas doesn’t say anything but after a beat of silence, Dustin feels a hand in his hair, slowly stroking his curls. Dustin hates that Lucas knows how much this calms him down - he wants to stay angry god damn it - but the tension in his body slowly starts to seep out, as Lucas’s touch somehow magically massages his headache away.

After all, Dustin knows it’s not bullshit. He wants that - he wants soft looks in the morning, tender touches in the afternoon, and a warm body to curl up with at night. He wants to feel love and be loved in return. It doesn’t seem like it should be so hard, considering most of his friends have been with someone at least once. Dustin wants to call up Steve and tell him that his advice was full of shit but it’s not like Dustin every laid moves on someone he actually wanted to be with. He didn’t want to just date someone for the experience. He wanted someone that he could talk to about the recent discoveries in gene therapy and have them actually listen instead of having their eyes glaze over. He wanted someone who would listen to him when he cried about New Zealand’s kakapos becoming an endangered species because of what it could mean for other similar species.

He wanted someone like Lucas, who did all of that and more. But Lucas had so much more going for him so there was no way Dustin could find someone to replace him. It was impossible.

“Are you falling asleep Dustin?” Lucas hasn’t stopped petting his hair, but he definitely sounds amused. Dustin groans into the table, insistently bumping his head against Lucas’s hand.

“Don’t stop,” he mumbles, eyes shutting close. Maybe he was getting a little sleepy. “Don’t stop, or I’ll die.”

“You’re so dramatic.” Lucas hums a little, a tune Dustin vaguely recognizes as a song that Will keeps playing in Mike’s car. It’s always Will in the passenger seat, holding Mike’s hand across the dash, while Dustin and Lucas are pressed close together in the back. It’s always been like that.

“Hey Dustin?” Lucas’s voice is serious and Dustin tries to listen even though dreamland is dragging him back into blissful sleep. “It’s not bullshit, you know. Love and all that. I promise, it isn’t.”

Easy for you to say asshole, Dustin wants to reply but he’s already asleep. He doesn’t know it, but Lucas keeps stroking his hair, staring at him with longing, intense eyes, words that remain unspoken getting swallowed in the lukewarm morning air.

[glvndas]

                     i’m a storm with skin.                      it’s getting windy again.

✧*:･ﾟ✧  merlin! is that KIERSEY CLEMONS? no, it’s just GLENDA CHITTOCK the SEVENTH YEAR RAVENCLAW ( MUGGLEBORN ). we’ve heard rumors that SHE/THEY ( GENDERQUEER ) is PASSIONATE, INDIVIDUALISTIC & STREETSMART but can also be very PACIFISTIC, RAMBUNCTIOUS & SELF PRESERVING if i had to pick one song to describe SHE/THEY it would CHERRY BOMB BY THE RUNAWAYS. Good luck with the rest of your time at Hogwarts.

INSPO: pinboard and stats page.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: alcohol, drugs (slight mentions, explicit ones will be marked)

AESTHETIC: wind clashing against your window at night, distressed jeans, a radio playing in the background, messy handwriting, an angry yell, rainbows, wanting to play guitar but never practicing, crumpled up paper, the calmness after and the hysteria during crying, a storm in summer

history

ironically, she’s not born on a day where the world rages or storms to match her spirit, but on a calm summer morning when everything is pristine and fragile. glenda is everything but that, even at a young age: she’s loud and passionate and brash, so much more similar to a hurricane than a quiet summer day.

her mother leaves when she is three. glenda and her younger sister are left with their dad, who’s wonderful – yes – but a brokenhearted and absent one. after all, there are too many bills to pay in order for him to look after his little girls, and he spends more time at his job than with them. daisy, her sister, and glenda see little of him and learn how to be independent at a young age, learn how to deal with neighbours who are forced to keep an eye on them and family members who let them run around their house. they don’t resent their dad, know that he’s working this hard for them.

and so glenda grows up, without a mother and with an absent father. she lives in a bad neighbourhood, one where crime and racism and poverty and drugs are all around, where unhappiness is the norm. she learns here that she cannot be fragile. her grief about her mother leaving turns into anger, her sadness about not seeing her dad as much as she wants to, into acceptance. she becomes independent, learns how to look after herself, how to wield her emotions into tools rather than weaknesses, how to walk those dangerous streets without getting into trouble. she curls her back with pride and locks her fears away.

strange things happen, though, as they tend to with muggleborns. she laughs about them, thinks them part of her hectic every day life, rather than something that’s actually serious. but then, when she turns eleven on the sixth of august she learns the truth. glenda chittock is not only a student who gets in more trouble than is good, is not only someone who minds little when her knees get dirty or scabbed, not only someone who once stole a Rolling Stones cassette tape that she hides in her pillow, but she is also a WITCH. when she finds out, her first reaction was to laugh, but she knows it’s true when her laugh dies out and things turned quiet.

she leaves for hogwarts a little over a month later and cries when she says goodbye to her sister. sorted into ravenclaw for her streetsmart ways and creative potential, glenda flourishes!!!! she finds skills in things she never expected herself to be good at — comc, for example, soon becomes her favourite subject — and she navigates the hallways with a broad smile, joining a lot of clubs and dropping them more often than not. she’s flighty and quick, always trying to be somewhere, 

currently

she’s in her seventh year at the moment and honestly has no idea where she wants to go after graduation. glenda’s not really a good witch, to be honest; she’s good at making sure plants don’t die and can accio stuff, but she’s not really good with the whole magic stuff (giving some purists more ammunition! ayo!). she’s intelligent, though, very streetsmart, and she can be very eloquent when she feels like it, and all that just makes her wonder if she should even LOOK for a career in the wizarding world? she’s thinking of maybe doing something in the journalism sphere of things -- muggle or magical, she doesnt know yet -- as she’s very interested in the news and stuff, but honestly? she has no idea.

over the years, glenda has grown v passionate about human rights. she reads about house elves, so-called ‘half-breeds’ and muggle discrimination at hogwarts and about environmentalism, racism, sexism and queerphobia in the library at home ( a place she hadn’t stepped foot in before she turned fourteen ). she comes out of the closet as gay, becomes a vegetarian, starts thinking about gender and her own gender with a new mindset, and starts to form her own ideals, her own thoughts and views. she’s outspoken, honestly, and uses her loud voice to talk about the topics she cares about. it’s the only things he really seems to like: to actively talk abt what she cares about. she goes to her first protest the summer before this one, and she feels more alive than ever before.

honestly spends most of her days at hogwarts procrastinating her homework by either having fun with people around her or reading about the above mentioned topics! she’s not too fussed abt newts -- someone pls shake her and make her study more -- and she’s def that ravenclaw who just?? doesnt rly care abt coursework bc look! at all these other things to learn! glenda is very carefree on a shallow level and it shows, especially now that things are Getting Real. she just wants to hang w ppl who inspire her and smoke a lil weed and have a laugh? 

conclusion & ramblings

glenda is a little hippie, alternative bean who loves talking about everything!!!! just a loudmouth, tbh, who can talk endlessly about anything that intrigues her even a little. cares a lot about a lot, but is also v self-serving so sometimes she compromises her ideal to stay safe. which, i mean, in this economy? not the dumbest thing to do.

loves all kinds of music. donna summer and diana ross are Icons, but she also loves joan jett and debbie harry and just!!! everything!! jsut really into this generations’ music and has been FOR EVER. disco is amazing, btw, just so you all know! 

likes plants a lot. this includes weed. lmao.

dr martens with woollen socks aesthetic.

is genderqueer, but hasnt really found the right terminology yet. she knows she does identify with being a girl/woman, but not fully, and she’s learning about gender a lot more now that she knows that she’s wondering about her own gender as well? glenda doesnt know exactly what her gender is, but she knows she’s not a cis-woman, and that gender-neutral pronouns do feel good to her as well.

will fight a Man but only with words tbh she’s shit at physical fights??? lmao.

honestly not the Best Witch out there, wishes she was more talented but also?? she’s SMart so who cares that she can’t transfigure a cup into an animal or the other way around, that’s … fucking useless ( @ minerva mcgoogles !!! ). like she’s successful either way so!!

angery and scared abt the war. like. she’s super idealistic, so she’s ENRAGED that this is happening, and that her being a muggleborn will and has put her in a shit position? but glenda is very self serving and is not going to join any rebellion groups ( she also doesnt believe in fighting fire with fire & is v pacifistic ) bc she’s like! yeah! i’m not gonna put a sign on my back! more on this nature later

chaotic neutral AS FUCK. serves herself, but she has Good Ideals so that’s not necessarily a Bad Thing? it’s just kind of hypocritical at times, because she doesn’t always stick to her ideals out of selfish motivations, but it’s also just a rly tough time to live in. glenda also comes from a really shit neighbourhood, like she’s learned to fend for herself + the ppl she loves (mostly her sister) there. she knows when to keep her head down and keep on walking, and this definitely shows in her position re: the war.

there’s some anger and pain in glenda, and a lot of fear too, but she’s generally just a ? good person to be around (unless youre a blood purist, then you can GO in her eyes). she’s outgoing and cheerful and likes joking around n stuff, can Also get down to business and have more serious talks -- she’s not Extremely open, but will talk abt shit with people -- when needed and yeah. social kid. 

i love a gay hippie icon!! that’s all!! 

[gayzytown]

Birthdays

{{VERY IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER!! i put it in caps bc thts how important it is!!! this is pure, unedited 12 yr old mod roria sportarobbie fanfiction !! u can tell its really old bc the whole time robbie is like >:’( and it makes sportacus :c also! robbie gets hit in the face and sportacus cries which is unfitting bc the fic itself isnt that sad?? but it has a happy ending!! just thought id warn you all im literally posting something really poorly written and its also rlly long and like almost 5 yrs old ?? one of the first things i wrote for lazytown!! but anyway here it is }}

Curled up in his chair, Robbie woke up and his eyes fluttered in sync with his heart and with the butterflies in his stomach. A tiny gleam of hope rose up in his chest, and a small smile graced his soft lips. It was finally the day. The day he had been waiting for. The day he had not-so-subtly hinted about since last month. He tried his best to stamp out the fiery optimism that held his heart in its grip, but the cold, icy hand of doubt could not pry it off. 

 His tired eyes glanced at the clock, which currently said 7:00 A.M. Earlier than Robbie had woken up in years, but now that warm feelings had him in a death grip, there would be no more sleeping. He rolled out of his chair with more enthusiasm than ever before, and pranced contently to his periscope. Before he looked into it, he took a moment to compose himself. It was in vain, of course, and it was with much euphoria that he lifted up the periscope and peeked through. His smile faltered slightly as the warm hand pushed his heart up into his throat. They didn’t… forget, did they? But he had made it so blatantly clear that it was today, and he had been looking forward to this day for weeks. The day he would get some of the spotlight. The day he could outshine Sportacus. The day he wouldn’t be ignored. The day he would be loved. Granted, tomorrow would be the same as every other day, but today was special. Today was his birthday, and it was going to be the best birthday ever. It was going to be the best day, in general, until next year.

            Only slightly disheartened, he continued to search for anything. Even if he was a villain, it was highly uncharacteristic of the people of LazyTown to not celebrate. Suddenly, the hand squeezed his heart and the heat filled his entire being as a banner came into view. It clearly read, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY.” They had remembered! He tremored in excitement as he simply stared at the scene before him. What looked like an amazingly prodigious party being laid out before his eyes. For him. There were balloons and streamers and games, and even though it wasn’t the color he had expected and there was more sportscandy than he would’ve liked, it was a party for him. It was his birthday party. The people were celebrating his birth. They were celebrating the fact that self-proclaimed villain Robbie Rotten was brought into this world on this day, twenty-three years ago. To him, it symbolized much more than a birthday party. This could mean a whole turning point in his life. Maybe he wouldn’t be a villain. Maybe he wouldn’t be so full of hate. Maybe he’d be loved. Maybe he’d be happy. The pleasant optimistic grip shifted and held his entire body, and he closed his eyes for a moment to relish the feeling. A smile so foreign to Robbie that anyone wouldn’t be able to recognize him for a moment lightened up his face, and his cold, lonely lair felt more comfortable than ever before. His eyes, filled to the brim with happy tears that he had never felt, opened and his smile widened. Letting out a deep, booming laugh that echoed throughout the lair and brought raw joy and happiness to every room, he spun with his periscope and peered through one more time. The familiar icy hand clawed at its rival as he noticed something he hadn’t noticed before.  The banner said “HAPPY BIRTHDAY… Sportacus.” He shrugged as his smile faltered as he chuckled nervously. That didn’t mean they had forgotten his, maybe they both had birthdays. Or maybe they had gotten confused about who’s birthday it was. Maybe anything, except they had forgotten. They couldn’t have. Not after all he had done to make it clear that it was his birthday. Who cares about Sportacow’s birthday? They’d throw him a party for any little thing. The icy grip triumphantly pierced his heart with its long, disfigured claws and his brow furrowed. They couldn’t have forgotten. He’d just… he’d just go up and walk around. He was sure to get a “happy birthday” or two. They couldn’t have forgotten, it just wasn’t possible. His lair was suddenly cold, and the remaining laughter died away. He peered out one more time, and watched as Sportacus was taken completely by surprise because of his birthday party. Like he was really so surprised. They would’ve thrown him a party if he’d done something as minimal as walk to the post office. A single tear slid down his face, but it wasn’t happy. It was full of anguish, and fear. He felt so alone. The icy grip suddenly got red hot and in his fit of sudden rage, he clawed off the tear viciously, leaving a red mark on his face and  he shoved the periscope away as hard as he could. Unfortunately, the momentum swung it back and it was hurled into his face. In a tantrum and between shock, pain, and anger, he stepped back on his catwalk and swung backwards over the railing onto his head. As the stars faded, he groaned and tried to get up, but the children had started playing exceptionally loud today and with the combined force of the impact a headache pounded in his head and he decided to stay where he was. He mumbled a small “I meant to do that,” before closing his eyes.

           Meanwhile, Sportacus was having a lovely birthday party. Maybe a little of the surprise was faked, but it was mostly genuine. He didn’t remember telling anyone his birthday, but he was glad that they knew. The party had a banner, and games, and sportscandy and blue. Lots of blue. He played with the children with more energy than usual, if that was possible, and didn’t notice that they were louder than usual. After a while of playing, the kids were tired, so they all decided to take a break. He sat with them under an apple tree, listening to them talk about school and such. But something didn’t feel right. He felt like he was forgetting something, and that someone was in trouble. Everyone was here, except for… his brow furrowed. Robbie. He wondered why Robbie hated him, and his heart sank a little. But then he remembered that it was his birthday, and he smiled. He tried to forget the feeling, since his crystal didn’t go off. But he felt bad, and he wasn’t sure why but he did. Lately his thoughts on Robbie had been getting a little… different. He had never felt this way about anything before, and he didn’t know if it was good or if he had been coming down with something. He had never been sick before, so maybe this is what it felt like. He vaguely wondered if Robbie would come but was interrupted when Stephanie spoke up.

            “Sportacus, are you okay? I’ve never seen you so serious before,” she said. He faked a smile.

            “I was just thinking about Robbie,” he said, with fake happiness going unnoticed in his voice. She looked confused.

            “Why?” she asked. Then, for good measure, she added, “He would just try to ruin the party. It’s your birthday, Sportacus!” His smile faltered slightly.

            “Stephanie, do you know why people bully?” he asked. She shook her head no, and he went on. “Bullies are bullies because they’re unhappy with themselves,” he finished, a small realization hitting him as well as the children.

            “Why would Robbie be unhappy? He usually seems so happy when he’s thwarting,” she asked, not wanting to believe that Robbie was sad, or lonely. It was so much easier to think that mean people got what they deserved, not that they were unhappy.

            “Maybe he’s lonely, or maybe he’s been bullied himself,” he said. It suddenly became quiet, and he felt a little bad for putting such a damper on the mood. He jumped up suddenly. “Who’s ready to get back to our game?” he chirped, and the kids all cheered and followed him to the courts. They all put the conversation in the back of their heads, to be reviewed later. All of them, except for Stephanie. They played for another hour more when they were interrupted by a familiar figure stalking by faster than ever before. Sportacus, however was faster, and he flipped over a wall, grabbed his water bottle, and landed in front of Robbie. Robbie stopped and looked at him. Half of his face was covered by a huge, purple and blue bruise. But it wasn’t that that scared Sportacus. It was the look in Robbie’s eyes.  Not only were they bloodshot, but Sportacus had never seen someone so incredibly angry, so livid. It scared Sportacus, and he stepped back a bit. It was suddenly quiet and the silence hurt Sportacus’s ears, so he decided to say something.

            “Hi, Robbie,” he said. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Won’t you join us? It’s fun.” A look of sadness and confusion passed over Robbie’s face, but he said nothing. The silence was louder than before, the atmosphere was more tense and almost angry. But that didn’t scare Sportacus. The thing that scared Sportacus was his feelings. Robbie was completely outraged, and it was Sportacus’s fault. He had done something, and it hurt his heart more than anything ever had before. His heart burned as the fiery claw from Robbie’s heart reached through the two men and crushed Sportacus. He felt so hurt. His heart was hurt. His heart was broken, and he had never felt that way before. It absolutely crushed him. But on the outside, he feigned happiness.

            “Uh, um, Robbie! It’s time for a water fight!” he chirped, back flipped away, grabbed a hose and the kids scattered into a panicked mass of children, giggling and squealing excitedly. Sportacus stole a glance at Robbie and his heart broke even more. He didn’t seem mad anymore, just sad, lonely, and so distant from everyone else. His brow furrowed despondently and he glared towards Sportacus. They made eye contact and he suddenly bristled, standing up straight and putting on a fake resentful face, before turning around and stalking away. Sportacus’s face fell and the hose slipped out of his grip. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t, because heroes don’t cry, so he faked another smile, laughed and picked up the hose again. His little moment went unnoticed by everyone and the party continued as if nothing had happened.

            That night, Sportacus was in his airship, thinking about earlier. His heart hurt still. It felt sore, like that one time when he was just a kid and he worked his muscles too hard and they ached. It was his birthday, so he shouldn’t be sad, but Robbie’s face. He wondered what was going on in Robbie’s head. Suddenly, he remembered that Pixel, for his birthday, had given Sportacus a little computer thing that had lap or something in the name, and it had information on the people of LazyTown if he just pushed a button. Leaping up off his bed, he opened up the computer and looked at it. It had lots of buttons, some of which Pixel had explained, but Sportacus didn’t remember, so he looked at it. Some of the keys had letters, maybe he could type stuff. He spelled “ON” on the keyboard. Nothing happened. He picked it up and looked for a switch on it, or something, but found nothing. One of the buttons was bound to turn it on, so he pushed all of them, and one of them did something because the screen lit up, then it had a picture on the screen of LazyTown with little tiny things on it. They looked like icon, and one of them said “LazyTown”, so he poked it. Nothing happened. “What..?” he murmured, then he remembered the thing. Pixel called it a… a mouse? Yes, a mouse, so he clicked it. Nothing happened. Frustrated, he grabbed it and moved it aggressively across the table back and forth. Something on the screen moved with his motion and he stopped. Slowly, carefully, he moved the mouse so that the cursor moved to the little LazyTown icon, and then he clicked the button on top, and a page opened, and a little box was there. He slowly clicked a button on the keypad and a little tiny “K” showed up in a little box. Pressing the backspace so that the K disappeared, he slowly typed in “ROBBIE ROTTEN” and pressed enter, not sure what he was looking for. A small blue thing showed up that said “Robbie Rotten” and had a sentence that ended in “…read more here” and he began to read it.

            “Robbie Rotten; born on October 10th, [year unknown] in [place unknown] and went to [school unknown]…”

            Sportacus realized they knew so little about Robbie, and he frowned slightly. Suddenly it hit him. October 10th. That was today. They had missed Robbie’s birthday. Maybe that was why he was so sad… Robbie came up, probably looking for a “happy birthday” and instead he got people celebrating someone else’s birthday and completely forgetting about him. He felt absolutely crushed. His heart was breaking even more, and he couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. They flowed freely from his eyes, and he bit his lip thinking about what he could do. Closing the laptop, he picked up his phone and clicked Bessie’s number. He had gotten the phone a while ago from Pixel and he knew very well how to work it. Well, not really, but he could call certain people when he needed to, which he hardly ever did. Bessie answered suddenly.

            “Sportacus? Are you okay? It’s past 8:08, what’s going on?” she asked.

            “Oh, hi Bessie! Everything’s fine, I just wanted to say that, uh… Robbie’s birthday was, um… We missed it, and I wanted to make it up to him. Somehow,” he mumbled.

            “…Oh! How sad… I understand that you’re upset, I’ll pull something together for tomorrow, and it might be a little… modest, but I think it’ll be good. As long as you can get him to come,” Bessie said.

            “Thanks Bessie! I’ll get him to come, thank you!” Sportacus said. Then, he hung up the phone and got back into bed. He felt a tiny bit better, but he felt weird. He felt guilty. Sighing, he turned over in bed and pulled the cover over his head, knowing he wouldn’t get any sleep.

Then next morning Sportacus woke up bright and early and slid down the ladder to LazyTown and ran to the center. It was empty, of course, because he was up so early, but he decided to see if Robbie was up.

Filled with a new found enthusiasm, he trotted to the purple billboard and waddled around it. He found the metal entrance to Robbie's domain and knocked, a smile on his face. He heard muffled thumping and mumbled curse words before the latch opened and he was face to face with a black and blue mess with piercing grey-blue, bloodshot eyes. Upon seeing Sportacus, his brow furrowed and his lip quivered.

"What do you want, Sportacus?" he hissed. Sportacus was usually elated to hear the lithe man say his name and not some morphed, insulting version of it, but in this case it wiped the smile off his face. He didn't like it when his name slid from Robbie's lips like venom, dripping poignant enmity. He suddenly forgot why he was here.

"Uh... um, I..." he stuttered. Robbie reached for the hatch to slam it when Sportacus abruptly remembered. "Wait! Robbie, your birthday," he exclaimed. Robbie stopped, and held the hatch up, eyes wide with shock. His brows suddenly dropped, and he clamped his mouth shut.

"Oh, you remembered," he said sarcastically. Sportacus swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Robbie, I'm really sorry we forgot," he said softly, "but if you would just come with me, I think I can make it up to you!" Robbie scoffed at this.

“No, Sportacus.”

“... what?”

“I'm not going to your stupid little last-minute birthday party!”

Sportacus was quiet. He felt like crying, and so he did. “Robbie, please! I-I'm so sorry we forgot, I can only imagine how much it hurt to see everyone celebrating someone else's birthday on your own but if you just give me a chance,” he grabbed Robbie’s face in his hands, “I could show you…” he stopped. He realized he was blushing, with his face so close to Robbie’s. He stared deep into the man’s eyes and saw that he was lonely, and afraid. From here he could better see the beautiful color of Robbie’s eyes, his pale skin, his wavy hair, his soft lips. Sportacus longed to touch the soft lips with his own. His breathing sped up as he realized this was what he had been feeling, he was in love with Robbie Rotten.

        “Sp-Sportacus…” Robbie mumbled, placing his own hands on the elf’s. Sportacus barely heard it over the sound of his heart racing. He couldn't hold himself back anymore. He stared into the man’s eyes lovingly, and then he leaned forward. Closing the gap between the two, he gently pressed his lips into Robbie’s. Robbie gasped against Sportacus’s mouth and his grip tightened on the elf’s hands. Sportacus pulled away slowly after a moment, and pressed his forehead against his love’s. It was quiet.

        “If this is y-you trying to get me to g-go to the party,” Robbie started. Sportacus laughed.

        “Robbie, I love you,” he said softly, looking up at the man. Robbie was looking at him, eyes wide. He was blushing.

        “Sportacus, I… I never…”

Sportacus drew away. He had made Robbie uncomfortable. He was blushing, not the light, tender, sweet pink hue of love, but a deep, embarrassed red.

        “Oh, Robbie, I'm sorry, I never stopped to think about-”

Robbie leaped out of the silo/entrance to his house and grabbed Sportacus’s hands.

        “Don't apologize,” he whispered, then added, “I'll go to the party.” Sportacus brightened instantly.

        “You will!! Robbie, that's great! I'm so happy you-”

Robbie interrupted him by pressing his mouth against the elf’s. Sportacus’s eyes widened in shock, but after a second they slid closed and he leaned into Robbie, running a hand through the man’s hair. Eventually Robbie pulled away. He gazed into Sportacus’s eyes, infatuated. Sportacus placed a gentle kiss on Robbie’s nose and grabbed his hand, leading him towards the center of town. Maybe Robbie’s life would turn around after all. Maybe he would be happy from now on. Maybe this would be the best day he'd ever had.

((its rlly angsty and i said “brow furrowed” like 7 times))